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thekrows-nest · 7 months

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Huge wall of speculation incoming.

I have no idea if the OG! - Vamp! connection hinting at the mantra relates to stuff I’ve guessed at but hasn’t been publicly confirmed, or if it’s stuff that even I haven’t touched on.

Let’s see… let’s first go over what I do know.

The hunger is obvious.

OG Krow is notoriously food insecure and that’s where his organ harvesting side hustle comes in. His thirst for fluids… if you know you know. He’s also metaphorically ‘empty’ because he’s been so emotionally neglected and lonely. Also his job and the dog eat dog survival growing up may have desensitised him to a lot of emotions like guilt, empathy (for those who give a reason) or fear.

As well as being a really striking visual it makes sense with all of this for Vampire Krow to have a gaping void at his core, a ravening hunger and thirst, an empty belly and no heart. Traditional vetala also prefer to feed on intestines so there’s that too.

OG Krow is an artist, and creativity is his entire drive outside Dove. (It could be argued that as a muse who broke his art block, Dove is even an extension of that.) Maybe there is some of that remaining.

OG Krow loves music and has sensitive hearing.

OG Krow is clever and sneaky, easily underestimated.

OG Krow loves birds. Perhaps that can be used in some way.

OG Krow was/is homeless, hypervigilant, stealthy, has wonky sleep schedule but great physical stamina.

Vampire Krow may be tethered to one place or haunting abandoned places, but if he may have travelled to America he may have been cursed to wander. Or just have free will like most vamps. Or is being forced to move around to avoid being killed, or endlessly chase more prey. I don’t know.

I do know he doesn’t have an opulent mansion and probably doesn’t have a safe secure resting place. Vampire Krow doesn’t tire because he has nowhere safe to rest with other monsters hunting him and is always seeking the next meal. He can possibly be active night or day but might use stealth/night for easy meals if he still has enough sanity to not just charge in.

OG Krow is Bengali/Indian.

In the subcontinent it would reallllly suck for him if he was weak to the sun. Or garlic. Or superstition. Too easy.

You know what? Both Krows have freckles and OG Krow curls up in bed to stay warm (maybe that’s just his substandard accommodation). I headcanon that if Vampire Krow ever gets a moment of peace or if prey is unavailable he's sitting in the sun to get nice and dark or just not caring about it, he can barely feel the warmth but imagines it’s still a source of energy (prana) and maybe it warms his cold dead body. He tries to remember it from when he was alive.

Maybe he even uproots and crushes cloves of garlic into his mouth because the strong acrid flavour is the only thing that still registers, or eats it like a starving human eats grass.

Whoaaa… In some religious contexts Hindus may consider the strong odor of onions and garlic ‘impure’ and avoid them during sacred occasions or religious rituals. It is veg food though.

However like OG Krow he may not have been allowed to learn about Hindu beliefs. Despite having memories of life, having Hindu roots and being traumatized by colonization, I still don’t know what garlic means for Vampire Krow either way. If it’s good or bad. I’m going to say it’s not effective because it’s so well known against European vampires.

I don’t think Vampire Krow gives a single crap about crosses, or (if OG Krow had the religious upbringing I have brought up as a Krack theory) they may just make him angrier. This is a fairly traditional weakness anyway.

Krack theory… OG Krow as orphan or in foster care?

Part of living Vampire Krow’s trauma under occupation may have been being orphaned or taken from his parents for colonisers to raise.

I don’t think this is it as OG Krow is Bengali/Indian but there were also cases of British men siring children and returning overseas, abandoning mother and child to fend for themselves. Not a great position to be in in poverty, war, and famine… may have led to the loss of his mother or their separation.

This doesn’t square with him being turned as an adult unless there’s some device like slowly aging or he was just reaching age. But abuse of children of colour in ‘children’s homes’ was rife, mortality was high and covered up, and children were the favourite prey of traditional vetala. I actually have no idea how or why he was turned.

So. This is all I have so far.

Blind unreasoning hunger (greed), (bloodlust?) or rage may lead Vampire Krow into traps or destruction/capture by another monster. (Either Vishnu or Krishna said downfall comes through greed, lust or rage.)

Appeals to any remaining humanity may be somewhat helpful.

He may be bribed with… liquids. Or mangoes?

Water from the Ganges seems to be the equivalent of holy water.

Offers to braid his hair did seemed to give him pause. And marriage proposals? In Indian culture it can be inauspicious to have open (untied) hair and the attention and sensation of braiding might remind him of life. Or lust.

Perhaps Vampire Krow may be mesmerized by art or beauty. Perhaps he can be distracted by looking at or making mehndi.

Maybe he can be enthralled by music or given pause by loud sounds.

Maybe you have to be wary of him pretending to be trapped or enthralled, only to suddenly lunge.

He may pause to look at released birds, or stop to collect strewn feathers.

You cannot sneak up on him or outrun him as you will be taken unaware or tire before he does. I believe the term is persistence predator.

Krow mayyyy be weak to intense cold? Or at least not really like it.

Turmeric is an auspicious spice and to be avoided during mourning so maybe he’s weak to that? He may still be given momentary pause by Hindu taboos from when he was alive? Assuming he was allowed to learn about it.

He may have trauma from life around young ones being taken or hurt, and might be persuaded to spare babies or children.

As to the specific mantra relevant to OG Krow, I still don’t know. There may have to be some more lore drops before I even have the faintest hunch.

But I did look for mantras for abandoned babies and came up with another chant to Narasimha - then randomly stumbled on something interesting.

There was once a deva named Hiranyakashipu who sought the boon of invulnerability against most weapons and causes of death, and to become so strong that only Lord Vishnu could kill him. Beast, deva and man could not kill him, he could be killed neither at night or in the day, not inside nor outside, on the earth or in the sky, by weapons either living nor nonliving…

Then one day Hiranyakasipu had a grievance and sought to kill Narasimha (the fourth avatar of Vishnu). Hiranyakasipu was then attacked by Narasimha under the perfect conditions to circumvent it all.

Narasimha took a form that was part human and part animal, attacked Hiranyakasipu at twilight, and did it at the threshold to his house. Narasimha laid the deva on his own thighs (off the ground but not in the sky) and killed him by disembowelment with his claws.

Probably not why Vampire Krow is gutted but an interesting coincidence all the same.

So I’m guessing that Krow has a number of conditions under which he can’t be killed or at least things that won’t work, and so there may have to be some creative thinking, riddling and loophole abuse.

Vishnu/Narasimha also does seem to be the one to pray to for defense from demons or evil spirits.

Took a bit to get to this because my god what a novel that is this ask. /pos

I appreciate that you make me much more of a genius in character design than I really am Krowspiracy. /silly I guess it's one of those things that even if the creator didn't consciously go into a design with certain thoughts, it still subconsciously bleeds (ha) through. Maybe I still am a genius?

...New canon for Vampire Krow. He absolutely lounges in the sun whenever he does have a moment's peace. He probably doesn't really warm up any more, or really feel it, but, it's a moment to try and reflect back on when he was alive. To try and desperately still cling to what humanity he has left.

And no garlic isn't really effective one way or the other to Vampire Krow. The main thing for him is I wanted to get away from "traditional" (western) vampire weaknesses for him. He's not western, so why would those weaknesses apply to him? So someone trying to eat garlic or something as a means to ward him off are in for a nasty shock.

Crosses might not be a magical weakness to him, but they could still infuriate him as a possible reminder of British colonization. So in one sense, is a weakness, but not like how you'd think for a vampire.

I do like the idea that enthralling him with things of beauty is a means to at least give him pause (or even confuse him with unexpected kindness). There's so many stories of terrible beasts being tamed or thwarted or whatever when showing compassion to them instead of aggression. And that is a neat idea to have with Vampire Krow.

As for the specific mantra... I'll give a slight hint. It is to a specific deity but likely not who most would think of. And it does have to do with OG Krow lore. However, that lore hasn't been publicly revealed yet. (For you though, Krowspiracy, as a treat, I'll say you did pretty much nail what the lore was, more or less, in one of your theories.)

Pretty much for a mortal to kill him would require specific conditions I think (or well... basically nuke him sdfnmbdlf). A fellow supernatural would have an easier time killing him, albeit that doesn't necessarily mean they can accomplish the task.

#the krow's nest #krow asked and answered #winndy talks #vampire krow #krow different skies (au's)#krowspiracy theories

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ceph-the-ghost-writer · 1 year

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Happy STS Ceph! Is there anything you can talk about from Isaac's childhood or younger years that was significant to their development?

Hi! Thanks for sending this in! It's a perfect question for Isaac.

Content Advisory: Death of a parent, death from illness, mention of anti-vaccine movements/bad beliefs about health, anti-immigrant violence/hate, hand/finger trauma

Several big events/factors shaped Isaac's childhood. First, his mom died during an epidemic when he was just two. While he has no memories of her, the rest of his family always talked about how outspoken, headstrong, and loving she was. She was a nurse, and contracted a strain of the latest virus to rip through the States while helping others. Because of this, Isaac has zero patience for people who want to restrict access to healthcare, and/or deny the effectiveness of vaccines and other medicines. He got into a fistfight over it in school when he was eleven, and another kid said his mom died because she had weak genetics. Isaac was suspended for two weeks, but his dad told him outright that he'd done the right thing in defending his mom. (As an adult, Isaac realizes the other kid was just repeating what they'd been taught. Not that he regrets busting their lip entirely, though.)

Another force that influenced a lot of his upbringing was the States' ever-present problem of both needing immigrants for its workforce and being hostile to their presence at the same time. Tens of millions died during the break and its aftermath, but business wasn't about to slow down for a little speed bump like that. So, the States invited people from Mexico, Central and South America, as well as the Caribbean islands in.

People whom it had ruthlessly denied refuge and aid to during the break itself, actually. Isaac's grandma, Lucia, used to show young Isaac her slightly crooked fingers when she got drunk sometimes. She'd been a child herself when her family had fled Costa Rica and the rising seas, attempting to raft to the States as refugees. A blockade of Navy and Coast Guard vessels had greeted them. Lucia had clung to the side of one of the smaller boats full of armed soldiers, lifted by her mother who begged them in Spanish to at least save her daughter. A sailor responded by crushing the girl's fingers with the butt their rifle, knocking her back down into the water. Lucia's left middle, ring, and pinky fingers never healed quite right, and couldn't bend completely for the rest of her life. Mexico wound up accepting many refugees from its southern neighbors. Lucia grew up in Mexico City and eventually found a husband there, giving birth to a son--Isaac's father.

While the Soto family did accept the invitation to settle in the States years later, none of them forgot its past treatment of "foreigners". Isaac grew up with the knowledge that the country of his birth could turn on him at any time. His father, grandma, and Tía Petra (his mom's sister) often took him and his two cousins out on camping trips that were low-key training exercises on how to survive the wilderness if they all needed to flee/hide someday. A need for self-reliance and a hypervigilance when it comes to political attitudes took root in him too, unsurprisingly.

But Isaac also easily forms bonds and shares solidarity with a wide variety of people because of his upbringing: other children of immigrants (like Elfy), residents of the territories, smugglers, salvagers, anyone considered an outsider really. Overall, he's more willing to examine systems and ask questions about who's really benefitting from them--even the ones he's a part of/likes.

While there's plenty of tragedy and pain in Isaac's past, there's no shortage of resilience and love either. Recognizing and slowly dealing with all those components is a major source of the strength that many other characters come to admire in him.

#answered asks #dysthanasia #seriously he doesn't have #Renato or Kinslayer backing him for nothing #or just bc they think he's cute #though they definitely do think that too

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messengerhermes · 2 years

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Honey, Are you an Empath™ or are you: a) Someone who was conditioned to be hyperaware of everyone else around you's feelings and calibrate your behavior to be as pleasing as possible in order to keep yourself safe and get your basic needs met b) Struggling with boundaries because you've never been given permission to have any and so take on other people's moods and emotions as your own and lose track of what your needs wants and desires are c) Someone who for any number of reasons has become overwhelmed and burnt out on listening to other people's emotional states and so now calls anyone talking about having understandable emotional distress to stressful situations "low vibrational" as an excuse to blame that person for their experiences and get out of listening or showing up for other people in concrete ways. And I know I'm being a dick on this post, but if you come across it and some of this hits a nerve consider looking into: Fawning: The lesser known 4th element of fight/flight/freeze, fawning looks like becoming hyper attentive to other people's needs and losing track of your own emotional, mental, and body needs in favor of caring for others Fawning can be a way for people to survive abuse by making themselves "harmless" and "useful" to their abusers, it's about shrinking the self and comforting the abuser's ego. This often can be called "people pleasing" when folks are not aware of the ways trauma gets involved here. Adultification: The process by which a child is forced to take on adult responsibilities outside of their developmental ability, either due to intentional abuse on the part of adults in their life, incidental neglect, or larger traumatic events that can put a strain on the family system (Think deaths in the family, drastic economic changes, severe illness, etc).

This can look like children taking care of their siblings and themselves, kids looking after the adults in their lives, taking on large portions of household duties that go beyond expected chores (ie cooking for the entire family, doing everyone's laundry, managing people's appointments, and generally the stuff that's about keeping lights on and bills paid). Hypervigilance: This is when a person is extremely aware of their environment and the reactions and moods of people around them. Hypervigilance is often brought up regarding combat vets or survivors of sudden acute violence, but shows up in trauma survivors of all experiences. This can look like always needing a "plan c" in order to feel secure when making plans, overly considering the needs of everyone in a group and trying to predict what could go wrong, and an intense alert awareness of the environment.

#delete later #oh hermes is pissy today #seriously please as someone who goes in for a lot of woo woo shit #before you jump to having some kind of psychic emotion powers consider whether you may have unresolved relational issues first

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exhaustedace · 3 years

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My grandmother survived a genocide, 3 civil wars, and an ethnic cleansing across 4 countries in Asia. Prior to college she pulled me aside to remind me to never trust anyone- not family, not friends, and especially not allies. I brushed it off as her hypervigillance from being a refugee multiple times. I am a queer asian jew and after this month I believe her.

I saw an over 400% increase in hate crimes against the Jewish community, over 17,000 tweets saying “H*tler was right”, calls for rape and murder of my community. All the while, the same social justice community who would speak up for me as an asian woman 2 months ago wouldn’t open their mouths for me now because they cant seem to see the difference between an IDF soldier and a diasporic jew.

A professor told me that I am personally slaughtering Palestinian children because I am a living Jew, and Jews should all be wiped from the earth. Oh, and she assured me that this wasn’t antisemitic, just anti-zionist. Another professor agreed that Jews were dirty thieves. Another professor showed pictures of dead holocaust victims beside a picture of dying pigs as a way to remember a specific disease. A sociology professor said antisemitism doesn't exist anymore. Another professor said that Black Jews dont exist and then shut down the Black Jews who tried arguing with her by saying their opinion doesn't matter because of the forced birth control injections of Ethiopian Jews in Israel.

Arizona is re-opening their gas chambers, closed over 20 years. They will be using Zyklon B aka hydrogen cyanide aka Nazi gas chamber gas. This is the gas that killed millions of people - Jews, Roma, LGBT, disabled, and more. From US records of using this as a method of execution, we know that it takes 10-20 minutes for someone to die of it, with witness reports of people slamming their heads into walls to kill themselves before the gas, coughing/gagging, and dying in agony. No one is speaking out against this (please call your senators!)

It is the first of June and I have already seen anti-asexual rhetoric being spewed by people in the LGBT community. Those who believe that the “A” stands for Ally, and that aces deserve zero community support because we have AVEN. We have AVEN, an online chatroom and education database for asexuals. Those who believe we do not have oppression by the cishets, yet ignore data on corrective rape, medical abuse, conversion therapy, job and housing discrimination against our community.

I am tired. I am sad. I am terrified. I am abandoned by the communities and spaces that were once a safe haven. I am abandoning my cultural name. I am abandoning my asian and jewish mother tongues. I am taking down my mezuzah like many in my community. This and last month were supposed to be celebrating the AAPI community, American Jewish community, LGBT community, and bring awareness to mental health. As a member of all of those communities, I have never felt more alone.

Please see this. Please start speaking out. My communities hear your quiet and it is suffocating.

#Tw: genocide #tw: rape #tw: conversion therapy #tw: antisemitism #tw: eugenics #tw: racism #tw: gas chambers #tw: zyklon B #lgbt #asexual #jewish #asian jews #Antisemitism #zyklon b #call your senators

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oncejaw-a · 3 years

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(the taming of the Jaw) (tw: human experimentation on children, electroshock therapy)

Like all of his comrades, Marcel has had to endure a number of medical examinations and scientific experimentations in the months and years following his investiture as the Jaw titan holder. The first phases of tests consisted mostly of physical experimentation designed to test the Jaw’s prowesses (claws, teeth, endurance) and compare the results to his predecessor’s, in an attempt to determine the gains of training Warriors since infancy, as opposed to giving the titan to an adult. Such results were crucial in determining the future of the Warriors programme as thought up by Theo Magath - and the children, Marcel and the Jaw included, exceeded all expectations.

Further experiments, specific to Marcel and the Jaw, were designed in an effort to ‘help’ him develop his skills and mastery of his titan. Key to mastering the Jaw and exploiting its full potential are two elements: developing enough endurance to withstand the Jaw’s high demands of physical energy, and most importantly, relentless mental fortitude to be able to keep up with its taxing restlessness. The Jaw is nothing if not an exhausting beast that very quickly burns through its holder’s body and mind - both must have the capacity to endure its short, but demanding bursts of energy, and to quickly recuperate from them. Marcel’s fortitude, sharp wits, and the indomitable will and strength of character he displayed as a candidate, made him the ideal candidate for the job. Once he received the Jaw and completed the standard tests for all titan recipients/Warrios, Marcel started to undergo more specialised experimentation. For the most part, those experiments consisted in neurological and psychological experiments: through the use of sensorial stimuli, the doctors would induce controlled states of anxiety and distress, in an attempt to determine, test, and develop Marcel’s resilience to such events and improve his mastery of the Jaw in extreme conditions. Marcel’s first few transformations demonstrated that under high levels of stress, the Jaw’s instincts tended to override Marcel’s control, making it less susceptible to obey orders and more inclined to thrive on pure survival mode: those experiments were designed to curb that behaviour and put Marcel back in complete control.

Such experiments would take place in two settings and would be twofold: in a lab setting, and in a “natural” setting. When performed in a laboratory, Marcel would be subjected to overwhelming stimuli of all five of his senses to trigger severe states of psychological, emotional, and physical distress, and would undergo observation to determine how long it would take him to return to a stabilized state, with and without medical support. When performed in a “natural” setting, Marcel would undergo a similar treatment before being released onto a mock battlefield and ordered to transform; the goal being to estimate, once more, when he is in control and when he is not, and to train him to override his own distress faster. The people thrown onto these mock battlefields to “assist” with the experiments would of course be Eldians - titan fodder who, unfortunately, did not always survive their encounter with the Jaw.

In order to double-down on the Jaw’s resistance to control and its susceptibility to Marcel’s stress levels, the doctors turned to electroconvulsive therapy (or electroshock therapy), typically alternating between overstimulation (pre- or without transformation) and electroshocks (post- or without transformation) in an attempt to beat the Jaw (and its holder) into control and discipline. Their hypothesis was that electroshocks would "interrupt” whatever state of panic/distress Marcel would be in, and help him to learn how to regain control of himself faster after a transformation.

In appearance, this strategy worked. In reality, its success is not due to the merit of alternating such cycles or retorting to them at all, but to Marcel’s absolute terror at the idea of undergoing those treatments, forcing him to push himself and the Jaw so as to cut those experiments short. Besides, as Marcel very quickly realises (all the more in the verse where he gets to Paradis and comes back to Marley five years later), there was nothing to fix with the Jaw to start with: his fosters a very symbiotic relationship with his titan, and would have easily been able to recuperate faster from his transformations by himself, had he been given some time to adjust naturally. The fracture of control between him and the Jaw was only created by the brutal treatments Marley’s scientific teams put him through. Marcel and the Jaw are a prime example of what may happen when poking a dangerous animal with a stick instead of leaving it be.

Adult Marcel no longer needs to undergo those procedures, having demonstrated that he now has perfect control of his titan, including in the immediate moments post-transformation, but there are a couple of long-term effects he does his best to conceal from prying eyes. He is known to be easily triggered into hypervigilence by sudden loud noises and flashes of light/colours, or any kind of excessive sensory stimulation. All and any damage to his brain has been allegedly healed through his titan’s powers, but there remains an involuntary nervous twitch, usually in his hand or leg, that the doctors do not know if it is of neurological or psychological nature - he keeps it in check by hiding his hands in his pockets or behind his back. He is very regularly subjected to intense migraines. Any other long-lasting effects are a secret he will most likely take to his grave.

#ic;; mes doigts se sont écartés tout en lâchant mes armes (headcanons)#can you tell i'm not a doctor AT ALL #oh well an attempt was made

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gateauxes · 3 years

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the war on gender terror

At this point in my life, the presence of mostly-white liberal feminism is inescapable. While I'm excited to see more people taking baby steps to a radical analysis, largely I am frustrated. On the other hand, involuntary exposure to popular feminism is the reason why I'm noticing a trend in it. Here's my report from where I'm standing: the liberal feminists don't know it, but reactionaries are trying to scare them.

Reactionary feminist projects begin the same way as any other reactionary project - concern trolling liberals over topics at arms' length from the main goals of exclusion and domination. With regard to reactionary feminists the progression of topics are well-known: women's sports & 'human trafficking', then domestic violence shelters & kinky porn, then policing gender-segregated bathrooms, defunding trans healthcare, and opposing sex work of any kind. I've been watching a pessimistic thread emerge in liberal feminist (and radical!) circles which I believe has been pushed into place by reactionary feminists. This bio-pessimism places women into a perpetual state of victimhood that can never truly end due to the essential rapacious nature of men. If this seems like the same shit the second-wave lesbian separatists were peddling, that's because it is. What I want to question is how today's essentialist pessimism differs from its initial appearance.

RADFEMS ARE OBSESSED WITH DICK

Reactionary feminists have not dispensed with a religious-conservative perspective on the power of the penis - and by extension they imagine women identically to how the rest of the right views women. The penis, apparently, is the mechanism by which rape becomes possible. Therefore, any engagement with a person with a penis is a grave risk. Vulnerability is a mistake if you might be dealing with a rapist. The MeToo movement activated an enormous public forum about how incredibly prevalent the violence is, but I now see it used as a tool for re-framing this prevalence as a biological reality. (MeToo, even without being used as a tool, was ineffective at acknowledging that violence is perpetrated by all sorts of people). An explosion of survivors talking openly about violence as an unacceptable status quo has been infiltrated by reactionary feminists who whisper that this is the fate of all women, always. The new bio-law absorbs the third wave's progress in acknowledging diversity of experience - right up to the point where it would be forced to note that sexual nature, like categories of racially-dictated nature, is a myth.

This pessimism rooted in the power of the penis is hypervigilance beyond a realistic assessment of risk. (I also blame true crime podcasts and the media in general) This is not the careful awareness of one's surroundings which comes naturally to many of us. What I'm describing is avoiding going out at all, because of statistics on sexual violence which may not even reflect the risks in the neighbourhood. This, for instance, is purchasing and insuring a vehicle for the express purpose of avoiding public transit. I frequently notice that popular discussion of domestic violence neglects to mention the disproportion of violence toward people with disabilities, asserting that all of us have identical risk. Ultimately, this is the justification for a culture of exclusion as the only recourse to the ever-present threat of men. The fortress must be defended, and the enemy could be anywhere.

BUT HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO GET LAID?

I do not want love or children, so my interest in sex is purely recreational. I have been told this is not in line with my female nature - I stand before you deviant and happy. However, anyone attracted to men must grapple with the contradiction of desire and very real risks. I support caution, and even precaution. My concern is with a bio-law that requires a baseline of suspicion if one is to survive, the assumption that one is always a moment away from violence. To be explicit, how am I supposed to have fun when I am letting the enemy penetrate my figurative fortress?

I think this is why kink is such a problem for reactionary feminists. The only way to make the horror of sleeping with the enemy worse is to find that some people like to confront, satirize, and role play the power dynamic. To choose recreational pain or literal bondage flies in the face of the notion that a woman’s lot is to be in constant pain, and to tolerate penetration as a miserable necessity. The reactionary feminist must sleep with one eye open, aware that her biology has already sealed her fate, and mitigate vulnerability by excluding the threat, since she can’t defend herself (biologically speaking). This is why trans women can’t stay at the domestic violence shelter, this is why you should worry for your life if your boyfriend watches kinky porn. As with vanilla dating, there are true risks - and reasonable precautions. But kink is about play with vulnerability - there is no room for play under the martial law of bio-pessimism. By hijacking post-MeToo popular feminism, reactionaries can reinsert the bone-chilling suggestion that it’s all rape, all the time. All the men want kinky sex, because it’s the closest they can come to hurting women the way they secretly wish to. According to this logic, the only way to safely navigate the risk is constant surveillance of men, the self, and any woman who could be a traitor. He’d better not be watching kinky porn, you’d better not be watching kinky porn, and the women in the kinky porn are either hapless victims or remorseless collaborators. Once we have arrived at this point, it’s obvious why the next step is a crusade against any pornography, and a mission to ensure that kink is understood as something men want and women tolerate.

How can reactionary feminists get this done? By linking the prevalence of trauma with the increased visibility of alternative sexuality & gender, from kink-at-pride to polyamory to transcending assigned gender. They ask, do you feel uncomfortable when you see all this change? We’ve all been traumatized - who do these people think they are, flaunting a lifestyle that feels wrong to feminists like you? You should trust your gut, they urge. Perform a little more vigilance to be sure you’re safe. If you find yourself unable to open a dating app or sit next to a man on the bus without feeling deep dread and revulsion, that’s vigilance, and realistic given the state of things. Any - and most - men mean women harm.

REDPILLS AND RADFEMS BELIEVE THE SAME SHIT

Incels hate women, reactionary feminists love a certain kind of woman. This distinction is relevant, especially since incels pose a physical threat to women in general whereas reactionary feminists only attack trans people, black athletes, sex workers, the wrong kind of queers, kinksters, child athletes... Despite their own active hostility toward many types of women, reactionary feminists hold up incels/redpillers/the far right as evidence of the threat that all women live under. There is no doubt that women face misogynist and antifeminist violence. Reactionary feminists are are far from the only ones highlighting this. What’s worth investigating are the given reasons that a target is vulnerable, and what should be done to mitigate risk in the future. In these, an incel and a reactionary feminist are in perfect harmony. Instead of a realistic assessment of risk at an individual level, or an assessment of group dynamics that allowed a survivor-victim to fall through the cracks, both parties will insist that all women are simply unsafe at all times. This notion suits a reactionary feminist’s goal of closed-rank suspicion, and an incel’s dream of terrified submission. This perspective neglects to really ask why things turned out the way they did, because that’s not the point. Whether women are innately inferior or innately vulnerable, we must travel in flocks if we want to survive. The reactionary feminist offers herself as the shepherd, having assured the flock that the enemy is close at hand. Women cannot, of course, be a pack of wolves. Members of a wolf pack work cooperatively but diverge at will.

THE WAR ON GENDER TERROR

The cumulative effect of this mindset and focus is a miserable hypervigilance, which is further hostile to any who are not miserable and vigilant. We know this scrutiny well from living inside a war on terror, which resulted in a vast expansion of state power to exclude, surveil, and punish. Because they have not abandoned their desire to dominate, reactionary feminists would like to do the same along the lines of gender law. Exclusion requires a concrete set of criteria by which a person can be marked acceptable or unacceptable, and there is trouble when a person shifts between the two. Whether you’re an immigration agent or an officer of the gender police, you’ve got to demonize those who shift, and shifting itself. Special attention should be paid to possible ulterior motives. At the overt end, this looks like the myth of the predatory trans woman and the slavery-complicit sex worker. However, these will not be widely accepted until the audience is made nervous by less ridiculous threats with a basis in reality. Sex trafficking is real, and pickup artists really do share tips online about how to pick up, manipulate, and coerce women. However, alarmist chain-mail suggesting that ‘gang members’ are stealing women off the street via box trucks does not reflect reality, but rather supposes that the threat could be any construction worker or labourer with a truck. Given the way people of colour are disproportionately represented in blue-collar work, the implications of this racially-biased hypervigilance should be obvious. The rapid dissemination of information (true or false) online is useful when stoking fear of ulterior motives. Genuine desire to spread a message that could save another woman fuels the sharing of partially-true and emotionally charged statements. Given the existence of incel and pickup artist subcultures, it seems believable that most men could have consumed advice on how to covertly film during sex, or remove a condom without being noticed. Whether that is true or not is irrelevant - the thing to do is be cautious. No matter how they seem, anyone could be concealing their motives. It begins to make sense to suspect a male social worker, or police bathrooms. Furthermore, failure to agree to this assessment of risk is evidence of insufficient solidarity with the rest of the female sex. Solidarity is imperative, given the horrors made visible by feminists who just want to protect women. Inaction could suggest complicity, and asking for a source on a claim is indicative that one does not believe victims. An avalanche of scorn awaits those who ask questions out of turn. the terror cannot end until the defenses are fortified and the infiltrators exposed. As footage of atrocities is replayed during news coverage of foreign occupations, the danger inherent in womanhood must be grimly acknowledged when we consider stepping out into the world.

WHAT IS MY POINT?

Reactionary feminists cling to the second-wave notion of sex and gender as stable categories by which most oppression can be measured. For reactionary feminist strategies to be accepted by a popular feminism informed by intersectionality, popular feminists must at least partially believe in the inherent vulnerability of women or the base instincts of men. While this sentiment was more readily at hand during the second wave of feminism, third wave feminism resists homogenizing by sex, race, or class. While white liberal/popular feminism has an embarrassing tendency to acknowledge intersectionality only out of politeness and/or use it as a cudgel, even performative acknowledgement is a ward against overt essentialist dogma. For this reason, reactionary feminists must harness movements like MeToo, incel attacks, and further misconstrue actual misogynist violence to encourage hypervigilance against terror. The war on gender terror perverts the desire to confront diverse facets of misogyny into the pursuit of covert internal threats. The war compels commitment to defending the home front. A feeling of perpetual vulnerability is the perfect environment for the proliferation of exclusionary strategy. We must feel our goodness and our weakness to the core. Fully enjoying relationships with men, sexual diversity, and private moments of peace are collateral in pursuit of remaining ever-vigilant.

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dearestones · 3 years

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Safety (Brawler, Brother, and Sister Interaction)

Warnings: Protective Brawler, mentions of past child abuse.

Anonymous Request: More Brawler interactions, perhaps? He's my favorite character, but he didn't get enough spotlight imo.

When Brawler had seen the bento box fill up with his favorite food in the entire world—meat, meat, and more meat!—he couldn’t help but feel absolutely grateful and elated at such a wonderful treat. It was rare that he was afforded the opportunity to just be given something for free. Often, he had to fight for food.

For status.

For power.

While he absolutely loved the feeling of fighting, of powering his fists through his most powerful of foes, even he could see that life wasn’t just that. So, after devouring his share of food and allowing the rest of the Akudama to partake in their fare share of food, he decided to talk to the two mysterious children good and proper.

At first glance, Brawler didn’t think much of them. As a rule of thumb, he didn’t hang out too often with kids. They were cute and awesome, but they were far too fragile for him to handle. There were only so many ways he could control his body and finesse wasn’t always one of them. Now, however, he just wanted to pat their little heads and thank them for such hospitality.

However, as he sought them out, he saw something quite peculiar.

The little girl (Sister, he recalled as being her established name), was tiredly clutching onto the sleeve of the little boy (Brother, he remembers). Her dark eyes were wary, but stoic all the same. Her brother, on the other hand, gazed at the scene with tired, practiced apathy. At first, one would think that such expressions on their faces was a result from a shared sort of tiredness that must have come from the lows that came with a long gone rush of adrenaline. However, as Brawler approached, he could see both children tense and lock their eyes onto his form.

Hypervigilance, Brawler couldn’t help but think.

It was at best, behavior that one would expect from well behaved children. A behavior that had been indoctrinated into the young to make sure that they were willing and able to follow authority without a second thought.

Like sheep.

It was at worst, and this Brawler thinks is true, behavior cultivated from years of abuse and neglect.

Brawler isn’t smart, hasn’t claimed to be smart, but he knows what it’s like to be forced into a box and forced to conform. He had spent countless years on the streets. He had seen many children forced to survive and grow up to be his fellow Akudama. Many of them either died young and still somewhat innocent while others embraced humanity’s cruel, terrible nature and became what society had feared most.

Brawler did not desire to become that.

As a child, he was always a fighter. He always sought out to be the best, to stand out from the crowd. It didn’t matter if his opponent was twice his weight and three times his height, he was going to defeat them.

Age didn’t matter.

Experience didn’t matter.

Gender didn’t matter.

What mattered was power.

What mattered was how he displayed and won such power.

And what mattered most to him was holding onto that power.

And so, Brawler had become a powerhouse on the streets. If someone challenged him, he would gladly take them on. It didn’t matter who they were or what they pretended to be, Brawler accepted them as worthy and they would take each other on.

When fighting, he never held back and he expected that his opponent would do the same.

He was an Akudama, but he still held an age-old decorum despite his crude tendencies.

It was only once blood had been spilled, the exchange of pleasantries of congratulations and capitatulation, that Brawler would relent and congratulate his opponent. Because that was the thing about Brawler. He never aimed to kill. He only wanted to be the best and give others the chance to do the same.

Others like children.

Brawler may not have known the story behind these children (and it was probably an overly convoluted story considering the fact that they had turned out to be the goods for the Shinkansen heist), but he could appreciate the fact that in their own way, they were fighting back. It harkened back to days of old, of rebellion and anger. Of the unrestrained feeling of finally letting loose and letting his fists do the talking when all other options were no longer present.

These kids…

Brawler couldn’t help but think that they were going to be alright once they were all grown.

So, it was with a broad smile and a booming laugh that Brawler knelt down in front of the children, still somewhat dimly aware that once upon a time, he was just as slim and tiny as these two priceless gifts for Kanto. As he did so, both the children’s bodies became rigid; Brother cast an arm out in front of Sister while she clutched even tighter to the boy’s sleeve. It broke Brawler’s heart to see such a reaction.

Not only because such a reaction looked so out of place on children that looked so cared for, but because it looked so familiar to Brawler.

How many children had the seedy underbelly of Kansai had raised?

And how many more would fail to grow up?

“Hey, hey,” Brawler murmured as he placed both hands up in a placating manner. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, his eyes steady and beseeching as he stared into the children’s eyes.

For a moment, all three stared at each other in a stalemate. The tension among them was thick, too thick to be cut by a wayward joke or a supplication for peace. Just when Brawler was going to back down and apologize for frightening them (an occurrence that happened far too often in his life), Brother finally broke as he lowered his arm and nodded his head. Sister followed his lead as she placed both of her hands onto her lap.

“Brawler,” the boy stated. “Did you need something?”

Cold. Unemotional.

Kids weren’t supposed to sound like that, right? Past experiences had taught him that children were meant to be loud, mischievous, unyielding. They weren’t supposed to be… mini adults.

His eyes furrowed a bit into a frown, but once he realized just how perceptive the children were (Brother especially), he relaxed his posture and made sure to smile with as much genuine emotion he could muster.

“Nah, little man. Just wanted to say…” He scratched the back of his neck, still kind of unsure of how to go about this, but still confident enough to continue moving forward. “You kids… I don’t know what happened to ya, but I think that breakin’ out the Shinkansen by using’ the strongest Akudama around? Hella smart and awesome.”

The children looked at Brawler, their expressions still somewhat subdued, but there was a happiness and pride in them that had Brawler almost ready to ruffle their heads and pinch their cheeks. Kids were supposed to be adorable, right? ‘Cause these kids definitely were.

“Thank you,” Brother said. “I… we didn’t think that it would work.”

At his side, Sister nodded emphatically, her large eyes blinking bashfully away from Brawler’s probing gaze. “We thank you for your contribution, Brawler.” She paused a moment before continuing. “You are very kind.”

At that, the smile on Brawler’s face grew tenfold. There was nothing better than setting out to do something and achieving it. Glad that the children were somewhat comfortable with his presence, Brawler pulled out his fist and nodded eagerly at it.

“Bro fist, kids?”

A little perturbed at such a blatant gesture of friendliness, Brother hesitated, but pushed his own closed fist against Brawler’s. Not wanting to be left behind, Sister also participated.

“Cool. Now, if you ever get into trouble,” Brawler stood up, keeping his movements minimal and slow as possible, as he smiled down at the kids with a seriousness that could only rival Courier’s stoic face. “If you ever get into trouble,” he said again, “call for me and I’ll protect ya. Either that,” Brawler amended as an idea came to him, “or I’ll teach ya how to protect yourselves.”

This time, it was Sister who took the initiative to ask, “But why?”

Brawler simply smiled before jerking his thumb in the direction of the bento box that sat neatly on Doctor’s lap.

“‘Cause the meat ya gave me was awesome! Thanks, by the way. Best thing I had in a while.”

Before the kids could continue to hound him for his true intentions, the large, robust man turned away so that he could walk back towards Hoodlum’s questioning figure. Not once did Brawler turn around to see Brother send a confused glance in his direction while Sister faintly smiled in happiness.

There was a new feeling in their chests.

It was a feeling that they had never felt before when they were still in the facility being raised by cruel, apathetic scientists.

It was… safety.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

AKUDAMA DRIVE MASTERLIST

#akudama drive #Akudama drive brawler #akudama drive sister #akudama drive brother #akudama sister #akudama brother #akudama brawler #dearestones #devintrinidad

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

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A Path I Can’t Follow (8)

Chapter 8: Cal’s Dark Deeds | Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: It was a matter of life and death—the question is, should it be the life of many or one, the death of many or one? Cal Kestis makes what ought to be the biggest and hardest decision of his life as he is pitted with a question of high stakes and morals. He descends to the Dark Side and becomes an Inquisitor. A choice he openly made for the sake of saving you, even if you didn't know you needed it until it was too late.

TW: Depiction of violence and manslaughter - this is the only chapter that has it.

Tags: Dark Side! Cal Kestis, Inquisitor! Cal Kestis

Also posted in AO3

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 | Previous: Chapter 7 | Next: Chapter 9 | Masterlist

8 of ?

You gravitate to the Holocron resting on its pedestal. The nearer you got, the louder the voices became—overlapping at one another, battling for your attention. Only some of their words were distinct, they were calling for your name followed by another word that you could not yet comprehend.

Your hand slowly reaches for the artifact; the light around it was so blinding that you had to squint your eyes as you try to grab it.

When your fingers have finally closed around the glowing cyan cube, a heavy, warping sensation cloaks you from head to toe—it’s as if you were being sucked into the black vacuum of space—images flashed before your eyes, an indescribable feeling lingered within your very core, and then suddenly, everything from the voices to the cries was reduced to a single, faceless, unseen entity.

[y/n]…

It called to you. The sound of the voice was warm and familiar, you could’ve sworn your heart skipped a beat when you heard it say your name.

You dared to utter a name. A word you haven’t used in a long time.

“Master?”

[y/n], remember your training.

You spun around where you stood, searching the entire chamber for the source of the voice—nothing.

Heed me well: do not let fear and inhibition trample on what you believe in. Trust only in the Force.

“Master, wait!”

Then the chamber was entirely silent. That rhapsody of feelings, sounds, and images have vanished out of existence. The viscous, bioluminescent substance tracing the etches across the walls and floor have lost their bright glow, albeit they remained; even the light of the holocron’s pedestal dimmed out when its precious treasure have been taken out of its place.

You examine the cyan cube framed with gold, amazed that the metal has never tarnished after being sealed away in this tomb.

“Cal…!” you gasped, not realizing how long you’ve been inside this chamber. To you, it felt like only a few moments have passed.

You tucked the holocron in your backpack and hurried out of the chamber. The door rumbled as it opened.

“Cal, I got…!” your smile melted away. “It…?”

Much to your surprise, the foyer was as empty as it was when you entered it. You surveyed the entire foyer, you crossed the gap again until you were on stable ground. You looked at the doorways that lead to the passages, the platforms that he may have climbed up, and even the exit.

No, he couldn’t have left me on purpose!

“Cal?” you called again.

Attempting to radio call him proved to be futile. There was no answer on his end.

“No, it can’t be…” you muttered to yourself, thinking about scouring the first levels and the other passages that he may have gone to—which, not much later, you did but the result remained the same.

In your haste, you climbed the vines that covered the wall at the lobby ruins where Cal and the Fourth Brother battled yesterday. You sprinted back to the foyer, as it childish as you thought it would be, you had hoped that he will reappear in that spot where you left him. Your faith in Cal’s ability to take down that many Stormtrooper was faltering.

He’s strong. He’s not that easily taken down. You thought to yourself as you head for the exit.

The growing paranoia in you had heightened your senses, making you hypervigilant. While being aware of the possible presence of Stormtroopers and Purge Troopers hiding amongst the rocks on the clifftops, you sprinted along the path where the Varans were tethered.

Again, you had hoped that Cal would be there sitting on his own Varan waiting for you. The result was the same as the temple.

He was nowhere to be found.

The pair of Varans were behaving wildly. They were rearing, standing on their hind legs as they loudly croaked and clicked; you tried your best to calm both of them down, holding them by the reins and gently tugging them until their muzzles were close enough for you to pet.

“Where is he?” you say under your breath, you had wish the creatures could speak. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

The creatures chirped in agreement. You connected the reins of the two reptilian steeds before riding your own Varan.

“I hope I’m wrong,” you sighed.

You kicked the side of the creature’s belly with your stirrup and the Varan went darting through the plains on the way back to the village. Your heartbeat pounded loudly, its rhythm almost synchronized with the Varans’ galloping; as you rode, you could not shake the thoughts that were forming in your mind. The only consolation being that they are only imaginings that took form at the expense of your paranoia.

Unfortunately, Cal had already beat you to the village. A cloud of sand signaled the arrival of a convoy consisting of a shuttle and a pair of small transport ships, the village was already on high alert as the triad of black ships landed right outside the town border.

Razh and a company of perhaps all of the men in the town, from the adolescent boys brave enough to come with up to the able-bodied elders who could still swing a staff, were armed to the teeth—possibly ten times more than when you and Cal first arrived—the small army marched to the entrance of their town, ready to greet the intruders. The women, children, and elderly have retreated to their homes—locking their doors, shutting and barring the windows until the background behind this small band of protectors fell silent, and only the wind disturbing the dust spoke.

There was a medley of anxiety and eagerness amongst the men as they anticipate for the ship’s door to open and reveal their unexpected visitors.

“You better be prepared,” the Grand Inquisitor cooed, standing in front of the door with Cal by his side.

“I am.” Cal simply yet firmly replied.

The shuttle’s door hissed as it retracted into its frame. The two stepped out of the ship, the transport ships’ had already dispatched a handful of Stormtroopers each—there are more inside, obediently and patiently waiting for the command.

Cal appeared—alongside the Grand Inquisitor—Razh recognized him immediately when he walked closer. The Grand Inquisitor, imposing as he always is, terrified the men but Razh tried to calm them down, repeating the words “Steady, men” until the vocal shudders were silenced. He could not believe what he’s seeing. This ought to be the heaviest shock of his life so far, and he was already hoping for the worst.

“Cal? What are you doing? Who are these people?!”

“What’s the meaning of this?!” an elderly man who made sure he stood out for his voice to be heard, pushed his way through the crowd.

Cal did not answer the bombardment of questions. The Grand Inquisitor leaned closer to Cal’s ear, his jaw slightly moved as he spoke, inaudible to Razh and the rest of his crew.

“Give the command, Cal,” uttered the Grand Inquisitor.

“What is he saying? Cal, what did he say?”

“I’m sorry, Razh,” Cal raised his arm, visible enough for the Stormtroopers rallied behind him and the Grand Inquisitor. The soldiers that were stiff as a pole at one second, became firm in their aiming stances in the next. “You were a gracious host… but now I will do what I must.”

At the simple flick of his two fingers, all of the Stormtroopers squeezed the triggers of their blasters; Razh and some his men managed to dodge the bullets but a large fraction of them had been gunned down. More of the Stormtroopers spilled out of the transport ships, they sprinted through the skirmish that was happening on the ground, and their targets were the residents shut inside their homes.

Nobody was spared.

A mother had been gunned down for protecting her children, a blast from the barrel of the Stormtrooper’s rifle found its mark on her forehead. The children were slain before her lifeless body could even fall flat on the ground—all it took was one shot for each.

One. Two. Three. Four.

An elderly couple, hiding in their bedroom and coddled up to one another in fear, did not put up much of a fight when a Flametrooper kicked down their door; when the old husband knew that pleading and begging will never save them, he embraced his frail wife closer and tighter until his lips could touch her forehead.

Her trembling sob was the final thing he heard before the trooper pulled the trigger of his flamethrower.

The babies’ chances of survival were the slimmest. Even if they were kept hidden in their houses while their mothers dared to fight back and were slaughtered in the process, a single blast startled them horribly and they began to bawl, their cover ultimately blown and discovered by the raiding Scout Troopers.

While carnage ensued in each and every home, the skirmish continued; the men hindering the Stormtroopers from coming close to their doorstep, desperately attempting to protect their families.

“Why are you doing this?! WHAT HAVE WE EVER DONE TO YOU?! I GAVE YOU SHELTER, I SHARED MY TABLE WITH YOU, MY WIFE NURSED [Y/N] TO HEALTH… AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY US?!?!” Razh roared in rage, stuck in a spiraling confusion where he could not process that this was his reality now.

“You will never understand, Razh. Never.” Cal uttered, devoid of remorse as the cries of death spilled out of every window and door in the town.

“Please, Cal…” Razh’s voice warbled, and he ended up speaking in sobs. “Leave Miera and my son… my sweet Yenzo… leave them out of this!”

Cal’s eyes drooped, giving Razh a false hope of mercy as the pensive expression was painted all over the young Jedi’s face. He smacked his lips to give his verdict.

“I think I can,” Razh’s eyes lit up as soon as he heard Cal’s answer, but the Jedi’s eyes glanced over the leader’s shoulder. He gestured a nod in the direction he was looking at to Razh. “But I don’t think they will.”

Razh quickly turned around to his back, his eyes widens in fear as he finds a trio of Scout Troopers armed with electrostaffs, spearheaded by a commander, barging into his shouts. Miera’s shouts of struggle sent Razh into a panic.

“MIERA!! NO!!”

A Stormtrooper held Miera violently by the hair while she never let go of their son, Yenzo—who was nearly breathless from all his terrified crying.

Now, Razh was at a standstill. Should he attack Cal? Or go to his wife and son?

Razh tightened his grip around his weapon’s hilt, preparing for retaliation. He comes charging towards Cal with his staff held high over his head, Cal had anticipated this. Their weapons collided, his staff pressing against the beam of his lightsaber. The young Jedi’s face was a blank slate, except for the ominous glower in his pale jade eyes; he looks again over Razh’s shoulder and nods again, he looked behind him—and the next moment will truly be the most devastating in all of the town leader’s life.

Without hesitation, the other Stormtroopers jabbed Miera and baby Yenzo with their staffs until the high voltage forcefully sent coursing through their bodies had rendered them lifeless. The light in Miera’s eyes was extinguished as she stared at her husband, until the speck of life that clung finally died with her. The swaddled infant, cold and lifeless like his mother, rolled away from her arms as they fell to the dust.

“NOOOO!!!!” Tears pooled and rolled down Razh’s cheek as he roared, heartbroken and ultimately destroyed upon witnessing the slaughter of his family.

The grip on his weapon was failing, but there was still a fire in him that allowed him to fight with all his might. A typical act of wrath, the Grand Inquisitor thinks. Cal brandished his lightsaber and deflected Razh’s weapon. Cal fought dirty, kicking Razh hard on the shin before being killing him.

Along the way, you suddenly felt a stabbing feeling in your chest. The vein in your neck throbbed as the dust in the wind pricked your cheeks. The negative thoughts came back to you instantaneously, itching to devour your sanity.

You remember the words of your late master that echoed in the chamber. Following her advice, you fought off the thoughts while you tried to keep your grip firm on the reins; constantly hoping that Cal is unharmed, that he will be waiting for you, and that every bad thing in your mind is just a hyperbolic figment of your imagination.

“COME ON!!!” you bellowed at your Varan, wildly snapping at the reins, prompting it to go faster.

When the silhouette of the town was becoming more and more visible, relief grew in your heart, but as you got closer, smoke wafted out of the skyline and the smell had alerted the animals. Your eyes furrowed in curiosity, heeling the Varans to a slower pace but they were jerking their heads from side to side as you approached the town.

After passing through the town’s arch, you were met with what could be the most inhumane scene that you’ve ever laid eyes on. You can feel your stomach sinking to your feet. The burnt awnings and canopies explain the smoke that you saw from a distance. Shards of clay pots and wood scattered across the sand. Bodies were strewn all over the streets.

“Oh… Oh no…” you were at a loss for words that perhaps all you could do was faint.

You dismounted the Varan and untied the connected reins, allowing the animals to investigate the scene with you.

Everywhere you looked, there was the touch of death.

You peered over the doors that had apparently been broken down, only to find the interior in a complete disarray—as if a great windstorm had gotten inside their house. The stench of charred flesh drew you to a house whose door was hanging open.

“Hello? Is… anybody there?” you called as you step into the abode.

You treaded carefully along the common space of the house, the odor got stronger every step—the scent had led you to a room with a door left ajar, you pushed the door open and immediately wished that you never did that, you gasped in horror at the discovery the charred bodies of the elderly couple who fell victim to a Flametrooper.

Your knees were noodles, bringing you down to the floor, your stomach sinking to the bottom of your feet—you couldn’t keep your eyes off the body even if you so desperately wanted to.

Now, you were frantic to find any survivors and the call of the Varans may have helped you with that.

You struggled to regain your bearings and then ran out of the house to find the creatures—they repeated their hollering, waiting for you to come quickly. You find them nuzzling their snouts against a bunch of bodies—one of which still appeared to be half-alive.

“Razh…?” you whispered.

You went closer and confirmed that it was indeed Razh. He ceaselessly wept in a haunting and sorrowful howl while he lies next to the corpses of his wife and child. The trail of blood that led to him implied that he worm-crawled all the way from the spot where he had stood to where Miera and Yenzo lay dead when they were executed.

He viciously shook away your hand from his shoulder. You caught a glimpse of Yenzo’s face; it was pink and soft when you last saw him, now the baby’s skin had purpled, riddled with reddened veins trailing all over his cheeks, stuck in a permanent expression of a wakeless slumber.

Razh refused to be touched by anyone—not even you—but you understood that he was in a state of shock and trauma. You tenderly spoke to him, calming him down.

“Razh, it’s me, I won’t hurt you,” you consoled.

“My love, my baby…!” he bawled, completely incapable to utter other words besides those.

“What happened here?” you said, as you continued to survey the land.

“Cal…” the mention of his name sounded like a warbled grunt.

You leaned closer to hear better.

“I’m sorry… I couldn’t understand that. Who did this?”

“It was Cal!” he shouted, then his voice returned to a whimper, ignoring you and gazing back at his wife while caressing her cold, hard cheek as if still hoping that she would wake along with their baby.

You couldn’t believe what Razh said. You demanded an explanation, but you knew that you wouldn’t get much from a grieving man lying next to his dead family, expecting nothing but for death to come to him as well.

“No… it can’t be… He wouldn’t!” you shuddered in disbelief. You slumped to the ground, sitting close enough to see baby Yenzo. The sight of the dead child brought you to tears and gave in to your grief.

It was the least you could do, you wept with Razh and offered to help him bury Miera and Yenzo, along with the other townsfolk—he politely declined, shaking his head and saying it’s useless for he will die very soon, he is just waiting for it. He requested you to leave him alone to grieve. Out of respect, you obliged.

Having not much to do, you decided to look for clues, your Varan followed you along in the investigation.

Not much later, you heard a familiar beeping amongst the earthenware sitting outside one of the huts. Your head jerked up, frantically searching for the sound—it was perhaps your only hope.

“BD…?” You breathed.

A pair of lens and an antenna peeked out behind the pots. BD-1 showed himself out of his hiding place when he saw you and excitedly scampered towards you.

“BD-1!!!” You exclaimed, beckoning him to your arms which he happily leapt on. “Aw, am I so glad to see you! Where’s Cal?”

BD-1 chirped a series of trills and notes, his panicked tone wasn’t a good sign. He told everything single thing to you—right from the beginning where the Grand Inquisitor arrived at the ambush back in the temple up until this moment in the town.

The little droid finally gave what you were looking for: Cal’s location.

“Cere, are you there?” you call over in your radio.

“I’m here. What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain in the ship,”

You cut off the communication and brought BD-1 to your shoulder for him to perch on, you hastily mounted your Varan and then snapped its reins—sending you out of the town and into the wasteland, back to where the Mantis was waiting for you.

You weren’t sure how you’re going to lay it on the crew. As a matter of fact, you still weren’t sure what had happened.

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judesowndaughter · 4 years

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This post is mostly an explanation for why Kate (who I headcanon as a pacifist) sometimes breaks her commitment to non-violence. The most important premise to know going in is that Kate will always choose her loved ones over her morality. That’s not to say this is in any way an easy or guilt-free decision for her, or that she actively seeks those situations out. A fundamental part of my interpretation of her character is self-sacrifice. She was raised in a religion where sacrifice is not only exalted, but expected. This attitude was reinforced at home, with her taking up the responsibilities of protector and guardian for her younger siblings in lieu of her abusive/neglectful parents. Both her mother and father were unwilling to sacrifice for their children, so that duty fell to Kate. Thus, Kate acquiescing to hypocrisy for the sake of her loved ones is part of her self-sacrifice. Should this kind of self-sacrifice be considered admirable and worthy of emulation? No. But it is a fundamental part of her character. With that out of the way, let’s dive in.

One of these days (when I finally have a better grasp of c.hristian pacifism) I’ll do a detailed write-up of the roots of Kate’s commitment to non-violence. What I can say is that her pacifism has its limits, and there are two major factors that force her to betray her own beliefs. One is the need to protect her loved ones, and the other is base instinct that overrules any rational decision on her part. The former can include fighting for her own life; not because she values herself but that she fears what may happen to Lynn and Emily if they are left alone with their abusive mother. Although using violence in self-defense is not something that Kate is able to reconcile with even in extenuating circumstances. Pacifism is deeply intertwined with her faith, and the last thing Kate wants to do is to take the L.ord’s name in vain for her own personal benefit like her mother. There are only a few verses where Kate is either prepared to or regularly uses physical force: her Post!Storm verse and her S.tranger T.hings verse. Post!Storm verse, Kate is so deeply affected by her trauma from childhood abuse and the d.ark r.oom that she fears Jefferson will come after her again, which would put Lynn—both a child and Kate’s only surviving family—in the crosshairs. Thankfully, Kate never has to use the knife she keeps under her pillow to defend her family, but her hypervigilance nevertheless drives her to be prepared to use violence. Whether or not she is actually capable of following through is uncertain. However, keeping a weapon nearby makes Kate feel protected and in control. Is it an unhealthy coping mechanism? Yes, although Kate isn’t willing to work towards giving it up yet, despite considerable anxiety over her hypocrisy. Kate’s S.tranger T.hings verse is a different beast altogether due to the nature of the threat. The otherworldly creatures’ sheer brutality and seeming lack of remorse is what prompts Kate to seriously rethink her commitment to non-violence. She ends up turning towards A.quinas and (much to her chagrin) A.ugustine for answers, though she comes away unsatisfied with both explanations. While Kate ultimately resolves to defend her family and friends, vacillating between long stretches of peace and short bursts of life-or-death fights is physically and emotionally taxing on her. Kate at the close of season 3 is so overwhelmed by the violence that she seriously considers leaving Hawkins altogether. Sustained conflict in any verse is just not something that Kate desires or is psychologically prepared to handle, and S.tranger T.hings pushes the limit of how much trauma Kate can handle. To conclude: Kate’s not above breaking her code to keep her loved ones alive, but please.............don’t push the bean.

#[[ anyways i'm not fond of doing violence-driven plots for I.C reasons but also. need 2 talk abt kate's relaysh/feelings to violence ]]#[[ editing? never heard of her ]]#;;selling faith on the go tell crusade #tw violence #tw trauma #tw neglect #tw abuse #tw spiritual abuse #;;touching at a distance #;;after the storm verse

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scripttorture · 4 years

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Would it be realistic for protagonists of a story to form a bond with an antagonist because they both end up being captured and tortured together? The protagonists are 12 and the antagonist is an adult and has healing powers so I was thinking they would need to rely on him to escape and recover. The protagonists are in better physical condition than him so he wouldn't be able to escape without them. Theyre also all trying to save a baby whos with them Would this realistically cause them to bond?

There are no guarantees.

Something like this could help form a bond, even a strong one. I’ve read plenty of accounts where things like this happened, it is possible.

But it wouldn’t happen to everyone.

So, yes, if you feel like that fits naturally with your characters it’s a plausible outcome. But it wouldn’t be realistic to imply that it happens to everyone.

Torture polarises and it radicalises. Witnessing torture tends to produce sympathy for the victim and opposition to the torturers.

Surviving torture usually seems to leave people with a lasting opposition to the torturers and any groups they associate with the torturers.

But this doesn’t always mean that people who suffer together band together. Or that those bonds last beyond the period of captivity.

I think the main thing I’m driving at is that if you want long term cooperation and a strong bond then shared trauma isn’t a short cut out of building that up. It can be a good starting point, encouraging characters to work together or giving them something they can all fight against. It can’t be everything though.

If I’m forcing characters together in extreme circumstances I try to plan out moments of connection. Places in the narrative where I can advance their relationship; important conversations, small moments of trust, small acts of kindness.

Personally I find planning helps, but I realise that not everyone writes that way. The important thing is allowing enough narrative space that readers can see the relationships change at a natural pace.

Trust doesn’t come out of trauma. But if this trauma leads to several months of depending on each other for survival, emotional support, if it builds up a lot of little moments of compassion then that trust will feel earned.

With this sort of scenario it’s important to put some care into picking symptoms.

You’ve probably seen it before but the Masterpost with the list of common long term symptoms is here. I recommend picking somewhere in the range of 3-5 symptoms for survivors in most stories.

Usually I suggest picking different symptoms for different survivors, to show some of the variety that exists in real life. And while you could still do that successfully here having the characters share certain symptoms might be a way to strengthen their bond. It could create a sense that they are still fighting the same thing even after they’ve escaped.

More broadly I think it’s worth considering whether particular combinations of symptoms could work against the plot; driving the characters further apart.

For instance if one of the characters has anxiety and hypervigilance, while another character has insomnia and fidgets or paces a lot; the second character’s way of dealing with their symptoms could set off the first character’s symptoms.

I’m not saying there shouldn’t be any clashes, fights or disagreements. But if you want a long term bond then it’s important that the characters don’t get in the way of each other’s healing.

I think it’s also important to acknowledge that helping other survivors heal and taking care of a baby is a lot for any survivor to cope with. It can be done. But adult survivors would struggle and I suspect children would struggle even more.

I don’t have any detailed data sets on child survivors. Partly because I know my own limits and haven’t gone looking for them.

But I don’t think we can assume that children are less effected or that they deal with their symptoms in a ‘better’ way then adults. The one data set I have that concerns children specifically (solitary confinement) suggests children are more severely effected by at least that type of abuse.

Be mindful of how much responsibility is falling to these children. It isn’t a question of whether they would want to do the right thing but a question of how much they’d be able to.

My impression is that this sort of scenario is incredibly difficult in real life. Learning to function with severe mental health problems is a big ask. Doing it while caring for other people, who are also developing their own mental health problems- It’s a lot. Survivors do it but frankly they shouldn’t have to.

Healing is hard. As much as these characters can help each other in the long term they’d benefit from more structured, professional help.

And honestly, that’s about all I can think of. You might find reading survivor accounts helpful. I’d recommend Monroe’s A Darkling Plain for the array of different survivors in the interviews. Several are adults recounting wars they survived as children and I think you’d find these useful.

Don’t worry if you can’t get hold or it or afford it. It might help but it’s not essential. The main thing is simply to remember that survivors are complete people with the full range of normal emotions.

I hope that helps. :)

Availableon Wordpress.

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#writing advice #tw torture #tw child abuse #writing victims #torture survivors and relationships #victims and relationships #writing recovery #writing survivors #effects of torture

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greenninjagal-blog · 5 years

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Nine Nails in a Coffin (ch2)

Summary: Logan was hired to kill Patton Hart, and happens to find one of his past marks (who he’s certain he killed) is Patton’s roommate. To solve this issue, he decides to blow up their apartment. Word Count: 5149

Pairings: Eventual Logicality and Prinxiety

Multichapter fic say whattttt

Read on AO3 || Ch1 The most distressing thing about Patton having walked away that day alive was that Logan had to spend and extra few days in the city. His entire schedule had to be rearranged because of it: bus tickets cancelled, money withdrawn from his account to pay for the extra nights in the hotel he hadn’t been planning on coming back to, a redraft of his materials, and too many hours of planning straight.

With Virgil Storm added into the mix, with Virgil Storm recognizing Logan, things were...complicated. Logan felt that the turn of events was distasteful but he had no faulty notions that he couldn’t surmount them. He was, after all, the best assassin money could buy. He had surpassed both his parents and painted his own reputation from the spilt blood of his own conquerings.

After he died, however and whenever that was, Logan’s name would be remembered, revered, haunted. His name would be whispered between parents and their kids as an incentive for them to be good, a taboo between business partners that made the air tense in meetings, an icon for other people in his line of work.

He had worked so hard for this, too hard for it to all go to waste now.

So he watched and he waited. Like a snake in the grass.

He had known a little of Patton’s daily schedule before his first attempt at killing the man. He was simple, too simple, in Logan’s opinion. His routine offered nothing of excitement, nothing of value: He left his apartment around six in the morning, alternating between rushing because he was late and dancing down the hall because he was early with no in between. He said good morning to every person he saw on the street--including Logan several times when his preferred surveillance spot at the coffee shop near the apartments intercepted with Patton’s path on his way to the subway. He worked for a preschool on the other side of town, and spent all day with routy little kids willingly.

Logan thought it was a waste. Children were nothing short of a headache and financial burden. Kids, normal kids, spent their days fighting and yelling and crying and screaming. They got sick or did stupid things that would inevitably end up with them bleeding and a trip to the emergency room. There was no pay off for the parents in most cases--with Logan being one of the rare few who had amassed a profit in his career to have paid back every cent his parents had originally paid to bring him into this world, teach him the tool he needed to survive it, and then the ones needed to overcome it.

He remembered the swell of relief in his chest when he had sent the final payment to them, when he had reached into his pocket and removed the paper his father had inscribed the cost on and finally, finally, watched the numbers hit zero.

Of course, Logan still owed a monthly amount to his parents, after all of it. Because they had brought him into the world and raised him. He was their investment and it was only right that he owed them portions of whatever he made from his kills.

Sometimes Logan wondered why they had bothered ever giving birth to him. Had Logan any other attitude, he might have grown up to be more trouble than he was figuratively worth. What would they have done if he had refused to take up the family business? If he had decided to do something else with his life, such as work in a preschool teaching snot-nosed brats basic colors?

Logan wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He had a week to get this job done, specified by the unknown customer. Patton Hart had to be dead this week, or the payment Logan was waiting on would be nullified. Unfortunately for him, the construction site he had chosen to shoot from was being worked on the rest of the week and therefore was compromised. He didn’t have enough time to pick and secure another location with a quick and easy exit.

But luckily Logan’s parents knew what they were doing when they trained him to the best killer in the world. If a gunshot to the neck, heart, and head, wasn’t possible, Logan had other methods of killing people from a distance.

After his first attempt at exterminating the pest known as Patton Hart, Logan resolved himself to keep a closer watch on the male. And his friends. Specifically, Virgil Storm. For the life of himself Logan could figure out how he missed such an important factor in the game. Virgil was by Patton’s side constantly, like a shadow to Patton’s peppy optimism. Virgil was the hand that pulled Patton back before he blindly walked into traffic, the muscle that stood behind Patton with a threatening glare to anyone who got too close, the common sense that prevented Patton was stalling too long in crowded areas.

He was hypervigilant when they were out together, which Logan had realized was all the time now. Virgil had spotted him twice from a distance and had taken Patton by the hand and disappeared in a crowd.

Logan found it interesting that Virgil hadn’t told Patton the truth. Part of him suggested that maybe Virgil didn’t know Logan had been trying to kill the two of them, but at the same time it also seemed illogical. The way that Virgil had looked at him was too terrified for a normal person. He had to know what Logan was, one way or another.

(Which was another series of problems. How did he know? Who told him? How did he survive to be told? Logan wasn’t looking forward to the process of finding out.)

He liked the challenge it brought about, however. This wasn’t like the rest of his jobs where no one knew he was coming. Virgil’s awareness of his presence made it almost like a game: Could Logan outsmart the purple haired man and claim his life a second time?

The answer was yes, of course. Because Logan was the smartest person he knew, trained in the art of death bringing, while Virgil was (at least a year ago at the time of his previous death) an art school dropout who survived by drawing comics for the weekly newspaper and running an online art blog that criticized the nearby galleries.

With a quick check online, Logan confirmed that Virgil still kept up with both of his jobs. And, most frustratingly, there hadn’t seemed to be a break at all. Logan had gotten paid on a Friday for the kill of Virgil Storm, and the next day Virgil Storm’s blog had a new post. The quality, the diction, everything about that post was the same as the previous ones. Logan didn’t know how but Virgil had made that post while his grey matter was being scrubbed off the stone tiles of the public fountain square.

Logan didn’t believe in ghost stories.

Once he had begun looking for Patton and Virgil, he had noticed all the signs of Patton having a roommate, housemate--whatever Virgil was to him (Was it possible Patton was in a courtship with Virgil? There was nothing in his file about that! According to his employee contract at the preschool where he taught, he was unmarried, but that didn’t mean that Patton wasn’t seeking intimacy with the other man).

Logan wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much.

It wasn’t like he had never killed a spouse before. Half of the time he was being paid to take out one half was a cheating parting because high paying customers don’t like to be blackmailed, or jealousy had manifested in the cruelest of outcomes. It seemed that though Logan’s parents might have done a few things wrong when raising him, they at least taught him well enough to know communication was a key factor in any business arrangement.

Patton talked about Virgil to the people he saw everyday, and they noticed when Virgil wasn’t by his side. He bought groceries for an extra person, the TV played loudly when Patton wasn’t home, and Virgil owned a purple Mongoose BMX bike that was chained to the bike rack outside their building three different ways.

Logan assumed his sloppy investigation work was purely because Virgil rarely left the house--a status that immediately changed after they had come face-to-face that fateful day. Now Virgil was the first to leave the house, first to enter the Subway, and leave the subway, and enter the house. Logan had even watched him snatch a mailed package out of Patton’s hands and throw it out the window as if it were some type of bomb. Patton had scolded him for nearly ruining the new books he had ordered for his preschool class.

So there would be no sneaking of a bomb into the house, not that Logan was that savage. Bombs were messy and difficult to handle in the the steadiest of hands. They were better for huge collateral damage projects but in this case he didn’t want to kill the who building, he just wanted to get rid of one room.

He took up a place at a nearby cafe, ordered a coffee, and pulled out his book. He sat comfortably in the metal chair hoarding two cups of coffee black, wishing that he was anywhere but in the city again. The skin under his wrist watch itched uncomfortably as the cafe filled with other early risers. Too many people, too early in the day, too close together. His preferred spot in the cafe had been taken up by a rather distressed college student with oversized headphones so Logan was forced to change seats: the only thing separating him and the mindless pedestrians was a black iron fence bolted into the sidewalk covered in a garland of fake spring flowers whose petals occasionally were torn off in the winter winds.

His back was to the apartment where Virgil and Patton lived, but he didn’t fret it; there was less of a chance of Virgil recognizing the back of his head. Also Patton’s daily walk to the subway led him right by this very seat. It was impossible to miss him, seeing as whenever he walked anywhere he made a point to hollar a greeting to the anyone and everyone: the workers in the cafe, the underpaid interns on their first coffee run of the day, the street performers who were taking up too much of the sidewalk with their theatrics. Patton knew most of them by name, which Logan had to admit was slightly impressive. Logan had spent years training his mind to remember finer details, but Patton seemed to do it effortlessly.

He seemed to do most things effortlessly. Effortlessly kind, effortlessly thoughtful, effortlessly annoying as hell--did he know his voice carried as far as it did with every greeting? Did he care? Logan was sure if he had been a normal businessman, he wouldn’t have the ability to come out here daily if it meant hearing the same conversation every single day. He had only been here three times and Logan was counting down the seconds until he could leave.

Oh, the thought of his bus ticket out of the city tonight made his chest ache. Oh, he could spend a whole week off in the woods somewhere, far beyond the reaches of cell service and miles away from other humans. He could listen to the wilderness, and watch the stars, and draw the plant life without any deadline to be met.

He just had to take care of one last thing.

Patton left his building on time today, dressed in a pastel blue polo, tailored pants, and that gray cardigan that he tied unprofessionally over his shoulders. He had an pink cherry blossom umbrella with him, although Logan noted that the forecast showed no sign of any rain today. His loud laugh was tell-tale of his approaching.

“Good Morning, Valorie!” Patton’s voice yelled from just a few feet behind Logan, nearly startling him into spilling his mug of coffee. Dear Newton, why was he so loud?

“Oh!” Patton said, his shadow falling right over Logan’s shoulder, “Sorry there, kiddo!”

Logan jerked his head up to see that Patton was indeed talking to him (and internally cursed the college student who had stolen his usual spot).

“I didn’t mean to startle you!” The freckled man smiled that type of toothy grin that should have come with a warning sign. He was a personification of the sun come down to earth, and it was far too early to be dealing with that even if he weren’t the target Logan was going to kill.

“What’s your book about?”

Logan blinked. “Pardon?”

Logan had read the same forty pages in his book three times and still hadn’t retained any of it. Surely at one point it had caught his eye enough for him to want to purchase it. When had that been again? One year ago? Two? Logan’s job kept him mobile and busy and left very little time for him to just sit around an do pleasure reading.

“I- uh--” He stuttered uncharacteristically, when he realized that Patton was still looking for an answer to his question.

Patton leaned on the iron fence that just barely separated them, his umbrella resting on his shoulder with the straps to his school bag. “You look familiar…” Patton snapped his fingers and brighten more. “Oh! You’re the one Virgil stumbled into yesterday, poor kiddo! I didn’t get much a of a chance to apologize to you!”

Logan’s eyes flickered to his placemat where his complimentary butterknife was positioned perfectly parallel to his fork. It would take a significant amount of force to break skin with that type of weapon, more than he could get in such a public place with a fence dividing them. His fingers tightened around his mug.

Patton of course, had absolutely not way of knowing exactly what Logan was thinking about. He cheerfully took up the conversation despite Logan’s lack of appropriate responses. “I’m Patton! Are you new to town? I can show you around later if you are! I know all the--”

“Patton!” Virgil’s unabashedly horrified tone sliced through the air before Patton could finish. Seconds later the other man can’t thundering up to them, yanking Patton back from the fence by his waist. “Patton! The subway! Work! You’re going to be late!”

Logan straightened in his seat, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge at the sudden appearance of Patton’s glorified shadow. He could feel his skin tighten at the proximity of them to each other, the air tensing with an invisible electrical storm when they made eye contact.

“Don’t be silly, Virgil!” Patton laughed, “We have plenty of time!”

“Nope!” Virgil said, dragging him further away, this time by his shoulders so he couldn’t fight it even if he was actively trying, “You didn’t take anything from him right? He didn’t offer anything?”

“You’re taking this stranger danger thing a bit far, V!” Patton said pleasantly. “We were just talking!” He tried to turn to face Logan and but Virgil held fast and pushed him forward.

Virgil hissed like that was worse than if Logan had given him a stick of dynamite to hold. Part of him was righteously offended. He wasn’t some amateur serial killer who craved the attention and fear of those around him: Logan had class. If he was going to poison Patton he most certainly wasn’t going to do it right there in the middle a throng of closely watching cafe customers who could identify him later.

Logan sipped his coffee watching the two of them scurry down the street, Patton’s daily greetings ringing over the lull of traffic and conversation. He pressed his glass up the bridge of his nose with a flicker of a smile on the corner of his lips when he could no longer see or hear either of them. He tossed his bookmark in the page he was on and waved to the waitress impatiently.

It appeared that he wouldn’t finish his book on this job either. Such a shame.

Once he had paid for his coffee-- in exact cash with an average tip for the waitress Valorie who was nothing but polite-- Logan took a deep breath and scooped up his bag. He hesitated at the opening to the cafe, wincing at the flow of people moving one way or another. In an ideal world Logan figured he’d have a physical bubble surrounding him that kept everyone else at least three feet away from him. His knuckles tightened on the strap of his bag and he launched himself into the foot traffic.

Several minutes later he peeled out of it again to carefully climb the steps to the apartment building where Patton and Virgil lived. Virgil’s bike was sitting outside, triple chained, and no helmet in sight. Logan considered the pros and cons of slashing the tires, but ultimately decided it was a spiteful thing.

He couldn’t risk Virgil noticing it before they entered their apartment and pulling some delaying act. In addition he didn’t want to draw any new attention to them and the mysterious circumstances of their deaths before Logan was out of the city.

The building had a gated door that prevented just anyone from walking up and murdering the tenants. Guests were supposed to ring a buzzer and the people living there could allow them in. The plates were grungy and dirty and most of them missing as a sign that either people didn’t live there or maintenance was unacceptably poor. Logan didn’t think he could ever live in a place live this.

The mundaneness alone would kill him. Not to mention the dirt.

He plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to press the buzzer for one of the names long faded but still readable. For a long moment Logan stood there his insides twisting unpleasantly in a way he hated.

“H-hello?”

Logan allowed himself a flicker of a smile, “Salutations! Mrs. Patty! It’s Logan! I live a floor down from you and I appear to have locked myself out again.”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Logan, Ma’am.” Logan said, “I was just in such a rush to get out that I forgot my keys--”

“Oh are you that boy that lives with Patton?”

Logan hesitated for less than a second, “Yes Ma’am!”

“Oh, none of that Ma’am stuff young man! You go on up! Tell Patton thank you for that pie recipe. It worked wonderfully!”

The buzzer beeped one last time and gated door unlocked. Logan wondered if his job had ever really been hard, or if he had just gotten better at doing it. Or perhaps people hadn’t been taught to be as untrusting as Logan had been.

According to the personal file Logan had received along with the assignment, Patton lived on the second floor, although since it had no mention of Virgil in it Logan was inclined to double check his information. He didn’t need to, once he had skirted up the creaking wooden stairs and slipped down the hall, he found Patton’s door very easily.

There was a welcome mat outside of it that read “Wipe Your Paws!” with a cartoon of a dog wagging its tail. The door itself was decorated with easy peel off stickers of cats and dogs and a few birds. Only someone as childish as Patton would have his door decorated in such a sophomoric manner.

Logan glanced down the hall, making sure there were no lingering eyes who could identify him to the authorities, before he swiped his lockpick set from the side pocket of his bag. Memories of past jobs filtered through his head as he inserted his tools. It took him longer than he could have liked--because Logan was good at many things but not everything-- but he managed to set the pins before anyone came wandering down the hall. The lock popped open and Logan let himself into Patton’s apartment.

It wasn’t the worst place Logan had ever been in, and truthfully it was better than Logan’s current hotel. The curtains were drawn back and sunlight filtered into the living room through light crystals that colored the walls in rainbows. There was a couch with neatly folded handmade quilts tossed over the back and several pillows fluffed on the seats. The TV was off but the coffee table was littered with stacks of DVDs for TV shows that Logan had caught only bits and fragments of.

Before Logan could see much more than that, another sound caught his attention: a yelp. Logan tensed, one hand on the door knob, the other flexing his fingers for a potential palm attack should he need it. Logan had already missed noting that Virgil lived with Patton, but the idea that there was another person who lived there? It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, his throat dry up and his stomach clench in an uneasy mass. He was supposed to be the best. He was the best!

There was another yelp, and then Logan realized it was far worse than another person living in the apartment with Virgil and Patton. Nails danced on the wooden floor, followed by a bark.

Patton had a dog.

And it was small and fast and loud.

Logan didn’t know a lot about dogs--practically nothing if he was being honest. But he knew that Patton was allergic to them and there shouldn’t have been one in the apartment to begin with! It was the tiniest thing Logan had ever witness and it raced around Logan’s legs in a blur of tan and white occasionally leaping up with its forepaws only to barely catch Logan’s knees.

What was he supposed to do with a Dog??

It wasn’t growling, which Logan supposed was a good thing. It didn’t seem to think he was a threat. Perhaps it believed he was some type of new friend? Logan didn’t believe in luck, but he thought it might be rather good fortune that it wasn’t trying to bite him.

He offered it a cautious hand, sniffing distastefully when the animal slobbered all over his hand. He cursed under his breath, wiping it off as fast as he could, because, for lack of a better term, “ewwww!”. Of course, it left discolored streaks on his dress pants which only serve to sour his mood more.

The animal barked again when Logan brushed it off and strolled down the hall to do what he needed to do.

It only took him a moment to find the kitchen, dancing between the three rooms that connected to the living area: He paused long enough to ensure the window in the room was closed tightly, and then peeked into Patton’s room which left the door open and a tiny bed next to his neatly made bed. The other door was closed, but Logan opened it just enough to see the purple mess of a bedspread and assumed it was Virgil’s. The kitchen was tidy, for the most part. A few dishes in the sink, a loaf of bread on the counter, piles of paper recipes taped on the fridge and a coffee pot with an inch of coffee left in it, still slightly warm. Several coffee mugs with the titles “#1 DAD!” and “Dunder Mifflin, Inc” sat around the machine like some sort of shrine to caffeine.

Logan narrowly avoided stepping on the dog as he made his way to the stove. He hissed at the animal, but it merely yelped again and splayed on the ground as if it were waiting for something. It jumped up once again when Logan moved past it with a whine. The assassin ignored it.

Logan had done his research on Patton’s building. For example, he had noticed that the building he had chosen to live in used gas stoves. Which wasn’t an issue by itself, because many places used gas stoves. However, theoretically, if there was a mishap with the production of the gas stove, and it just so happened that the Flame Failure Device-- which stopped the build up of the flammable gases-- was damaged...well, it wouldn’t be completely obvious at first glance upon entering the apartment. And, theoretically, if the occupants of the apartment were not aware of the build up of said flammable gases as they barely had any scent, even the flick of a light switch would be enough to, theoretically blow up an entire apartment.

Completely theoretically of course, Logan thought as he pulled his switchblade from his bag and proceeded to take apart the gas stove. It took him a little more than thirty minutes to find the Flame Failure Device and cut through it, and slightly longer to remember how to put a stove back together. All the while the dog danced around him, rubbing up on his legs with its pale fur that undoubtedly would ruin Logan’s pants.

He tried to shoo it away but every time the dog just sprawled on the wooden floor with its stomach open legs curled at strange angles. Logan wasn’t sure what it wanted at all, and it was slightly frustrating. One thing he didn’t have as a child, was a pet. Not that he had ever wanted one. They were more work than they were worth, and merely served to take up time and energy and money that Logan didn’t have to waste.

He placed the frame back on the stove and pressed until it clicked back into place. Then he turned around and eyed the dimensions of the room, and the connecting living room. After a second he slipped from the kitchen and into Patton’s room. He grabbed two of the cardigans from the closest, shut the door to the room and wedged the fabrics under the door frame. It wouldn’t stop the gases from slipping through, but it would slow it enough for most of them to congregate in the kitchen and living room. He turned off all the lights, and then he checked that window again. Then he turned on all four burners and watched as no flame appeared.

In roughly nine hours when Virgil and Patton arrived back here, they’d turn on the lights, and everything would explode. No more Patton, no more Virgil, and Logan would be trillions of dollars richer.

He reached down to grab his bag right as the dog leapt over it and gave another delighted bark. It’s pink tongue lolled out of its mouth and it stared at Logan with deep warm eyes.

Was he seriously going to kill a dog?

Logan hesitated. Was he?

He was by no means a good person. He had killed enough people that the idea of death no longer bothered him. But the death of this...animal? It was stupid, incredibly stupid, considering that Logan was a stranger who had entered it’s house and instead of alerting anyone it had merely decided to roll around on the floor and slobber on Logan’s shoes. It wasn’t aware that Logan had created this elaborate scheme to kill its owner and, by extension it.

Because there was no way Logan could take it. What would he even do with a dog? He didn’t even like pets!

...he could take it to the closest animal center right? If he took off the collar and claimed he found it in the streets, then no one would question it. Someone else might come along and see this stupid animal and it would get adopted to a happy family.

What was he thinking? That was a waste of his time and energy. He had things to do! Like figure out what cabin in the woods he wanted to vacation in once he left the city and what job he would pick after he got back from his vacation.

The dog walked him to the door, and gave a little whine when Logan told it to stay. Logan closed the door behind him.

He made it to the bottom of the stairs before he identified the knot in his stomach as being guilt. He hadn’t felt that in a very long time. He growled at nothing and stormed back up the stairs cursing Patton in every language he knew.

He was a murderer, an assassin, the best money could buy! He stuffed the pastel purple collar in his bag, and slammed the door to the apartment closed. He was supposed to be heartless.

He dropped the dog off at the animal shelter and was gone before the employee could ask him any more than “who’s this little guy?” in the most obnoxious voice Logan had ever heard.

Logan went back to the cafe, bought himself lunch, and started researching cabins in the woods far, far away from the city.

*****

Roman rapped his knuckles on the table, “I assume you know what happened next?”

The detective sighed deeply, “Why don’t you enlighten me, anyway.”

The reporter leaned forward in his chair lowering his voice as if this was some type of secret, “Well Logan can predict a lot of things, but he had no way of knowing that the exterminator would be coming through the building that day on account of a complaint several months prior. He shows up at the door at the same time as Patton and Virgil are coming back, a towering, huge man. And by a stroke of luck, Patton lets him enter his apartment first.

“The man flicks on the light switch on the entire apartment goes up in flames. The explosion knocks the man backwards into the other two and crushes them against the opposite wall. Two of Patton’s ribs break, and Virgil miraculously survives uninjured enough to call for an ambulance. The exterminator was dead before they arrived on the scene.” Roman eyes darken.

“So,” Roman says after another beat, “Logan fails a second time.”

The detective thinks it over for a second, before nodding, “Alright, fine, assume I believe all of this.” He waves a hand, “What happens next? Hart was in the hospital for the entire next day. There was no way Codex could have slipped through security there.”

Roman laughed unkindly, “My dear detective, surely you don’t really believe that. The man calculated the exact time that it would take volatile gases to fill an apartment and explode. Do you really think your dime-a-dozen cops would have been a challenge for him?”

The other man hesitates.

Roman gives him a smug look, “Now can I continue my story? I like this next part.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I accidentally save Patton from dying it in.”

Ch3

Taglist:

@just-another-rainbowblog @sandersfandersblog @jemthebookworm @growingupisscary @no-no-no-no-6

Let me know if I missed anyone/you want to be added

#Nine Nails Au #roman sanders #Assassin!Logan #assassins #patton sanders #lucky!Patton #virgil sanders #Reporter!Roman #multichaptered fic #deceit sanders #thomas sanders #sanders sides #hitmen

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playmakiing · 5 years

Text

It is heavily implied in the show that Yuusaku suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but I also believe that he is autistic as well. In this post, I will be outlining and explaining these two disorders in perspective of my interpretation of our favorite hacker. Sidenote, while I do not have PTSD, I have and continue to do research on the disorder in order to have an accurate portrayal in my muse. However, each person's experiences with PTSD are not universal, so just because this is how I choose to portray this headcanon does not mean it is going to similar to anyone else's personal experiences. Also, while I am actually autistic, autism is also displayed in a wide variety of ways. Parts of my autistic interpretation stem from my own symptoms, other parts are from further research. I will take any inquiries and constructive criticism about these headcanons, but I will not bother with baseless hate.

So with that out of the way, let's get to it! I'm keeping this under a read more since it will be a long post.

PTSD

Due to the horrific nature of the Hanoi Project, Yuusaku developed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder even though he was only six years old. Once a happy child, Yuusaku returned with severe symptoms of self-isolation, emotional detachment, and sleepless nights haunted by memories. Even though he was put into therapy, the sessions could only help so much before proving to be ineffective. In the end, Yuusaku was left with nothing but the loss of his innocence and a couple of coping methods designed by his own, young mind. For many years Yuusaku was unable to sleep alone without waking up with screams of terror, and the orphanage caretakers soon learned that he was only able to sleep a dreamless sleep during the day when around the other children. This caused for them to rearrange things to were Yuusaku was rooming with other young boys at night; they also hoped that perhaps he would be able to socialize more if he's constantly around others in this manner. Sadly, their plan only worked with giving Yuusaku more nights of sleep. He still refused to talk to others, existing as a lifeless doll for several years. However, there was one force that kept Yuusaku awake, and that was the existence of his "special person"--aka, the voice that gave him three reasons to survive.

Skip forward to ten years later, and Yuusaku has yet to move on from his past demons. It's only at the end of season one when he is able to begin a better healing process, but he will never be "over" his PTSD.

The main symptoms that Yuusaku current exhibits are as followed:

-Hypervigilance: he always has his guard up, whether in the real world or LINK VRAINS. It is very difficult to sneak up on Yuusaku when he is awake, and he is easy to wake up at any moment. -Social isolation: for the most part, Yuusaku keeps a steady distance from his peers and other people in his life. While the distance has lessened in regards to specific individuals, he still doesn't have complete trust in them and tries to keep his walls up. -Flashbacks: these don't occur much when he's awake, but his dreams at night are usually plagued by them. Most flashbacks center around the times when he lost a duel and was painfully electrocuted as a result. -Lack of interest: aside from his goals, Yuusaku finds it difficult to see a future for himself, and thus he finds it difficult to partake in hobbies or activities that don't help advance his goals. Dueling is a task that he has yet to regain any pleasure from, and despite excelling at hacking and computers, doesn't find the activity to be enjoyable. To him, these are all tools to help accomplish his goals. -Insomnia and general issues with sleep: these two go hand-in-hand since Yuusaku's insomnia was greatly developed due to the frequent amount of nightmares he dreamt of as a child, which continues on as he ages. The nightmares' intensity fluctuates depending on the amount of stress Yuusaku is dealing with. -Emotional detachment: as Yuusaku would describe it, his heart and mind are trapped in an abyss with no means of escape. He sees no future and time is frozen still for him. These deep feelings of isolation and fear have caused him to distance himself emotionally from everyone, and he greatly struggles with forming an emotional attachment to anything or anyone. There are a very select few things that he has an attachment to, one of those being his "special person."

ASD

ASD, or Autism Spectrum Disorder, has a wide variety of symptoms and behaviors that range from person to person. While many of these symptoms do overlap with ones for PTSD, I believe there are enough signs in Yuusaku for this headcanon to be distinctive. Some of these symptoms, however, do not appear directly in canon ( yet ) but are shown through my writing. Most of those are ones that I find very plausible for Yuusaku's character, and some are ones that I just want to write, and fuck what anyone else says about it. The symptoms and experiences listed below are ones that I either interpret from Yusaku's character, integrate into my writing of him, or both.

-Inappropriate social interaction & lack of understanding social cues: while this isn't heavily noticeable in the show, Yuusaku has been shown either "not get" what others are saying, or exhibits behavior that is deemed "socially inappropriate." Examples of this are early on in the show when Shoichi and Ai make fun of Yuusaku's inability to talk to girls, and he's later shown to be following Aoi around in a rather stalker-ish manner. -Lack of eye contact: Yuusaku is not one to maintain eye contact. Not only does the action cause for him to become extremely uncomfortable, but prolonged exposure to forced eye contact will cause a mental strain. -Compulsive behavior: Yuusaku is one for routine, and rarely likes to break his schedule. Only events or situations that are dire or insanely important will prevent him from keeping to a schedule. The older he gets, however, the less strict he is with his daily routines. -Repetitive movements & words: In regards to words, Yuusaku has a fixation on listing things in threes, and this is usually to calm himself or clear his mind when clouded. While this technique was given to him by his "special person," Yuusaku was at a young and impressionable age to where this method stuck and he uses it often. As for movements, Yuusaku's main stims are taps, rubbing against his skin, and pressure. -Intense interest in extreme specific things: . . .This is so evident in his fixation with the Knights of Hanoi in season one. Like, literally nothing else mattered to Yuusaku aside from his quest against the Knights of Hanoi. If that isn't a hyper-fixation, I don't know what is. While he does lose this interest in season two, with the reveal of his "special person," Yuusaku has a similar fixation on him--it's not quite intense, but it's there. -Heightened sensitivity: Yuusaku's five senses are more pronounced in comparison to other people. Sights and sounds are more intense, smells and taste more noticeable, and touch is a pain usually. Human contact is another sensation that Yuusaku despises.

Misc. Stuff Related to the Above Things

-A lot of the autism symptoms are helpful in elevating the flashbacks and nightmares Yuusaku gets from his PTSD. Examples of this are weighted blankets to pressure stim, having a "post nightmare routine" when he wakes up in the middle of the night and repeating relative lists of threes to himself. -Yuusaku was never one to like foods with overwhelming flavors, and thus prefers milder foods when eating. He tends to choke on food that is overstimulating. The only exception to this is coffee, and that was a strongly acquired taste. -Soft blankets ( as well as heavy blankets ) are a secret pleasure to Yuusaku's touch, and he will collect blankets with favored textures; he has over a dozen at this point, and will often make a blanket nest out of them to relieve stress ( this habit almost dies when Ai appears, because Yuusaku would rather die than be caught in such a situation by someone like Ai ). -After a while of meeting Takeru, Yuusaku finds it soothing to be touching or to be held by his friend, and he is one of the very few people whose touch doesn't cause Yusaku to recoil. -Yuusaku is rather touch-starved but hates touch at the same time. Rest in fucking pieces.

And that's about it for this headcanon post. I may come back and edit this post with more information, or simply make add-on posts when new information settles in my brain.

#❖ headcanons ❖#// i couldn't find this post anywhere on my blog for me to link to my page so i reposted it xd

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