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what doesn't kill you makes you stronger (but it might leave emotional damage)
Chapter 9: eighteen
read on Ao3
tw: derealization, self-harm, mention of suicide
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Jackie’s resolve lasts a while. He can’t give a clear answer as to how long exactly, because nothing down here lets him keep track of time: no clocks, no windows to see the sky… and nobody ever answers him the few times he asks. He tries to figure it out based on the rotation of scientists coming in to give him water and food, but it’s not that consistent. And do they come three times a day, twice? Only once? He has no idea.
The first few ‘days’ are the hardest on him, because that’s when he resists the most. Every second he can.
He antagonizes whoever happens to be in hearing range. He makes a ruckus, kicks and screams when they drag him out of his cell for another ‘session’ — that’s what they call it, when they pump him full of that liquid that burns and sears at every fiber of his body, leaving him sore and despondent for hours after it ends.
He tries to escape, twice. Doesn’t make it a few steps down the corridor before he’s sent thrashing on the floor, the electric bracelets shocking him relentlessly.
He demands to know what they’re doing to him, and why. He even, on one humiliating occasion, tries to appeal to their humanity. “Please,” he stares at one of the women strapping him down to the table with practiced ease. “I just want to know why. That’s all I want. At least tell me why you’re doing this.”
“Quiet, Eighteen.”
Nothing comes of it. Everyone here has either turned off their empathy completely, or they’re robots. But either way, this wouldn’t work.
He then tries refusing to feed himself, dumping the bland portions into the toilet instead. But it only ends with him being strapped to a chair and forcefully tube-fed, so he’s not trying that again.
Days and nights start to blur together. He misses the sun.
***
Time passes and nothing changes. Just this white room with the single bed and the ghost of his past. Walk in circles, eat, try to remember a book or a movie to stave off the boredom. Sleep, if he can. Get strapped to a table, pain. Wake up in his cell. Rinse and repeat.
He barely feels like a human being anymore. The scientists all look at him like he’s a mildly interesting critter, one to be taken apart to see how it ticks.
Over time, his will erodes. His energy wanes. His kicks grow weaker, his protests lose their bite. Jackie tires, faster than he expects.
***
The very first time he can’t muster the energy to talk or fight back during a session, it’s because he hasn’t slept in who knows how many days; the leftover aches from the injections keep him up, and his favorite songs and stories keep replaying in his mind over and over again, without rest. He wonders if the isolation and lack of new stimuli are making him go insane.
His body is on the verge of shutting down, and so is his sleep-deprived brain, and he just doesn’t want to bother today. His captors take it as a sign that he’s decided to ‘be good’, and so, Jackie gets his first taste of the sedative. He feels it enter his bloodstream, thick and pleasantly warm. It actually wakes him up a little, startled by the unfamiliar sensation. He feels a tingle along his arm, one that spreads quickly. “Count with me, Eighteen. Look at me. Three, two…”
One…
O n e…
And, bliss. Relief, so complete and instantaneous that he can’t suppress a sob. When the real injection begins, he doesn’t feel a thing — he’s gone, far, far away from his tortured body, where it’s warm and quiet and soft and he doesn’t have to feel all the bad things.
***
Glad to see you becoming reasonable, Eighteen.
***
Jackie knows it’s a basic carrot and stick trick: if he’s good, he gets the high. If he’s bad, he gets the pain. And the worst thing is, it works.
After that first time, it’s like his resolve has been broken. He stops talking back — stops fighting back. When too much time passes between two sessions, he gets jittery and anxious, and his body aches everywhere. He gets this feeling of want, of need for… something. It drives him up the wall, so much so that when he hears the sound of his door unlocking, he catches himself feeling a rush of excitement. He’s eager.
It takes him a while to understand that it’s withdrawal. He's become addicted to that sedative, to the high and the relief and the peace it grants him, for just a moment.
He’s disgusted with himself.
***
Come here. Sit. Good.
***
Everything is grey. Time is broken. He can’t remember what his old place looked like.
He thinks of his favorite comic. It’s probably gone now, along with all his stuff. Thrown out when the rent money stopped coming. He wishes it was here, with him.
***
Come here. Sit. Give me your arm.
Very good, Eighteen. See, isn’t it so much easier when you don’t struggle?
***
No-one will come for him. He knows that. He's a drifter, with no close friends or family. and even if someone were to report him missing, IRIS had made sure to never give him anything to take home — contracts, company pens, nothing. Even his pay had been in cash only. Nothing the cops could ever find would link him to this place.
No. He’s trapped here. He’s trapped, and his mind is slowly unraveling, trapped in a cycle of drugged-up sleep, pain hidden beneath honey-tar bliss, and the crash when he hates himself for enjoying it.
***
“Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost…”
***
He has a dream. He doesn’t get many of those, not when his waking moments are a living nightmare.
It’s a nice one, simple. He’s walking on a country road, the sun warming his back as the wheat fields stretching up to the horizon sway gently in the wind. He misses the sun.
He cries when he wakes up. He cries out for his mom, the one that didn’t want him.
***
“Hold your ground. Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers. I see in your eyes the same fear. That would take the heart of me. A day may come when. The courage of men fails. When we for-forsake our friends… break all bonds of, f-fellowship. It is not this day. An hour of wolves and… shields… when the age of men comes crash, crashing down. But it is not today. Today… we fight. By all you love on this good Earth…”
***
One time, he comes to awareness with his teeth plunged deep into his wrist, and the sharp pain clears his mind a little. It’s red, it’s color in a sea of grey and white. It flows and moves, it’s alive, he’s alive.
It doesn’t last though, because people soon rush in to subdue him. After that, his arms are securely bound to his sides with a special jacket, and they only take it off so he can eat. It’s not like he did that on purpose, he thinks, he doesn’t know what happened. He hears them talk about him ‘attempting on his own life’, but that’s not true. He doesn’t want to die. Does he?
***
“Who’m I, someone that’s afraid to let go. Under all laws of aviation, I won’t fix I’d rather weep. You’re a sunflower, did you know, I bet he works for the government. Nobody wants you here. You know nothing. Somebody once told me the loveliest lies of all. Where did you come from? Where did you go? Nobody wants you here. Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten. Forgotten. Nobody wants you here. When you’ll be dead I will be, still alive. Nobody wants you here. Nobody wants you here.”
***
He forgot his name today. Only briefly. But he couldn’t shake that feeling of abject horror when he kept coming up blank.
It’s honey-tar bliss and cotton candy dreams. “Names are lies, lies we tell ourselves to feel like we matter maybe.” It’s honey and tar, honey and tar, sticky, sickly sweet but bitter also. “I don’t like bitter. Never liked bitter.” Bitter coffee, honey and tar.
***
"Status report?"
"The thirty recommended sessions have been completed. No damaging side effects, other than what’s expected for that high a dosage."
"Good, very good. Warn the staff, we’re moving on to direct exposure. Tomorrow."
"Sir? Are you certain? The subject’s mental state is—"
"Page wants results. She’s getting impatient."
"I’m aware, but the strain of that thing on a human brain is just…"
"He’ll either make it or he won’t, and she’ll have her answer. Get it done."
what doesn't kill you makes you stronger (but it might leave emotional damage)
Chapter 11: thunderstruck
read on ao3
today's weather: Believer by Imagine Dragons
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The next time Jackie wakes, his head is clear. Clearer than it’s been in god knows how long. He blinks, the sterile white ceiling he’s come to know slowly being brought into focus — he’s back in his cell.
The young man sharply sits up on his cot, startled by how… easy it suddenly is. To move, to think. The last few days/weeks/months feel like a waking nightmare, the kind where you want to run but can’t, your body struggling to move as if submerged in molasses. It doesn’t feel real. He looks down at his hands, flexing them quizzically.
let me in
What happened to him…? The last thing he remembers is… is…
let me in. let me in. let me in.
He shakes his head, grunting in frustration — it’s slipping away from him. He was afraid, he thinks. But of what, he has no idea. He raises a hand to run it though his hair anxiously, but his fingers only meet skin, and short fuzz. He freezes. “Did those psychos fucking shave me?!” he fumes, and yes, it was a little weird to be mad about that given all the much, much worse things that had been done to him, but fuck!
He looks to the side, spotting an IV line hooked to his arm — god, he’s so tired of being pumped full of chemicals all the time. The IV bag hangs from a plastic hook in the wall, and while he doesn’t understand what’s written on it, he wants none of it. “Fuck it,” he spits, ripping the needle out and letting it clatter on the floor. He can already hear hurried footsteps coming closer, most likely to wrangle him into obedience again.
He doesn’t care — he’s in a mood right now, more energized than he ever remembers being. He doesn’t know what changed, but he intends to make the most of his sudden clarity; he jumps to his feet, glaring at the door, his stance wide and body lowered. Fuck them, fuck them all to hell and back. He doesn’t give a shit about the consequences, he’s getting some fucking revenge today.
The door unlocks with a beep and a dull click. Two scientists step inside his cell, both of them holding syringes filled with a cloudy liquid he’s never seen before. He reflexively takes a step back, the trained fear response screaming at him to submit, be good, don’t give them a reason to hurt you. He ignores it. “Don’t take another step,” he warns them, clenching his fists. The scientists look at each other, looking troubled. Unsure.
Huh. That’s new. “What’s wrong?” he taunts, wondering why he hasn’t been shocked into submission yet. “Scared of the little lab rat?”
They don’t respond, instead starting to converse with each other. Right in front of him. “Why is he awake?” one asks, bewildered. The other shakes his head. “No idea, that was the usual formula. Maybe Frank messed up the dosage.”
Anger flares up beneath Jackie’s skin; he’s done listening to these two talk as if he’s not there. So he takes the only logical, sound decision:
Deck one of these bastards.
His body moves, faster than he expects it to. In less than half a second he’s in front of the two scientists, his fist reeled back, his teeth grit in a feral snarl. “Get dunked on, bitch!” he shouts as his fist collides with the tallest one’s chin, and it feels good. Time seems to slow down; all that exists to Jackie is the thrill, the vindication, the fierce joy of finally giving those fuckers a taste of righteous violence.
And then the man’s jaw shatters like glass, the nauseating crack of bone ringing throughout the room. The young man watches, flabbergasted, as his fist knocks the scientist back with impossible strength. His fingers let go of the syringe as his body flies up, following a perfect arc through the air. It soars through the door, colliding against the wall of the hallway with a loud crash as his teeth clink against the tiles, right in front of Jackie.
The man falls to the ground bonelessly, blood dripping from his dislocated mouth as his head lolls to the side. His neck doesn’t look right. Jackie stares at the unnatural angle, the lack of any sound or movement. The empty, unfocused blue eyes that slowly lose their sheen. Holy shit, he realizes with growing horror.
That man is dead. Jackie just killed someone.
He looks down at his own — perfectly unharmed — fist as the other scientist stumbles away from him, his own syringe smashing on the tiles. He just did that. He sent a fully grown man, who was probably a few dozen pounds heavier than himself, flying. With just one punch. What the—
The metal bands around his ankles suddenly vibrate and beep. He braces for the shock and pain, thinking welp, that’s that, I had a good run. But then, something strange happens.
The rush of electricity doesn’t paralyze him. It doesn’t send him screaming and writhing on the floor. It doesn’t even hurt that much, just an intense tingle and a surprisingly tolerable burn. Instead, he feels the energy spread inside of him, up his legs and chest, up to his very fingertips. He starts shaking, eyes wide, a strange feeling rising within him.
let me in
The electric bracelets buzz loudly, like a computer about to crash. They sputter and spark, the light flashing frantically before going out. Then they abruptly open up, freeing his legs and falling to the floor; fried, useless. The smell of melted plastic and hot metal wafts from the machines as Jackie stares at them with a mixture of confusion and awe.
This means he doesn’t notice the second man — who he forgot was even there — rushing him with something in his hand. And when he does notice, it’s already too late and the short, stout man is on him, jabbing a blunt object into his side. Jackie recognizes it as a taser right before it goes off, the loud crackle-buzz hurting his ears.
But once again, it doesn’t go as it should.
The power surges through Jackie, the feeling of thousands of icy-hot pinpricks adding itself to his already overwhelmed body. He feels full, like he’s about to explode into a supernova — he needs to let go, let it out, he needs, he needs. So, as if driven by instinct, Jackie shoves his palm hard against the man’s chest.
It crackles and sparks before a flash almost blinds him, a sudden burst of lightning sending the guard crashing against the wall, unresponsive. Jackie keens, his face twisting in pain as he grabs his right wrist and squeezes, bending over; his palm is bright red, fingers twitching with the aftershock. The surface of his fingertips look charred. But it doesn’t hurt as much as it should.
I killed someone.
Maybe several.
He should feel bad about it. Murder is pretty bad, regardless of where you live. But all he can think about is the fact that he has a shot. Right here, right now.
He’s strong. He doesn’t know how, but he is. He can escape.
Still holding his hand, he takes a tentative step outside his cell. Then, not sparing a single look back at the two bodies he’s leaving behind, he takes off running. A light jog at first, then a full-on sprint, his body whizzing past doors and crossroads, almost crashing into the walls several times. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he’s going there fast. And it feels… amazing.
“There he is!”
His feet skid to a stop, digging a trail into the blue carpet: a large group of men in dark clothing pop up from around the corner in front of him, men he’s never seen before. Burlier type, definitely not scientists. Guards, maybe. One of them barks orders at the others who immediately start running at him, batons and tasers at the ready.
And it’s easy.
Jackie can’t believe how easy it is — to throw them against the walls like they don’t weigh more than a few pounds. To dodge their attempts at a grab or a punch, because they’re so, so slow, and he feels so light, energy coursing through him like lightning. His heart pumps hard and fast against his ribcage, his pupils blown wide with the rush and adrenaline. One by one, they fall, they crash, they fly. One by one, he brings them to heel.
And Jackie feels alive. Alive. Alive!
One of them, bigger than the others. He gets an opening, crashing into Jackie with the power of a semi truck, sending him to the ground where the remaining guards all jam their tasers in his midsection at the same time. When they go off, it hurts. It hurts enough to make him scream, his body arching off the ground as that energy inside him swells up, and up, he’s like a balloon ready to pop, the heat and pinpricks becoming unbearable—
Something inside him snaps. And a surge of pure electricity bursts from his entire body, knocking back every single one of his assailants. They collapse with a chorus of pain and surprise, twitching and moaning on the carpeted floor.
Jackie coughs, holding his midsection — it’s like he can’t get enough air, the area still burning and pulsing with pain. He waits until it doesn’t feel like it’s going to split open anymore, then rolls onto his side to push himself up, hissing and grunting all the while.
That seriously stung. But he’s alive, and moving. So he steadies himself, arm still crackling with untamed power, and keeps on walking — albeit slower and clumsier than before. He notices that his palm, on the other hand (heh), is no longer hurting, the skin back to a healthy pink. Weird, but he’ll take it.
C’mon Jackieboy, he chants to himself. One foot at a time. Not far now.
And he’s right; after a few more turns, many muffled curses and middle fingers directed at the cameras, his way out finally appears. He can see the elevator, right there, at the end of the corridor. So close. He has no idea what’s waiting for him up there, hell, he doesn’t know if the elevator will even work. But he has to try, he has to. So he keeps going, hobbling towards it as fast as the burning pain in his abdomen allows him.
Fwip.
Something pierces the back of his leg, and Jackie yelps, almost losing his balance. His head whips around, eyes wide. And he sees her.
Her blonde ponytail doesn’t have a hair out of place, her deep brown eyes pinning him into place. Her expression is set in stone, calm and collected, as she lowers what looks like a tranq gun. Silent.
Page. The betrayer. The liar. And, as he understands now, the leader. Medical doctor, right.
He grits his teeth — he doesn’t know what’s in those darts, but since he can actually feel the effects this time, it’s evidently more effective than everything they’ve used up to this point. Yet, he’s still standing — and he’s not going to give up so easily. Glaring at her with searing hatred, he reaches down to yank the dart out of his thigh and throws it at her. It whips past her cheek, just shy of cutting the skin. She doesn’t budge, only raising her gun at him once more. Jackie’s eyes widen, and he turns away to keep shambling towards the elevator.
Fwip.
Another dart lodges itself in his flesh. Then another, and another. And with each new one, he can feel his body slowing down, his strength wavering. At the fifth one, he’s starting to stumble. At the seventh one, his vision blurs, the hallway going in and out of focus and stretching out in front of him, the elevator doors appearing further and further away.
Fwip. Fwip. Fwip.
Three more in quick succession, sinking into the back of his neck with deadly accuracy. Jackie wavers, sways, his surroundings spinning faster and faster. The world tilts, and the ground comes up to meet him.
It’s over. He lost, and he knows it. But the stubborn part of him still wants to fight. He clings to his dissipating grasp on reality like a lifeline, even though he’s fallen and can only drag himself forward, pathetically. He won’t look back. He refuses to give her the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart.
His arm creeps forward, fingers reaching out towards his only way out. Trembling.
Fwip.
Jackie goes limp, like a puppet without strings his body giving in right as the last dart sinks into his upper back. And his dreams of escape are snuffed out just as his consciousness is.
what doesn't kill you makes you stronger (but it might leave emotional damage)
Chapter 10: don't make eye contact
today’s weather: The Mind Electric by Miracle Musical
tw: gore
Read on AO3
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“Today is going to be different, Eighteen.”
He stares at the man, muddled brain straining to parse the unfamiliar room he finds himself in. “Different?” he drawls, voice unsteady and hoarse from disuse. Different how? What? He lets himself be pushed down in a chair. The room is one he doesn’t know, big, the walls… strong. There’s blinds in front of him, what’re they for…?
He feels straps tightening around his limbs; that’s familiar. That’s normal.
“How was his response to the serum?”
“No tissue decay or symptoms of rejection — and there’ve been encouraging signs.”
“Which are?”
“He’s been recovering a lot quicker. And the latest samples show the augments are starting to activate. This could be the one.”
There’s a buzzing sound flickering to life behind him. Something touches his skull, something that vibrates. Hair clipper, he vaguely acknowledges. His hair’s getting shaven, all of it. He’s not upset. He’s barely even there. His head lolls forward, his neck struggling under the weight of his own head, cottonhead, airhead. He used to be called that, long, long time ago. There’s a dark stain on the ground. Locks of brown hair fall around his naked feet, like a bird shedding down. Or an angel.
He’d like to fly. It would be nice, that freedom.
“Where’s the neural helm?”
“Right here sir.”
He hums, a disjointed tune he thinks he remembers. Not where it’s from, it’s just. There. It’s in his head, so he hums it. Someone grabs his shoulders and pulls them back against the chair. Something is fastened around his head — it’s a bit heavy.
He blinks, and time slips away. He’s alone now, hair all lost on the floor yet skull heavier by a pound. He doesn’t try to shake the weight off, because he’ll hurt if he’s bad. He’s learned. The air is sticky. Honey and tar.
There’s a beep, then a hiss. He looks up, dazed, as the blinds in front of him roll up. There was a large glass pane behind them, thick and perfectly clear. He can see a room on the other side of it. His attention drifts away from it and he turns to the side, following the lines between the panels that form the walls. But something buzzes at the back of his head, and it makes him jolt, looking straight through the glass despite himself.
And all of a sudden, it’s like Jackie wakes up. Completely. But it’s not a good thing, oh no. The world snaps into razor-sharp clarity, a clarity that he hasn’t felt in who knows how long. No more honey and tar clogging his brain, his lungs, every inch of him.
The machine on the other side of the glass kind of looks like a big cylindrical aquarium, tall and reinforced with steel — but what’s inside is the furthest thing from a fish.
It’s… something else. He can’t actually tell what he’s looking at, because it doesn’t look like anything. It’s like smoke but not. It’s moving, but also not. Indistinct shapes, impossible shapes, darkness and colors that make his head hurt.
He doesn’t understand it. And the more he looks, the more he doesn’t understand it, and the more he realizes that he’s seeing something that isn’t meant to be seen. He doesn’t know how he knows that, he just does.
He wants to run, but his body’s bound in place. He wants to look away, desperately wants to stop looking at that thing because it’s wrong, it’s wrong on a level he can’t fathom. But he can’t stop looking, can’t stop watching. A feeling of primal terror rises within him, but his neck is stiff, and his eyes refuse to close.
He watches the impossible shapes dance and writhe, pulling him in. His body becomes impossibly heavy yet weightless, the light from that thing burning holes into his skull and pulling at something deep inside of him. It pulls and pulls, Jackie feeling himself slipping deeper and deeper into the inky darkness and impossible geometry spreading and enveloping him and his body feels light and airy and he can almost reach out to the wisps of light coming into focus
he’s burning and freezing and pulsing like a neutron star further and further and closer and closer to the edge of everything he can see, he’s blind but he can see, and it sees him and watches and watches and it burns it burns
he screams without a mouth and cries with no eyes
manic laughter drilling into his brain
there’s words. or maybe they’re not words, but he u n d er s ta nds the m let me out
There’s a blast somewhere, somewhen, and pain blooms in Jackie’s brow, in his chest, his arm, his leg. Oh, his body. He can feel it again, haha, and oh it’s horrible.
The world comes back, the cold floor under his feet, the broken glass pane in front of him, writhing, pulsing shadows soon hidden by the metal blinds closing back down. Red light flashing, alarms blaring, inhuman screams echoing in the room, footsteps rushing in from the other side of the reinforced door. And pain, lots and lots of that, everywhere, but mostly behind his eyes. He wants to claw at them, rip them out, oh it’s so much worse than the injections ever got, just stop it, stop it, please—
But it doesn’t last long. That floating sensation creeps back, and blissful nothing. Not the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, no. He can still see, and hear, but…
He… that’s. That’s him. That’s him, isn’t it? That agonized form a few feet in front of him.
He feels disconnected from his own body, like he’s floating away from it. He can see it thrashing in its restraints, hears a pop — oh wow, that’s his shoulder dislocating. His eyes are bloodshot and wide, too wide, pupils almost reduced to pinpricks. There’s blood gushing from his nose, over his mouth, but he can’t taste it — he’s somewhere else. It’s sort of fascinating, and terrifying, witnessing his body experiencing such extreme things.
Also, there’s glass shards inside him. A small one poking from his eyebrow, blood dripping into his left eye — much, much bigger ones lodged in his chest and arms and in his right leg. Blood gushes from the wounds, the glass sunk deep inside the tissue, and it looks like it hurts. It certainly looks bad. Looks like the glass was no match for me stupid writhing insects can’t contain me can’t use me—
The intrusive thoughts suddenly go quiet. His body’s stopped screaming, frozen, mouth still open on a soundless shriek. The straps around his limbs are ripped apart (what, how, when) and there’s someone here, white, blinding, too clean white, stabbing a syringe into his neck.
(There’s a dark shape in his peripheral vision.)
He feels a stumble-jolt, like a rubber band snapping. And then he’s back, his prison body enveloping him again. The air reeks of ozone, all he can taste is iron and ashes.
His head flops forward, the sedative burning its way through his veins — not even the good one, just the boring one, the one that makes him sleep. He feels it reaching his heart before it all fades, and not for the first time, he welcomes the void thankfully.
*******
hey hey heyy, just in case someone likes this fic and wants to be tagged in future chapters, let me know!
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what doesn't kill you makes you stronger (but it might leave emotional damage)
(read on AO3)
today's weather: ECHO by Circrush
PROLOGUE
There’s something watching him. Something with many strings.
They weave, spin, surround. They catch him and pierce him and pull his limbs taut, pulling and pulling and pulling and it’s like that dream where you can’t run but it’s so much worse.
There’s something watching him. Something with many mouths.
It whispers honey and tar in the tongues he knows and the ones he doesn’t. It caresses his ears and tears them apart all the same, agony and ecstasy intertwined. He can’t block it out, not when the voices already made him their home.
There’s something watching him. Something with many. Many eyes.
He wants to look, he feels compelled to let me in let me in but somehow, he knows that if he does, he’ll be lost forever. And so, as it reaches out, reaches in, around and in and everywhere as it tears him apart and crawls inside of him, he keeps his eyes stubbornly closed.
He wakes up, not with a start, but with the sensation of drowning. It lets go of him as soon as he opens his eyes, leaving him breathless, one of his hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as he stares at his shadowed ceiling without seeing it. His ears are ringing, and the air smells like ozone. The taste of ashes coats his tongue, like a grim reminder of something he’s forgotten — a threat just out of reach.
The man sits up with a shuddering exhale, drags a hand up his face, through his hair — it’s damp with sweat, and the clothes he’s fallen asleep in the day before just as much. He hasn’t had that kind of nightmare since… since…
No, no. It can’t have been just a mere bad dream. He’d know that feeling anywhere, the one that leaves his throat parched and his fingertips tingling with excess energy. He’s a seer, nevermind what the others say — he can tell the difference between dreaming and seeing.
It’s happening. Or rather, it’s going to happen, soon (too soon, too soon, no time).
Not a minute later and the man is standing at his desk, shoving aside a mess of papers, wood chippings and half-empty glasses of water that left dark circles on the rough surface. Some of them hit the floor, but none of them break, and no water is spilled — the glasses are empty. The man’s fingers crackle, then go quiet.
He feverishly flips through the old book, yellowed pages flying as he dives straight for what he knows is the reason for his plight. And he finds it, right there, near the end. The ink mocks him, the lines, the words, the impossible shapes. With a frustrated grunt, the man rips an ink pen from its resting place on the desk, and quickly jots down the words ‘don’t make eye contact’ before jamming the pen back into place and slamming the book shut. He leans over the desk and grabs the wood to support himself, breathing in, then out.
He can’t mess this up. Not again. Not another failure in the long list of failures that is his life.
A failure in his family’s eyes. Then in the Magic Circle’s. Betraying his principles to make a living. And finally, running away when he finally understood what was at stake.
The man’s fists clench as he trembles, untrimmed nails digging into the wood. Well, fuck this. Fuck all of this. That pandora’s box is never closing again, and unless someone steps in, someone with the knowledge… well. Even he can’t imagine the extent of the catastrophe. The man fumbles in the dimly lit room (too early, too early for this), weaves between discarded takeout boxes and orphaned socks whose twins were probably swallowed through a black hole. He swears loudly when his toe collides with something hard, and starts rummaging through a chest filled with knick-knacks of dubious origins and dusty, leather-bound books, until his long fingers curl around something round, smooth and cool to the touch.
As he sits down on the old carpet and sets the scrying orb on its support in front of him, a part of him considers warning the upper echelons at the Circle; maybe even calling in an AIMC. But he squashes that part down quickly, because no way in hell is he crawling back to those uppity fucks. Still, he’s not so devoid of brain cells that he deludes himself into thinking he could tackle this on his own.
His fingers glide softly along the glossy surface, his piercing gaze sinking into the inky darkness contained within. No, he thinks. No, he needs more. More first-hand knowledge, more resources, more muscle. What he needs, is allies. The room fades away and his consciousness slips, a breathy sigh escaping his lungs as his head slumps forward, eyes rolled back into his skull, eyelashes fluttering erratically. But he doesn’t feel any of it — he’s somewhere else.
And when his mind’s eye sets on a lone, sharp figure among dozens of blurry ones (white and blue and grey and sea salt and steady hands and sharp words and relentless truth), the magician knows where he can begin.
He snaps back to himself, his head flying back as he takes a sharp intake of breath — his mid-long, messy black hair uncovers his face, pale from exertion and cruel lack of sunlight.
The mage blinks, eerie lights dancing in his pupils; they’re blown so wide they eat all the color around them. With the rush of magic bleeding out of his body, the man smiles — a calculating, vindictive smile. Yes, he’ll show them. He’ll show them what he can do.
He gets up, joints cracking as his tall frame unfurls itself from the floor. There’s much work to be done.
what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger? / self para
Notes; trigger warning, there’s some dry-heaving, withdrawal symtoms, drug and alcohol related things, family angst, a little arjana angst-- basically all the karan-related triggers you can think of.
Karan scraped his blunt nails against the sheets, sweat dripping down his forehead to the damp puddle drenching what he sat on-- but the wetness was the least of his problems. This was the fourth night in a row that he found himself unable to close his eyes and drift off, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the tremors and nausea would wear off. And as his heart finally slowed to a gentle pace, it almost gave him a false sense of security, as a searing pain pushed through his brain that had him racing towards the bathroom again, retching over the toilet but he’d already thrown up all the contents of his stomach. Heaving himself off the ground, he tripped his way back to the bed, falling face-first into sheets drenched with his own sweat, the pain finally taking it’s toll as his eyelids fluttered to a close-- passing out from the exhaustion.
And that, was exactly how every night had gone for the past three months. Karan couldn’t for the life of him recall why he’d made the decision to get his life back on track, for as far as he could tell, this felt far from it. He had a constant dull headache, and caffeine seemed to be his new best friend. But as he lay impatiently on his bed early in the morning, just as the first ray of sun bounced off the hardwood floor and sometimes he looked over to the other side and saw Rishika lying perfectly still, the only movement the rising and falling of her chest-- he knew it’d be all worth it one day. That one day he’d finally be able to look at her proudly and know he deserves her in his life.
It was in those moments in the morning when the withdrawal wasn’t as bad, and he roamed around the house quietly, his bare feet padding across the cool floor as he stared out of the big window in the living room, watching the relentless traffic go by as he let his mind wander to stranger times, times when he’d lost himself under a mass of insecurities and substances. The last few months of Sholay had been a complete blur-- as he stumbled from one appearance to another, charming the crowd into believing he was a lot more than the man he’d ever be. Then he’d step off the bright lights on stage and into the darkness, letting it swallow him in endless bottles of liquor and an assortment of drugs. He felt like a pendulum, swinging back and forth and yet confined by his own limits, until the resistance finally dragged him to a halting stop. He’d found a bit of his salvation and pulled himself from his own demise, tightening his tie and doing the one thing he was good at-- pretending, acting.
He thought about the last two years, the friends he had made and the ones he’d kept. He thought about how when Arjun had finally come out with him five days in a row, it hadn’t been as satisfying as he’d hoped. He could see the sadness in his eyes, almost mirroring the same look he’d donned all these years of his life. He thought about all those times he’d dragged him out of bad situations, his frustration increasing at his inability to help. Most of the past five years for him seemed to be a blur, the best years of his life lost in a series of hits and gulps, leaving him clinging on to everything he could to keep himself afloat. Clean felt better, they all told him it would help. But memories of his family still plagued him-- his father’s famous disappointed look swimming before his eyes every time he made the mistake of shutting them.
He’d only been about three months sober and the pain was still relentless, reminding him of all the mistakes he’d made, making him pay with pain as his retribution. In this moment of his life, where he had the most support he’d ever had, he felt more alone than ever. This was something he had to get through himself. But in moments, his silence was shattered by his phone, the shrill sound emanating from his bedroom as he slid the answer button, holding the device to his ear.
“Hey Karan, it’s Vaibhav. There’s been some talk about a new movie, highly recommended. Some type of thriller.”
Karan let out an exhausted breath, looking at his watch idly.
“Tell me.”
“I’ve heard Anahita Talwar and Arjun Bishnoi are planning on working on it, and they’re also trying to get Sim--”
“I’m in,” Karan cut him off, hitting the red button and falling back into his bed. This was about to get interesting.
