#nicowrites

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

‘ ‘ did you say something, what’d you say?... ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ was that your voice, or was that me? ‘ ‘

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

N A M E

Noah Rivers

A L I A S

The ghost

A G E

22

G E N D E R

Male, he/him

S E X

Male

Noah is a human operator proxy.

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

"I've never been fucking scared of you," He snapped, and Noah grabbed his jaw.

"I've always hated that."

"What?"

"How often you lie through your fucking teeth."

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

A P P E A R A N C E

The most notable thing about Noah is his mask. It's drawn over crudely with charcoal, smudged all over, black around the eyes, the nose, the mouth. But the features are visible. The nose is sharp and angular, and the lips are drawn in a thin line. He wears it so often it's more like his face than his actual face. The only time he takes it off is when he's asleep, and sometimes not even then. His actual face, the one under the mask, has a scar that drags from above his right eyebrow down across his nose to his left jawline. His face is slim, angular, edges hazy against a monochromatic color scheme. The structure of his face is proportionate but it’s usually frowning, brows furrowed, mouth cut into a scowl. His features look like they were cut from alabaster or marble. Would’ve been pretty, maybe, in another universe. His eyes should've been black, but one of them is blinded, grayed over, and the other seems perpetually suited for low light. They are upturned, half lidded at a default and followed by bags, lines, and dark circles. They look bruised or dusky in color. He's bad with bright lights. He has black hair, cut choppy and messy, like he did it himself. His skin is so pale it's almost a sort of gray, the kind that suggests he doesn't see sun often. Lips chapped and dry, always cracked and bleeding, same with his hands, long black nails he likes painting for a reason he can't fully explain. They make his already slender fingers appear longer than they are. Almost clawlike. Noah is thin. He's tall, taller than he remembers, standing at 5’11”. He's built like an alley cat, all sinew and muscle, sharp shoulders, sharp bones. Scars all over his body. Some are new, from fights, other's he's had before he can remember in odd, purposeful places.

V O I C E

Baritone

Rough, and unused. When speaking his voice is barely above a whisper. He’s one of those people with a voice so low you have to lean in to listen. There’s an edge to his tone, a slight southern drawl. Sometimes the things he says sound more like they’re coming from a machine than a person. His voice is muffled when it’s under the mask, he compensates by being slightly louder.

S C E N T

His scent isn’t something that’s easy to pinpoint. It’s almost sterile, but not hospital sterile. He kind of smells like the woods.

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

‘ ‘ how many times did i tell you

before it finally got through? ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ you lose. ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ you lose. ‘ ‘

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

C O M B A T

Noah has heightened strength and speed, but he’s still human. A human that ignores the capabilities of his own body, but human nonetheless. He’s a skilled fighter, can hold his own against nearly anyone when weapons aren’t involved. He doesn’t like knives. Helpless with them, helpless against them. Noah is a firearms sort of guy. Always has a gun on him, either a pistol, or when he’s hunting he has a rifle. He’s interesting during fights. A textbook masochist. Pain doesn’t elicit the same reaction from him as it would for most other people. At best, he’ll ignore it, at worst, he’s drunk on it.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Noah doesn’t remember much about his life before meeting the operator, if anything. There are glimpses of a history that doesn’t feel like his in the back of his mind, or when he’s half asleep, or when his brain turns off and he isn’t really thinking. Those are his favorite moments. Where he can pretend he isn’t himself. He’s a murderer. He’s quiet, and secretive, and temperamental. What might’ve at one point been a charming persona, dulled and narrowed itself down to a chassis unrecognizable to people who knew him when he was younger. He’s quick to anger. Restless when things are calm, and when he feels alright. He’s never actively antagonistic, but he doesn’t like other people, and his skin itches for instability. He can never hold down a relationship. Of any kind, platonic, romantic. Always ends up ruining it somehow. And he likes it that way. He doesn’t even know why he’s so angry, he just is. His internal world is indecipherable, even to him. He’s constantly mixing things up, getting things wrong, getting distracted, forgetting things. Which is strange, because in the abstract he’s intelligent. There are moments where it seems like he’s lucid, and he’s calm, easy going, likable, even. He has a dry sense of humor that on boys like him feel more charismatic than it actually is. But the neuroticism always comes back eventually. He isn’t Noah without the neuroticism. Maybe he isn’t Noah at all.

B A C K S T O R Y

He isn't. He grew up as a boy named Micah. A different person, honestly. Relatively normal, all things considered. Had parents, friends, a boyfriend, people that cared about him. A trajectory that should’ve been normal. He would’ve graduated highschool, gone to college, him and his boyfriend would break up and he’d marry a girl, or they wouldn’t and they’d end up together only to divorce later, or something. He thought domestic bliss was a stupid concept. Would give anything for it now.

The operator in his hometown was a story you told to kids. They called him the thin man. Micah and his friends would play in the woods on the outskirts of Haven, hunt for bird eggs, mark fake trails, the woods were sparse enough to not really worry about getting lost or losing each other, you could walk in any direction and reach a clearing in half an hour, or so, until you reached the deepwood, but no one went in there. Not even him. Haven was famous for having people go into that part of the woods and never come out. They said it’s because it was so disorienting, that you could walk in without even realizing it, and before you know it all the branches look the same and you can’t see a path. But when he was nineteen he went in. And he met the reason why no one ever really left those woods.

The concept of a proxy was weird to him. Someone that worked for an invisible force of nature you couldn’t see, but you could feel, and Micah felt him in the form of thick static at the back of his neck. Then again, he was drugged the entire time. It might’ve been that. The man who’d kidnapped him was named Noah. He was older, had a limp, a face he covered up by some sort of mask. Micah couldn’t remember. But he remembered his hands. They were unstable, shook constantly, leathery skin, or maybe gloves. Felt like fire. He remembered the way they’d palpitate when he took a blade, dragged it down his face, or somewhere else on his body. And this man, Micah would think to himself in a sedated haze, would use those hands to kill him. There was no universe where he got out of here in one piece.

The brain does fascinating things under extreme trauma. Noah would’ve made a brilliant psychiatrist in the 50s, because he’d triggered an artificial disassociation in Micah that helped him survive the ordeal at all. Mind over matter, he’d think, over, and over, and over, mind over matter. If he liked how much it hurt it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d make himself like it. If he missed home, his boyfriend’s stupid face so much he wanted to die, he’d tell himself he didn’t miss any of it at all. Where was he now? They’d gotten into a fight the last time he remembered, he wasn’t looking for him, wouldn’t save him, it was a waste of energy he didn’t have the luxury to sacrifice. The sedative helped. He didn’t know what it was. Some sort of depressant. His mind reeled, ran, sludged, brain into liquid. He wondered if Noah did this to everyone. Whatever that static was, it never shut up. A constant, ear grating buzz. Red noise. He’d get sick, Noah would laugh at him. He hated Noah. Hated Noah’s voice, his shaking hands, the smug sort of way he’d talk to him like he’d already won, like he’d already killed him. And he really should’ve. Noah was arrogant. Didn’t think he needed a gun for him, even though he had dozens lining the wall of his basement, an arsenal. And he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill someone locked to a chair and half awake. He was just an idiot. Let Micah slip out, let him kill him. His death was anticlimactic. A face pumped full of lead, features torn asunder. But the static was too loud all of a sudden, and he was nauseous, and his vision dimmed.

The amnesia paired itself with some delusion disorder, courtesy of the operator, he’d realize. He didn’t recognize his face, or his body, a perpetual state of psychosis, of dysphoria. Noah was the strongest thing in his mind. The last thing he really remembered. Maybe that’s why he latched onto the name. The memory of him. Or a voice he didn’t recognize told him it was him, that it was the only thing he made sense. This was Noah’s cabin, he recognized it, recognized the rooms, the temperature, the basement, the bloody, empty spot on the floor where something should’ve been. And then Noah’s cabin turned into his cabin. Noah’s mind turned into his mind. Some things scared him. He didn’t understand why his hands didn’t shake anymore, why he couldn’t stand to see his own face. But he clings to anything familiar. The thin man is familiar. He does what it tells him to.

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

“you had no right to kill him.”

A voice said, from nowhere and everywhere all at once, register so alien and low it made his heart flatten to the pit of his stomach.

“a life for a life. your kind values equivocal exchange, no?”

“Yeah, but I should know better,” the anxious side insists.

Now Thomas is more confused. “It’s that kind of unfair? Why should you be held to a different standard than any other side?”

There’s a pause. “Because I was one of them.”

Oh.

They stare at each other for a second before Virgil shrugs as if saying ‘what can you do?’ Then he’s gone, and Thomas feels even more lost.

~♧◇♡♤~

Patton was surprised to see Virgil standing in the living room when he returned from the kitchen with a snack. “Virgil?” The other side didn’t move. It seemed like he hadn’t even heard Patton.

He set down the tiny stack of cookie on the coffee table and moved closer to Virgil. “You okay ——?”

When Patton’s hand made contact with his shoulder, his head snapped up to look at the fatherly side. “Oh no! Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry.”

“He hates me Patton.”

“Who hates you Virge?” He didn’t answer and Patton just sighed sadly and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay. Just breathe for me, okay?”

The anxious side shook his head, “it’s not okay Pat! He hates me now!”

“No one hates you Virgil. I promise, no one hates you.”

Virgil pulled away from the hug, “no, I told him and now he hates me!”

“Okay, we need to calm down okay? Let’s just breathe together, okay?” The other side nodded and let Patton leading him through his breathing exercise. After a while, he finally seemed calm enough to have a conversation, but he was definitely far from okay. “Can you tell me what’s going on now?”

“I- he-“

“Take your time, it’s okay.”

Virgil nodded. “I know. I just... I told Thomas I used to be... one of them...” He sighed as Patton held his hands. “You’ve seen how he reacts to the others. And he’s only met Deceit and Remus! And now I’ve told him that I was one of them and he’s gonna hate me.”

“Oh, Virgie. He doesn’t hate you, I promise. He’s probably confused, maybe surprised or shocked, but he doesn’t hate you. You’ve worked so hard and come such a long way since then.” He pulled the others hands to his lips and gave his knuckles a soft kiss; pulling a soft smiled out of Virgil. “Plus, as you said, you used to be one of them! You’re not anymore, and that’s more important than the fact that you were to begin with.”

“Are you sure?”

Patton grinned, “I’m his heart! I would hope I know how Thomas feels! And if we need to, we can ask Logan what he thinks.”

“No, I believe you.” He smiled softly, “thank you for reassuring me Pat.”

Patton giggled as he kissed both his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, and then his lips. “Always Virgie! I love you.”

“Love you too.”

~♧◇♡♤~♧◇♡♤~♧◇♡♤~

It takes Keith a while to explain, and by then the rest of the Voltron team had entered the main room. Keith had already talked to them about this earlier though, through the Com. Ever since he found his mom, ever since Allura and the White Lion forged their bond…

Well, to put it shortly, Keith decided to return to Voltron. Not really a big deal, but it sure looked like a big deal by the expressions on Pidge, Hunk, and Lance’s faces.

“No way?!” Lance squawked, once he finished.

“That’s awesome, Keith. It’s great to have you back.” Hunk smiled warmly, and Keith felt himself returning it.

“There’s so much to show you; to tell you…” Pidge began.

“We should throw a party!” Lance exclaimed.

“What? That’s not really-” Keith, a known hater of parties, started to protest.

“No, no, just a chill thing. It’d just be the Voltron crew, yanno? Watch movies, play video games, eat awesome food that Hunk makes…”

“Hey, why do I suddenly have to cook? Why can’t you guys cook too?” Hunk said deplorably.

“Maybe Hunk could teach you how to cook! Hopefully, it could make an improvement…” Lance smirked, alluding to one time, just once that Keith tried to cook and ended up creating a poisonous substance that ended up putting him in the cryopod. Only once!

“Lance,” Keith began; but was interrupted by the door to the lounge opening.

Keith’s mom, Krolia, took in the slightly chaotic scene before her: her son and a young man his age, face to face, arguing. A young woman very small in stature still clinging to Keith’s arm. A tall man dressed in yellow, rolling his eyes and smiling fondly. Keith’s friend Shiro sitting with the Princess Allura and her Guide, Coran; and the Emperor Lotor leaned against a wall, watching the paladins with guarded amusement.

This here, this was Keith’s family. And Krolia was so glad he had found one.

Keith glanced in her direction, and his eyes lit up.

“Hey, guys, remember how I mentioned I found my mom,”

“You what?!?” ------- Once everyone had been introduced, plans for a Voltron party had begun. Allura and Lotor gracefully backed out from the event, citing official business. Probably more lessons from Allura for Lotor about Altean culture, which Keith had learned were a common thing these days.

First everyone, at the request of Hunk, prepared snacks together. Though there were limited ingredients, the highlight was Krolia teaching Keith how to cook a traditional Galran dish, which Keith couldn’t remember the name of, but it looked a lot like Nachos and tasted good. Mostly it was his mom cooking, and Keith watching carefully, but he counted it as a bonding moment between them.

Keith and his mom were beginning to get closer as time went on. He still had some issues with her for abandoning him, but he had begun to set those aside so that he could become friends with her. So that he could learn how to be a son of a loving mother. It was tough, but they were working through it together. Step by step.

Once they had cooked their hearts out, the party moved to the main room, where Coran had set up the screen. As they had a limited selection of movies, the choice became Coran’s, who chose a comedy movie. The comedy almost translated, and Keith found himself chuckling a few times.

Movie after movie, and soon everyone had either left or was asleep. Keith’s mom had left after the second movie because she was tired; Coran had left at the same time as well.

Hunk was dozing in a pile of pillows, and Shiro slept upright in a dining hall chair, head drooped slightly to the side. Matt and Pidge were knocked out against each other on the couch. Matt was snoring loud enough to wake up Keith, who soon realized his predicament.

Earlier Lance and he had gotten into a bit of a tiff over the pillows and the blankets, ergo; the pillow pile which Hunk was blissfully asleep on. But they had come to an agreement and had constructed a small blanket fort together. Which they fell asleep together in.

And, thanks to Keith’s wonderful luck, Lance was, of course, a cuddler in his sleep. So he had attached himself to Keith’s back with an iron grip, hands comfortably wrapped around Keith’s waist.

Keith could feel his hot breath, ghosting against his ear. His body shifted in his sleep, and Keith felt every millimeter of it. Dammit. Damn Lance, and damn his stupid crush on the guy!

Keith sighed, resigned to his fate.

...Lance was so warm. His arms were nice and toned, and Keith could feel their strength as they wrapped around his middle. His hands met at Keith’s waist.

‘Dammit, Keith,’ he said to himself, ‘just go back to sleep.’

…

…….They really were nice hands. Long fingers, with nicely manicured nails. Keith felt the irresistible urge to touch them.

Warmth and solidity. Keith hesitantly brushed his own hand over Lance’s joined hands. Heart racing, he gripped them, held them close to his body.

Lance shifted again, and Keith felt his ears burn.

“Mmm Keith,” Lance mumbled, and Keith jumped, his flight or fight reflex kicking in a bit. It’s okay, he probably talks in his sleep, right?

“Keith,” he heard, with more conviction.

He hesitated to answer.

“Keith, I know you’re awake.”

Why wasn’t Lance jumping away, stammering excuses? For that matter, why wasn’t Keith?

Well, at least for himself, Keith knew why. At risk to himself, he wanted Lance’s embrace. Even for a little while longer.

“Hey,” Lance said, poking Keith’s cheek. “Whoa, you’re warm. Are you blushing?”

“...Shut up.”

“Then shut me up.”

At this, Keith turned to look at Lance. Those were fighting words.

But upon looking at Lance’s face, Keith wondered: were those kissing words? Lance’s eyes looked so tender. And Keith thought it was his eyes playing a trick on him - but was Lance blushing too?

“I’ve missed you.”

Lance coughed.

“We missed you, I mean. But... I missed you. A lot, okay? You...I thought before you left we had some kind of, I think, but I don’t know maybe I was just imagining…”

“Lance.”

“Yeah? Oh, okay.” Keith shifted so that he was facing Lance, and Lance adjusted his grip. Both of them holding onto each other, almost in disbelief that this was happening.

“I missed you too,” Keith admitted, looking Lance plain in the eyes.

“Oh,” Lance mumbled, blinking a few times.

For a heated moment, all they could do was look into each other’s eyes.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Wh-”

Keith shot forward, remembering every kissing scene he had ever watched, and tried to emulate that motion. It kind of worked. Lance was awkward and close-mouthed, and Keith was kind of kissing his upper lip. Lance giggled, which was a reaction that seemed involuntary, but Keith still retreated, offended.

“Lance.”

“I know, I know, I just. Wow, we. We sure kissed, didn’t we?”

“No shit.”

“I know! I’m sorry, I was just surprised, that was my first… just let me,” and Lance put a gentle, sweaty hand on Keith’s jaw and leaned in.

Keith met him there. This time, the kissing was better. Lance’s mouth was warm, and his lips were a little chapped. Keith felt every millimeter of them on his own. Keith was content to stay in the same position, but then Lance started kind of moving his mouth, which felt really good, so Keith did it too. After that, Keith stopped thinking so hard. Just felt their bodies intertwine, felt the solid flesh of Lance’s back with his hands, and let himself go for the ride.

That is, until one of them moaned.

They separated with a loud smack, both blushing furiously.

They made eye contact, and Keith wasn’t sure, but one of them started laughing, and then it turned into a full-on giggle fest, which they tried to keep quiet, so they wouldn’t wake up the others.

“Holy shit, that was,” Lance interrupted himself with a snort, which only increased the hilarity of the situation between them.

Keith laughed. “Yep. Wow.”

After the giggles subsided, Keith and Lance contented themselves with snuggling up next to each other. To think this would have happened so quickly… Keith was elated. He rubbed Lance’s back, and Lance sighed, leaning into the touch.

“Does this make us boyfriends?” Lance asked, hopefully.

“Sure,” Keith responded; and pecked Lance’s chin.

“Oh! ...nice,” Lance mumbled.

Keith smiled, feeling himself drifting off. “Night,” he said, but Lance was already asleep.

“I don't have a problem, doctor.”

“Ms. Dahl. For three weeks you have insisted you don't have an issue, in a variety of different voices.”

“It's not a variety of voices.” Mary pouted, objecting.

“First it was Baby Doll, then you began to accuse the hospital of holding you without cause in some outrageous Joan Crawford style, then there was the completely innocent act in what I have to assume is your normal voice. I am fine with sitting here and allowing you to perform all you want. I find it quite entertaining and you aren't as dangerous as my other patients.  But it's not helping you.” The doctor said pointedly, her pen tapping idly on her clipboard.

Her first time in Arkham was proving difficult for the woman trapped in the body of a child. Her doctor, Dr. Arago was having a difficult time understanding the girl, the woman; getting into the layers of this person who tried to pretend to be so many different people was exhausting. This wasn't an average case of split personality; Mary controlled all these people welling up inside her. Dr. Arago supposed the critics had been wrong to call this woman a bad actress; perhaps Lady Macbeth simply hadn't been her role.

“I...I don't...”

“Yes, I know you don't think you have a problem. Perhaps I asked the wrong question the first time we met. I apologize.” That's what she got for asking what Mary felt was her problem. No, the trouble was Mary had lived like this all her life, she had no idea she had a problem, in her mind, everyone else had a problem. And that problem was usually little Mary Dahl. Mary sighed and bowed her head, as if she had just finished a rather intense scene. Her hands were cradled in her lap, gripping the folds of the overly large orange Arkham uniform shirt she wore.

“Why Baby Doll of all the characters you could have chosen? Wasn't she the reason you ended up in seclusion?” The doctor decided to take a direct approach, since simply asking Mary to talk hadn't worked in all the weeks they had been together, the girl would just sit there and stare, professing that she didn't have a problem.

The woman's tiny, perfect hands gripped that shirt all the tighter at the question. Doctor Arago could see the frustration on the woman's face, no one had asked her why, and no one had ever questioned her motives.

“Because it's the only person people like...it's acceptable for someone who…looks like me to be a child.” Mary's normal voice, a harsh and demanding yet sultry tone escaped her throat. It was surprising to someone who wasn't used to hearing the woman speak. The doctor still found it amazing that someone so small could have a voice with such power.

“I don't find Baby Doll at all acceptable or lovable. She isn't the sort of person I would want to associate with.”

“They liked her.” Mary bit back.

“Who liked her?” The doctor urged.

“All those people at home, all those people who would watch me. Who loved me once upon a time...”

“She was a character, a character you played, Mary; perhaps you played a little too well. They loved you for her. And perhaps if they got to know you they would love you more than they ever loved her.” Dr. Arago reasoned.

“No. They didn't like me. They didn't like it when I was myself, when I did what I wanted. No one loves me.” Mary took a shuddering breath, her hands still clasped to her shirt, the loose material stretching away from her as she pulled at it in her anxiety.

“You are speaking of your role in Macbeth? Well, perhaps that just wasn't your part. Drama is difficult for any actress. Smaller steps are needed, Mary.”

“I have had to take long strides all my life just to keep up with people, why should I have to stop that in terms of my career.” The women stated defiantly. The doctor raised a hand to her forehead, rubbing lightly.

“Mary, I am not here to argue about what you should do with your career or not. Our goal is to help you realize that Baby Doll is simply a character, you shouldn't have to take on her personality to get people to understand or relate to you.” A different approach, hopefully it would be effective.

Mary was silent for some time, as if this had given her something to think about.

Mary had been quiet for some time. The staff, the nurses, the security had thought it best to isolate her from the rest of the residents of Arkham. She wasn't violent but, she wasn't strong enough, it was decided, to protect her from the rest. Dr. Arago wasn't sure if this was a proper step for her rehabilitation, Mary seemed to thrive when others were around her, when she wasn't trapped in her own mind and body.

“I know I'm not her.” Mary finally said. “But I can't help that I feel like her...all the time.” Mary was always in costume; she couldn't remove it, it was impossible. At least she couldn't do it alone.

“That'll be our first step then.”

“What?” Mary stared at the doctor, confused.

“Removing the costume is always our first step, sometimes we can help with that, sometimes we can't, with you we can try. Mary, there are things; medical treatments that can help someone like you. They should have given you hormone replacements when you hit puberty, but obviously...” Arago didn't feel she had to finish that statement.

“The show...” That thing had ruined her life, her chance at some semblance of a normal life. She could look like a normal person. Well, perhaps that was a little ambitious. Mary knew her condition was not curable. It wasn't some disease that a bit of tampering with her genes could solve.

“It won't increase your height, but it may give you a more feminine figure.” At least it would be something to help, perhaps something that would make her feel less like Baby Doll and more like Mary.

That had been the first step, and Mary had done well from there, the changes of course wouldn't be at their fullest until two years out. However, they had at least been a stepping stone to rehabilitation. That had been the first time she was in Arkham. The second time, the second time was more difficult.

________________________________________________________________

“Why. WHY, Mary? You were doing so well.” Dr. Arago tried to wrap her mind around it all. Why would this woman, who had come so far, drift back to it, all because of something as silly as...as...,Dr. Arago wasn't even sure what to call it. She turned that question to her patient. Mary should have been looking more feminine but she had gone off her drugs while parading around with the reptile and now she looked very much the same as she had when she first came to Arkham three years ago, a scared little girl.

“I just....I was just so lonely...no one understood and I thought...I thought he did.” But of course he didn't, he had lied to her, like everyone else. Trusting was for fools, Mary had decided.

“You were doing so well...”

“I seemed to be doing well. But really I was alone. The world is a scary place. I didn't have to work last time, didn't have to go out there and live a life.” She'd had enough savings, but after legal fees and paying off the hired help she hadn't had much left for herself; work had become essential and the only job she had found at been in the lobby of some hotel.

“Everyone is scared of real life, Mary, but you can’t let that fear control you.” It was cliché, but it was true nonetheless. Mary seemed to curl up at that, holding her knees to her chest as if trying to squeeze herself out of existence.

“I…I’m not strong enough.”

“Are you kidding me? That voice, the way you took on Batman? The gall it took the stand up to Croc and tell him you weren’t going to let him betray you? Doesn’t sound like someone who’s scared to me.”

“But that was Baby Doll. Not me…not Mary. I don’t…I don’t even know who Mary is…”