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alleyskywalker · 3 years

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A Bit On Theon’s Personality...

(THEON MONTH | DAY 2: Personality Traits; DAY 5: Strengths)

I think it’s been discussed fairly at length at various points by Theon fans that Theon’s personality can be difficult to parse out, even long before he adds the layer of complexity via dissociation while in Ramsay’s clutches. Where do Theon’s defense mechanisms and trauma responses end and his core personality begin? Which and how many of those coping mechanisms are so hard baked into him that they’re basically his personality now, and to what extent?

For example, I’ve talked before (though I think on discord more so than here), about how Theon’s arrogance and entitlement are really bluster and self-pep talks – overcompensation for his insecurity and an attempt to project a sense of self-worth through that insecurity that he probably means to appear as cockiness at worst, but understandably might read as arrogance from the outside because so much of it is fake. (And the audience that doesn’t bother to read his content carefully falls for this charade as well, at least in Clash, where so much of Theon’s energy is spent on self-pep talks and self-reassurance, because those aren’t things he’s getting from any external source.) And, in fact, when he does get a modicum of emotional support and safety, we see him show actual vulnerability – i.e. see the scene with Dagmer in ACOK Theon III. Yes, he lists his achievements – one of the Blackfish’s handpicked scouts, leading the charge in the Whispering Wood, etc – but they’re genuine achievements he has a right to be proud of and he doesn’t elaborate beyond stating the facts. He leaves himself open by asking if his father knows he’s not a craven and admits to being upset he doesn’t have Asha’s command while also being aware of how petty it sounds. He’s rarely this openly vulnerable in his longing for acceptance, (as opposed to just feeling/thinking it), but is it really a surprise, given that Dagmer is the one person who has offered him actual emotional safety to even the smallest degree?

And as for entitlement. Please. He’s not really any more entitled than any other character in this series in his social position (highborn male, heir to his father’s seat by all legal rights of this country and society – yes, even among the ironborn the son will be seen as more the heir than the daughter, no matter what Asha would like to believe, and there’s a reason she calls herself Balon’s “son” at the kingsmoot, etc). Even the allegation that Theon shouldn’t have pretenses to the lordship of the islands when he spent so many formative years away rings false and hollow. For example, while Daenerys has her antis who will find any fault with her, most people who criticize and critique her more reasonably (not the mention her fans) quite rarely leverage the accusation against her that she should not pursue her claim to the Iron Throne because she grew up entirely on a whole other continent. So why should Theon be blamed for pursuing his rightful claim?

But even beyond that, while Theon has the unsettling and somewhat unpleasant habit – as a trauma response/coping mechanism – of buying wholesale into the power structures and privileges hardbaked into his society, including classism, in a way that’s maybe more showy and offputting than with some other characters of his rank, he’s not actually opposed to meritocracy. If anything, he’s very willing to work for and earn everything from his position as heir to affection from a friend. For example, people laugh at him asking for Casterly Rock as his seat – but remember, he’s asking for this as a castle he intends to take himself.

"I will lead the attack myself, if it please you. As my reward I would ask that you grant me Casterly Rock for my own seat, once we have taken it from the Lannisters."

—ACOIK, Theon I

Is he maybe overestimating his abilities? Sure, perhaps. But that’s not the same as being entitled. When Asha is tasked to with taking Deepwood Motte, it’s implied that this will be her seat, at least for the time that she holds it – “I’ve always wanted a caste,” she tells the gathered family assembly smugly (or “like a cat in cream” as Theon calls it) (ACOK, Theon II). It’s just a normal rule of this society that if you take a caste, you’d become its lord/lady if you wished to stay and hold it (and weren’t kicked out). Theon thinking he can take Casterly Rock may be presumptuous, but asking for it as a reward for taking it isn’t.

Some more: when Asha (in disguise) tells him that the ironborn would not seat a stranger on the Seastone Chair, Theon comforts himself by thinking that he has time to prove himself. Later, he asks Dagmer how he’s supposed to live up to being his father’s heir if he doesn’t have the opportunity to prove himself. Yes, Theon thinks he has the right to Asha’s command and to the title of heir apparent (because by the cultural and legal rules of this society he does) but he’s more than willing to prove himself and considers it rather natural that he should. On a more emotional level, when he thinks of saving Bran from the wildlings, he believes he ought to have “won a smile” from Robb for literally saving his brother. (This last also in the context of Theon thinking about how Dagmer smiled at him – i.e. showed him more approval and affection – than either Balon or Ned…or Robb.) Theon is literally the guy who thinks its normal to win affection from your friends for acts of bravery and service, as opposed to, you know…receiving it freely because friendship. I really don’t see how anyone gets entitlement from any of this (beyond what is culturally normative for someone of his rank and position in this society).

But, agh, ok, I’ve really digressed here, because my intention wasn’t to write about what Theon isn’t but rather that he is. Not everything. Not every personality trail or even close, because otherwise it would probably take me all month (lol, just this took me long enough). But I did want to highlight a few things. Things that I got to thinking about, actually, after someone I was dating at the time asked me why I liked Theon. Not felt sorry for him or was rooting for him, even, but literally, “what about Theon is likeable?” (he asked a little incredulously). I hadn’t really been prepared for that conversation at the time and struggled to put my feelings into words, especially articulate, convincing ones. So later I began to think about this more, trying to effectively articulate and conceptualize as character traits what this quote made me feel (given that it’s the one that I thought of first when trying to answer his question):

He's turned against me too, Theon realized. Of late it seemed to him as if the very stones of Winterfell had turned against him. If I die, I die friendless and abandoned. What choice did that leave him, but to live?

—ACOIK, Theon VI

And I think what it comes down to is this: bravery/courage and strength (of the willpower variety).

And I think I especially would like to highlight these two aspects because Theon is a character that often gets accused by fandom of being the opposite – weak and a coward. Too weak to not break under Ramsay. Too weak and/or not brave enough to stand up to his father/to stay loyal to the Starks. Not strong and brave enough to face ridicule and even willing to commit murder (the farmer’s boys, etc) to avoid it. Someone who needs external encouragement/recognition, which fandom (and society at large) will often classify as weakness. Sometimes, his failures – or perceived failures – are contrasted with him saving Jeyne: finally Theon grows a spine and does something brave, people say. But I have a different perspective on all this.

Of course, saving Jeyne was brave and heroic, etc. It was also one of his most, if not the most, selfless acts. It’s also a brand of bravery and strength that is easily recognized by fandom (and society at large); this sort of grand, action movie bravery. It’s flashy, it’s uncomplicated, it’s very external.

But for one, I don’t think Theon lacked this kind of bravery previously. Robb comments that Theon has “fought bravely for us.” Balon, while finding every fault possible in Theon, will allow him one thing: “at least you are no craven.” His taking of Winterfell was shortsighted but daring and even brave. Here’s another thing:

But the girl was no true Stark, only a steward's whelp. Jeyne, her name is Jeyne. She should not look to me for rescue. Theon Greyjoy might have tried to help her, once. But Theon had been ironborn, and a braver man than Reek.

--ADWD, The Turncloak

Now, Theon’s assessments of himself aren’t always realistic and excellent, but he does have a far more critical view of himself in Dance than in Clash. And that brings me to the second but: bravery was never really Theon’s problem. I wouldn’t even say that any one thing was – every choice he makes, whether obviously or arguably bad, is the outcome of a toxic cocktail of trauma, ambition, a search for acceptance, a stifled/unengaged empathy (in large part due to trauma), etc. But it’s neither cowardice nor weakness as such. (And I’ll say that what probably stands out most as specifically different with Jeyne is the level of selflessness and empathy he exhibits with her, the fact that it’s those priorities that drive his courage in that moment – but that’s a post for another day.)

First, I don’t think I need to spend too much time on Ramsay. I mean, maybe I do, but others have done so much more eloquently before. For my purposes here I’ll say that anyone would have broken under the kind of intense torture Ramsay put Theon through. Either broken or died. Yet, Theon not only survived, but he remained quite lucid and defiant throughout. As one of the most illustrative examples:

The world, Reek told himself, this is what the world smells like. He did not know how long he had been down there in the dungeons, but it had to have been half a year at least. That long, or longer. What if it has been five years, or ten, or twenty? Would I even know? What if I went mad down there, and half my life is gone? But no, that was folly. It could not have been so long. The boys were still boys. If it had been ten years, they would have grown into men. He had to remember that. I must not let him drive me mad. He can take my fingers and my toes, he can put out my eyes and slice my ears off, but he cannot take my wits unless I let him.

—ADWD, Reek I

Playing along to survive or avoid horrific pain and mutilation is not the same as actually losing fortitude, giving up, breaking internally. (Another Theon Month meta goes into this in a little more detail, and as I said, others have discussed this before better than I could.) Just Theon’s Dance arch alone is a testament to his strength and willpower and, yes, to his bravery. But let’s go back to Clash.

His choice to side with his family over the Starks isn’t made out of weakness or fear – it’s just a choice based on priorities (his future, his family, his people vs. …well, Robb, basically). Even the farmer’s boy’s murders, while technically driven by a fear of ridicule, and while awful, are neither about weakness nor a lack of bravery. After all, Theon sees very well when even his own men start to turn against him at Winterfell, because they’d rather die “gloriously” than go through all kinds of tricks and slights of hand with child hostages and such. But Theon presses on with his plans to salvage the merest shadow of a hope for them to get out of there alive, even if it means sacrificing respect, a thing he has fought for so desperately up to this point.

Nor is it, by the way, that Theon is particularly driven by a fear of death more than any person really would be (after, all the human instinct is to survive):

They made a pitifully small assembly; the ironmen were few, the yard large. "The northmen will be on us before nightfall," he told them. "Ser Rodrik Cassel and all the lords who have come to his call. I will not run from them. I took this castle and I mean to hold it, to live or die as Prince of Winterfell. But I will not command any man to die with me. If you leave now, before Ser Rodrik's main force is upon us, there's still a chance you may win free." He unsheathed his longsword and drew a line in the dirt. "Those who would stay and fight, step forward."

--ACOK, Theon VI

Theon will die if he must. He’ll make a last stand. He’ll even do it all alone, abandoned by his men if they wish for safety (and many of them do abandon him). He refuses, in fact, sacrifice his dignity and surrender. It’s just…he’d rather not die if there’s a way to save himself, what’s left of his men and (if the hostage plan were to be successful) Beth and any civilians who might die in as collateral damage in the battle that will ensue as well. (Remember too that he refuses to put everyone to the sword when his men point out that he should, because the Winterfell’s civilian population will turn against them once the battle starts.)

Theon’s priorities and ethics in the middle of this horrific mental breakdown he goes through at Wintefell are all kinds of messed up – which he is aware of and feels intense guilt over almost immediately – but he’s never not brave and it’s never about weakness.

Now, sometimes, the drive to survive is presented as a weakness or a cowardice in itself. A sort of, “look at all of these terrible things this person will do just to live! They don’t have the courage to face death!” But per above, Theon doesn’t have an overwhelming fear of death. He’s brave in battle, he’s willing to make a last stand bravely if necessary.

To come back to that line again: What choice did that leave him, but to live?

Theon’s whole story is not just about survival. It’s about the courage and strength it takes to survive and to live. Theon surviving, living, not to mention finding any joy in that life, is a huge giant fuck you to a world that has knocked him down again and again, threatened his life literally, and threatened his ability to actually enjoy that life. A world that’s this close to winning long before Ramsay:

Outside the rain was falling harder than ever. The rope bridge twisted and writhed under his feet. Theon Greyjoy stopped in the center of the span and contemplated the rocks below. The sound of the waves was a crashing roar, and he could taste the salt spray on his lips. A sudden gust of wind made him lose his footing, and he stumbled to his knees.

--ACOK, Theon II

This is after that awful dinner at Pyke and the council where Balon lays out his war plans. It’s so subtle that I missed it on the first read and I think on the first re-read too. But stop to picture this scene in your head for one second. He’s lowkey suicidal before he’s even left Pyke.

Living for Theon is not the easy way out. It hasn’t been since he was 10. First a hostage, constantly living under the threat of death, culturally alienated, socially isolated, lacking in affection (the only person he seems to be even possibly emotionally close to is Robb, and even that relationship isn’t without its toxic power dynamics), traumatized by all of this. Then coming home and finding that it wasn’t only his childhood that has been stolen from him, but possibly his future too – he’s once again alienated from his people and his family, he can no longer connect with his childhood friends. He starts to slowly lose that sense of identity and self long before Ramsay’s twisted Reek games. But he just…refuses to give up.

In ever situation. At Winterfell, he tries to be social, riding and joking with members of Winterfell’s guards in AGOT when they ride out to the execution, showing that he had something of a social life probably, and casual friends, if not very close and intimate ones. He tries to be close to Robb. His chief and most visible defense mechanism is to smile, to pretend everything is fine. On Pyke, he’s determined to prove himself to his father, to the other ironborn, to show that he is a worthy son, a worthy Prince. At Winterfell, in Clash, he fights to maintain his achievements, his standing, his dignity, and yes, his life.

What choice did that leave him, but to live?

At this point, Theon just living is a contradiction. It’s inconvenient for pretty much everyone. He’s broken with the North, Asha feels threatened by him (though I don’t think she actively wants his death, he’s likely under the impression she does), his father has abandoned him, and as we find out later from Aeron’s POV would be happy enough to see him dead so he doesn’t “stand in Asha’s way.” And in the face of all of that to turn around and say, effectively, of all things, I don’t even know if I want to live anymore, but it’s the only thing to do. You would all rather I be dead, but fuck you. ???

So, I guess the answer to that question that prompted all of these thoughts is fundamentally this (at least in part): I wish I could be that strong and that brave.

#theonmonth2022 #theon greyjoy #asoiaf #meta #op

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luna-rainbow · 3 years

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I have such conflicting feelings about the code words for the WS because on one hand I like anything that helps to support the argument that Bucky isn't to blame for anything that he did as the WS, but on the other I felt like they were very plot device-y, weren't used to their full potential, and, honestly, shouldn't even be necessary. The codewords were literally just used by the writers to justify having a "WS rampage" moment in CACW and to give a reason why Bucky would have given Zemo the information about the Siberia base and why he needed to be frozen at the end of the movie, once they fulfilled that use, they instantly removed them from the picture, not even showing us the how of how the code words were removed, was it a brain surgery, was it psychotherapies?

In a better world where people were less ableist, the codewords wouldn't have been needed for people to understand that Bucky was a victim without any control over his actions. I think back to when I first watched CAWS, before we knew that the codewords were a thing, and I thought it was pretty clear just from the bank scene that Bucky was a victim, but maybe that's just me?

I also feel like there's some ableism baked into the whole codewords thing towards dissociative disorders (maybe this is bc I've read a lot of Bucky fics that discuss dissociation as a part of the WS that are really good). Idk sorry if this doesn't make much sense, I just wish that this--like most parts of his storyline--were better written.

Thanks for the ask!

Make no mistake, the code words - like many parts of CACW - were definitely a plot device, and not there to help people understand Bucky had no control. It was the easiest "switch" for Zemo to gain control of Bucky and direct him to do his bidding. Bucky's rampage was necessary to set off the airport fight, because - this line seems to get overlooked a bit - Tony insinuates that he killed people in that rampage, which was why the Avengers were called upon to bring him in.

I...really cannot think of a real life equivalent for the code words, and the amount of reading required to confirm this is too much because reliable evidence on hypnotherapy is so scarce D= The whole activation sequence and Bucky's "consciousness" disappearing comes across like a hypnosis to me.

But my other thought is that the Winter Soldier seems fairly capable of making quick (straightforward/concrete) decisions about fighting, and combined with what Seb says about Bucky "being in a trance-like state", I wonder if it's almost like a sleepwalking/parasomnia situation. Interestingly, one of the theories about parasomnias is the inappropriate disinhibition of the basal ganglia during (non-REM) sleep.

I can't recall the exact line Melina says about the Winter Soldier program, but it was definitely the basal ganglia that she experimented on to get the pigs to obey her commands. TBH I don't think the scriptwriter was aiming for this - basal ganglia does a lot of stuff with motor control that's unrelated to sleep.

Can you induce a parasomnia state? Yes, zopiclone was notorious for doing this when it first came out, and some other toxins can do it too. I have not heard of hypnosis doing it, but...hey, this is Hydra.

I know this is getting long already, but I thought it's useful to talk over the components of consent:

- You have to have available all the relevant information about the risks/benefits, potential outcomes, and any other major concerns that might influence your choice - You have to have understood the information - You have to be able to synthesise the information and form a judgement that takes into account the possible outcomes - Finally there's a component about communicating the decision which doesn't apply here.

In Bucky's case - he definitely does not get given the full picture when he goes on missions, especially when you consider that they wipe his memory to take away his knowledge of the situation. It's also doubtful whether he would be able to understand complex contextual and abstract information, or form a judgement based on that (I tend to lean no).

So regardless of whether Bucky is in a dissociative, hypnotic or parasomniac state, he still did not consent to participate in killing his targets, and he should not be held responsible.

#things i will never stop saying #bucky is a victim not a villain #bucky barnes #medical meta #meta #asks #sorry i think i went off topic again

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ask-asexual-crystal-gems · 3 years

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What's a common thread between ADHD and the asexuality spectrum? The answer might surprise you.

A while back, an ADHD user said in response to my question, “how did mindfulness exercises go?” a single word, “dissociation.”

It was only long after I had replied, that I had to remind myself that people think of dissociation as a scary thing.

I had to remind myself that a psychotherapist I once knew was pretty unorthodox, and gave me perspective on the matter that defused all the mysteriousness and internalized socialized discomfort surrounding it, which is ultimately rooted in both fear of the unknown or unfamiliar, and maybe a little bit of stigma, too.

Naturally, I do not talk about these sorts of things with general people IRL, so newly having a ‘conversation’ online about it did not jostle my awareness of others’ attitudes like it probably should have.

Things like anxiety and ADHD are, let’s say, more “ordinary” neurodivergences. (remember, the word applies to ALL mental illnesses, also, not just traits. Many don't consider most cases of ADHD an 'illness,' nor a lot of presentations of autism)

Those are more "ordinary." They don’t mash that “this is weird” button, so much as simply “this is very unpleasant.”

But dissociation can be the former, and not the latter.

Let me back up and explain that a bit.

People see dissociation as undesirable.

But why is it, you should ask.

Leave aside questions of physical safety. I’m just talking about sitting down somewhere, and there is no risk to you.

In the typical view, it’s not just another operation the brain can do, or an altered mind state, as we discussed it, rather, it is somehow considered a “bad” outcome.

When, ironically, for many forms of mind training, which we’ll put under the umbrella term “meditation” for simplicity’s sake, the end goal is a type of on-command dissociative state.

Whether you are internalizing your attention, externalizing your attention, or just trying to get that danged mind chatter to shut up for once and give you some peace, whichever way you are sliding along that scale, there is always the route open to you to pursue this ultimate peace.

So this person, who was trying out mindfulness?

Think, if you switched all the aircraft cockpit switches to check if everything was lighting up correctly. But instead of being an experienced pilot, you had no idea what would happen once you started testing everything out.

Accidentally withdrawing your physical senses, and seeming to distance your “self” from your body, which experienced practitioners do without batting an eye, (pun intended) would seem like a dysfunction rather than a built-in feature.

Quieting those areas of the brain dedicated to sense perception is quite a lovely experience, when you are educated on it, do it on purpose, and expect it.

Whereas anxiety is almost never a positive experience, unless it’s not really overwhelming or potent, and you’ve 'reframed' it such that it’s exciting, like any other adrenaline junkie bender.

The milder forms of dissociation, termed depersonalization or derealization, that seem to be quite common among asexual people, are also often considered as a negative thing, instead of just the current, value-neutral state of mind, which is trainable.

A much more common and even milder form happens when we sink into routine. Ever had a stretch of weeks on a job where you look back and you feel like you were sort of “automated”? Like you weren’t really present? You’re somehow a little surprised that that much time has passed?

That “time dilation,” accompanied also sometimes by a distorted sense of chronological sequence happens a lot with ADHD people, regardless of circumstances, but most everyone in the populace has experienced it at some point, barring perhaps the super privileged who have never been forced into a literally “mind numbing” job.

Maybe you’ve also experienced the sensation where you get into a car, perhaps when you’re on a familiar route you’ve driven a thousand times, or especially on long road trips, and you seem to zone out and lose time.

The brain is pretty good at conserving energy.

This is what she tells her patients, to calm their sympathetic nervous system. It circumvents that distress, that health-sapping stress response to this ultimately harmless “weird” experience, vastly improving their quality of life:

Dissociation is a continuum- many forms of it are common. Not some super strange thing corralled in a small corner of the sum total of human experience.

“Reframing” these things is essential to attaining incrementally improved mental health.

Clearing away all the internalized judgement, the feelings of wrongness, etc.

Just one more step out of the norm.

Just another neurodivergence.

It is conceptualized as unnerving when it happens suddenly and sharply, though, because it is so different from “ordinary” everyday experience.

The same way one person who hasn’t been around dogs much might react to a large dog barking with fear, and another person standing next to them having the exact same experience, trained and knowledgeable in recognizing true aggression versus excitement or mild warning, would not feel threatened.

Yes, having that particular toggle out of your grasp may be annoying and to those not given this perspective, frightening. (And if other personalities are involved, that gets much more complicated!!) But, consider. One of my mentors said calmly once, that she lost time for, say, 10 or 15 minutes while sitting down quite regularly, and felt very recharged and energized afterwards. It’s not exactly like sleep, because there’s not that head nodding and relaxation of muscles. Almost instantly gone, and instantly aware again, not that feathery transition as happens when drowsing or gradually falling asleep.

I hypothesize to her that this had probably started up because she’s involuntarily dropping into a deep delta or theta brainwave state for a bit, because that’s what she does in ‘brain entrainment’ recordings. (The frequencies are very good for relaxation when you're anxious and have a hard time unwinding yourself, others are good for focus during studying, and are therefore used by ADHD people) Unless she wants to pay some big lab to measure her neuron firing frequency though, there’s no way to tell for sure. The point is, that she directly benefits from this ‘taking a break’ from thinking. She is not bothered in the least by her mind occasionally saying, ‘you know what, I’m overwhelmed right now, gonna switch off for a bit.’ When someone gives their mind this permission to pause from its worries and senses, each the internal and external input, sometimes this is the outcome. It is not a problem to her whatsoever that this toggle occasionally moves of its own accord.

People are afraid of what they don’t understand.

But she understands it.

People are afraid of new experiences.

But to her, it’s old hat. On an MRI, each of the parts of the brain dedicated to the senses dim. Occipital lobe for sight, temporal lobe for hearing, etc.

If I were brushed up on the neuroanatomy of this process better, I could also name the parts dedicated to internal imput that would grow dimmer as she entered that state. Heck, they study this stuff so much, when interviewing meditation practitioners and testing for stuff like blood flow changes as their attention shifts, those images probably already exist.

Dissociation is not a mysterious thing.

It serves a purpose.

It’s your brain’s ‘energy saver’ mode.

Or in some cases, ‘recharge.’

So, to the person who argued that ADHD people should be cautious about using mindfulness? I must ask again, why?

Why would you forgo the benefits? Why would they tell others to do so??

Usually the main reasons dissociation causes problems, that aforementioned therapist says, is that people are overloaded to the point where it happens not when they’re relaxed, and can daydream or drift, but randomly when there’s too much pressure in their lives.

The fear response to it is just like any other overactive fear response or phobia- with time and therapeutic work, they are all resolvable.

/////////

#this post is NOT about dissociative identity disorder #only mentioned it in passing to separate it from the discussion

#adhd #asexual #generalized anxiety disorder #mental health stigma #mental health #therapy #neurodivergence #neurodiversity #depersonalization #derealization #mindfulness #anti capitalism #time dilation #brain entrainment #delta waves #theta waves

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wickwrites · 4 years

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Burning as a Motif for Humanity in Violet Evergarden

I think, when watching Violet Evergarden, most of us picked up on fire as a motif for Violet’s trauma – the violence and destruction she witnessed in the war, and the violence and destruction she engendered with her own hands. I’m not going to go into this too much because it’s all pretty self-explanatory, if not trite, but here are some quick examples of fire as a motif for her trauma just to lay the groundwork for the rest of the essay:

In frame 1 (episode 8), Violet draws first blood on the battlefield, and the once contained fire from the felled soldiers’ lanterns spread quickly through the forest, a symbol for how one small act of violence can cascade into large scale destruction. In frame 2, Gilbert stares at the carnage in front of him, horrified. In frame 3, the major is shot, and all we get to see is a screen of flames. In frame 4 (episode 12), Merkulov stares into a fire as he schemes about re-kindling the war.

I want to follow this (well trodden) opinion up with a more encompassing statement. That is, fire, in Violet Evergarden, is not limited to representing the destructive power of violence and trauma. Instead, it is a motif for humanity itself – an embodiment of the full range of experiences and emotions that make us human.

To show this, I’m going to start off at the beginning of Violet’s journey, focusing on how her disconnect (from herself as well as others) is illustrated in episode one. For instance, her initial struggle to move her now mechanical arms as she sits in her hospital bed in the opening sequence is an excellent embodiment of her dissociation from her own body and lack of agency. I want to, however, focus on two scenes that are particularly relevant for our discussion:

First, the scene where Violet spills tea on her hand:

And second, the scene where Hodgins insists that Violet is burning:

These scenes are similar: in both, someone asserts that Violet must be in pain, specifically due to burning, and in both, Violet rejects that statement. In the first, however, that burning is physical. And in the second, that burning is emotional. Regardless, Violet is so removed from her own body that she is incapable of feeling either. Her mechanical hand is therefore an embodiment of her inhumanity (ie. her “dollness” or “weapon-ness”). Like her, it is cold, mechanical, insensitive, without life or agency. After all, up until now, all she’s been doing is killing on command, without the ability to think for herself, experience her own pain, or sympathize with her victims’ pain.

When the screen shows that Hodgins is indeed correct, that Violet is literally on fire (frame 1), that fire is depicted with restraint. Flames engulfs Violet’s body, but those flames are from a streetlamp enclosed in glass. It is controlled and distant. This encapsulates Violet’s current state; she is literally on fire, but that fire is so compartmentalized and suppressed, and she is so far removed from her own experience, that she is incapable of feeling it.

In frame 2, we are viewing Violet in a flashback, from Hodgin’s point of view. Although we’re offered a close up shot of her bloodied hands, we see, about two cuts later, that Hodgin is actually observing Violet from afar (frame 2.5). This distance demonstrates that he cannot bring himself to reach out to her, something that Hodgin confesses he feels guilty about literally 5 seconds later. They were, at that point in time, and perhaps even now, unable to connect.

In frames 3 and 4, Hodgin is speaking again. We get this super far shot of Violet’s body. The camera is straight on, objective, and unfeeling. This unsympathetic framing has two functions. First, it distances us from Violet. Our inability to see the details on her face and her relatively neutral body language gives us, the audience, no real way inidication her thoughts. Second, it distances Violet from herself. As someone who experiences dissociative symptoms from PTSD, this is a very poignant way of framing what it feels like to be removed from your own experience. Hodgin’s line, “You’ll understand what I’m saying one day. And, for the first time, you’ll notice all your burn scars,” further drives home the sense that Violet is completely estranged from herself. It almost feels like we are looking at her, from her own detached point of view.

We’re going to move on now, but we’ll get back to these frames later in the analysis, so hold onto them.

Throughout Violet’s journey, fire comes up again and again. Specifically, it shows up in moments of emotional intimacy, connection, and healing. Let’s see what I mean by this:

I have here a collection of moments that all occur at the same narrative point in their respective mini-stories: the moment where one character reaches out to another, sympathizes with them, and literally pulls them of their darkness. For example, frame 1 (episode 3) shows Violet bringing a letter from Luculia to her brother. It expresses Luculia’s gratitude and love for him, and ultimately mends their relationship. In frame 2 (episode 4), Violet and Iris share a moment of emotional intimacy and connection, which is the beginning of Iris’ story’s resolution. In frame 3 (episode 9), Violet’s suicidal despondency is interrupted by the mailman, bringing her a heartwarming letter from all her friends. In frame 4 (episode 11), Violet comforts a dying solder by a fireplace.

It’s not that other modes of lighting do not exist – modern looking lamps show up repeatedly in the show. Even Iris’ rural family has them, so I can reasonably assume that, no, the above moments do not all coincidentally use lamps because that’s all there is in this universe; the usage of fire during moments of catharsis is deliberate, and establishes that fire can also bring hope, kindness, and love.

Now that we’ve explored the dual nature of fire as both destructive/constructive, painful/cathartic, let’s go onto the thesis of my essay. Why do I say that being on fire is to be human? Let’s go back to the scene where Hodgin tells Violet she’s on fire (episode 1, on the left), and compare it to the scene where Violet finally realizes that Hodgin was right and that she is on fire (episode 7, on the right):

In these sequences, there is a notable shift in framing and perspective. In frame 1b, we finally get to see Violet’s blood-stained hands from her point of view, as opposed to from Hodgin’s point of view in 1a. Violet becomes aware of her past as an actual agent choosing to kill, shown through the first-person point of view. Similarly, the medium, straight on shot of Violet looking down at her hands (frame 2a) is replaced with an intimate first-person, close-up view (frame 2b). In shots 3a and 3b, the difference in framing is most pronounced. In 3a, we get this straight on, long shot. In frame 3b, the camera’s detachment is replaced by a claustrophobic closeness. While this framing does an excellent job at conveying the panicked feeling of “everything crashing down all at once”, it also demonstrates Violet’s new-found awareness of herself. While before, the camera was used to alienate, now it is used to create a sense of painful awareness and intimacy.

These series of shots are the first in the entire show, I believe, of Violet's body from her own point of view. Their co-incidence with her awakening self-awareness characterizes the state of “being in one’s body” as a precondition to self-connection, or more specifically, to Violet’s understanding of herself as neither a weapon nor a doll, but as a human. Correspondingly, this pivotal moment serves as a catalyst for her subsequent emotional development. From this episode on towards the finale, we’re launched into a heart wrenching sequence of events: Violet’s desperate grieving for Gilbert’s apparent death, her attempted suicide driven by newfound grief, and most importantly, Violet receiving her first written letter, an act that is strongly representative of genuine human connection. Following these events, Violet’s emotional connection to both herself and others only continues to grow; during her two final jobs of the story, she breaks down crying in response to the suffering of her clients, demonstrating a level of compassion—if not empathy—that she seems to have never been able to tap into before.

At the same time, Violet acquires a new sense of agency, making plot-driving decisions that no longer require other characters’ validations. Most poignantly, in episode 12, she chooses to stay on the train to fight Merkulov, explicitly going against Dietfried’s order for her to leave. Her reason?

She doesn’t want anyone to die anymore.

And it’s this moment, for me, that consolidated her as a character with true agency. Up until now, all her major decisions have been framed in relation to Gilbert: she killed in the war because Gilbert ordered her to, and she became an Auto Memories Doll because she wanted to understand Gilbert’s enigmatic “I love you”. Now, however, her motivation is purely her own—she fights, simply because she doesn’t want anyone else to die. It’s a line implies an intimate knowledge of loss. It’s a sentiment motivated by compassion. It’s a raw and extraordinarily human thing to say.

When Violet embarks on her journey to decipher Gilbert’s love, she is devoid of many traits we consider inherent and possibly even unique to being human—suffering, compassion, altruism, love, agency, and the interplay between them. As an Auto Memories Doll, she learns to live, experiencing all these emotions she had never had the luxury to experience before, and we quickly realize that she cannot know what love is without simultaneously wrestling with her trauma. She learns that yes, sometimes the fire destroys and sometimes it burns, but sometimes it thaws too, and you cannot have one without the other. You cannot choose what the fire does to you; you cannot choose what you want to feel. Thus, to be on fire is to know the anguish of its destruction, but it is also, and more importantly, to know the catharsis of human connection, to be the warm flame that pulls someone else out of the dark, to be pulled out of the dark yourself. To be on fire is to be human.

#violet evergarden #violet evergarden analysis #anime analysis #anime #anime essay #anime meta #violet evergarden meta #analysis #w.writing #w.analysis

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?” Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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my-whumpy-little-heart · 4 years

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Persistence - 11

Oh man. I didn’t realize how much I missed writing this story. If anyone needs a refresher, the masterlist is here, and we’re jumping right into the aftermath of the last chapter with Ray and Mabel!

Tag list (It’s been a while, so absolutely no shame in asking to be removed or added. Also, so sorry if I forgot anyone!!): @whump-tr0pes, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @doitforthewhump, @shameless-whumper, @endless-whump, @theycomeinthrees, @faewhump, @lonesome--hunter, @insanitywishes, @ohmywhump, @deluxewhump

Content warnings: Painful wound cleaning, discussions of misguided homicide and death, and mild dissoci@tion.

“...We’re gonna have to talk about this, but right now we need to keep everyone safe. That’s what you wanna do right? Keep these people from taking anyone else away from us?”

Slowly, languidly, Ray nodded.

“Right… you’re right.”

He wiped his brow with a shaking hand, then dragged it under his eyes and was surprised to find the skin there dry, the tears still swimming in them and refusing to spill. Ray blinked hard to clear his vision, not certain whether the blurriness of it was due to his tears or merely the darkness of the night.

His eyes felt a little more focused and much dryer after rubbing at them with his fingertips, and he stared across from their ship to the vessel floating alongside it. Mabel went first, descending the way the two sailors had climbed up, and Ray followed without a second thought, hands shaking and clutching the rope far too tightly, knuckles surely gone pale with the strain.

Everything felt wrong when they crept across the deck. He was tense, walking with heavy, uncoordinated steps and arms locked straight at his sides. Every slight noise, a creak in the deck or a splashing wave, sent a flinch rocketing up his spine. Mabel noticed, and he saw her concerned glances, but neither of them said a word until they were inside the ship’s quarters and encountered another person.

“Stay right where you are,” Mabel commanded, drawing her sword to make the threat clear. After a moment’s hesitation, Ray unsheathed his as well, making sure not to look at the drying, crimson blood glinting off its blade in the soft light. He had to grip it with both hands to keep the tip from shaking.

The sailor standing opposite of them froze, hand reaching towards his hip, but there wasn’t even a belt around his waist to draw a weapon from. When Mabel advanced a few steps forward, he raised his hands in quick, quiet surrender.

“Don’t bother hurting me,” he sighed, almost angrily resigned to this. Ray wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been cornered this way before after a failed mission, considering his late crew’s apparent incompetency. “What do you want?”

“Assemble what’s left of your people and tell them the crew of the Thief’s Halyard sent a message.” Mabel stuck out her chin the slightest bit, head held high with confidence and authority, while Ray felt smaller than ever beside her. “Don’t bother coming after us again. We know who sent you; let him know that we aren’t stopping for…” Her voice faded out even as she kept talking, overtaken by the white noise in Ray’s head.

He couldn’t handle this. He was looking at the young man with his hands raised but he saw a corpse bleeding, falling to the ground, life fading in mere merciless instants with no chance to even think before the darkness swallowed it whole. Did they really deserve what he’d done? Would they have ended up like that anyway? Was that… was it right?

“...then, and see yourself out,” the man grumbled, and Ray’s ears rang as he realized he was being tugged towards the exit, a gentle hand on his arm leading him along.

“What...?” he muttered, dazed and lost.

“Just follow me, come on, we’re getting out of here. Yes, I took care of it. No they’re not gonna bother us... You’re not in any state to be worrying about this, Ray. Come on,” Mabel urged, letting him go briefly and climbing up the rope back to their ship. He hadn’t even realized they were outside again. It took a few seconds to process her words, but he reached up, gripped as hard around the rope as he could, and used the knots along the length for leverage.

He reached up for the edge of the boat as soon as it was within reach, and Mabel crouched down to help him up before his grip could fail him. He clambered over the edge of the deck, face expressionless and drained. His legs nearly collapsed when he tried to stand up, buckling underneath his weight until Mabel wrapped a steadying arm around his torso.

“Hey, hey, hang on,” she grunted, reaching out with her other arm to dislodge the rope connecting their two ships together, and effectively removing the only pathway between them as well. “You need to get inside…”

Across from them, a few other crew members spilled out onto the deck, confusion and determination painted across their faces.

“What happened?!” one of them shouted, breathless. “We heard yelling, are you two alright? How can we help?”

“James, Clara, Edith,” she recognized them each in turn, and breathed their names in relief, “Just an ambush by some lowlifes. We shouldn’t be in danger anymore, but Ray and I need to get inside. Would you mind waking everyone else and gathering, um, there are- there’s two people here,” she gestured to the bodies of the people Ray had killed and he shuddered against her side, “one in the hallway, and two more in Ray’s quarters. Make sure that ship shoves off before they can cause us any more trouble, too.”

Each of them nodded at that, noting the tone with a degree of caution and worry.

“D’you need help Mabel? You’re still hurt too, y’know,” James asked, hand resting on his sword as he scanned the area the best he could in the darkness. The likelihood of an attacker still hiding on their ship was low, but certainly not impossible.

“I’ll be fine,” she sighed, offering a tight smile as she made her way toward the cabin. “Your help with this is enough.” He didn’t push the issue any further, trusting her to sort out what she needed to, and got to work with the others.

The pair walked in a slow, lumbering limp, most of Ray’s weight resting on Mabel’s injured side. She could feel the stitches tearing and giving way to a throbbing ache, but gritted her teeth against it and kept on down the hallway until they reached her quarters. She nearly continued to Ray’s out of habit, but remembered the gruesome scene they’d left there and figured her room would be far less disturbing. Mabel’s attacker was lying slumped just outside the doorway--whether unconscious or deceased she couldn’t be certain--when she stepped carefully over him and closed the door behind them, plunging the room into darkness.

Mumbling to herself, she led Ray to where she knew her bed was and sat him down, leaving for a moment to fumble through a side drawer. The matchbox’s rough texture was easy to pick out, and she dragged it out from between the rest of the drawer’s contents. She slid it open, grabbed a match, and struck it against the side twice before it lit. The weak flame sparked to life between her fingers, which she quickly reached up to light the candle sitting atop her dresser, then the one on her desk.

They bathed the bed in a shallow, pulsing light. The residual darkness would make it difficult to work, but she’d dealt with worse before. The roll of bandages as well as the bowl of water used to care for her own injury were still sitting conveniently beside the bed. She squinted at the water inside, though, all too aware that it had been tainted with her blood and left to sit out for a day.

“I’ll be right back; this isn’t gonna cut it,” she grimaced. Mabel was nearly out the door when she realized she hadn’t gotten a response. A quick glance over her shoulder showed blank eyes and hunched shoulders staring… not at her, but through her. She swallowed her worry for the time being, stepping out the door without a second glance and nearly running straight into another person.

“My bad!” Mabel retreated just as quickly as she’d advanced, holding one hand up in an apology and looked up to see Clara doing the same.

“No, no you’re fine, that’s- that’s alright,” Clara breathed, stammering as she tried to recompose herself. “I wasn’t looking either.”

“Not your fault,” she reassured. “Do you have a moment, though? I need some fresh water, but I’ve gotta stay in here with Ray.” She had to physically stop herself from looking back over her shoulder again. He could deal with more than two seconds alone while she sorted this out. He wasn’t helpless.

“Oh, yeah of course! I’ll clean up with this and grab some more when I’m done, but it might take a bit.” “Take as long as you need, Clara,” Mabel nodded her assurance, waiting until Clara was out of sight to close the door again. She took a deep breath, held it in, and turned around on the slow exhale.

“Ray?” her voice softened as she crouched down, sitting carefully beside him on the bed when he didn’t respond. His gaze followed her, then dipped down when her hand clasped around his with a gentle squeeze. Shakily, he returned it, but the hollowness in his face remained.

“Come back to me, Ray. Can you say something? Just, anything so I know you’re still with me?”

“...’m okay,” he mumbled so close to her, yet so far away.

“Okay,” she repeated a little louder, “you’re not, but we’ll figure it out. Can you roll up your- actually, no, might as well just get your shirt out of the way entirely.” Splattered blood stained all his clothes, but the dark pants didn’t show it quite as vividly as the off-white shirt that was more red and pink than anything else at that point. She couldn’t even differentiate between what blood was his and what his victims had spilled.

“Yeah,” Ray rasped, reaching for the hem and stripping off the wet fabric. Mabel went to grab it, but he merely dropped it at his feet and she decided it was best left alone for now.

Instead, she focused on the cuts littering his skin, the redness around his arms and abdomen where the chair’s ropes must have rubbed harshly against him, and the blood drying across his chest. She couldn’t do much else until Clara got back, though, so she cleared her throat and spoke up.

“So. What can I do to help? You want to talk through this now?”

“I…” He swallowed. “I didn’t want to.”

“Didn’t want to... what, exactly?” she led, squeezing his hand again.

“I didn’t want to- I just- I didn’t want them to die-” Ray swallowed the last word, eyes fixed on one point across the room but not focused on anything at all. “They didn’t do anything, I don’t know why I just... I-” He cut himself off again, pressing his face into his hands, and silence fell across the two of them for a moment.

“They didn’t do anything yet, you mean. Their other ones attacked you in your sleep. We took care of them, but you didn’t know what the others were gonna do. You protected yourself and you protected us,” she said, then sighed. “I’m not saying there’s nothing wrong with what happened. And I think you know that.” Ray nodded heavily, hanging his head.

The door opened again before either could speak further on the matter, and Clara leaned in.

“Will this be enough?” she asked, out of breath. Her cheeks were red, but the rest of her face was pale and washed out.

“Yes, thank you so much,” Mabel said, hardly even glancing at it as she took the water and the rag Clara had been kind enough to grab. The other woman turned to leave. “Oh, and Clara! Be careful. Take a break if you’re feeling ill,” she warned, voice a little harsher than intended. All she got was a hasty wave before Clara rushed out of sight and Mabel let out a sigh.

“Here,” she turned to Ray, “sit up against the pillow.” She reached back, propping it against the headboard for him to lean on.

“Need anything else?” Ray shook his head a little less absently. “Suit yourself then. Relax.”

Mabel balanced the water on the bed beside them, dipping a cloth in and wringing out the excess before turning over Ray’s arm and holding it in place. When the cloth pressed to one of the deepest slashes on his forearm, he tensed up and tried to jerk away, forcing Mabel to redouble her grip on his wrist.

“Hold still,” she hissed, dragging the rag up as Ray forced himself not to pull away. He keened softly, unable to hold the sound in when she pressed even harder, almost scrubbing at the wound. “I know, I know, I’m sorry… Gotta make sure it’s clean.”

Mabel passed over the cut one final time and lifted the cloth, watching as Ray went limp and took a deep, shuddering breath. She gave him a few seconds more, but he wasn’t going to handle this process well no matter how slowly she did it. Ray rolled his shoulders back and relaxed them as well as he could when she turned his arm to get a better look at a graze crossing the opposite way.

“So…” she trailed off, letting the cloth touch skin and giving Ray time to adjust to the new pain before speaking again. “Where we left off. You knew what you did was…”

“...was wrong.” he grunted, “It was wrong. It felt wrong.”

“Why did you do it?”

Ray was silent except for a shaking gasp as Mabel started on a different cut, uneven breathing eventually settling into breathy syllables.

“I don’t…” he sighed, “I knew they were- Percival sent them. He had to have done it, but I don’t kno-hhh!… so quickly…”

“You… don’t know?”

Ray pressed his lips in a thin line, averting his eyes.

Neither of them spoke again. The cloth worked its way up Ray’s arm and over his chest, accompanied by whimpers, groans, and stifled screams. The bowl of water was clouded with blood and grime by the time Mabel finally reached his other arm, but she didn’t want to bother anyone to change it out at that point.

Eventually, when the quiet was nearly unbearable for both of them, Mabel spoke up.

“Ray, listen. I have to say something. I know we’ve both been thinking it, and I don’t want to make you upset, but...”

He glanced over, a soft plea in his upturned brows, fear in his half-lidded eyes, dread resting in the downturned corners of his mouth, and nodded.

“You know you can’t protect Floyd, right?” He flinched, but she went on. “There’s nothing you can do for him right now. You’re scared out of your mind, you’re worried sick, and I get it, but this isn’t okay. You’re wound up so tight that you callously killed two people without a second thought and didn’t even understand why until after it was all over. That’s not you, Ray.”

He stared into her eyes, searching for the lie he knew he’d never find. The rag’s warm touch brushed over the edge of his last unclean cut and he flinched, scrunching up his shoulders and hanging his head.

“That’s… nnh-! I can try, at least.”

“No, you can’t. Not like this.” Mabel’s words were firm as she lifted the bloodied cloth, hesitating before reaching over to the roll of bandages. “All you can do to help right now is chase after them.”

“And for all I know, that’s hurting him too,” Ray argued, but there was no bite in his voice. The words came out flat and dejected. “It’s the only option we have.”

“I wish it wasn’t.”

There was nothing she could say to that.

Mabel finished applying the bandages in silence, and Ray drifted among the waves gently rocking the boat, feeling himself slip under their surface into somewhere cold and suffocating. His tears could have dissolved into the sea, but they refused to surface in his dry, burning eyes.

He drifted on the walk back to his room through the lingering scent of blood, past the candle still wearing itself down, and under the unkempt covers on his bed. The flickering light was swallowed by the night, but even the darkest of shadows couldn’t dull the images still etched into his mind, replaying over and over and over again all through the night.

Next part

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tocxmply · 5 years

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ATTENTION, AWARENESS, AND LEARNING [sources: click, click, click, click, click]

the original plan was to have this as the initial section of my meta about Bucky’s memory (what he remembers vs. what he forgot, essentially) but: 1) i realized that was going to be a massive thing and splitting it might be in my best interest, and 2) memory does not exist without learning and learning does not exist without attention so, really, exploring each step individually might not be a bad idea after all. other than the linked sources, this meta will also build on what i have already discussed regarding the process of brainwashing that underlies the functioning of the Winter Soldier: here. on the other hand, whereas the topic of this meta is not memory, all of these cognitive processes are deeply enmeshed and therefore do not exist as categorically separated as this text may make them look like — these are conceptual separations only (despite the little fancy numbered topics, i end up talking of attention + learning + memory all at the same time), and a degree of overlap will always exist.

1. ATTENTION starting with the concept that we cannot learn about what we do not pay attention to, then it makes all the sense to ask: what does the Winter Soldier pay attention to? and the answer is: to whatever HYDRA commands him to. the hypnosis protocols (explored in the brainwashing meta) have the purpose, exactly, to fixate his attention on fulfilling the mission goal(s), whatever they may be, at expense of everything else — which, in turn, means that if, he’s not paying attention to, say, his surroundings and the people who are with him, he won’t be able to learn about, and posteriorly remember, this sort of details.

this brings me to the “i remember all of them” line in “Captain America: Civil War” — which Sebastian Stan himself has already stated was something Bucky said in the spur of the moment, something that Tony wanted to hear while having him literally in a choke-hold. no, he doesn’t remember all of them, much as this is a heartbreaking line with big cinematic impact. i personally headcanon that Bucky remembers Howard Stark, based on the fact that this is someone he met and got to know in the 40s — which is information that comes from the long-term memory, not equally affected by the mind wiping + cryostasis as short-term memory (which i shall explore in more detail in the future memory meta). even so, it’s not clear recollection — more like remembering what that particular mission was about, and remembering faces that, back then, the Soldier could not recognize but that, in retrospect, he’s able to make sense of. i also headcanon that a similar logic applies to the mission referenced in “Captain America: The Winter Soldier”, where Natasha talks of how he shot the man she was guarding through her, and it applies as well to the highway scene in the same movie. for these three missions, long-term knowledge and/or an intense emotional tone allowed for the Soldier’s attention to be highly focused on Howard/ Natasha/ Steve respectively, spanning beyond what the hypnosis protocol dictates. nonetheless, memories of these missions are fragmented and he remembers the associated emotions that these three persons evoked, more than any coherent dialogue or details of that moment.

in regard to the other targets/ missions, Bucky remembers conceptual information essentially (e.g., the target’s name, what day it was, what the mission briefing required him to do), considering that these targets held no previous meaning to him. because these conceptual details were what his attention was focused on. so, for example, he may be able to remember who was the target assassinated on a specific day and in which way this was done, but he won’t be able to remember what the person was wearing or what their face looked like or who were the handlers for that mission. not only he didn’t pay attention to these details but they would have been wiped in post-mission, anyway. the only memory traces that stay are those which already existed and those that HYDRA allowed him to effectively learn — and these, again, are reduced to information that was necessary for carrying out the mission successfully.

what consequences does all of this have, once Bucky breaks free from HYDRA? first, what he was allowed to pay attention to is what he is now able to remember, as discussed. and then, it means that his attention span undergoes a big change as soon as it’s “free”, so to speak. now he doesn’t have anyone dictating what to pay attention to — and, whereas this is a good thing, it also implies that the world is suddenly perceived as chaotic. because now he’s suddenly aware of everything that the Soldier never noticed — he perceives faces and colors and shapes and sensations and all else, and this can easily get overwhelming (even the good things).

again, i will complement/ explore this better in the memory meta, but this is why, in post-HYDRA, Bucky struggles with actions that require short-term and working memory — not only because these brain areas were affected by the wiping, but because his span of attention itself is all over the place. not in the sense of attention deficit disorder, per se, but because there is so much stimulation happening at the same time that he isn’t used at all to be aware of (and now add to this the fact that he is also a man out of his time, as much as Steve, and there is so much to learn anew in this modern world). depending on his general state of mind, his coping may vary from dissociation (just downright shut down everything because he currently has no mental energy to process any of it, so he withdraws instead) to actively trying to process the information he’s being given (and try to understand and make sense of it, and currently being mentally stable enough to pay attention and learn and keep up with all of it).

nonetheless, this process will frequently be a bumpy one. for example, he will try to pay attention to everything and, in the end, retain none of it exactly because he was so scattered, or he will (consciously or not) direct his attention to one thing only and everything else that is going on will go completely over his head. with this said, and roleplay-wise, you should expect things like your muse having to repeat something before he actually gets it and commits it to memory, or that he won’t be able to follow what your muse is talking about if there is a lot being conveyed in a short period of time (because, by the time your muse finishes, he’s already forgotten what was said at the start, or, instead, he focused on what was said first and didn’t follow anything else), or that your muse expects him to be paying attention but in the meantime something else captured his interest and, by the time your muse realizes, Bucky has gone over to the other side of the street to pet this cute cat while leaving your muse talking alone. exceptions to this are situations that are an actual mission or resembling of it, aka situations with a very well defined goal and where he has very clear instructions to adhere to — exactly because this is what he was trained, for 70 years, to focus on and pay attention to.

2. AWARENESS again. awareness and attention are two conceptually different things — but with a great degree of overlapping and interdependence. awareness, in particular, refers to directly knowing and perceiving, feeling or being cognizant of events. it’s the state of being conscious of something. so… is it possible to pay attention without being aware? technically yes, and i see this as a particularity of the Winter Soldier, actually. because if you ask him, during a mission: what is your target doing right now? — he knows, he’ll tell you, because he is paying attention to said target. but is he aware of what he’s doing, as in, does he realize he’s about to kill a human being and what this implies at every level? he isn’t. he’s doing it because he was commanded to do it, and weapons don’t question the hand that pulls the trigger. this is possibly the most drastic change that happens in post-HYDRA, because he finally becomes aware — finally regains a sense of being conscious of his actions (and shoutout to Sebastian’s terrific acting at the end of that helicarrier scene in CA:TWS, because with his eyes only he can so clearly depict this change — this moment when the Soldier becomes aware of what he is doing to Steve). and let me redirect to another of my previous metas, re: the dehumanization of the Winter Soldier, because this shift in awareness relies entirely on the human being vs. weapon/asset mindsets: here.

in post-HYDRA, then, this comes laced with everything i already discussed about attention. the increased capacity to pay attention to the world, once the hypnosis protocol is discontinued, comes hand-in-hand with this rise in awareness — paying attention to the sunlight like you never did before, and being aware that sunlight feels warm on your skin and being aware that, in turn, this is a pleasant sensation. unlike attention, however, gaining awareness brings Bucky a whole lot more demons to deal with — because it makes him conscious of what the Soldier has done and what it implies and, at the same time, it makes him conscious of what was done to him — and this dichotomy fuels a very toxic, very difficult to undo, cycle of guilt/shame vs. paranoia. on the other hand, whereas i don’t want to go into much detail about empathy right now, this also allows him to grow very compassionate and very mindful of his actions — because he knows what the Soldier is capable of, and because he never wants any of it to happen again as far as he can help it. which is why, for example, in my writing post- CA:TWS, a pervasive theme is that Bucky is way more scared of the harm that he can potentially do to others than what can be done to him.

and a smol extra note, once more based on Seb’s acting because this man’s body language is a heavens-sent: despite everything stated above, i don’t personally believe that the Winter Soldier is completely unaware of what he’s doing. this is speculative, obviously, and no more than my own headcanon, but i really don’t think he is. he’s trained to not question it, and most of the time he doesn’t actively question it (possibly, the only time this happens is the whole “the man on the bridge” moment), but he’s not completely ruthless either — on the contrary. the highway scene in CA:TWS is a perfect example, because we can see how uncaring he is re: his own well-being (hopping off the rail like he does and landing on that car like a ton of bricks, with zero care for his own body), but we don’t see him shooting/massacring any civilians even though he so easily could. he’s solely focused on Black Widow at that point and, yes, this is likely because it’s what the hypnosis protocol dictates his attention be given to, but i personally believe it also comes out of an unconscious desire to do no harm — that belongs not to the Soldier, but to James Buchanan Barnes. one more topic for a future meta!

3. LEARNING so… i actually feel like there isn’t much left to say about this topic in particular, given how i have already been tapping at it during the two previous ones. the Winter Soldier’s learning relies on two big strategies: classical/ Pavlovian conditioning and operant conditioning (both of which i have explored in the brainwashing meta). and a whole lot of repetition, till he learns what HYDRA wants him to learn — and anything else he casually/ autonomously learns and that is considered unnecessary is taken care of via mind wiping. the biggest implication of this is that, in post-HYDRA, Bucky is a bit like a child learning about the world for the first time. not only he’s in a modern world where so much is new and he doesn’t know about it, but his learning process relies basically only in association of stimuli + punishment or reinforcement. in post-HYDRA, he starts doing trial-and-error in an autonomous manner, he starts doing vicarious learning (i.e., learning through observing other people), he starts learning things by accident in the sense that he wasn’t even trying to but it happened anyway, he starts learning by imitating and doing what others do.

which brings me to another roleplay thing, and one that i often joke about but that, in fact, happens for real — the fact that all this makes Bucky rather gullible. for example, he will see some modern contraption that he never got to see/use before and he logically won’t have a clue about it, and he will likely believe what he’s told about it — because he has no other reference, because he trusts the person who’s telling him this, because this is how he’s learned things for the past decades. he’s used to being taught, more than to learn on his own, and he’s used to the things he’s taught being the only truth that matters, in typical HYDRA fashion. the difference is that he now is aware of what he’s being told, so if you tell him “go and assassinate the prime-minister” he will obviously know what this is about and why this isn’t a good idea, to say it mildly. also, this doesn’t make him completely oblivious, in the sense of believing everything he’s told blindly and without a sense of criticism — because, yes, he’s got a shitty memory but he can sill use logic and rationality — so if you tell him to cook a sundae in the microwaves he’ll tell you to go screw yourself, because sundae is ice cream and ice cream melts. on the other hand, popular references are the thing that confuse him the most and that are hardest to learn, exactly because they don’t carry this inherent sense of concrete logic — so if you tell him that YEET! is the new way to say good morning nowadays, chances are he’ll start telling it to everyone from there on until he’s taught properly about it.

to conclude, i just wanna mention yet again the connection with attention — because the limitations i have already discussed obviously have an impact on Bucky’s capacity to learn, in post-HYDRA. generally speaking, this capacity is reduced when compared to the Soldier — not only due to brain damage, but also because the Soldier was exceptionally prepared, through hypnosis, to learn any minimal details deemed necessary (for example, this is how he learned the 16 new languages that add to English and German that he already knew --- this specific headcanon: here). so, it’s not like he now sucks at learning, rather it was the Soldier that was (forced to be) way above the standard level. now in normal conditions, this capacity is more scattered and it fluctuates along with his span of attention — which, in turn, fluctuates along with his mental health status. but he is a curious person and he wants to improve and to learn more, either on his own or with help, and this intrinsic motivation is very important when it comes to adapting to a new life/new world.

#long post #「ᵐᵉᵗᵃ」ʷᶤᵖᵉ ʰᶤᵐ ᵃᶰᵈ ˢᵗᵃʳᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ

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etaeternum · 4 years

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Shallows

Bond of the Grey Chapter 14: Shallows The armies prepare to return to Ferelden. Caoilainn and Alistair discuss the aftermath of Caoilainn's resignation. Isenam brings concerns to the new Warden Commander.

Writer’s note: I am just going to post everything I have on here tonight, so I apologize if it seems like spam. I keep getting side tracked and not posting and it doesn’t seem anyone is reading anyway so might as well just get it all out there. You’ll see a lot over the next few days if you’re following.

---

9:31 Dragon

“It still bothers you.” A curious Caoilainn stated to Alistair in their tent late one night. The crackling campfire outside gave light as the two laid together. Heads supported on hands propped by elbows, they faced each other. Alistair’s brow cocked at her vagueness and he smiled, waiting for her to clarify. Lips scrunched at his humor with her ambiguous announcement and sighed. This version of Caoilainn no one else saw: sweet, kind, compassionate, exclusive to their private interactions and unlike the stern leader the rest of their group experienced. Her voice softened, and she specified, “that Maric gave you up and Eamon sent you away because of Isolde. Doesn’t it?”

“Oh, that? Bother me?” Alistair snorted and waved his hand away, brushing off the proposition with his gesture. “Of course not. I’m long past it. Doesn’t bother me one bit. Why would I let it? It’s not worth getting sad over. It’s not like I moved from one place to another against my will through my youth.”

Caoilainn giggled and stopped his rant, “yes, it is.” Brows wrinkled in empathy, inviting him to be honest. Her palm met his, applying even pressure and calling his attention. He knew her curiosity helped her avoid unpleasant memories. “Are you sure it doesn’t get to you?”

Blue eyes saw right through his facade. “Woman,” he grinned and exhaled as he shook his head. “You do things to me and you know it. All right.” In his admittance, his brows creased, and he closed his eyes. “Maybe a little, if I look deep enough.” One eye opened, inquiring if his answer satisfied her question.

Caoilainn shook her head. White teeth showed as full lips stretched, her smile stirred his insides. The sight warmed his heart, complementing the buzz of the Grey Warden bond. Alistair opened his other eye.

“Yes. It gets to me,” he frowned through his confession. His gaze traveled from Caoilainn to the tent wall behind her. “A lot. I try to rationalize it but it feels like I’m making excuses for everyone else.”

“There’s no excuse for what happened to you,” she cooed and her fingers latticed his. The motion drew his eyes back to her. “No boy deserves that.” She moved her hand and brushed his cheek, her fingers pressed along his jaw. “You know that, right?”

Alistair’s sinuses stung summoning tears, and he inhaled. He scrunched his lips and blinked. The tenderness she gave in her message, unconditional love rang through each word. It made him sad- a happy sadness that lessened the dull pain of years of bottled resentment.

****

The Queen remained quiet as they walked. Removed, despondent, she kept her eyes down and her crying silent. Empathetic weight dropped in Alistair’s chest with each step they took. He wanted to help but knew no words could mend the wound of the interaction. Wardens’ looks of panicked doubt and distrust seared into his mind. Beneath the empathy, he realized a debilitating fear. Grief had been her reason for leaving the palace. She hadn’t known how to talk to him about her pain, and he hadn’t known how to help.

None had taught him. Alistair’s pain from loss, abandonment, and neglect ignored for some greater cause his entire life. But Caoilainn had helped. She called on him to open up, helping him vocalize his hurt and anger about the events of his childhood. He hadn’t reciprocated when she needed it in return. I’m not letting that happen again, Alistair reflected in determination to take the opportunity he had now.

Alistair took her hand and continued their walk into Skyhold, past the tavern, and into the main hall. She made a small noise, her head turned toward the hallway for their room as he kept walking. He didn’t respond, instead directing her to the garden where they came from that morning. Fireflies floated through the tranquil space, fluttering blinks as dusk fell.

A stone bench tucked in a quiet corner of the garden, he ushered her to sit. Shoulders slouched, eyes swollen and red from tears, she sealed her lips in a frown and gazed at him. Alistair read the helpless disappointment in her eyes, questioning his motive for changing their route with defeated interest.

“My love,” Alistair knelt before her to match Caoilainn’s eye level. He pressed her hands between his, resting in her lap. “I didn’t know how to help you before you ran away.” Caoilainn lowered her head to break eye contact, and Alistair directed her gaze back with a gentle forefinger to her chin. “Stay with me, my Queen. And I’m not sure I know what to say now, but we’ll get through this.”

Another wave of tears filled Caoilainn’s eyes. I don’t deserve this. The message replayed, over and over regarding Alistair’s affection. She dipped her head, leaning forward. Grateful the garden offered seclusion. The utter powerlessness over her situation and reaction something she’d rather others not witness. Without looking at him, she murmured, “I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

At a loss for words, Alistair sat beside her. His hands rested on the bench beside him and he stared at the ground in the same direction as Caoilainn. Considering his options, what to say if anything, how to help her through this pain. “I did. Caoilainn, I am… was a Warden too, remember. I can relate to what you're feeling. It hurt to separate from the order.” He mulled over his statement, considering how to relate this back to her. “I imagine what you’re going through is even greater. No one deserves that pain.”

“But what if I do?” The sudden lift of her head to his, the intense stare, shiny from soft sobs startled him. “What if this is punishment from the Maker?” Brows lifted, pleading. “For what I’ve done to you, Alistair. Our marriage.”

Oh. This is unexpected. His response delayed from surprise. Caoilainn had always prayed to Andraste and the Maker, but her pragmatism often distorted religious doctrine.

The fireflies bellies flickered in the growing darkness. Crickets chirping accentuated stillness. The silence loomed over Caoilainn, waiting for Alistair’s reply. He agrees. Her conclusion arose from anxiety and shame, and sparked the urge to flee, to escape his love given so selflessly. He will always hold this over me. Ego tarnished by her crimes against their marriage lent to dread. Though he had yet to give evidence of her fear, she imagined every argument would invite another chance for passive reminders of her guilt. And now she had nowhere to run. Abandonment of the Wardens robbed her of sanctum, freedom from the disgrace she wrought upon herself left wanting.

Alistair observed Caoilainn’s internal isolation; downcast eyes and a deepening frown, her habit of harboring anxious thoughts led her astray time and time again. Despite his unclear feelings about the topic she addressed, he called her from dissociation with a soft hum as he took her hand. “You do have a point,” he made nonchalant shrug; she closed her eyes. “Or maybe, this a natural reaction to having an unnatural element like the taint removed from your blood and your recompense for what you did is between you and me.” A leg swung over the bench, he spoke to her directly. “You were close to them and the bond, for a long time. We knew it would be difficult.”

Chin down, she glanced his direction from under long lashes. “Can I be honest?”

“That’s still part of our agreement,” he grinned, inviting her to continue.

“I don't know if I did the right thing. The pain on their faces…” She trailed off, recalling the looks of her Wardens. “I’m certain our cure affected the bond. I abandoned them.”

You abandoned me for years. The resentful thought came and went. He put the thought aside. “We had no way of knowing this would happen. No one’s ever done this before.”

“Actually,” she lifted an eyebrow, then swung her leg over the bench to mirror his. “I've heard it's happened before. By word of mouth. Just once, but I couldn't find a name.” Caoilainn shook her head, sighing. “... It doesn't matter. It worked and we’re cured.” An optimistic smile pulled soft lips, considering the potential of this new horizon.

Hope prevailed through sadness, Caoilainn’s meager grin lifted Alistair’s heart. “And the order will continue to rebuild. It's what you've taught them.”

She released a large exhale. “I hope so,” she followed the murmur with a fear, “I hope Nate isn’t above asking for your help.”

Cringing at the name, Alistair frowned. “Howe forgets I was a Warden before all of you.” Denied anger held at the man dampened the pleasant moment. Eager to lighten the mood, he reflected on an amusing memory. “You know, I imagined he made that elf girl his Lieutenant when I thought I lost you. The girl who called me an arsehole before the battle. It was horrible.”

Caoilainn chuckled, turning her head as she rose from the bench. “He’s stubborn, but he’s not an idiot.” She grabbed Alistair’s hand, having noticed Alistair’s discomfort talking about the subject of Nathaniel Howe. “Let’s not talk about him anymore.”

Alistair hummed agreement and stood to join her. Irritation around the subject of Nathaniel Howe grew with her suggestion, but he was grateful for the option. “Have you considered when we’ll leave for Ferelden?”

Lit braziers brightened darkness. The royal couple discussed their departure, determining they had already overstayed their welcome at Skyhold. Lacking a reason to stay longer, they decided together to depart in two days, giving the Ferelden and Highever armies enough notice. Upon leaving the garden they sent for advisors, shared their plans, and returned to their room. *****

The upheaval of the Warden encampment settled into the evening. Encircled by soldiers saluting their new Warden Commander, an exhausted Nathaniel clambered to give final orders and bring the day to an end. Wandering thoughts of resting in his new bed, the cot of the Warden Commander’s tent, with the Huntress tugged the back of his mind.

But first, Nathaniel met with his Lieutenants to give directions for the next morning. Nervous but determined, Nate stood on one side of the table in the Commander’s tent, the Lieutenants stood at the other. Summoning over a decade of experience serving the Wardens, he imitated what he had witnessed of previous commanders.

Hands clasped behind his back, Nathaniel nodded to Isenam. “Senior Warden Vhirnen has been appointed as Lieutenant.” Nods reciprocated from the line of Lieutenants and a few sideways glances made their way to Isenam. Certain they suspected Isenam and Nathaniel’s prior knowledge of Caoilainn’s resignation, Nathaniel brought up his next item. “Our help is no longer needed by the Inquisition,” he disclosed information he might not have known if not for Hale. Caoilainn may not have thought to tell him otherwise before she separated her ties with the order in the most permanent way fathomable. “We will pack at dawn and begin our trek back to Vigil’s Keep.”

A few ‘ Yes, Commanders,’ followed his directions. One lieutenant, a mage, lit a candle in its holder on the table. The waning daylight fell to dusk around the encampment. Plans laid for their trip, including rest sites and meals, the Lieutenants agreed to the marching orders and dispersed for the evening; excluding Isenam, who stayed behind across from the Commander’s table. A few years younger than Nate, the lean elven man served as a scout under Nathaniel soon after the Wardens’ encounter with the Architect. Isenam became a trusted colleague whose commitment to the order matched Nathaniel’s. The elf’s blond hair pulled back in a ponytail emphasized the severity of his frown.

“What do you need?” Nathaniel inquired, brows wrinkled in puzzled annoyance. Pressures of responsibility as Warden Commander limited his patience to guess what kept Isenam after the meeting.

“Did you know Warden Commander Cousland would step down?” Skipping pleasantries and hindrances to their discussion, Isenam brought his concern to the forefront. Regarding professional matters, he knew Nathaniel would tolerate his forwardness.

“Yes,” Nate answered, uninterested in lying and unmotivated to divulge more than necessary. “Is that all?”

Weight shifted on his feet, Isenam gathered composure before speaking further. His hands remained behind his back, posture held for professionalism. “I have a concern about a personal matter of yours, Warden Commander, if I may share.”

Eyes squinted, scanning the shadowed outline of the scout before him with curiosity. A friend of sorts, Isenam’s guidance had always been valued by Nathaniel though it had never regarded personal matters in the past. “I suppose. What is it?”

“Your relationship with the Lavellan girl. I’d recommend you end it. It’s unwise for a Commander to bed a Junior Warden.” Isenam’s straightforwardness overcame Nate’s equanimity.

The Warden Commander coughed mid-breath, fist rising to mouth as he cleared his throat and caught air. “Oh,” he paused, breathing, looking away from Isenam’s all to knowing eyes watching Nate’s coughing fit with disinterest. “Is it that obvious?” Unwilling to sacrifice integrity, Nathaniel replied with a concern. He’s right. It’s also unwise for the Warden Commander to bed a Lieutenant. His resentment of Caoilainn’s flexibility with rules applying only to herself.

“The other scouts have figured it out,” the elf replied. “But it would be best to stop before the whole army knows.”

Nathaniel pondered the information, comforted by Hale’s confidence of their secret and unsurprised the scouting team discovered the truth. But even as Warden Commander, he deserved privacy from others’ prying eyes. Caoilainn did it. “It's no one's business but mine and Hale’s.”

Isenam’s head shook slowly. “You set precedent as Commander. You did as Lieutenant and now that’s tenfold.” Lips tight, almost an apology for the news he delivered, Isenam watched warily for Nathaniel’s reaction.

Damn it. The undeniable truth of Isenam’s statements stung. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I will keep that in mind.” Nathaniel's dismissal of Isenam from the Warden Commander's tent followed the noncommittal answer.

Alone, Nathaniel gathered his thoughts. Night had fallen, he finished lighting the candles inside. Warden Commander. Slow acceptance of his new title crept in as he gazed around the tent; it stood at least four times the size of his previous quarters. She must have sent someone to gather her things. No sign of the former Commander remained. From her trunk of belongings to her bed sheets, all that remained belonged to the acting Commander of the Grey. A cot and a table covered in maps and letters held with weights to keep from moving. He sent for some Junior Wardens to grab his things from his tent.

Candles flickered in votive holders, brightening the dusky evening setting to night. With a gruff sigh, Nate dragged his feet to remove his boots, grateful for the hide rug that spread across the ground, preventing his socks from becoming damp from icy grass. More shadows formed from the increase in candlelight and projected along a larger canvas of the wall; space provoked passive reminders of his new responsibilities.

The Junior Wardens delivered his things a moment later. His trunk took up the space Caoilainn’s had previously. He sighed when he realized his linens only covered half the space of the cot and made a mental note to locate new bedclothes somewhere in the encampment before they set up camp the following evening.

Knees bent, he sat on the bed. Sluggish movements removed his gambeson, staring at the ground ahead of him. What will I say to Hale? The question of his impasse had a moment to linger, resonating with his discontent.

“Wanna celebrate?” Hale chirped from just inside the doorway, having snuck in undetected. “I picked some liquor off… well, don’t matter where I got it.” A small grin pulled red lips.

She wears make-up. In the argent candlelight, Nate realized the rouge tint to her smirk, a characteristic of Hale that Nate seemed to overlook in the months he knew her. Matted color had found its way to his clothes, lips, sheets and shaft and he had never noticed the unusual fact of the Huntress. He recalled mornings of waking to the soft, pink skin of the lovely creature's parted lips touching his chest as she laid on him and noticed the contrast to the stark color he saw now. Like the kohl shadow to her eyes defining the prominent green of her irises, usually removed by sweat in their evening activities, leaving circles under her eyes that she cleaned when she woke.

“Not tonight.” An absent-minded mumble replied, the weight of dread on his chest growing. “Huntress, I’m not-”

She sidled to him, straddling his knees with straight legs. Long fingers, rough from her drawstring framed an ear as her head lowered to the other. Breathy words poured, tickling his ear. “I wanna welcome the new Commander right.”

Nathaniel leaned his head away from Hale and stood. Disgruntled and dismayed, he shook his head. “No, Hale.” He prepared to speak words he knew would hurt them both. “We can’t keep seeing each other like this.”

The impact of his declaration landed, and she stepped back. Confused, irritated, Hale’s face twisted with disappointment. “But why?” The simple question prefaced the dramatic expansion of her chest with an inhale; critical eyes watched him as she waited for a response.

“Because I’m Warden Commander. We won’t be able to hide this anymore.” He kept his voice trained and low, balanced even though his heart wrenched.

“Fuck what anyone thinks!” She barked. Unfiltered words joined pooling angry tears. Frantic and fearful pain swept across Hale, her heart raced and her body grew hot. “Since when do you care?”

I don’t. Experience built practicality and often opposed prudence. But here, this new role required judiciousness; standards he set and modeled as the Warden Commander. “I have to care now.”

“Bollocks! Like shite you do,” she cried out. The uncomfortable sensation isolated at her heart, driving through like a needle. Her voice broke with the harshness of her words, resounding from distress “The bloody Bitch Queen Commander did whatever shite she wanted and you can do the same.”

Nate’s nostrils hissed on the exhale, unapproving of Hale insulting Caoilainn and reasoning he couldn’t refute. “I’m not Caoilainn…. Hale, I’m old enough to be your father.” He voiced insecurity; Nathaniel’s discomfort around this dynamic never settled in their time together.

“You know I don’t care 'bout that. Nate, please…,” she whined, crying as a few hot tears slid down her cheeks.

The urge to wipe away her sadness pulled him, but he resisted. It will only make this worse. If the Huntress needed contact, she had other options, and he reminded her. His reluctant reply offered meager condolence. “You’ll be fine, Huntress. You still have Damia.” He blinked, holding his eyes closed for a long second, cooling them from teary burning.

“But Nate… I don't… I don't love Damia." Resisting the pang of hopelessness, Hale’s distraught pout puffed full lips. Elbow bent, she wiped an eye with the blade edge of her drawing hand before pushing tears away from the other cheek. Her hand wrapped around her neck. “I sodding love you.”

I know. “Don’t. That will only make this harder.” For both of us. Gulping remorse, swallowing the innate wrongness of his next declaration, Nate continued, “I don't feel the same.” Liar.

“You… I can’t… yer fucking sick, mate.” She gave a wry laugh; lip curling with disgust as her face burned with embarrassment. Ire replaced sorrow; Hale’s inner fears of Nathaniel's interest in her spit like acid. “Guess you got yer revenge, huh? She made you Commander and you don’t need me anymore, innit? Noble son of a bitch-”

“Stop!” He snapped the order and took a deep breath. Pride hurt by her shallow insults, Nate indulged his defensiveness. “I warned you, Hale. I said I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, you did!” She blurted with frustration and glared at the tent wall. The words fell on their own in spite of her humiliation, and her arms crossed over her chest. Makeup smeared around her eyes; her hair tucked behind her ear.

“Huntress…,” I love you. But he couldn’t muster the reply. He watched her body quiver, tears dropping in steady lines. Silent, lip protruding, the lovely creature didn’t make eye contact as he spoke. “I think you should leave.” This hurts me too.

Hale’s head shook, admitting defeat, knowing his logic would negate all her appeals. The Huntress’s hurt and anger boiled but she didn’t reply, glowering instead. After another breath in, she growled and left Nathaniel’s quarters; he watched, chest pounding with regret each second she was gone.

Rushed and lengthy steps took her back to the scout encampment. She spoke to no one as she entered her tent. Scouts’ questioning glances passed from one another as they heard Hale rummaging. She emerged a few minutes later with a pack of belongings. Hair disheveled and cheeks stained with tears, she looked at the friends sitting around the campfire, relaxing under the starry night sky before their march the next day. The puzzled looks contributed more to the ache of her heart.

“Hale, what-” Damia asked, brow cocked with confusion.

“I’m staying here,” she whimpered, not waiting for a reply as brisk steps took her toward Skyhold.

#ch 14 #mother of griffons pt 2 #bond of the grey #mother of griffons #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #alistair theirin #king alistair #grey wardens #alistair x cousland #caoilainn cousland #nathaniel howe

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alienaesthetical · 5 years

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Ah, the 90s- a decade of questionable fashion choices, dial-up internet, and shape-shift-enabled teens with depression.

Some of you may remember Animorphs as those wacky adventures with kids who could change into animals. Others might remember it as the series of books featuring kids who watched an alien be cannibalized in front of them, going on to fight a cult, attempt suicide, commit genocide, and attain PTSD.

In all truth, my memories of it were completely vague, with what images I could remember mostly based off of one of the extended universe novels, Andalite Chronicles. Having completed a reread of the series a few months ago, however, I was able to put together my own thoughts.

So, which was it; Tragedy or Comedy? Why do people remember it differently? Let's answer the former question first. Spoiler warning, by the way.

Animorphs was co-written by K.A. Applegate, and her husband, Michael Grant- both of which are still successful writers. The story starts in the spring of 1997, local teens, Jake, Rachel, Cassie, Marco, and Tobias, exist as a clique in a way- each representing the awkwardness of the 90s in different ways. Jockey Jake has an awful haircut, Gymnast Rachel, initially, is the living embodiment of gender roles enforced in the 90s, Horse Girl Cassie experiences discrimination multiple times throughout the series due to her skin color, Marco is the groups token funny guy who has too much flirting energy, and Tobias, the local victim of literally the entire series. Seriously, this kid does NOT get a break. The entire group is just overtly 90s and it's honestly quite awkward and sometimes humorous how enforced these roles are from the start. Anyways.

The group of friends are heading home from the mall, and decide to take the shortcut through a construction zone- (and yes, I realize how many stories begin with taking sketchy shortcuts.)

As they proceed through the construction zone, a ship descends on them, its doors opening to reveal a dying Andalite named Elfangor. What's an Andalite? Breaking it down to the essentials, a four eyes, blue furred deer with a scorpion tale and a nose that should probably be censored.

Elfangor, who speaks telepathically, tells the kids about the battle for earth- an invasive species known as the Yeerks have already integrated themselves into society, and pose a threat to the entire galaxy. Yeerks are basically slugs that slither into your ear and take over your body- while you remain 100% aware, most likely crying in a corner.

While the kids are skeptical, they don't fight him on it, and agree to help. Elfangor gives them a cube called the Escafil Device- a cube that grants those who possess it the ability to shape-shift into any animal they touch. He warns them, though, that staying in morph for more than two hours will result in being trapped in that body forever. After all six are holding the cube together, more ships arrive.

The kids go to hide as one of the descending ships opens, revealing another Andalite- this one, however, is being controlled by a yeerk named Visser Three- the only yeerk to have ever possessed an Andalite. He proceeds to morph into a creature from another world, and vores Elfangor.

The kids are heard crying by one of the alien guards, and a chase begins- though the kids manage to escape without being seen. They go on to have nightmares about what they just saw. Jake is woken up by Tobias the next day, who claims he managed to turn into his cat. Jake, hearing this, touches his own dog, acquires his DNA, and morphs into him- much to his own surprise.

Later, the group meets up at Cassie's barn, which also acts as a rehabilitation center for animals, thanks to Cassie's parents being vets for a local wildlife amusement park. They discuss what to do, and while trying to forget everything was an option, decide to fight back against the Yeerks. Now knowing the basis of the plot, you can see how this story could be seen as a lighthearted adventure full of shenanigans- but as the books continued to come out, the story grew darker.

Jake's brother, Tom, is revealed to be a high status controller- a person under control of a yeerk. Jake now has a personal stake in this battle, and begins to take it more seriously. Jake goes on to find out that The Sharing, an after-school program dedicated to helping kids fighting loneliness and depression, is actual a cover for the Yeerks, who use the society as a cult that recruits said kids into their ranks- which is how Tom fell into their hands.

Jake and the others decide to infiltrate a yeerk pool- a place where Yeerks go to feed on Kadrona Rays, which is what the sun on their home planet exerted. They find an entrance within their school, and break a handful of people out, only for all but one to be recaptured, or murdered. In addition to this failure, the kids notice that Tobias is also missing.

Tobias would later escape only to inform the group that he had been in hawk morph for a bit too long, and was now stuck in that form forever. All of this happens in the first book alone. Perhaps you're starting to see how it could be interpreted as a darker story, but you're not quite convinced. So, let's talk about what happens it the other sixty four books.

In book three, Tobias attempts suicide, trying to slam himself hard enough into glass that it would kill him. Marco, however, throws a baseball just in time for him to fly safely through the glass.

In book four, Marco discovers that his mother, previously thought to have drowned years ago, is Visser One, the highest commanding yeerk outside the council.

In book five, Elfangors younger brother, Aximili, is discovered, weak, leagues under the ocean, having crashed there the same night Elfangor died.

Still expecting this story to be happy in the end? Gonna kill that delusion right now.

Thanks to having dead parents, Tobias had been physically and emotionally abused by his aunt and uncle for years, the two trading him off to one another throughout the year. However, Tobias discovers his birth mother to still be alive, living with blindness and amnesia. His birth father, however, was Elfangor, making him Ax's nephew.

Closer to the end of the series, the group recruits disabled kids into their ranks, promising them that their wounds and illnesses would heal after their first morph- which, for some, was true. Others would still have to deal with with their disabilities- but not for long, as all seventeen disabled kids were slaughtered, as part of a distraction plan.

In the climax of the last book, Rachel murders Tom, only for her to be killed herself moments after, while Jake commits genocide by releasing a large majority of the earth populace of Yeerks into space, killing them instantly.

The result? The war ends! Yay! Happy ending! Not quite! Jake suffers from PTSD, going on to experience flashbacks in the last half of the book. Tobias escapes life as much as he can, retreating to a natural reserve to live out the last of his days. Rachel, well, Rachel dead. Cassie and Marco live... surprisingly decent lives, both going off to do things close to what they wanted to do. Cassie works in a newly established division of the government that helps relocate aliens, while Marco is essentially a movie star.

So yeah, Animorphs definitely wasn't as lighthearted and happy-go-lucky as some may remember- of course, the story did have huge moments were it screamed "WE'RE KIDS, WE ARE GOOFY 90s KIDDOS," such as the book about Oatmeal being used as a weapon, or that time they convinced Visser Three that the only way to remove the smell of skunk was by bathing in grape juice instead of tomato juice.

To remember the series as either one or the other, however, completely defeats the purpose of the books.

Animorphs, in the end, was a story about kids who were forced to grow up faster than they should have, due to the mistakes of those older than them. Kids who wanted to go skating or eat at McDonald's, but instead had to take a weekend to recover from being entrapped and physically tortured. Kids who thought they knew what right and wrong were, but ended up doing everything they said they never would do, just to win. It's a story about kids- what they should be, against what conflict makes them become.

It's also about how adults like to control kids, even if they think they're free. Elfangor started this by giving them the responsibility of ending a war. It continued with the Elimist, a godlike being who would come in throughout the story to make sure the kids did exactly what they were supposed to do, instead of doing what they wanted to do. Visser One, the yeerk who discovered Earth, gave the responsibility of invading it to Visser Three, instead of handling herself due to personal engagements that happened.

What begins as another nineties adventure of five kids of varying backgrounds, ends as a reminder of what happens when adults put too much pressure on children, and the consequences of forced growth. The kids, once gathering at malls to hang, or attending school, become so separated from their reality that escaping humanism seemed like the happiest possible path (tobias), that letting yourself die was better than returning to a war-less land (rachel), making regrettable choices at such a young age resulting in PTSD, constant flashbacks to times of immense danger and death, a complete separation from the present. (jake)

Leaving children to suffer the consequences of a war not belonging to them resulted in more tragedy than necessary. Forcing kids to make grown up decisions before they've even entered high school only gives them depression, anxiety, and dissociation from reality.

Thinking younger generations can handle the repercussions of your actions, thus making it not your problem, brings the end of youth and innocence.

Millennial humor is often looked on as "dark and depressed," and those Millennials, now in the work force, are accused of bringing the end of many businesses and morals held previously by older generations.

Gen Z is viewed as completely nihilist, having even darker humor, with many having a complete separation from the reality they live in. They're viewed as lazy and brainwashed by entertainment media, when in truth, more happiness can be found in books, games, and television than in their own lives, and it is a daily experience for many of them to wake up in a world that is dull and dystopian compared to the wonders of fictional universes.

These generations are expected by previous ones to pick up what they left for them- to prepare meals with the scraps of meat so carelessly dripping out of their mouths and onto the floor. To end wars they've started. To fix the economies they themselves ruined. To be able to open the Burger King the day after a customer is murdered before them.

Responsibilities created by previous generations that are viewed too troublesome to deal with themselves are being pushed onto our generations, with the belief that our generations can take these responsibilities without so much as a grimace. However, just because one thinks others can handle issues, doesn't mean that they should have to.

Animorphs has an ending. It is not a happy one. It is not an awful one. It is happy for the ones who did not have to endure the war others left for them. If it awful for the ones forced to handle situations pushed on them by adults who thought the problem best be left with the future.

The problem may have been fixed, but an entire generation of people were left to suffer because those in charge refused to handle it themselves, and chose instead to leave it to someone else.

#animorphs #long post #text #jake #marco #tobias #aximilli #cassie #rachel #yeerk

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prodigialis-blog1 · 7 years

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a meta on hange’s personality, anger, and conscious use of personas.

note: as you see in the title, i’m going to use the word “personas” in this meta to refer to the different aspects of hange’s personality and how they consciously emphasis some aspects over others to the point where sets of traits can be given their own names. note that this is not similar to alters and does not imply any kind of dissociative disorder. hange is not dissociative, and they don’t have “alternate personalities” -- instead, they consciously choose to act a certain way in some situations over others, and will switch between different dominant personality traits as suits them. so yeah, just know that when i use the term “persona,” i’m not implying any kind of dissociation or other related pathologies.

okay, so. the purpose of this meta isn’t so much to explore hange’s personality itself (though that will happen by necessity), but rather to discuss how, why, and to what extent they manipulate their personality, both as a leading strategy and as a personal coping mechanism.

the first thing i want to make clear is that hange is not oblivious. now, this isn’t a universal statement -- they can be oblivious to many things, especially if they’re in what i’ll call full-on “science mode”; when they get carried away, they somewhat lose their ability to empathize with others, and they don’t fully process other people’s reactions. their tunnel vision when it comes to experimentation and discovery does make them oblivious to more than it should. but. what i mean here, for the purpose of this discussion, is that hange is self-aware. they know exactly what kind of personality they present to the world, and they know how others perceive it. their enthusiastic, eccentric personality isn’t the result of an absent mind that doesn’t comprehend the effect it has on others. they are fully aware of most of their different personality traits, and of the capacity for those traits to shift or overwhelm one another.

that’s an important preface to this conversation, because i don’t want people assuming that hange doesn’t understand how they affect others or to what extent their mood swings take them. they do. in fact, for this headcanon to have any traction, they have to.

so here’s the thing.

hange is an angry person. we know this. they admit to eren that they used to be fueled by hatred and resentment. and that anger still comes out, sometimes dangerously so -- threatening pastor nick, torturing sannes, yelling at roy. the anger isn’t gone. it will never be gone. they will always be an angry person.

but they’ve decided that anger and hatred and resentment isn’t the right way to live.

it was a conscious choice. they were fueled by hatred for a long time. then, when they kicked the titan’s head, when they began thinking about how it didn’t make sense for titans to be so lightweight, when they remembered how little anyone knew about the titans, and how little anyone cared to find out, they realized that hatred wouldn’t teach them anything. hatred just led to death. doing nothing but killing titans would never help them learn, and hange became increasingly certain that they could never defeat the titans until they understood them.

if anger and hatred didn’t work, what would?

curiosity. fascination. energy. excitement.

and the thing is, hange had and has the capacity for all of those things. their enthusiasm is not an act. they genuinely are a friendly and energetic person -- or, at least, they have the strong capacity to be, and they choose to act on that capacity. none of their personality traits are faked. none of their personas are false. that’s a really important thing to understand. hange is never faking their personality. but they are choosing to portray certain aspects of who they are above others, and choosing to keep other thoughts and emotions to themself.

they work hard to be curious, fascinated, energetic, excited. they make an effort to hold on to that portion of their personality, and to let it take the reins, above the anger, above the hatred, above the coldness.

i’m going to posit four “base personalities” for hange here -- and what i mean by that is, four combinations of personality traits that can be expressed by them, and have been to varying degrees throughout their life. (we all have these, by the way -- to you guys, i might be “friendly writer who likes to analyze characters,” to my professors i might be “intellectual who speaks up in class,” to someone else i might be “awkward quiet one who keeps to themself with their nose in a book,” you get the idea. i’m referring to the different sides of your personality that others might pick up on in different situations -- all genuine, but all distinct.)

the four are these: angry soldier, collected leader, enthusiastic eccentric, and ruthless scientist.

angry soldier and ruthless scientist are what they try the hardest not to be, though those parts of their personality always come through to certain degrees in some situation or another. collected leader is the level, focused hange the corps tends to see during crises and battles. enthusiastic eccentric is the persona they project most commonly, the personality they determinedly cling to to avoid falling into anger or ruthlessness.

angry soldier is what they were once, killing titans without remorse or objective beyond revenge and hatred. this anger is what tends to come through whenever someone stands in their way, whenever someone blatantly destroys or obstructs knowledge, whenever someone hurts someone they care about, whenever someone refuses to fight for what is right. this anger is never quite gone from them, and they know this. sometimes they allow themself to express it behind closed doors. sometimes they actively allow themself to use it -- as with pastor nick, before they controlled themself and threw him back onto the wall. but they try to be careful with it, because they know how all-encompassing anger can be, and they’ve lost themself to it before.

collected leader is much less of an act than enthusiastic eccentric is; it’s the businesslike personality they fall into when they need to focus on something serious. granted, sometimes they have to work to maintain this mindset -- when they become commander, for example, commander becomes something of a persona in itself, because they actively restrain their scientific tendencies in order to focus on leading. but this seriousness, this calm ability to assess and respond to situations, is an intrinsic part of their personality, and often what you’d find if you stripped away their bubbly enthusiasm.

enthusiastic eccentric is also a natural part of their personality, but it’s also a part they’ve chosen to emphasize and magnify in order to block out their tendency for anger. they think it’s important for their sanity to be cheerful whenever they can (and also good for their subordinates to have a superior who can remain optimistic). they want to be friendly and energetic. and most of all they want to hold onto and cultivate their curiosity, their fascination, their drive for knowledge. allowing themself to fully embrace this part of their personality keeps them from sinking into resentment and melancholy, keeps them thinking, helps them retain their ability to make connections with other people, and, perhaps most importantly, keeps them open-minded.

a small digression here, while we’re talking about this persona: hange hates titans. they will always hate titans for the friends titans have killed, the lives titans have destroyed, the way titans keep them trapped and stagnant. but they try not to. hating titans got them nowhere. they need to try something else. understanding titans, pitying titans, being fascinated by titans, even trying to see if titans can learn or be befriended. they make themself view titans with as open a mind as they can, and because of this they’re often branded a “titan lover,” a “titan-loving freak,” what have you, by other soldiers and civilians alike. they’re okay with this. it’s worth it if it means they can learn from the titans. it’s all part of this persona. but underneath it all, they still hate titans. never think that they don’t.

ruthless scientist is, perhaps, the part of hange that they fear the most, especially when coupled with angry soldier. it is also, unfortunately, the one that blends most easily with enthusiastic eccentric -- the persona that hange uses the most. sometimes it’s hard for them to notice when they’re slipping from one to the other. sometimes they don’t realize until it’s too late. this is where they’re willing to do anything, hurt anyone, go to any lengths to gain knowledge. this is where they lose their empathy, lose their ability to see anything but their end goal. at its most extreme, this hange would let someone die just to record information about the manner of their death. this hange would torture a person into insanity to get the knowledge they need. this hange is dangerous.

this hange obviously plays a part in the torturing sannes and dangling pastor nick over the wall scenes, though in those it’s heavily mixed with their anger. that’s the thing: ruthless scientist hange can be prompted by and mingle with angry hange, but they aren’t inherently related. ruthless scientist hange acts not because they’re angry, but because they’re fascinated. ruthless scientist hange is the hange who wanted to let eren fuse completely with his titan just so they could see if he’d be able to come back. ruthless scientist hange had moblit sketch a picture of eren’s gruesome, skeletal face, completely caught up in scientific interest, with no thought to either eren’s own suffering or to mikasa’s horror.

notice that, above, i said that hange fears this persona. i’m going to talk more about that in another meta, where i analyze the whole sannes scene, but just be aware that, yes, hange is frightened of their capacity for cruelty, and part of the reason they project their enthusiastic eccentric persona so adamantly is because they’re always wary of what they could become if they lose their capacity for joy, friendliness, excitement.

we can see moments in the manga where hange makes conscious efforts to redirect their personality. isayama tends to indicate it by having hange raise and lower their goggles: raised goggles indicates that hange’s unleashing their anger, generally. my favorite example of this is when eren comes upon them after they’ve just kicked over a table after the sannes ordeal, and there’s a pause where they freeze, collect themself, very deliberately lower their goggles, and then quite clearly put on their eccentric persona for eren’s benefit, to hide the fact that they’ve just given over to their anger for a moment. it’s such a deliberate moment, and it really shows how much thought and effort goes into hange’s moderation of their personality:

anyway. i could certainly write more, but i’m going to cut it sort for now, and just offer this last thought: this isn’t always going to come up in the way i portray hange. sometimes they will show a deliberate change or reining in of their personality in posts -- but often they won’t. often they’ll be their general, cheerful, eccentric self, and the narrative won’t question that, because that’s just who they are at the moment -- but even if it doesn’t appear explicitly, this habit of theirs, of moderating their own personality and how they allow themselves to be perceived by others, always exists.

#; about.#long post //#( i've been meaning to write this since i made this blog y'all )#( finally got it out )#( tho i feel like i left a lot out so i'm SURE I'LL WRITE MORE ON THE TOPIC LATER )#( but yeah man. hange is anything but oblivious to their personality quirks. they actively manipulate them )#( which is why i'll sometimes call them obfuscating or manipulative )#( bc of the way they control the expression of their personality to various degrees )#( this obvs isn't something they're Always Thinking About but it's there. esp in extreme situations )#( people like levi/erwin/mike tend to see less of the 'enthusiastic eccentric' side of them bc they feel less of a need #to project it to quite the same extent to ppl they know well )#( they'll show their more serious/thoughtful/even angry sides to the other vets )#( tho less so on the anger they always try and keep a hold on that. for their own sake as much as others' )#( ANYWAY next on my list is writing about hange's fears regarding their capacity for cruelty!!! yay )#( but y'all if u have any questions on any of this please ask them bc )#( i'm happy for the chance to develop this further )#( like hange is still excitable and weird and fun and sometimes just silly and i'm gonna write them that way!! bc i want to!! )#( i'm not gonna make them Serious All The Time that would negate the point of being hange )#( but they ARE at their core a very serious character and i want to always keep that in mind )#( they're not comic relief they're Super Complex u guys i cry )

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tocxmply-archive · 5 years

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ATTENTION, AWARENESS, AND LEARNING [sources: click, click, click, click]

the original plan was to have this as the initial section of my meta about Bucky’s memory (what he remembers vs. what he forgot, essentially) but: 1) i realized that was going to be a massive thing and splitting it might be in my best interest, and 2) memory does not exist without learning and learning does not exist without attention so, really, exploring each step individually might not be a bad idea after all. so here we are. other than the linked sources, this meta will also build on what i have already discussed regarding the process of brainwashing that underlies the functioning of the Winter Soldier: here. on the other hand, whereas the topic of this meta is not memory, all of these cognitive processes are deeply enmeshed and therefore do not exist as categorically separated as this text may make them look like --- these are conceptual separations only (despite the little fancy numbered topics, i end up talking of attention + learning + memory all at the same time), and a degree of overlap will always exist between the two metas.

1. ATTENTION starting with the concept that we cannot learn about what we do not pay attention to, then it makes all the sense to ask: what does the Winter Soldier pay attention to? and the answer is: to whatever HYDRA commands him to. the hypnosis protocols (explored in the brainwashing meta) have the purpose, exactly, to fixate his attention on fulfilling the mission goal(s), whatever they may be, at expense of everything else --- which, in turn, means that if, he’s not paying attention to, say, his surroundings and the people who are with him, he won’t be able to learn about, and posteriorly remember, this sort of details.

this brings me to the “i remember all of them” line in “Captain America: Civil War” --- which Sebastian Stan himself has already stated was something Bucky said in the spur of the moment, something that Tony wanted to hear while having him literally in a choke-hold. no, he doesn’t remember all of them, much as this is a heartbreaking line with big cinematic impact. i personally headcanon that Bucky remembers Howard Stark, based on the fact that this is someone he met and got to know in the 40s --- which is information that comes from the long-term memory, not equally affected by the mind wiping + cryostasis as short-term memory (which i shall explore in more detail in the memory meta). even so, it’s not clear recollection --- more like remembering what that particular mission was about, and remembering faces that, back then, the Soldier could not recognize but that, in retrospect, he’s able to make sense of. i also headcanon that a similar logic applies to the mission referenced in “Captain America: The Winter Soldier”, where Natasha talks of how he shot the man she was guarding through her, and it applies as well to the highway scene in the same movie. for these three missions, long-term knowledge and/or an intense emotional tone allowed for the Soldier’s attention to be highly focused on Howard/ Natasha/ Steve respectively, spanning beyond what the hypnosis protocol dictates. nonetheless, memories of these missions are fragmented and he remembers the associated emotions that these three persons evoked, more than any coherent dialogue or details of that moment.

in regard to the other targets/ missions, Bucky remembers conceptual information essentially (e.g., the target’s name, what day it was, what the mission briefing required him to do), considering that these targets held no previous meaning to him. because these conceptual details were what his attention was focused on. so, for example, he may be able to remember who was the target assassinated on a specific day and in which way this was done, but he won’t be able to remember what the person was wearing or what their face looked like or who were the handlers for that mission. not only he didn’t pay attention to these details but they would have been wiped in post-mission, anyway. the only memory traces that stay are those which already existed and those that HYDRA allowed him to effectively learn --- and these, again, are reduced to information that was necessary for carrying out the mission successfully.

what consequences does all of this have, once Bucky breaks free from HYDRA? first, what he was allowed to pay attention to is what he is now able to remember, as discussed. and then, it means that his attention span undergoes a big change as soon as it’s “free”, so to speak. now he doesn’t have anyone dictating what to pay attention to --- and, whereas this is a good thing, it also implies that the world is suddenly perceived as chaotic. because now he’s suddenly aware of everything that the Soldier never noticed --- he perceives faces and colors and shapes and sensations and all else, and this can easily get overwhelming (even the good things).

again, i will complement/ explore this better in the memory meta, but this is why, in post-HYDRA, Bucky struggles with actions that require short-term and working memory --- not only because these brain areas were affected by the wiping, but because his span of attention itself is all over the place. not in the sense of attention deficit disorder, per se, but because there is so much stimulation happening at the same time that he isn’t used at all to be aware of (and now add to this the fact that he is also a man out of his time, as much as Steve, and there is so much to learn anew in this modern world). depending on his general state of mind, his coping may vary from dissociation (just downright shut down everything because he currently has no mental energy to process any of it, so he withdraws instead) to actively trying to process the information he’s being given (and try to understand and make sense of it, and currently being mentally stable enough to pay attention and learn and keep up with all of it).

nonetheless, this process will frequently be a bumpy one. for example, he will try to pay attention to everything and, in the end, retain none of it exactly because he was so scattered, or he will (consciously or not) direct his attention to one thing only and everything else that is going on will go completely over his head. with this said, and roleplay-wise, you should expect things like your muse having to repeat something before he actually gets it and commits it to memory, or that he won’t be able to follow what your muse is talking about if there is a lot being conveyed in a short period of time (because, by the time your muse finishes, he’s already forgotten what was said at the start, or, instead, he focused on what was said first and didn’t follow anything else), or that your muse expects him to be paying attention but in the meantime something else captured his interest and, by the time your muse realizes, Bucky has gone over to the other side of the street to pet this cute cat while leaving your muse talking alone. exceptions to this are situations that are an actual mission or resembling of it, aka situations with a very well defined goal and where he has very clear instructions to adhere to --- exactly because this is what he was trained, for 70 years, to focus on and pay attention to.

2. AWARENESS again. awareness and attention are two conceptually different things --- but with a great degree of overlapping and interdependence. awareness, in particular, refers to directly knowing and perceiving, feeling or being cognizant of events. it’s the state of being conscious of something. so... is it possible to pay attention without being aware? technically yes, and i see this as a particularity of the Winter Soldier, actually. because if you ask him, during a mission: what is your target doing right now? --- he knows, he’ll tell you, because he is paying attention to said target. but is he aware of what he’s doing, as in, does he realize he’s about to kill a human being and what this implies at every level? he isn’t. he’s doing it because he was commanded to do it, and weapons don’t question the hand that pulls the trigger. this is possibly the most drastic change that happens in post-HYDRA, because he finally becomes aware --- finally regains a sense of being conscious of his actions (and shoutout to Sebastian’s terrific acting at the end of that helicarrier scene in CA:TWS, because with his eyes only he can so clearly depict this change --- this moment when the Soldier becomes aware of what he is doing to Steve). and let me redirect to another of my previous metas, re: the dehumanization of the Winter Soldier, because this shift in awareness relies entirely on the human being vs. weapon/asset mindsets: here.

in post-HYDRA, then, this comes laced with everything i already discussed about attention. the increased capacity to pay attention to the world, once the hypnosis protocol is discontinued, comes hand-in-hand with this rise in awareness --- paying attention to the sunlight like you never did before, and being aware that sunlight feels warm on your skin and being aware that, in turn, this is a pleasant sensation. unlike attention, however, gaining awareness brings Bucky a whole lot more demons to deal with --- because it makes him conscious of what the Soldier has done and what it implies and, at the same time, it makes him conscious of what was done to him --- and this dichotomy fuels a very toxic, very difficult to undo, cycle of guilt/shame vs. paranoia. on the other hand, whereas i don’t want to go into much detail about empathy right now, this also allows him to grow very compassionate and very mindful of his actions --- because he knows what the Soldier is capable of, and because he never wants any of it to happen again as far as he can help it. which is why, for example, in my writing post- CA:TWS, a pervasive theme is that Bucky is way more scared of the harm that he can potentially do to others than what can be done to him.

and a smol extra note, once more based on Seb’s acting because this man’s body language is a heavens-sent: despite everything state above, i don’t personally believe that the Winter soldier is completely unaware of what he’s doing. this is speculative, obviously, and no more than my own headcanon, but i really don’t think he is. he’s trained to not question it, and most of the time he doesn’t actively question it (possibly, the only time this happens is the whole “the man on the bridge” moment), but he’s not completely ruthless either --- on the contrary. the highway scene in CA:TWS is a perfect example, because we can see how uncaring he is re: his own well-being (hopping off the rail like he does and landing on that car like a ton of bricks, with zero care for his own body), but we don’t see him shooting/massacring any civilians even though he so easily could. he’s solely focused on Black Widow at that point and, yes, this is likely because it’s what the hypnosis protocol dictates his attention be given to, but i personally believe it also comes out of an unconscious desire to do no harm --- that belongs not to the Soldier, but to James Buchanan Barnes.

3. LEARNING so... i actually feel like there isn’t much left to say about this topic in particular, given how i have already been tapping at it during the two previous ones. the Winter Soldier’s learning relies on two big strategies: classical/ Pavlovian conditioning and operant conditioning (both of which i have explored in the brainwashing meta). and a whole lot of repetition, till he learns what HYDRA wants him to learn --- and anything else he casually/ autonomously learns and that is considered unnecessary is taken care of via mind wiping. the biggest implication of this is that, in post-HYDRA, Bucky is a bit like a child learning about the world for the first time. not only he’s in a modern world where so much is new and he doesn’t know about it, but his learning process relies basically only in association of stimuli + punishment or reinforcement. in post-HYDRA, he starts doing trial-and-error in an autonomous manner, he starts doing vicarious learning (i.e., learning through observing other people), he starts learning things by accident in the sense that he wasn’t even trying to but it happened anyway, he starts learning by imitating and doing what others do.

which brings me to another roleplay thing, and one that i often joke about but that, in fact, happens for real --- the fact that all this makes Bucky rather gullible. for example, he will see some modern contraption that he never got to see/use before and he logically won’t have a clue about it, and he will likely believe what he’s told about it --- because he has no other reference, because he trusts the person who’s telling him this, because this is how he’s learned things for the past decades. he’s used to being taught, more than to learn on his own, and he’s used to the things he’s taught being the only truth that matters, in typical HYDRA fashion. the difference is that he now is aware of what he’s being told, so if you tell him “go and assassinate the prime-minister” he will obviously know what this is about and why this isn’t a good idea, to say it mildly. also, this doesn’t make him completely oblivious, in the sense of believing everything he’s told blindly and without a sense of criticism --- because, yes, he’s got a shitty memory but he can sill use logic and rationality --- so if you tell him to cook a sundae in the microwaves he’ll tell you to go screw yourself, because sundae is ice cream and ice cream melts. on the other hand, popular references are the thing that confuse him the most and that are hardest to learn, exactly because they don’t carry this inherent sense of concrete logic --- so if you tell him that YEET! is the new way to say good morning nowadays, chances are he’ll start telling it to everyone from there on until he’s taught properly about it.

to conclude, i just wanna mention yet again the connection with attention --- because the limitations i have already discussed obviously have an impact on Bucky’s capacity to learn, in post-HYDRA. generally speaking, this capacity is reduced when compared to the Soldier --- not due to brain damage, but because the Soldier was exceptionally prepared, through hypnosis, to learn any minimal details deemed necessary (for example, this is how he learned the 16 new languages that add to English and German that he already knew). so, it’s not like he now sucks at learning, rather it was the Soldier that was (forced to be) way above the standard level. now in normal conditions, this capacity is more scattered and it fluctuates along with his span of attention --- which, in turn, fluctuates along with his mental health status. but he is a curious person and he wants to improve and to learn more, either on his own or with help, and this intrinsic motivation is very important when it comes to adapting to a new life/new world.

#long post #「ᵐᵉᵗᵃ」ʷᶤᵖᵉ ʰᶤᵐ ᵃᶰᵈ ˢᵗᵃʳᵗ ᵒᵛᵉʳ

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