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vtoriacore · 2 years

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✧ the neighbourhood a*shole

tw: dash of sadism because it’s scaramouche and that’s to be expected

note: this was loosely inspired by the netflix series ‘sweet home’ before i changed my mind about it being horror and angst so now it’s enemies to lovers that is completely unfinished and idk if i wanna continue writing a follow up to make things more romantic so dilemmas dhdjj

extra note: this is also an excuse to make punk/rocker scara because that’d be hot. i think. (might make a part two with romantic tension because brain rot maybe???)

synopsis: in which you, the reader, move into an apartment complex and meet the jerk you’re steadily getting used to.

1506 Green Home. You assumed everything would go well with your move to the apartment complex, but it seemed as though you were wrong. Many of the people living here were brash and some even anti-social. Not that particularly cared, you're here to have a roof over your head, not to dilly around with neighbours.

One man however, completely irritated you. It hasn't even been a full week yet but he was just adamant on making your life a living hell. You didn't even know his name but he somehow managed to be one of the people you most frequently spoke, or rather, argued with. It also didn't help that he lived right across from you.

His rude demeanour and nature completely rubbed you the wrong way; he was always cursing and never once seemed to mind his manners around other people. You swear you saw the devil cowering away from him once! And to add on, he played extremely loud rock music, or was it metal? His stupid electric guitar often made an entrance too.

Annoying as he may be, you couldn't deny his fashion sense was amazing. Everything he wore, no matter how 'ragged' it looked for aesthetic, gave off the aura of being expensive. The slightly platformed dr. martens only affirmed that statement. And you were positively certain that some of his grunge style shirts with vintage logos were 100% authentic. This man was a walking mix of expensive grunge/rocker clothing and you had always wondered why he was living in this apartment of all places.

You didn't mean to judge a book by its cover, oh no, but surely someone who owns so much money they could buy a whole new outfit for a new day wouldn't be living in this dump. The question still rattles you now, and you have a feeling it always might. Maybe you'd get around to asking if it wasn't for the constant "fuck yous" and "fuck offs" although you have been making progress!

Just yesterday when the music got too loud and you politely requested if he could lower it down, he rolled his eyes and scoffed but actually did turn it down. Apparently it was a miracle and completely unheard of because your next door neighbour, who you think went by 'Childe' came outside and commented on how 'scara never lowers the volume for anyone!' Needless to say, that night was a lot more peaceful than the last.

Speaking of the devil, you assumed he was just coming back from practice as he carried the black guitar case littered with multiple red stickers on his back. The porcelain skinned male's deeply violet hair swayed gently as he walked and those indigo eyes lined with crimson eyeliner seemed to look less irritated than usual. You hoped that God would spare you some mercy and hopefully he wouldn't-

"Quit ogling at me and get out of the way, dumbass." The current bane of your existence impatiently tapped his foot and inspected his covered in onyx polish nails. The many rings that adorned his fingers didn't move a notch as he moved his hand.

Are those things glued to his fucking fingers or something?

"What the hell would I be ogling at, weirdo?" You rolled your eyes, stepping aside and trying to walk past the infuriating idiot beside you. The sooner you could get away from him, the sooner your anger issues might go away.

"Not so fast." Your gasp of surprise at cold metal of the rings on your forearm only made the violet haired male's face light up into a smug yet sinister looking smile, one that proclaimed of his elation at toying around with his victims.

"W-what the hell? Give me some warning next time, asshole . . . " You muttered but made no move to rip your hand away, your intuition told you it would be the wrong move and he might just spite you by turning the volume of the music all the way up tonight.

"And where's the fun in that? Is your head there for decoration or does it actually function, huh?" Did you forget to mention what a complete sadist this man was too?

"Tsk. Just tell me what you want." You maintained eye contact, although his steely gaze made you want to look away. Curse him for looking so intimidating. If it wasn't for the extra inch the boots added to his height, you bet you could totally beat his ass into oblivion.

"Childe told me you have one of my guitar picks. I don't take kindly to strangers stealing my belongings." A cold shiver ran down your spine, did this idiot actually think you'd willingly steal from him? And a god damn guitar pick no less?

"What was that about my head being there for decoration? You dropped it yesterday evening so I picked it up like a nice person and decided to give it to you when I next saw you. Was this simple enough for you to understand?" You almost growled, using your free hand to fish the maroon pick out of your trousers' pocket.

"My, someone's grown a bit too confident. Stay in your lane, you're practically asking for me to put you in your place." The frown on the male's face grew murderous as he snatched the guitar pick from your grasp, leaning into you ever so slightly. After a few seconds of glaring at your shocked form, he pulled away with a cruel grin.

"Should've seen that stupid look on your face. You're practically shaking!" The laugh that emanated from his rosy lips fuelled your anger as you wrenched your arm free.

Fucking jackass! Just you wait 'till I take those boxing lessons. I swear on God I'll use your teeth to make a bracelet.

"Screw you!" Your voice came out cold and sharp, although it further amused the asshole in front of you.

"What a tempting offer~ Too bad I'm not into screeching banshees." With a final laugh, the indigo eyed male walked away from you and unlocked his apartment.

"God I hate that stupid fool so much . . . Why did I even move here?" You grumbled underneath your breath, making your way down to reach the elevator. You could already hear a guitar riff coming from your neighbour's apartment as you rolled your eyes, little smile playing on your lips. He just had to have good music taste and pick out a song that you liked, huh. After a few more seconds of listening in, you figured he turned his speakers on as the sound was now amplified.

Your eyes scanned the vicinity as you trudged down the hallway; you honestly lacked the energy to go down and get the packages you ordered but didn't trust the other occupants to not steal them. Since it was getting close to 06:00 pm in the middle of winter, the hallways weren't very well illuminated. You could barely make out the lime green and white painted walls, let alone the chalk drawings of flowers the kids must have expertly made.

Navigating through and trying to avoid all the objects that littered the space -namely the bikes, vases filled with various coloured flowers and even a shelf- was proving quite difficult due to the absence of light. You wondered why the lights haven't been turned on yet. By this point, your only source of help were the tiles which reflected some of the diminishing light rays that streamed in through the iron-barred windows.

Why does everything in this damned building have to be so cramped? I could just retrieve my package tomorrow . . . But I do want to give that asshole exactly what he deserves. The look on his face when he gets it will be ridiculous and it will make for perfect revenge!

With those thoughts in mind, you continued expertly manoeuvring your body around all the furniture, completely oblivious to your mind conjuring up thoughts of the violet-haired menace you're slowly growing accustomed to.

#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin scaramouche #genshin impact

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mozaikrolez · 2 years

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Send 👥 for a headcanon relating to both of our muses ／ accepting !

@sleepdeprxved sent : 👥 have at me~ (kakeru futaboshi, shego, keigo takami)

kakeru futaboshi ! bnha verse

i don’t have kakeru’s bnha verse written up yet but, the gist is that he is an underground medical scientist that preforms illegal medical procedures on people & is currently looking to alter human dna to modify quirks in order to strengthen them & combine them with others without killing someone. he mostly offers medical help for criminals for financial compensation or supplies for his high tech shack where he does his work. he’s not a very loyal person to those he aligns with unless he sees a longtime beneficial relationship. even so, he’s likely to abandon or deliberately go against anyone if he wants. recently he has joined the paranormal liberation front for their facilities & offers some of his research over, keeping some a secret & doing subtle & secret testing on the members who come in for medical attention. almost forgot! his quirk is called gravity rush, it’s the opposite of uraraka’s — touching his finger tips together & touching anything can increase their gravity to his desired intensity with the draw back being intense migraines (& of course the more gravity increases the more insufferable the migraines).

outwardly, he’s very kind to those in the liberation front — it’s his usual false persona, his personality of a meek science nerd. he tends to go out of his way to help others & purposely acts like a hopeless klutz outside the intelligence he displays as a scientist. i’m sure he’d be particularly kind to nia so he can observe the effects of her quirk. he’d offer his time to research possible ways to alleviate the negative side-effects (his ultimate goal being to challenge his own capabilities as a doctor) even if the effort may appear bleak or pointless.

coffee duo honestly cuz this boy has eye bags for dAAYs (but often covers it with concealer).

as anti-social as he is, he wouldn’t mind having her around. too many weirdos in the group & he just can’t handle the wide mix of eccentric personalities.

even if he’s a doctor he likes talking about myths & legends as if they are real, especially if it’s stuff about astrology & of course stories & legends about the moon. i can see the two staying up late talking about all that kind of stuff!

the quiet ones always see the weird shit going on in the group, these two should talk about the chaos that they see. in these moments his crass personality would come out from here & there.

shego ! bnha verse

for shego’s bnha verse i decided that she came to japan to join the paranormal liberation front after the incident, cuz ya know, she loves chaos & the fundamentals of the group aligns with her own so the two can meet that way!

having just moved to japan shego’s japanese wouldn’t be very good so she’d probably ask nia to help out. everyone else she has asked to help with her grammar has always turned into some kind of big conflict. shego is not a people person in the slightest.

lol, it’d be funny if shego was extremely impatient with the other members except for nia & like most people didn’t address shego unless nia was around or if they really have to.

shego would talk about how she thinks nia’s quirk is pretty damn cool. it might find come off as insensitive cuz she doesn’t understand what nia has to deal with when she uses her quirk. she’s not the best with choosing her words but she means well.

keigo takami

hawks would probably be such a jokester. he can’t help but bring up the day they first met when she was dangling on that building. he’s the worst, i’m sorry!

her size is perfect for him to use as an arm rest & oh yes, he definitely notices this! oh god, & say he’s drinking something & needs to idk, tie his shoes he’d place his beverage on her head & proceed to tie his shoe like he didn’t just do what he did! nia, i’m so sorry!!!!

sleep doesn’t come easy to him considering all the stress he suffers from, especially with him constantly putting off truly addressing anything (not that he’d know how, it’s near unthinkable) & another symptom of his stresses would come in the form of nightmares. what if she saw one of his nightmares, especially if it was a nightmare about his fears about betraying the liberation front.

of course he wouldn’t know if she saw his nightmare but if nia started acting notably different around him he’d start getting suspicious. as a result he’d keep a close eye on her & try to take away any doubt she might have about his intentions. this honestly just means that he’d try to become closer with her just as he did with twice!

#sleepdeprxved #/ beep beep!! these r finally done!#/ i hope u like em <3 !#˗ˋ *ﾟ ♦︎ ⟶ 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐜𝐞. ／ ooc.#tw long post #tw: long post #long post /

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broadwaytheanimatedseries · 4 years

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So I Had An MLP AU Idea -

Art by the lovely and talented @really-sleep-deprived-nerd :

Introducing, The Sides Of Harmony!

Vivid Star, Element Of Magic

An angsty brooding loner with a mysterious troubled past.

At the beginning of the story, he's an anti social recluse who works at night, from home (he's never been more thankful for astronomy being his special talent)

On the days he is unfortunate enough to be awake when the sun's still out, he spends that time catching up on some light reading or, if he's feeling extra adventurous, practices a new spell or two.

His only true friend at this point, besides Violet His pet fruit bat, is his big brother Tender Star, who has recently been promoted to royal guard so they'll be spending even less time together.

He stumbles upon the tale of nightmare moon by complete accident *cough* destiny *cough* and after informing his brother to keep an eye, he decides he cant just sit around and hope for the best.

So he gets probably the worst idea he's ever had in his life.

He's gonna go to ponyville, where the summer sun celebrations are held this year, and try to warn Princess Celestia himself.

And pray she doesn't send him to the dungeon for his insolence.

Rose Comfort, Element of Generosity

Ponyville's resident social butterfly and drama queen.

After a childhood full of siblings rivalry, he and his twin decided to live as far apart as possible, without leaving their hometown that they love so much.

Rose found a nice spot in the middle of ponyville to grow his garden and sell flower arrangements, and he revels in the attention and admiration his role gives him.

Everypony loves flowers, and as a provider of flowers, everypony will love him!

Recently, the twins have been able to reconnect and have begun making amends. Its a slow process, but it's been going rather smoothly, all things considered.

Rose has a small flower shop and big bombastic dreams, like his dream of marrying Prince Blueblood and becoming a prince himself.

Rich Comfort, Element Of Kindness

Infamous town weirdo and ponyville's resident beast expert and critter caretaker.

He grows his own produce for himself and his animal friends, that way he rarely has to leave his house.

When Rich and Rose parted ways as young adults, Rich decided to live right at the edge of the Everfree forest.

At first ot was only so ponies would leave him alone, but one day when his Angel Bunny ran into the forest, he discovered just how much he liked the place.

It was a bit too hostile an environment to safely live there, but he liked going in there every so often to have some adventures, and in the process, he became the only pony in ponyville thats has any experience dealing with scary monsters from the spooky dark forest.

Recently, since they've started making amends, Rich has been inviting Rose along to his Everfree Adventures™, but the latter is understandably hesitant.

Rich is lowkey still jealous of Rose about one thing only, and thats the fact that his brother could have any stallion he wants but he's holding out for "the one", which wouldn't be so bad except he's got it in his head that the one is some handsome prince that he's never met and doesn't even know what he's actually like.

Peppermint, Element Of Loyalty

Ponyville's sweetheart, the great and loveable Peppermint!

Co runs the local sweet shop with Liquorice, now that their families have merged their candy businesses into one incredibly successful business.

When his aunt Minty told him the family wants, neigh, needs him to move from Manehatten to Ponyville to help run their new shop there, he was rather skeptical, but never one to turn his back on anypony, especially not his family, he agreed to go help.

However, when he got there, he found the place already operating rather smoothly without him, but the candy they were selling?

All sours and bitters, and not one baked good in sight! And it was alphabetized for Pete's sake, ALPHABETIZED!

no, this couldn't stand, he wouldn't allow it. He marched right over to the front desk and requested to meet with the manager, as he was supposed to be doing that anyway.

The Unicorn at the desk raised an eyebrow and simply replied "i am the manager, what seems to be the trouble?"

Liquorice, Element Of Honesty

Ponyville's most obnoxious know it all, at least according to most ponies who don't know him very well.

(also lowkey resident hot nerd and heartthrob but no one will admit it to his face. Listen this doesn't need explaining but Logan is hot in every au, even in ones where he is a sentient horse).

Before he took on the responsibility of running the ponyville location, Liquorice was settled quite nicely in Fillydelphia, and was looking into ways of making gem based candies for the dragon population of the city.

Truthfully, he was very eager to make a name for himself outside his own family business, to prove that he doesn't need to rely on anyone else because he's good at what he does.

But he also knew that his parents wouldn't have asked him to do this unless it was very important to them, and even though he didn't need their help, that doesn't mean he shouldn't give them his.

So he moved to Ponyville and quickly started working on the shop to make it successful enough so he could leave, knowing its in good hooves and being able to trust that its running exactly like it was when he left it.

Unfortunately, this plan went along well for maybe a week, before somepony came by and demanded to know everything about how the establishment, his establishment, is being run, and that's when both he and Peppermint first discovered they're supposed to be running this store together.

Oh horseapples.

Dapper Jester, Element Of Laughter

Ponyville's most wanted, in more ways than one.

Growing up in Las Pegasus, Dapper learned how to captivate an audience, amuse a crowd, and cheer up anypony in need of a good laugh.

He made a name for himself in his hometown and became a sensation there, but as much as he loved the attention and glamour, he decided it wasn't a lifestyle he wanted to pursue.

Don't misunderstand him, he loved preforming and would never give it up, but a life of revelry and indulgence from a young age can get pretty old pretty fast.

He soon grew tired of the fame and adoration, he wanted a simpler life where his career as an entertainer would still allow him room to be somepony beyond just a show pony.

His mind made up, Jester moved to Ponyville, and his new life has begun... As a ballon artist.

Not to knock down the profession, its just that balloon artistry is only so sought after and its not the highest paying job.

Luckily he managed to save some of his earnings made in Las Pegasus, and found a lovely cloud house to settle into, as he still feels quite connected to the (literal) high life.

Main Ships:

Prinxiety - Slow Burn

Thomile - Established Relationship

Logicality - what do you call it when they're pretty much a married couple all but officially since the beginning but it isn't canon until the very end of the story? Kinda like that.

Richceit - Even Slower Burn in a very complicated situation, featuring (eventually) divorced single father Filthy Rich trying to raise his daughter and navigate through his feelings, and (eventual) dadceit being amazing and sweet and supportive and awesome.

Dismus - Crazy Chaos Couple™, low key angsty, featuring Discord lord of chaos being out crazied and out topped by Rich, an earth pony who isn't afraid of him and is attracted to his brand of fun and sense of humour, and Rich finding someone who doesn't judge him for his eccentricities without being an animal.

Anyway, thats it. Hope you liked this au and wanna see more!

And As Always,

Stay Tuned...

#dee writes #sanders sides #dee's aus #sanders sides au #mlp fim #mlp au #elements of harmony #soe au #sides of harmony au

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aroaceslytherin · 3 years

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Fairytales Always Have a Twist

Hope Howell had always believed in fairy-tales. She loved reading about them in big chairs at the library close to the motel room she called home. She grew up lonely. A wallflower with the nickname “anti-social bookworm” with no parents to turn to. They abandoned her when she was six years old. So she was told.

Hope ran from the Christian orphanage at sixteen, found a minor job as a waitress in her favourite cafe, found a home in motel rooms, and shopped at farmers’ markets. She went through guys like no one’s business; making out with them under the bleachers at school (she was forever grateful of the family she lived with for two years for keeping her in school even if they could not keep her any longer), or finding them in the libraries, at the farmers markets, or even bars. Yet she struggled to find one that accepted a poor and orphaned weirdo.

That all changed when she was being chased down an alley-way at twenty-two by an inky black shadowed figure.

“STOP RUNNING!” Someone yelled from in front of her.

It was too late, she barrelled into the person and tumbled to the ground with them.

The stranger jumped to their feet, shielding her under his arm as he blasted some sort of light at the thing that was chasing her. Hope clung to the stranger as she breathed deeply to calm her adrenaline. It was a huge mistake as this was the best smell she had ever smelled in all of her life.

He took a firm grip on her shoulders and held her upright, his amber eyes looking into her dark brown orbs with worry. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Diolch.” She answered. “What was that thing?”

“Boggart.” He answered firmly and confidently. He chuckled at her confused expression. “Amortal shape-shifting non-being that takes on the attacker or observer’s worst fear. In your case, just an inky blob as I assume you are non-magic?”

Magic?! Oh my God! That explains the light. She chuckled half-heartedly. “Your kidding, right? Who are you? You're a wizard?”

He extended his hand. “Proper introduction, I see. Right, pardon me.” He cleared his throat, squaring himself. “Lyall Lupin.”

She shook his hand firmly with a nod. “Hope Howell.” She giggled. “Should you be telling me this?”

“Aye, I graduated not that long ago. I am cleared. Anywhere ‘round here nice enough to chat and tell you my story?”

“Asking me out just minutes of meeting?”

Lyall shrugged, hands in his pockets, looking around the alley-way.

I would suggest my home, but that would be weird with a stranger and… well… would he judge me? He seems like he comes from a wealthy family. Take a risk, Hope. This could be it for you! Fairy-tales, remember? And damn does he look like a prince! Don’t forget magic… okay, this isn’t just about that. He’s a nice guy, shouldn’t go after him just cause’ of that. Off topic… oh! Answer him, Jesus! “Uh, yeah. If it isn’t too weird we could go to my place?”

He nodded. “Sounds fine to me. I won’t bite.” He joked. “Happen to have a car? I wouldn’t want you to leave it around here.”

Nice, considerate, and funny. How the hell did he get here? Why was I fated to meet him? She nodded, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. “Yeah, just a short walk that way.” She pointed to the left where they had entered the alley from. “I had just ended my shift when that thing chased me from my car. Boggart, you said?” She looked up at him as they walked, his eyes darting across the dimly lit streets like he was looking for something.

“Uh, yes.” He answered, sprinting to the driver’s side and opening it for her. “M'lady.”

She blushed softly, minding her head as she dropped herself into the seat. Gentleman. No guy has ever held doors for me, not that I mind because I can do it myself, but it would have been nice sometimes.

She started the ignition as Lyall got in her car.

If I wake up in the morning and this is all a dream, I will hunt him down. This is way too real like to be a dream, but yet he is so chivalrous that it seems like a dream. Dreams can be realistic. Although reality can be like a dream as well.

She pulled into the motel parking lot, her heart pounding as she thought of all the worst-case scenarios but when she looked over at Lyall, he was getting out of the car like nothing was unusual. He bent over to look at her.

“Expecting me to know which one’s yours?” He smiled.

Hope smiled back, turning off the ignition and grabbing her bag as she threw her keys in then grabbed her motel key.

“Just over here.” She answered, guiding him to the stairs.

The dim light did little to aid her, and she growled in frustration, blindly guiding the key into the slot with growing frustration as the nighttime air became colder, nipping at her bare arms.

Lyall looked around before pulling his wand from his sleeve and giving her light. Hope glanced up at him with a blank expression before looking back at the key and jamming it into the slot before forcefully turning it and kicking the door open with her heeled foot.

“Damn door.” She grumbled, throwing her bag to the floor and her keys in the dish on her counter. Lyall shimmied the door shut and locked them in. Hope let her light brown curls cascade down her back as she headed to the bathroom. “I’m just going to get comfortable. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, if you desire.”

Lyall looked around from where he stood to take in the room; a queen bed just a few inches from touching the wallpapered walls, a green couch with a coffee table in front near a small kitchenette, and the small closet next to the bathroom sink and small bathroom Hope was in. He made his way to the couch and took a seat when the bathroom door squeaked open and Hope emerged.

“It’s not much-” she started.

“It is completely fine. I am just telling you my story.” He chuckled. “I just met you. What kind of blokes have you been with?”

She sat on the cushion farthest from him and sat with her legs crossed. “Childish men. I would not even consider calling them men.” She scoffed. “Every chance they get they would be up a bird’s skirt.”

“Well, I would never take advantage of a woman.” He smiled softly at her, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his blazer as she became more comfortable and uncurled from pulling into herself.

He told his story to her about how he came from a pure-blood family in Leicester, England and went to a magical school named Hogwarts in Scotland. She asked him what he was doing in Newcastle Emlyn Wales and he told her he was exploring.

“...anything to get away from my parents' pressure on finding a kind woman.” He chuckled softly. “It seems to be this big thing in pureblood families.”

“What happens if you do not comply with the one they choose?” Hope asked.

“You get disowned.”

***

Six months in of them dating, she had asked him to pinch her one night. He chuckled and complied. Afterwards asking her why. She pulled him in for a kiss and whispered; ‘I need to make sure this is still real.’ He smiled and entwined their hands together as they walked around the pond another time. From then on he had always made sure she knew this was real by holding her hand, hugging her, kissing her, making her smile. He loved her smile and making her laugh. He had never had that with a woman coming from the life he had previously lived. Now all he wanted was to live in her world.

Three years later she found herself in Hogsmeade trying different things, learning about a whole other world she could only imagine in her dreams. She had never been this happy in her life. Lyall had told her that once she shared all her favourite shops and foods with him, he wanted to do the same. This man was unbelievable to her. Hope still couldn’t believe they had met that fateful night. He listened, he acknowledged her interests and even tried to learn more about them; he was funny, kind, sweet, and caring. He protected her, loved and cherished her, and after the fifth year she knew there was no turning back.

Lyall had proposed to her and they got married a year later. He ignored his family’s outlash and ran away with her to Newport, Wales where they bought a small home with three bedrooms. After two years of being married, she found out the most exciting news. Lyall came home that day from work at the Ministry and she leapt into his arms. He dropped his case to the ground, catching her and wrapping his arms around her.

“What’s got you all happy?” He chuckled, kissing her neck as he held her around her waist.

She giggled. “We are going to have a baby.”

He looked at her with surprise. “Really?” He asked, slightly nervous but mostly happy. Then the fear kicked in.

“Yeah.” She slid her legs down his, standing on her toes to place a kiss on his lips. “What’s wrong, Lyall?” She caressed his thick, chestnut coloured, wavy curls.

“Nothing, I’m happy.” He picked her up and spun her around, kissing her again with a chuckle at her worried expression. “Honest! It is just a slight shock is all, as for everyone.”

“Well, I guess I am just happier as I haven’t really had a proper family.” She pat his shoulder. "You would tell me if we were in danger, right? There is nothing you are hiding from me?"

Lyall squeezed her into a soft hug. “Hey, darling. I’m thrilled, I just struggle with my emotions sometimes. You will make a wonderful mother, and we will have the family you always dreamed of.” He kissed her softly again. “Now, let me make that recipe you love so much, will that cheer you up?”

She smiled, kissing his cheek. “I don’t deserve you.”

He dipped her, kissing her deeply. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Nine months later she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She held the fragile bundle in her arms, looking up at Lyall with tears in her eyes. “He’s so beautiful.”

“Welcome to the world, Remus.” Lyall smiled as Hope placed their baby in his arms. “I love you so much, no matter what.”

Hope smiled up at her boys. She would never leave her baby, show him the world is dark and dangerous, or make him feel unloved. He would get everything she never had. She would make sure his life was happy, bright, and loving.

However… that didn’t last long.

#remus lupin #lyall lupin #hope howell #marauders headcanon

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twoidiotwriters1 · 4 years

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Written In The Stars LXIX (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: I’m so pissed bc last chapter came out in September 1st and I just ignored it??? I’m such an idiot?? Physically I’m on quarantine, spiritually I’m wherever these losers are -Danny

Words: 4,499

Warnings: None!

Series’ Masterilst

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Four: Bagman and Crouch.

"Morning, Basil," Mr. Weasley picked up the boot and handed it to the wizard.

"Really, why can't wizards just use cars?" Mel grumbled from the ground.

Two hands reach out for her and she found Fred and Harry standing side by side. The first one had an innocent and amused expression. Harry, however, glanced at the boy beside him with slight annoyance.

"Thank you boys," She said, quickly holding onto both hands and standing up.

"Told you," Fred chuckled.

"Is apparating just as uncomfortable as this?"

"Wouldn't know," He shrugged. "Never done it."

She brushed the dirt off her clothes, a little startled at the way Harry grabbed her bag and eagerly handed it back to her, still glaring at Fred in a strange way while the twin pretended not to notice, a sly smile on his face as he walked back to where his twin was.

"Hello there, Arthur," said Basil. "Not on duty, eh? It's all right for some... We've been here all night... You'd better get out of the way, we've got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your campsite... Weasley... Weasley..."

"I'm sorry about my dad," Said a voice she wasn't familiar with. It was Cedric. "He's one of those who doesn't think twice before talking, but he's not a bad man..."

"It's okay," Mel grinned. "I'm one of those who does not think twice before snapping at someone. Bet you've heard..."

Cedric scrunched up his nose in a way that Mel considered adorable.

"Might have, once or twice."

"I'm also nice, I promise," She reached out a hand for him to shake, which he did almost immediately.

"It's a pleasure to oficially meet, then," He nodded, wearing his best smile.

"–About a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager's called Mr. Roberts." Mr. Weasley's friend told them out loud. "Diggory... second field... ask for Mr. Payne."

"Thanks, Basil," said Mr. Weasley, and everyone followed him.

"So this is your last year at Hogwarts?" She asked the boy, considering a bit awkward to just walk in silence.

"Yeah," He shrugged. "I'm not sure of what I'll do once I'm done, but I think I might travel a bit before working."

"Any place in particular?" Cedric pondered, taking her question very seriously.

"Some place warm."

She nodded, thinking of anything else she could add, however, Cedric talked first.

"Is it true that Dumbledore gives you extra lessons?"

"Yes," She smiled. "It's sort of a family thing, and since my dad isn't around to teach me..."

It wasn't entirely true, but Dumbledore had admitted that her abilities were a thing women in their family had, so it wasn't a lie either.

"That's cool," Cedric replied. "Is he good at teaching?"

"The best," Mel continued eagerly. "He knows ever so many things about almost everything! I'd love to be like him once I'm older."

"Well, you're a Dumbledore," The boy raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure the brains must be part of the family as well." She laughed at this, not sure of how to answer. Instead, she casually changed the subject to Quidditch.

"So are you a Bulgaria, or Ireland supporter?"

Cedric quickly perked up at this, seemengly happy to talk about something so normal that had nothing to do with families.

"Ireland, I think... but my dad's with Rumania, so I have to support a little quieter..." They laughed discretely at his words.

Next fifteen minutes past rather quickly, Cedric was nice and social enough to keep the conversation flowing, Mel felt a little guilty of how everyone at school perceived him as just as pretty face with no brains or goals. She made a mental note to never let any of her friends make any negative comments about Cedric ever again.

When the time came that they had to part, Cedric waved at her joyfully and she returned it, hoping to see him again soon. She felt someone nudged her arm and turned to look at Harry, who pointed at the group that was already moving forward.

"Sorry," She said with a small smile. "Won't stay behind again, promise."

"Boys have been awfully nice to you lately..." He grumbled, looking back at Cedric over his shoulder.

"It certainly does feel better than to be chasen down a street while they threw rocks at you, you know?"

Harry's eyes widened, cheeks flushing at her words.

"Yeah, you're... you're right," He cleared his throat.

"Morning!" said Mr. Weasley, waving at a man standing near.

"Morning," the man (a muggle, for the looks of it) answered.

"Would you be Mr. Roberts?"

"Aye, I would," said Mr. Roberts. "And who're you?"

"Weasley — two tents, booked a couple of days ago?"

"Aye," said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. "You've got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?"

"That's it," said Mr. Weasley.

"You'll be paying now, then?" said Mr. Roberts.

"Ah — right — certainly —" said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry toward him. "Help me, Harry," he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. "This one's a — a — a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now. . . . So this is a five?"

"A twenty," Harry threw a desperate look her way, probably nervous about the man who was listening closely to their conversation.

"Ah yes, so it is... I don't know, these little bits of paper..." Mr. Weasley grumbled.

"You foreign?" said Mr. Roberts.

"Foreign?"

"You're not the first one who's had trouble with money. I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago."

"Did you really?"

"Never been this crowded... Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up..."

"Is that right?" said Mr. Weasley, insisting for the man to take the money he was holding out but failing to succeed.

"Aye– People from all over. Loads of for- eigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There's a bloke walking 'round in a kilt and a poncho."

"Shouldn't he?" asked Mr. Weasley nervously.

"It's like some sort of... I dunno... like some sort of rally... They all seem to know each other. Like a big party."

"Obliviate!" A second man exclaimed, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts.

"A map of the campsite for you," Mr. Roberts said after a moment of quiet change on his features. "And your change."

"Thanks very much," said Mr. Weasley.

The wizard who had charmed the muggle accompanied them to the door.

"Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman's not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security. Blimey, I'll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur." And with that, he disapparated.

"I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports," said Ginny. "He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn't he?"

"He should," said Mr. Weasley. "but Ludo's always been a bit... well... lax about security. You couldn't wish for a more enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had."

Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

"Always the same," said Mr. Weasley, smiling. "We can't resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us." They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read weezly.

"Couldn't have a better spot!" said Mr. Weasley happily. "The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we're as close as we could be." He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. "Right," he said excitedly, "no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we're out in these numbers on Muggle land. We'll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn't be too difficult. . . . Muggles do it all the time. . . . Here, Harry, where do you reckon we should start?"

"Harry has never gone camping before," Mel told him gently. "But I used to put up a tent for when we camped outside my house, remember Harry? I can help, don't worry..."

However, Harry insisting on helping anyway. Soon Emily, Mel, Harry, and Hermione had the tents ready. The problem was that there was only two and they were too small for all the people in their group, she turned to inform her mother about this when Mr. Weasley spoke up.

"We'll be a bit cramped, but I think we'll all squeeze in. Come and have a look."

She turned to her mother fully now, a quizzical look on her face while the woman chuckled, pushing her further.

"You'll love this..." Was all she commented.

And love it she did. Inside it looked like she had entered an actual flat, it had three rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. It was impressive, but Mel thought it took out a little of the charm, camping wasn't supposed to be this comfortable, or so she'd thought before.

"You want to come with us on an adventure?" Ron asked, suddenly appearing at the entrance.

"Where to?" She asked, leaving her backpack on a chair.

He showed her the kettle he kept on his hands.

"To get water."

Everything around them invited her to give up on the no-magic rule and explore, so many different people, of all ages, colors and sizes!

She allowed herself to imagine a great deal, the homes and cities and comunities these wizards and witches may lived on, their families and background. A much more larger world for her to see...

Cedric's idea about traveling before settling down made complete sense to her, and she remembered the talk she'd had with Harry a few years prior, about them traveling the world together, sending postcards to their friends and family from all around the globe.

A fuzzy feeling made its way through her chest at this, picturing the endless adventures she could have with her best friend as adults and free from school.

"Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?" asked Ron, bringing her back to the present.

It wasn't just Ron's eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names.

"Harry! Mel! Ron! Hermione!"

Seamus Finnigan was sitting in front of his own tent, with a woman that had to be his mother, Dean Thomas was also there.

"Like the decorations?" said Seamus. "The Ministry's not too happy."

"Ah, why shouldn't we show our colors?" said the woman. "You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You'll be supporting Ireland, of course?"

"Sure..."

"Of course!"

"Like we'd say anything else surrounded by that lot." Ron said under his breath once they left Finnigan's tent to keep going on their quest. Mel snorted, just nodding as a reply.

"I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?" said Hermione.

"Let's go and have a look," said Harry.

The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.

"Krum," said Ron quietly.

"What?" said Hermione.

"Krum!" said Ron. "Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!"

"He looks really grumpy," said Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them.

" 'Really grumpy '?" Ron raised his eyes to the heavens. "Who cares what he looks like? He's unbelievable. He's really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He's a genius, you wait until tonight, you'll see."

"I hardly believe that being a good seeker makes you a genius," Mel commented.

"Thanks," Harry replied grumpily.

"I didn't say you were stupid," She grinned. "Though coming to think about it, you've done some foolish things throughout the years..."

"You're one to talk!" He teased.

"I am, actually," Mel smiled. "I remember when we were ten and you tried to escape your Aunt Marge's dog..."

"Don't say it–"

"And you ended up on top of a tree until midnight because she just wouldn't call her dog," Mel giggled. "Which was very rude of her, but come on– you climbed a tree instead of running to my house!"

"I was ten!" He exclaimed over Ron's cackles. "Oh, bugger off..."

There was a line for the tap. Harry, Mel, Ron, and Hermione joined it, behind a pair of men who were arguing. One of them was wearing a nightgown. The other was a Ministry wizard a holding a pair of trousers and beyond exasperated.

"Just put them on, Archie, there's a good chap. You can't walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate's already getting suspicious —"

"I bought this in a Muggle shop," said the old wizard stubbornly. "Muggles wear them."

"Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these," said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers.

"I'm not putting them on," said old Archie in indignation. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks."

Hermione was overcome with such a strong fit of the giggles at this point that she had to duck out of the queue and only returned when Archie had collected his water and moved away.

Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old captain of Harry's House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged Harry over to his parents' tent to introduce him, and told him excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a lot of water down his front as he waved back.

Now, Mel wasn't going to admit that the huff that came out of her mouth right at that moment was because of the boy's reaction, but Ron definitely made sure to tease both of them relentlessly until Harry found the perfect excuse, pointing at some tent at his left.

"Who d'you reckon they are? They don't go to Hogwarts, do they?"

" 'Spect they go to some foreign school," said Ron. "I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil... this was years and years ago... and he wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn't afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said he wasn't going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up."

"That's awful," Mel said over Harry's laughter. "Might been silly, but I never stopped to think about other Schools... I was too excited about being admitted into one that it went right over my head..."

"Me neither," Harry admitted. "I'd love to know a bit about them, though."

"You've been gone ages," George groaned as they entered the boys' tent.

"You're welcome," Mel replied, lightly slapping his head as she walked past.

"Met a few people," said Ron. "You not got that fire started yet?"

"Dad's having fun with the matches," Fred pointed towards the entrance with a stern face.

Mr. Weasley was having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around him, but he looked as though he was having the time of his life.

"Oops!" he said as he managed to light a match and promptly dropped it in surprise.

"Come here, Mr. Weasley," said Hermione kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly.

At last they got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed.

"That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office... Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he's with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he's had those horns for a while now... Hello, Arnie . . . Arnold Peasegood, he's an Obliviator — member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know... and that's Bode and Croaker... they're Unspeakables..."

"They're what?"

"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to..."

Mel's eyes lingered on the people Mr. Weasley had mentioned. Something about the circumstances of their job and the name gave her a thrill, imagining all the things they may see on a daily basis.

At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them.

"Just Apparated, Dad," said Percy loudly. "Ah, excellent, lunch!"

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them.

"Aha!" he said. "The man of the moment! Ludo!"

"Ahoy there! Arthur, old man, What a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming... and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements... Not much for me to do!"

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.

Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.

"Ah — yes, this is my son Percy. He's just started at the Ministry — and this is Fred — no, George, sorry — that's Fred — Bill, Charlie, Ron — my daughter, Ginny — this is Emily Sultens, mother of one of Ron's friends and Ron's friends, Hermione Granger, Mel Dumbledore and Harry Potter."

Mel smiled politely at the man, noticing how his eyes traveled from Harry's scar and settled on her face for a brief second, before returning to Mr. Weasley.

"Everyone, this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it's thanks to him we've got such good tickets —"

"Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?" The man asked. "I've already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first — I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland's front three are the strongest I've seen in years — and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match."

"Oh... go on then," said Mr. Weasley. "Let's see... a Galleon on Ireland to win?"

"A Galleon? Very well, very well... any other takers?"

"They're a bit young to be gambling," said Mr. Weasley. "Molly wouldn't like —"

"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts," said Fred, and he and his brother pulled out all the money they had. "that Ireland wins — but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we'll throw in a fake wand."

"You don't want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that —" Percy hissed, but Bagman didn't seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared with laughter.

"Excellent! I haven't seen one that convincing in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that!"

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

"Boys," said Mr. Weasley under his breath, "I don't want you betting... That's all your savings... Your mother —"

"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. "They're old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum'll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance... I'll give you excellent odds on that one... We'll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we..."

Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins' names.

"Cheers," said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away carefully. Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley.

"You shouldn't have," Mel told them worryingly. "What will you do if you lose?"

"We'll worry about that, Lady Dumbledore," Fred told her carelessly. "Don't fuss over it just yet."

"But if your mum finds out–"

"Mum's done enough for us already," George replied hastily.

"Couldn't do me a brew, I suppose? I'm keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number's making difficulties, and I can't understand a word he's saying. Barty'll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages."

"Mr. Crouch?" said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. "He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll..."

"Anyone can speak Troll," said Fred dismissively. "All you have to do is point and grunt."

Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.

"Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?" Mr. Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all.

"Not a dicky bird," said Bagman comfortably. "But she'll turn up. Poor old Bertha... memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She'll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it's still July."

"You don't think it might be time to send someone to look for her?" Mr. Weasley suggested tentatively as Percy handed Bagman his tea.

"Barty Crouch keeps saying that," said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, "but we really can't spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! Barty!"

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished.

"Pull up a bit of grass, Barty," said Ludo.

"No thank you, Ludo," Crouch replied. "I've been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."

"Oh is that what they're after?" said Bagman. "I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."

"Mr. Crouch!" Percy sort of gasped. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Oh," Mr. Crouch, looked over at Percy. "Yes — thank you, Weatherby"

Fred, George, and Mel had to drained their chuckles into their cups. She didn't want to make fun of him, but it was just his luck...

"Oh and I've been wanting a word with you too, Arthur," said Mr. Crouch. "Ali Bashir's on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets."

"I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I've told him once I've told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?"

"I doubt it. He's desperate to export here." Mr. Crouch took the tea, silently thanking Percy.

"Well, they'll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?" asked Bagman.

"Ali thinks there's a niche in the market for a family vehicle," said Mr. Crouch. "I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve — but that was before carpets were banned, of course."

Mel was elated with the conversation. It sounded like a day-to-day coming from the men in front of her, but everything sounded so fantastical she didn't have any problems to keep up with the conversation.

"So, been keeping busy, Barty?" said Bagman.

"Fairly. Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo."

"I expect you'll both be glad when this is over?" said Mr. Weasley.

"Glad! Don't know when I've had more fun... Still, it's not as though we haven't got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?"

"We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details —"

"Oh details!" said Bagman. "They've signed, haven't they? They've agreed, haven't they? I bet you anything these kids'll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it's happening at Hogwarts —"

"Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know," Mr. Crouch replied sharply. "Thank you for the tea, Weatherby."

"See you all later!" Bagman said once he got up. "You'll be up in the Top Box with me — I'm commentating!"

"What's happening at Hogwarts, Dad?" said Fred. "What were they talking about?"

"You'll find out soon enough," said Mr.Weasley, a knowing smile.

"It's classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it," said Percy, clearly dying to talk about it. "Mr. Crouch was quite right not to disclose it."

"Oh shut up, Weatherby," Fred rolled his eyes.

"Mum, do you know?" Mel asked.

"Molly mentioned it a few days back," Emily sighed. "Clearly, I'll keep it a secret. I won't be the one who ruins the surprise. However, I assure you I'm not entirely happy about it."

"Why's that?"

Emily just shook her head.

"You'll find out soon enough," She insisted, taking a sip of her tea.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@tiphareth2018 @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @vernon-dursley @kylosleftbuttcheek @tomshollandz @bloodorangemoonlight @thesuitelifeofafangirl @reverse-hxlland @omiwashere

#twoidiots writing #hp fanfic #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter xoc #hermione granger #ron weasley #fred weasley #george weasley #cedric diggory #arthur weasley #bill weasley #charlie weasley #percy weasley #WITT fic

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storiesforallfandoms · 5 years

Text

freak ~ xavier; american horror story: 1984

word count: 1546

request?: no

description: when the group arrives to camp redwood, they come to learn that they have one other camp councilor, the local freak girl.

pairing: xavier plympton x female!reader

warnings: swearing, drug use (depending on if you consider weed a drug), a little cheeky and flirty but no flat out smut

(y/f/n) = your full name

“So we’re the only councillors?”

“No, there’s one other person who volunteered.”

As if on cue, (Y/N) came around the corner, a lit cigarette at her lips as she took a long drag from it. The group of friends stared at her in shock before their looks turned to disgust and glares. All except for Brooke’s, who looked around in confusion.

“Who is that?” she whispered to Montana.

“That’s (Y/F/N),” Montana whispered back. “Total weirdo freak. Wears all black, dyed her hair black, is super anti-social. She’s basically a serial killer in the making.”

Brooke eyed (Y/N) as she took another drag from her cigarette, only to have it snatched from her by Margaret. (Y/N) watched as the cigarette was thrown to the grown and stomped out.

“I already told you no smoking on camp grounds,” she scolded the younger girl. “Anyways, this is our other camp councilor, (Y/N). (Y/N), this is - ”

“I know who they are,” (Y/N) said, eyeing the group of friends. “Except the brunette chick. Nice to meet you, but since you’re hanging out with these preppy fuckers I have a feeling we won’t be talking again. None of them really like me, and lucky for them the feeling is mutual.”

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife as the group of friends glared down (Y/N), who looked like she could give less of a fuck.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Well, that’s enough introductions. Let’s go on a tour of the camp grounds, shall we?”

~~~~~~~

Later that day, when the camp tour was over, the group of friends had set up in the councilor rooms. (Y/N) already had her things set up and was nowhere to be seen.

“Probably out planning how she’s gonna kill all of us,” Chet commented. “Seriously, who the hell let’s a freak like her be a camp councilor? Just one look at her tells you all you need to know about her.”

“They must’ve been really desperate,” Montana said. “Be sure to sleep with one eye open everyone.”

As they talked their shit, like they always did, Xavier pocketed his weed and made his way down to the lake not too far from the camp. Ever since Margaret’s big show of stomping out (Y/N)’s cigarette, and her long speech about how she was against basically everything fun, Xavier realized smoking the weed he packed was going to be easier said than done. Therefore, he decided to find a secret spot far enough away from the camp that he could go to take a puff.

The sound of running water indicated that he was closing in on the river. He stood back to survey the area, seeing that there was just enough trees in the way that he wouldn’t be caught smoking. The smell might give him away, but by the time anyone got close enough to catch him he’d have the joint gone.

He pushed aside some of the trees and started when he found that he wasn’t the only one there. Laying on the ground next to the river was none other than (Y/N) herself, in nothing but her black bra and matching lacy panties, the newest craze in the sex revolution. She had sunglasses on, covering her eyes. She as still for a moment, and Xavier was sure she was asleep. He started to light up his joint and jumped when she spoke.

“You’re not supposed to have that. Booth will flip her shit.”

“That’s why I’m out here,” he responded, putting the joint to his lips and taking a puff. “What are you going to do? Rat me out?”

“Not if you give me a puff,” she responded. Xavier chuckled and passed her the joint. She sat up on her elbows and took a drag, then began to cough heavily. “Fuck, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a puff. Weed has a whole different burn than cigarettes.”

“You know, they’re starting to say those are bad for you,” Xavier said, taking the joint back and taking a puff for himself. “They say it causes all sort of health issues and shit.”

“Yeah, and they say weed causes loss of brain cells.” She looked at Xavier over her sunglasses.

“Touché,” he shrugged.

(Y/N) laid back down and Xavier stood, puffing at his joint. Finally, he threw it to the ground and stomped it out, burying it in some dirt with his shoe so no one would find it. Not that he expected anyone but (Y/N) to be out here.

“What are you even doing out here?” Xavier asked her.

“I wanted to get the last ounce of sun in before the brats come,” she responded. “I have two younger siblings, 5 and 8, and I swear to fuck there’s nothing more annoying than a fucking child, especially a child during summer break.”

“Well why did you volunteer here if you don’t even like kids?”

(Y/N) sat up again and took her sunglasses off to look at Xavier. For the first time, he noticed how bright her eyes were, a complete contrast to her wardrobe.

“Believe it or not Mr. Wannabe-Hollywood, I don’t exactly have any friends. My summers are spent in my house doing absolutely nothing and being bored as all fuck. I decided that was going to change this year, so when I heard that the camp was looking for councillors, I decided to put my time towards something more productive. I mean, it is going to suck having to deal with kids, but it’s better than being all by myself.”

Xavier was shocked at her answer. Even though he and his friends were always talking shit and picking on (Y/N), he just assumed she had friends of her own. But now that he mentioned it, he really had never seen her with anybody, not even one person. He never stopped to consider that the things being sad about her were prohibiting her from having friends, even though some of the rumors going around about her were absolutely awful.

(Y/N) looked out at the pond, refusing to meet his eye. The last thing she wanted was pity from this preppy motherfucker, the same motherfucker that had been treating her like shit since the day she met him and his group of preppy friends. They were all the same, they saw someone like (Y/N) who had her hair dyed dark since she was young and preferred to wear dark clothes over the hideously bright neon colours that everyone seemed to adore and deemed her a freak; an outcast. And now, because of that asshole who was climbing through windows and killing people, a serial killer.

“I didn’t know - ” Xavier started.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” (Y/N) snapped. “Why are you still here? Your joint is finished, go fuck off back to your cabin. I’m sure your group of wannabe friends are all wondering where you are.”

Xavier sighed. He knew he deserved that.

He turned to start back for his cabin, but then stopped to face (Y/N) again. She now had her legs drawn up to her chest and was resting her head on her knees, doing everything in her power to not face Xavier. A single tear ran down her face, leaving a trail of black as her eye makeup was smudged by the water.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She turned to look at him. “For everything we said and did to you. Obviously none of us really considered that you were taking it to heart. You always just seemed so...uncaring and so...cool.”

(Y/N) scoffed. “Right, you thought I was cool.”

“I did,” Xavier admitted. “I always have. You seemed to let the bullshit just roll off your back. You never seemed to care. I thought that was amazing, and I wished I could just shrug off the shit people say about me. I never knew that it affected you like that...but I guess I should’ve considering...”

(Y/N) sighed. “Yeah well...it’s not like you guys are the only ones who say that shit. Even the adults have been saying it for years. Saying I’m a freaky little girl, refusing to let their kids hang around with me because they were afraid of what I’d do to them.”

The more she told him, the more Xavier felt bad that he ever went along with anything Montana had said about (Y/N). She wasn't a freak, she was just someone suffering from stupid rumors and lies about her.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again.

(Y/N) shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, really it’s fine.”

Xavier walked back and sat down beside her. She looked at him, confused. “Consider me your first friend. I’ll defend you from everyone, we can come down here to get away from the shitty kids, maybe have a joint every once in a while.”

She looked away from him, trying to hide her face. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“I told you, I’ve always thought you were cool. Maybe your coolness might rub off on me.”

(Y/N) couldn’t help but smile, then laugh. Xavier smiled with her.

This is a sort of shitty imagine whoops but I’m in love with Xavier.

#American horror story #American horror story imagine #American horror story x reader #ahs 1984 #American horror story 1984 #cody fern #cody fern imagine #cody fern x reader #xavier plympton #Xavier plymopton imagine #Xavier Plympton x reader #imagine #one shot

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swashbucklery · 4 years

Note

Those photos... AU Avalance popular cool girl Sara going to prom with class president nerdy Ava... the captured the prom!awkwardness perfect

Okay I love this anon, a lot a lot. HOWEVER in any high school/college AU I feel super strongly that Sara doesn’t fit as the popular cool girl but instead is the Weirdly Socially Mobile Jock, I feel this in my bones.

Like, Sara who is on the track team, and kind of on the one hand keeps to herself and just does her sport and isn’t here to make friends, but on the other hand is friends with all the track jocks and on the other other hand is at least friendly with all of her sister’s Popular Person friends.

(And, on the third hand is also bffs with John Constantine and all the weirdos from Magic Club which: nobody can tell if it’s Magic: The Gathering club or actual magic-magic club and that’s kind of how they like it.)

And honestly I think the way they meet is like. Ava is a total absolute nerd, but she’s class president and you don’t get to be class president by not being well-rounded and so she has to do some sport, you know? And her sport is long-distance running, which is both very different from track events and sprinting but also not that different at all and she and Sara get kind of weirdly competitive about their mile times for a while before they start quietly and very secretly necking in the locker room.

(But BUT!!! These two dating and like. Sara’s not the prom type! She wants to go to anti-prom in John’s mom’s basement which is just everyone playing Dorito roulette and making fun of classic high school films! But Ava has to go to prom, and she plays it off as needing to go as an obligation and it’s only at the last minute that Sara picks up on the fact that Ava super super wants to go to prom, wants to be asked to prom, and Sara’s a butt for not noticing sooner.)

(Sara who pulls it out of the fire and drags Zari and Charlie and John to prom and Ava’s so happy)

(Like, it’s still embarrassing that Sara’s at prom? But Ava’s happy and it’s worth it.)

#night of the living anons #tagfic #my fic #avalance #legends of tomorrow #lot spoilers #cw dcu feelings #Anonymous

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 4 years

Text

Descending into Madness An Anarchist-Nihilist Diary of Anti-Psychiatry

Just sayin’... The opinions expressed in this text represent no other than my own. My position against psychiatry is based on my own personal experience and should not be taken as an authority on the subject. Psychiatry, medications, and or psychiatric incarceration is considered helpful by some, and I wish them the very best experience with it.

But also... To the ‘freaks’, the ‘weirdos’, the ‘delinquents’, and the unruly... To those who embrace these words like daggers drawn against civility, To the insubordinate youth who refuse to tranquilize their play with meds, To those who riot in the asylums, and those who dare to escape from them...

Let the moonlight illuminate our iconoclasm, witches and savage animals spellbinding fire in the night, for the destruction of society, with the courage of unmedicated confrontation.

Any society that you build will have its limits. And outside the limits of any society, unruly and heroic tramps will wander with their wild and virgin thought — those who cannot live without planning ever new and dreadful outbursts of rebellion! I shall be among them!” — Renzo Novatore

I’m sittin’ at a big round table with about three nurses and two doctors. My eyes are sensitive to the light cus I haven’t slept in days. A nurse directly beside me has been gently nodding at me with the same look of concern for about an hour. My vision keeps blurring and then re-focusing. My hands are slightly trembling. I’ve been fighting the urge to lay my head down since I sat down. It appears this awkward meeting is almost over, and I have some papers to sign. The doctor who has been talkin’ since I got here is still talkin’ and I admit, I haven’t really been paying much attention. Finally the talking stops and everyone stands up. The nurse beside me helps me up by my arm. I start to feel dizzy. We begin walking down a long hallway and eventually enter a room. Another nurse in the room greets me with a pillow, a blanket, and a pill to “help with rest”. Before sittin’ down on the bed I’ve been assigned, a nurse calmly requests my belt and shoe laces. I comply and decide while I’m up I might as well take a shit before I go to sleep. About five seconds after my ass hits the toilet seat I hear a commotion - frantic pounding and demands to unlock the bathroom door. Confused and startled, I jump up, trip over my pants, and unlock the door. Apparently I’m not allowed to lock the bathroom door - or have it totally closed while I’m in there. I quickly finish shitting in plain view of a nurse and walk back to bed. I notice a different nurse has pulled up a chair right beside it and sits down with a clipboard and pen. I lay down and try to get comfortable while accepting the awkward close watch by this nurse beside me. As I start drifting off to sleep I reflect on everything that’s goin’ on. Oh that’s right. Earlier today I tried to hang myself in my apartment and this is my first night in a psych ward.

**** INDIANAPOLIS, March 18 th 2018 — Resource Treatment Center Riot Nearly a dozen Indianapolis police officers were called to respond Wednesday night to a riot at a juvenile psychiatric treatment and addiction facility on the city’s east side.

Eleven officers were dispatched to 1404 S. State Avenue just before 11 p.m. Wednesday on a report of a disturbance at the facility. The location is home to the Resource Treatment Center juvenile psychiatric facility, as well as Options Transitional Living, which provides sober housing for homeless or at-risk youth.

Police arrived to find that a group of juvenile residents had done more than $50,000-worth of damage to the facility and assaulted four staff members. Officers took nine juveniles ranging in age from 13-17 into custody on preliminary charges of vandalism, rioting, battery and disorderly conduct.

****

During my time at this psychiatric prison I was subjected to what’s called ‘one on ones’ which basically means I’m at risk to myself and therefore require 24 hour observation by staff. Two different nurses watched me shit, sleep, cry in my sleep, and eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was required to take meds and a sleep aid everyday. I had face-to-face therapy once a day. I was only allowed one 15 minute phone call per day. I wasn’t allowed outside at all. I was told to “set anchor” because the faculty had no intentions on releasing me “anytime soon”.

All the reasons I was originally depressed took a backseat to this new horror show I found myself in. Everyone in my ward talked about one day gettin’ out, despite being told they would “never make it on the outside”. I couldn’t help but notice the striking similarities to incarceration at a prison for criminals. This was a prison. The more I heard stories of attempted escape, violent physical repression, and hopeless isolation, the more I realized this was not a place to ‘get well’, nor any hospital I ever been to. These prison guards wore scrubs, enforced order with chemical warfare and physical restraint jackets. “The hole” was the padded room. Those who resisted were tackled to the hard floor causing cuts and bruises. And to the nurses and doctors, we were all just “case files” or “subjects” to be talked down to and humiliated. We were in their world now and it was their rules.

“We need a program of psychosurgery and political control of our society. The purpose is physical control of the mind. Everyone who deviates from the given norm can be surgically mutilated. The individual may think that the most important reality is his own existence, but this is only his personal point of view. This lacks historical perspective. Man does not have the right to develop his own mind. This kind of liberal orientation has great appeal. We must electrically control the brain. Some day armies and generalswill be controlled by electrical stimulation of the brain.” - Dr. Jose Delgado, a Spanish professor of neurophysiology and author of the book ‘Physical Control of the Mind: Toward a Psychocivilized Society’

The era of institutionalized ‘care’ for those with ‘mental illnesses’ began somewhere around the 19th century with heavy support from the state. Public asylums were built in Britain after the passing of the 1808 County Asylums Act. This created an upsurge of asylums being built everywhere. These asylums were known for inmates havin’ to live in filthy conditions with bars, chains, and handcuffs.

The Lunacy Act 1845 was known to have changed the status of ‘mentally ill’ people to ‘patients’ who required treatment. This led to the eventual chemical treatment of people as ‘medical patients’ – despite the fact that lab tests, X-rays, and brain scans have never verified psychiatric disorders as medical diseases or brain damage. Over time, this inspired the emergence of psychiatric medical experiments on ‘patients’ in order to chemically ‘cure’ their ‘disorders’. The 20th century saw an explosion of psychiatric drugs. The first anti-psychotic drug, Chlorpromazine (brand names: Thorazine, Largactil, Hivernal, and Megaphen) was first synthesized in France in 1950.

Psychiatry, asylums, and prescribed drugs contributed heavily to reinforcing social order and individual submission through fear. As the years went on psychiatry and asylums expanded, re-defining and strengthening the power of state repression and civilized control.

Along with this came an ever-expanding culture of publicly calling out those who were considered ‘disturbed’ or ‘mentally ill’. The first to be targeted were those who didn’t fit the narrowly defined behavioral expectations of society. In the 18th to early 20th century, individuals assigned female at birth were often institutionalized for damn near everything including unpopular opinions, social unruliness or a politicized refusal to be controlled by patriarchal society. Other individuals of various assigned identities who sexually deviated from hetero-normativity were institutionalized and considered “confused” and in need of being converted.

One major marketing scheme deployed by the pharmacology industry was the social construction of an ideal emotional state that every ‘normal’ individual was expected to experience. Today this same ideal can be found everywhere – from televised entertainment to billboard advertisements and so on. The ‘happy’ and ‘depressed’ binary was used to create social pressure leading people to feel isolated or out of place for not happily accepting the conditions of society on a daily basis. Being “sad all the time” was, and still is frowned upon and ridiculed – regardless of its complex nature and the reasons behind it.

Despite being emotionally fluid by nature, the individual human (animal) is expected to fulfill the civilized role of positivist supremacy. This normalized obsession with positivity plays a key role in suppressing emotional responses of outrage to the multitude of oppressive experiences. The obsession with - and normalization of - positivist performance also encourages people to overlook the deep-seated trauma caused by civilization on a daily basis. Everything from the fear of flying, car wrecks, workplace injuries, to being late on bill payments – all examples of fears attributed to trauma. But because civilized life requires wage-slavery and commitment to continue, these forms of trauma are trivialized and written off - usually followed by something like “that’s life” or “it is what it is”.

As techno-industrial society advances, new laws are constructed to create new definitions of ‘criminality’. This means there is an ever-narrowing idea of legalism. The same can be said for psychiatry. As more labels and identities for ‘disorders’ are created, the pharmacology industry expands. And as the conditions of capitalist, industrial society continue to worsen, more misery becomes available for exploitation with the sale of “feel good” prescriptions.

Under capitalism, where there are ‘correctional’ facilities, there is a profit motive to keep them filled. Where there are ‘inmates’ to fill those institutions, there is financial gain or cheap labor. And where there is any potential for social unrest, there is an ideology and identity to categorically define an unruly individual as ‘anti-social’. Society turns ‘disorders’ into categorical identities assigned to those it considers ‘undesirable’ in order to reinforce the social conditions that pressure people into behavioral uniformity.

Today, within the realm of identity politics, psychiatric-assigned identities garner social capital where ever victimhood is glorified for social benefit. As with any form of identity politics, I have seen many individuals exploit psychiatric identities by brandishing them as reasons to rid themselves of responsibility for their actions. And as this plays out in the all-too-familiar social cannibalism of identity politics, individuals personalize these psychiatric- assigned identities and create inverted hierarchies of social entitlement.

Ultimately, a new identity-based movement is formed, gaining media recognition and becomes assimilated into the broader prison of society.

****

Thursday, September 4, 2014 Riot at Central New York Psychiatric Center A dozen staff members were injured when several inmates started rioting in a kitchen area at the Central New York Psychiatric Center on Wednesday.

Four people were hospitalized for their injuries, authorities stated. The fight broke out at about 11:45 a.m., when five to six inmates started attacking staff in one of the kitchen areas using kitchen utensils as weapons, according to the state Correctional Officers & Police Benevolent Association. The inmates tried to fight their way into the mess hall.

At the same time, another fight broke out between inmates and staff on the floor above the kitchen, officials said. The emergency alarms were raised, and security personnel inside the facility were able to break up the two fights, with help from the state police.

****

After careful planning, I was released from psychiatric incarceration much sooner than originally set. The walls were closing in on me and the monotony of daily under-stimulation, medicated numbness, and confinement started breaking me down. Witnessing the prison cannibalism of infighting between incarcerated individuals, I began spiralling worse than I had prior to being there. On top of that, my two attempts to secretly organize a rebellion had failed miserably; the wards or ‘bunks’ were so small that an artificially constructed bond was easily created between most staff and patients. Snitching was heavily rewarded.

Nobody wanted “any problems”. So instead I turned to another method of emancipation; using my own high school knowledge of psychology to convince my therapist I was merely suffering from “a broken heart” due to a “recent romantic breakup”.

Despite the full spectrum of my hatred for society, the life I was living at the time, and the complex emotional storm that raged in my head on a daily basis, I was able to convince my therapist and the other nurses I was just upset over a breakup. The humiliation of having to role-play such a lie paled in comparison to my desire for freedom from that place. Released into my mom’s custody, I was required to continue taking my medications three times a day and seeing a counsellor once a week.

Against the wards request, I went back to living in my apartment. I could see where the police had went through all my notebooks as well as a pocket book of phone numbers. The noose I worked so hard to construct and attach to a wooden beam along my ceiling was gone. To this day I don’t know if my landlord took it or if the police did. My rent was overdue indicated by the notes in my mailbox. Luckily I was working a self-managed painting job at the time so I couldn’t get fired. I could start back up the next week.

That night I masturbated for the first time in what felt like years. But I couldn’t orgasm. The next day I called the doctor who dealt my meds. According to him, my impossible orgasm was common with people on psychiatric medication. A week went by and I continued to feel numb. Nothing was interesting to me. I often found myself watching the hands on clocks move or staring out my window at passing cars. I didn’t feel sad. But I didn’t feel good either. I just existed.

After about a month of being out of the psych ward, I decided to stop taking my meds. The hassle of getting them filled as well as keepin’ up with taking them everyday just wasn’t worth it. And neither was feeling numb. I didn’t know what would happen. Would they find out and send the police to take me back? A couple weeks went by without meds and I started to feel slight changes. I was scared but prepared for the hellish withdrawals I had heard all about. I got dizzy a bit, and some headaches but nothing more. Soon I stopped gettin’ calls from my counsellor. I expected her to be upset and leave me angry voicemails. It never happened. Eventually I felt my appetite change and I could experience emotional reactions to things easier and more frequently. And I finally had an orgasm!

For the next couple years, I reflected on those experiences and began exploring the origins of my suicidal thoughts, the origins of the morbid depression that caused them, as well as the consumerist life I lived as a wage-slave law-abiding citizen.

****

A Riot on Thanksgiving Morning 2016 at Springfield Hospital Center (a regional psychiatric hospital and former slave plantation located in Sykesville, Maryland) In the early-morning hours of Thanksgiving Day, Catherine Starkes and April Savage huddled in an office with several other employees at the Springfield Hospital Center in Carroll County as patients rioted around them.

Starkes and Savage said patients threw chairs, knocked over file cabinets and tried to break into the staff's Plexiglas-enclosed refuge. The patients poured cooking oil over the floors, making them slippery. One patient tried to crawl into the office through the suspended ceiling, Starkes recalled.

It was like no other night she could remember in 22 years of working with dangerously mentally ill patients at Maryland state hospitals.

"They wanted to take over the unit. They seized the unit," she said.

****

“What we say is the truth is what everybody accepts. ...I mean, psychiatry: it's the latest religion. We decide what's right and wrong. We decide who's crazy or not. I'm in trouble here. I'm losing my faith.” -Dr. Railly from the movie “12 Monkeys”

Similar to religion, psychiatry assumes a powerful role in defining “right” or “wrong” in terms of “normal” vs “abnormal” behavior. The standardization of a particular, socially expected behavior is essential for creating categories of people defined in terms of their contribution to the collective success of society. With psychology as a basis for analytically outlining ‘problems’ and suggesting “potential cures”, mass society becomes dependent on its authority for deciding who is “normal” and who isn’t. Certain behavioral characteristics unique to an individual become outlawed in order to maintain this social conformity.

Speaking from my own experience, psychiatry and all its theories, roles, and chemical prescriptions at best aims to merely manage ‘symptoms’ of ‘disorders’ - not eliminate the sources of their creation.

By ‘symptoms’ I am referring to any set of behaviors or emotional responses that indicate an individual’s struggle to conform to societal expectations or ‘normal’ behavior.

By ‘disorders’ I am referring to the set of behaviors or emotional responses that have been selected and condemned by society, and therefore declared a ‘mental illness’ by the authority of psychiatry.

By ‘sources’ I am referring to any and all prisons, societal forms of coercion, and civilized society – all of which pressure individual subservience and ideological conformity.

The conflict of interest in ‘curing’ the ‘mentally ill’ becomes apparent when acknowledging that successful cures to particular behaviors and emotional responses would require the abolition of civilized society all together - the same civilized society that creates trauma, followed by the concept of mental illness and subsequently a ‘solution’ via many forms of emotional anaesthesia.

Another factor of social control built into psychiatry is its ability to distort and control dissenting information. Social systems that require the subordination of individuals are always sharpening their ability to suppress or demonize information – especially information derived from rebellious experience. When it is individuals themselves who are considered living examples of this information, those seeking total control will portray them in such a way that renders the nature of their rebellion a mere product of mental illness. For example, the Soviet Union responded to rebels with psychiatric wards called “Psikhushkas”. One of the first Psikhushkas was a psychiatric prison in the city of Kazan. In 1939 it was transferred to the secret police. Psychiatric incarceration was used in response to political demonstrations and attacks. It was common practice for soviet psychiatrists in Psikhushka hospitals to diagnose those who rebelled against soviet authority with schizophrenia.

Just as religious authority figures speak of purging people of their sins and demons, psychiatry seeks to purge people of their ‘sickness’ and ‘bad’ habits. In the church of psychiatry, only those most committed to social conformity (or emotional suppression) can enter the heavens of being socially recognized as ‘sane’ or ‘normal’. Normal or civilized behavior is rewarded with social capital and easier access to survival resources. And in the eyes of those who fear unbridled freedom, without the church of mental psychiatric authority, ‘the masses’ just might descend into madness...

****

Sept 5 2016 John George Psychiatric Hospital Riot Nurses at Alameda County’s embattled mental hospital say three patients tried to incite a riot overnight and escape the facility. Staff members are blaming chronic overcrowding at John George Psychiatric Hospital’s emergency room. It’s the latest in a string of troubling incidents at the hospital uncovered by 2 Investigates.

Nurses – who didn’t want to be identified for fear of jeopardizing their jobs – tell 2 Investigates that two male patients and one woman demanded to be discharged from John George’s Psychiatric Emergency Services (PES) department Sunday night. But when they were refused, they turned violent, according to staff.

The patients allegedly tried to encourage others to help them push the facility doors open to escape.

****

“The Law, social expectation, and psychiatric tradition and practice point to coercion as the profession’s paradigmatic characteristic. Accordingly, I define psychiatry as the theory and practice of coercion, rationalized as the diagnosis of mental illness and justified as medical treatment aimed at protecting the patient from himself and society from the patient.” - Psychiatrist turned anti-psychiatry, Thomas S Szasz, M. D.

While reflecting on my experience with psychiatry, including being on three different medications and my stay in the ward, I started asking myself questions I had never thought to ask before: what are the social conditions contributing to my feelings of misery? What type of behavior is characteristic of ‘mental illness’ and ‘normal’ functioning? Who enforces these definitions as universal truths to begin with? Is it the same psychiatric authority that at one point considered homosexuality a mental illness – then changed their minds in 1973?

I couldn’t help but notice that despite all the therapy, meds, and psychiatric hospitality the world outside my head was still the same. Poverty still dominated my hood, rich billionaires were still playin’ golf while the government continued bombing other countries. Millions of non-human animals were still bein’ mutilated in slaughterhouses on a daily basis, and the environment was still bein’ devastated by industrial expansion. I still needed to wage-slave away to pay my rent. And like everyone else, I needed to do this until I got too old and eventually live out my days in a nursing home. But somehow I was supposed to be ‘happy’ - or at least apathetically accepting of it all without a fuss. Obedience without incident. Without question. Or as the others in the ward had said to me “no problems”.

Currently in my life, I am still angry, still depressed, and still sometimes suicidal. But rather than seeing these things as what’s broken about me, I see them as a reflection of how fucked up the world is around me. I find little things to help me channel the anger, depression, and suicidal thoughts. I exercise, practice mixed martial arts, enjoy a walk in the woods at night. I star-gaze from park benches, rooftops, and moving freight trains. I indulge in stolen food and cherish the excitement of criminal activity. Managing my emotions is a daily activity coupled with observation and growth. I listen to the stories of others and learn from their experiences. I listen to my emotions and source their origins, making it easier to understand my needs and desires. My emotions – my madness - manifesting as anger, depression, and so on remain sharp and act as the best tools for understanding the effects of this imprisoning society on my well-being.

My disposition lacks evidence of being broken or brain damaged – if anything, it would suggest the contrary. My emotional state is a complex response to the anxiety that occurs when recognizing society for what it is – a prison propagating itself as ‘normal’ life. And integrated within this prison is a web of altered realities that materialize the logic of control and domination: Wage-slavery masquerading as productivity and personal responsibility. Coerced submission and obedience to law and order in “the land of the free”. Pictures of happy cows on packages of mutilated body parts. Borders, bio-technology, cyberspace communities of friends interacting with the emotional vacancy of digital communication.

And it is here, in this same social prison society, that the word insanity is used to describe an individual person rather than industrial civilization - the epitome of mechanized social control.

“The stars up close to the moon were pale; they got brighter and braver the farther they got out of the circle of light ruled by the giant moon” ― Ken Kesey, from the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

I believe deep down all people are ‘insane’ - not in terms of mental illness - but in terms of individual, unique differences that remain defiantly incompatible to behavioral order. In society, some people hide these differences better than others. And many people I have come across express frustration with having to keep themselves locked up inside, aching to break out. The fear of being socially labelled insane or crazy keeps people passive and submissive. But some people experience difficulty assimilating themselves. And while society attempts to frantically control and eliminate certain undesirable people and behaviors, natural responses to environmental conditions continue to produce both.

If one were to really examine the social interactions between individuals, one can see the subtle tip-toeing of animals peeking from within the wardrobe of humanism. It is the fear of being too loud, too angry, too sad, too imaginative – the fear of allowing oneself to exist at full bloom – that incarcerates the animal individual. It is the fear of exhibiting any personal qualities or characteristics that would violate the boundaries of socially expected behavior. Breaking the laws of psychiatry could be punishable by chemical injection, imprisonment, or even death.

This fear also plays a vital role in creating an obsession with relying on institutional specialization rather than peer to peer support. This obsession is normalized when, in response to someone reaching out for emotional support, friends suggest ‘professional help’ as if to surrender themselves ineffective by default. It says something about the nature of one’s confidence, ability, and will to support another when that support is often outsourced to an elite group of ‘professionals’. I’m not tryin’ to say that every individual has the capacity to support others at all times: I am suggesting an examination of the inferiority complex internalized by people in the face of institutions, and how individuals often find themselves too busy obeying the demands of capitalism, or too distracted by consumerism to make time for supporting their loved ones – let alone themselves.

If one were to examine society as a whole, one can see how over-simplified, quick-fix solutions to complex problems is built into it. If one were to examine this even on a personal level, one can see how everything about industrial society reduces personal time to the point where one often neglects their own emotional health. Against the demands of technological addiction and wage-slavery, making time for supporting one’s self and or those they care about is, however under-rated, nothing less than an act of personal revolt. “You need professional help” is often the quick response to an individual simply looking for support from close friends. Not all people (including myself) enjoy being pathologized or assigned a diagnosis like a broken machine. It is this ‘professional help’ that replaces intimate support with capitalism where someone struggling is treated as a profitable ‘case file’ and dealt a bottle of pills.

From a vibrant friend struggling with a unique history of complex emotional experiences, to a patient branded with an over-simplistic set of psychiatric identities – the individual becomes merely a unit of diagnostic measurement.

Diagnoses act as identity configurations defined in terms of symptom-based sameness. These identity assignments are constructed by the specialists of psychiatric authority, and are enforced socially by those who uphold its power. The same way that leftists are quick to use statist terminology to publicly label and shame “undesirables” or those unwanted by The Movement (for example, using the word “terrorist” to describe proponents of anarchist attack), they are equally quick to call people ‘mentally ill’, or ‘toxic’- demanding they seek ‘professional’ help. Perhaps without realizing it, leftists socially reinforce the validity of the state and psychiatric authority by reducing the complexity of individual behavior to mere psychiatric constructs and moral condemnation.

Psychiatry provides a comforting sense of order in the refusal to accept the chaotic nature of behavior. By asserting psychiatric terminology and morality many leftists seek control over social interactions with the intent to sterilize and homogenize them. This attempt at behavioral uniformity goes hand in hand with the treatment of individuals as members of monolithic, identity-based groupings. Behavioral uniqueness and variety are often discouraged or condemned when they don’t fit neatly constructed scripts. One’s behavior or emotional expression could be trivialized by being socially called out as ‘problematic’ - a label which itself requires the conformity of a generalized consensus to define and enforce.

Society and all its defenders require the dam of psychiatry to subordinate and control the tidal waves of individualist variety and social unrest. I can only imagine what would happen if the mechanisms of control failed on an individual level - if freedom of emotional expression took aim at the crystal castles of psychiatric authority, shattering the illusion of sterilized permanence. One after another an individual cannonball weakens the continuity of the structure, an ungovernable individual compromises the strength of collectivized subservience.

****

Jan 31, 2006 Riot at the Riverview Hospital For Children and Youth Five male patients at a state-run psychiatric hospital for children face rioting charges after they ripped out a phone line and tried to steal a worker's car keys before barricading themselves in a room over the weekend, a state official and other sources said Monday.

The incident at Riverview Hospital For Children and Youth occurred less than a week after employees protested over conditions in the facility, contending that the hospital is increasingly unsafe because of the volatile mix of patients.

Sources said that between 11 p.m. and midnight Sunday, a group of boys in the hospital's 11-bed Lakota Unit came out of their rooms and started confronting and arguing with staff. A male clinician and two female employees were assigned to the unit at the time.

Sources said the boys surrounded the man and tried to get him to turn over his keys but he refused. When one of the female workers tried to use the phone to call for help, the boys pulled the phone line out of the wall, sources said. The youths then barricaded themselves in a room and tried to smash a large exterior window, which broke off its hinge.

Sources said the boys intended to escape through the window but were stopped by a Connecticut Valley Hospital police officer who was called to the scene and was outside near the window .

Authorities would not release the names or ages of the boys involved. All face charges of inciting to riot, disorderly conduct, criminal mischief, unlawful restraint and threatening.

****

When, in expressing themselves, individuals let their emotions rupture the confines of psychiatric authority, and fan the flames of their contempt for social control, psychiatry begins to resemble the shell of a burnt out police car. If psychiatry is the agent enforcer of mental law and order - let it die along with every cop and agent of the state. As with identity politics, I refuse to participate in the use of psychiatric terminology when describing other individuals. As with all other socially constructed assignments, I reject psychiatric labels as they seek to limit the horizon of emotional complexity.

When, in expressing themselves, individuals become wild with nihilist hostility toward all ideological roles and identities, what is left of a society without individual conformity? What is ‘male’ or ‘female’ without being fixed to an aesthetic or performative role? What is ‘black’ or ‘white’ without the social construction of race? What is the sane/insane binary without the commanding authority of psychiatry? What is social law and order without anyone willing to obey?

My anarchy is found in the obliteration of these social constructs and the rejection of their ‘social contract’ that universalizes their false existence. I use the phrase social contract because that is precisely what accepting these identity assignments is. It surprises me to see such little prisoner solidarity with those incarcerated at psychiatric facilities. I imagine total anarchy looking like all prisons - including every manifestation of the educational-industrial complex, every zoo, and every asylum – being burned to the ground.

****

On New Year’s Day, 2018, 10 Children as Young as Age 12 Riot and Escape from Strategic Behavioral Health Center in South Carolina During the New Year’s Day incident, patients broke furniture to make weapons. The state report suggest Strategic staff missed warning signs that patients had planned to escape. They did not question residents who were wearing multiple layers of clothing that would allow them to change what they were wearing when they left the hospital.

In a less than five-hour span beginning in the late afternoon, there were seven “Code Purple” incidents in which workers are alerted to trouble. A state investigator reviewed video showing patients going from room to room, throwing a trash can, tearing up paper and tearing schedules off the walls. When one employee arrived, according to the report, he heard loud noises and cussing and saw trash all over the floor in the hallway. Patients had barricaded themselves in a room and had weapons he described as boards with six-inch screws.

“There was no staff trying to get into the room and he was told by staff, ‘They have weapons. Don’t go in,’” records say. “The nurse described the situation as a ‘riot, complete breakdown.’”

By the time police arrived, the south Charlotte psychiatric hospital had descended into chaos. Patients at Strategic Behavioral Center — some wielding wooden boards — attacked one worker, barricaded themselves in a room and escaped through a broken window.

**** For many years I paraded psychiatry as a valuable scientific instrument for understanding the inner workings of human behavior. I no longer find it useful after learning to recognize people as complex beings with unique emotional responses to this civilized nightmare. I have come to recognize psychiatry as, at best, another form of identity politics that ultimately attempts to force the infinite complexity of emotional expression into rigid categorical boxes.

Individual people are far more than ‘bipolar’, ‘psychotic’, etc could accurately express. While a person may experience combinations of emotions socially identified by a psychiatric category, their emotional state can not be summarized or represented by any list of fixed terminology.

My refusal to define a person by the emotional struggles they experience is similar to the reasons I refuse to identity people struggling with intoxication as ‘addicts’. An individual's struggle in coping with society is complex and unique. Psychiatric labels and identities are tools of the state – an entity which I reject. As a tool of civilization, psychiatry creates alienation and violence by treating people found to be emotionally unfit for society as ‘broken’, and therefore socially inferior. I personally refuse to disregard an individual’s struggle for survival by assigning them a psychiatric identity that puts blame on them as ‘mentally ill’ - rather than focusing attention on industrial society itself. Like prisons for ‘criminals’, the ‘correctional’ facility of the psychiatric ward seeks to condition submission through coercion and confinement. Solving or curing ‘mental illness’ in the societal sense often ends up becoming a re-defined ability to condemn, suppress, or sterilize emotions.

Like all governments, presidents, and authority, psychiatry never gave me freedom. Assigned psychiatric labels didn’t help me – they only filled me with an internalized sense of victimhood and inferiority. Medication didn’t ‘cure’ or ‘fix’ me – only damaged me, numbing me to my own senses in order to create an emotional void between me and the fuckery of civilized life. So instead, with nihilist celebration I descend into madness, taking aim at social order and civilization. With armed animalism I realize now that there was nothing to fix - my natural contempt for domestication and social control reminds me that I was never ‘broken’ to begin with.

With maniacal laughter I mock the conventional standardization of human behavior. I reject the authorities of psychiatry, their holy book (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM–5)), and their prisons. I refuse to continue being a test subject for their ever-expanding pharmacotherapeutics. I am an individualist against the collectivized consensus used to materialize institutions of psychiatry. I am a nihilist - hostile to the ideological sane/insane binary and all social constructs that, with pathology, attempt to categorically subjugate individuality. I desire nothing less than a feral revolt against civilization. If civilization and psychiatry marry at the church of morality, then let my anarchy be a fiery black smoke that chokes their gospel of social control.

#anarcho nihilism #anti civ #green anarchy #individualist anarchism #nihilism #post leftism #prisoner support #flower bomb #anti-psychiatry

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queenofmyshuno · 4 years

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Morning Of Day 1 Did Not Go As Planned (Pageant Challenge)

I’m doing a run-through of my 3-day Pageant Challenge to work out the kinks. Here’s what happened during the morning of Day 1...

(Pics are a little dark--I didn’t want to spend time editing them as this is just a fact-finding mission at this point.)

Today is the meet-and-greet meal in two parts: the morning for the first set of contestants and the afternoon for the second set of contestants. Pageant Judge Rick Rockfield decided to be anti-social and stand off in the corner to study the contestants.

Okay, I guess he is supposed to be judging, but that’s still kind of creepy. Also, the contestants’ scores will be based partly off of their relationship points with the judges, so he needs to mingle.

The rules say I can hire a caterer, which I did, but then I realized I could just use one of these handy-dandy thingies with instant food. I’m using someone else’s build, so this was just sitting there in the corner waiting for me to clue in. Cool.

Even though I had the contestants and judges in separate clubs with the contestant club activities set to be social with the judges’ club, the contestants stood around talking among themselves for the first half hour. After 30 minutes, they finally started to talk to the judges and eat.

I set up the room with 2 tables, 1 for each judge, but then, of course, the judges decided to sit at the same table, leaving most of the contestants out.

I got Judge Trey Bennett to sit at his own table only to have Judge Rick get up and leave his table. Okey dokey then.

Aaaand Judge Rick is back in the corner scoping things out and avoiding the contestants again. Meanwhile, Judge Trey is alone at his table while the contestants talk to each other again.

Weirdo.

Maaike Haas sits down with the judge, but Judge Trey is distracted by something stinky.

Geeta Rasoya joins Judge Trey at his table, but he ignores Maaike and Geeta to talk to Margo Villareal who is sitting at the other table.

Halfway through, I check their relationship bars, and nothing. They all have the same barely-there amount of green. I’ve been using the club method to encourage the contestants to talk to the judges, but I now also start using the manual method on top of that where I personally direct each contestant to talk to a judge.

Meanwhile, the caterer is cooking and cooking her invisible food, but 2-and-a-half hours in, not one dish has been produced.

There’s food on the other stove, so it must be a glitch.

And surprise! Maaike suddenly has a serious and contagious skin condition! The challenge rules state that you can’t tend to a contestant’s needs (I meant bladder, energy, etc.), so I need to amend that to YES PLEASE BUY THE POOR GIRL SOME MEDICINE IF SHE GETS SICK. It wouldn’t be much of a pageant if everyone looked like this (or would it?).

Now Judge Trey, who is supposed to be building relationship points with the contestants, seems to be hiding.

Alice Spencer corners him and has him all to herself for about an hour.

Rick wanders off into the kitchen to talk to the caterer. He’s probably asking her what the heck she has been doing all this time and where the food is.

Alice seems to have said something that completely freaked Judge Trey out.

I finally get Judge Rick to return to the banquet room, and the caterer comes with him. She looks sad--probably because I’ve locked everyone in this area and she can’t get out.

The banquet ends, and I’m supposed to tally points for the contestants based on their relationships with the judges, BUT THEY DON’T HAVE ANY. After 4 straight hours of nothing to do but talk and eat, they have the tiniest green bars which are all basically the same.

Judge Rick’s relationships--no significant difference between all 6 contestants--maybe Maaike, Alice, and Anaya are the slightest bit lower.

At least Judge Trey has some small variations in his relationship bars.

Judge Trey spent the most time talking to Alice and Margo, and he has the LOWEST relationships with them. So funny! I guess he didn’t like what they had to say. Okay, at least I can use that.

Next up is the afternoon meal with the second group of contestants, so maybe I can direct them more from the start and get those bars up. We’ll see. Stay tuned!

#QOM Pageant #sims challenge #sims 4 challenge #ts4 challenge #Trey Bennett #Rick Rockfield #Alice Spencer-Kim #Anaya Jang #Mila Munch #Geeta Rasoya #Maaike Haas #Hugo Villareal #Margo Villareal

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danseru-kun · 4 years

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Ancient and Android Chapter 1- FFVII and DBH crossover fanfic (Aerith x Connor)

Ao3 link: Ancient and Android

Genre: Friendship, Drama, Romance (?)

Rating: Teens and Up

Chapters: 1/7 (tentative)

Summary: At first it bothered Aerith how humanlike Connor was in appearance. Were androids like him part of the Lifestream?

For the past five years as a flower peddler, Aerith had only seen two kinds of people: those that weren’t affiliated with Shinra and those that were. She was particularly wary of the latter, being her captors in her early childhood and responsible for her mother’s death. From the typical office employee proudly showing their uniform to top executives in their fancy branded watches; from conscripted grunts to the esteemed elite force known as Soldier - Aerith knew them all.

“Real flowers for sale!” Aerith called out to potential customers, as usual, pretending not to eye an odd stranger at the opposite side of the street.

Wearing a dark blue denim jacket with a Shinra logo on his left breast, with a glowing blue band wrapped around his right arm, a man took a long way and crossed through the pedestrian lane when everyone else ignored it. His gaze met Aerith’s for too long before his eyes landed on something else.

He walked in perfect posture at a relaxed pace, opposing the flow of busybodies scampering towards the train station. Aerith observed his direction, wondering what office or establishment he may go to. Didn’t enter the cafe. Didn’t enter the theater. Didn’t enter the restaurant. Instead, he passed through the same spot in Loveless Avenue thrice, and in those next instances, he didn’t look again at Aerith.

Was he one of them? The men in dark suits that had followed her for years? Aerith sighed. One thing that had always worked was: never to let them know you’re actively avoiding them. Let them think she was clueless and an easy target, then send them empty-handed and humiliated. Aerith grinned and walked towards the person of interest.

“If you’re wondering if it’s real, you can see it yourself.” Aerith gave her widest smile and handed one stalk to the brown-haired man. “I’ll give you three pieces for two hundred gil, how’s that?” the vendor winked.

“Real and living...” He tilted his head slightly and accepted the flower reluctantly, eyes darting back to Aerith one more time as if asking for permission. Carefully he held the stalk between his fingers, twisting and turning it in all angles before he returned it to Aerith. “I do not wish to purchase. Thank you for your offer nonetheless,” his lips slightly curved and his deep, dark eyes were kind.

A blue ring at the side of the man’s head glowed. “What are those spinning lights?” Aerith pointed to her own temple and drew circles with her finger.

“It’s an LED to show my processing. It makes it easier for humans to identify that I am a machine. My name is Connor, I’m the android sent by Shinra.” He also pointed to a set of numbers printed to his jacket, the largest of which was RK800.

“An android?” A robot, or a machine, a cyborg or whatever they were called. Aerith narrowed her eyes. She had seen some robots, trashed some, salvaged some, and sold them off, but she never saw anything looking so realistic. Most humanoids robots looked like mannequins with their perfect skin and plastic hair, their mouths opening and closing like rusty hinges. Connor looked nothing but human. His skin had freckles and moles, his jawline looked freshly shaved, his expression soft and calming. “They sent you for what?”

“To detect and report defective power lines. I’m running scans on the area,” Connor clasped both his hands and rubbed his palms together, bending down to meet Aerith’s eye level. “Do you have any concerns about our services? I can forward them to customer service right away and give you a special priority.”

Aerith’s brows furrowed. Unbelievable. If Shinra really did send this guy to track her, she should commend them for something new. Should she play along? “This is the first time I’ve seen an android act,” she said in a teasing manner. “Has it worked on other girls before?” Aerith twirled the edge of her curls, not breaking eye contact with Connor.

“Pardon? Are you implying that I’m pretending to be a machine?” The polite tone of his voice didn’t change, but his eyes were wide, inquisitive.

“You can drop the act Connor, I swear I find it… amusing.” Aerith slouched and pouted. She would have played the game a little longer but she had better things to do. Besides, there had been worse weirdos.

Connor was silent for a while. “Shinra designed me to look human and installed an advanced social integration program but we do not intend to deceive anyone. Apologies, I should have been clearer from the start.” He extended his hand to Aerith. From the tips of his fingers, his skin turned gel-like and retracted inside the white shell and joints that formed his hand. Aerith’s eyes widened as the skin continued to disappear up to Connor’s wrists and his neck, revealing metallic joints and glowing wires underneath.

“You really are-” Aerith took a sharp breath, grasping her flower basket a little tighter against her body. She shook her head in disbelief as the marvel of technology unfolded before her.

“I am indeed a machine, Miss…” Connor blinked and his LED ring glowed yellow, eyes twitched for a split second. “May I know your name?”

Aerith paused and stared at the hand Connor offered. “My name’s Aerith,” she answered and accepted a cold, hard, and plastic handshake.

Sometimes, when Aerith touched others, there was always this tiny spark. Humans, animals, and plants all felt different, but they all shared one thing - the flow of life she couldn’t quite describe in words. Connor had none.

----------------------------------------

It was Connor’s most efficient day. Loveless Avenue’s hourly foot traffic allowed the android to exceed its three-day average volume by twenty-seven percent. From 5:06PM to 8:31PM, the android had added 638 faces in its memory and identified 453 individuals by cross-referencing their faces to Shinra’s database.

IDENTIFICATION OF PERSONS OF INTEREST SUCCESSFUL…

RETRIEVING AVALANCHE DATABASE…

MATCH: 2

Two faces matched the list of suspected Avalanche operatives, fitting their described age, height and sex: Charlie Sheridan and Lee Suyin. Based on Midgar records the pair forged birth certificate documents and were granted driver’s licenses. Connor submitted the sighting to the Anti-Terror Task Force.

MISSION SUCCESSFUL

Connor waited for a recommended action.

INVESTIGATION LAUNCHED. DO NOT MAKE CONTACT WITH AGENTS.

MAINTAIN COVER AND COLLECT DATA.

“Affirmative,” Connor replied as it assessed its first success in identification. Shinra intelligence had only profiled 32 members but the actual number worldwide was estimated to be a hundred or more.

Connor considered moving on to the train station when hundreds of people exited the Loveless theatre. A larger crowd rushed in while a long queue extended to the streets. Half the audience were children and not relevant information. Many had dogs of different breeds. The android’s optics quickly zoomed in to a child holding a white flower. Connor had never seen lilies outside the pictures in his memory.

The flower did not match anything in the catalogs of registered gift shops. Connor stared at the flower intensely, the stress on its lenses forced a blink mechanism. It approached to investigate, reconstructing the path via the paw-prints of the child’s rubber soles. On the opposite side of the street was the vendor in question, a woman with long brown hair and a pink dress who stared back at the android.

FACE SCAN ACTIVATED

MATCH FOUND

RESULTS: 0

Connor ran through Shinra’s database again.

M@T^H FOU&%!

RESULTS: 1

No information followed. A glitch? System error? Database compromised? Connor kept its search active while it modified its main objectives:

[ENCRYPTED]

Identify and report suspected Avalanche members

Search for information about Avalanche’s hideout

Collect data for Shinra profiling initiative

Investigate the flower peddler

The opportunity presented when the vendor offered her products: real, living flowers. The woman reacted in disbelief with the information that Connor was not a human.

“I am indeed a machine,” Connor received a surge of delayed information from its searches: the flower seller’s face partially matched a picture of a child in the Shinra database. They had the same emerald eyes. “May I know your name?”

“My name’s Aerith,” she accepted the handshake, giving Connor the opportunity to collect her handprint. While DNA would be far more informative, there was no socially acceptable way to obtain samples in that situation and the cover would be blown.

Aerith matched seventy-six results in the Midgar database, with nine different surnames. Three were deceased. One transitioned into a man. Only one Aerith matched a woman in her twenties: Aerith Gainsborough. She submitted her name in the Sector 5 annual lotto a total of fifty-nine times. Six months ago, she won the jackpot of 3,000,000 Gil split between 312 winners. Other than that, she had no government identification, school records, or hospital admissions-

“Hey watch where you’re going! Are you blind?” Connor barely dodged the cyclist who continued to hurl insults. The android continued his search of Aerith’s face in the Shinra database until the Science Department blocked him.

ACCESS DENIED

Connor’s program recommended obtaining permission from the management. The suggestion was moved further down the queued objectives until it was deleted from its command logs. Too inefficient. Information required immediately.

INITIATING BYPASS...

The department had sufficient firewalls and servers, but Connor was more advanced in breaching security undetected. It needed information on Aerith Gainsborough as soon as possible.

More than pictures, Connor was able to retrieve a video showing Aerith as a child behind a glass partition. The footage was of substandard quality with a timestamp, but Connor’s facial reconstruction and analysis software were still able to process the image, estimating she was six years old. Another woman in the footage was her biological mother or relative based on shared physical features. Without a DNA test, it would be inconclusive. Several voices discuss her health and mentioned tests to perform on her. Aerith laid her thin, pale hand against the glass, her eyes downcast before she looked directly at the camera. Connor stared back.

#Aerith Gainsborough #Connor #RK800 #Final Fantasy VII #FFVII #Detroit: Become Human #DBH #because why not #lmao #will people even read this lmao

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