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rainydaydream-gal18 · 3 years

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(Clone Wars) Kix x Reader: A Trip to the Medbay

-Though you're injured, you refuse to get help because of a certain medic. Little did you know, this trip to medbay would change everything-

You kicked and tried to wriggle free, but there was no escaping Fives as he carried you to the medbay of the ship with his arms wrapped firmly around your torso, pinning your arms to your side. Troopers and other respected members of the GAR stared at you as you passed by. Not only did this look unprofessional, but you were trying very hard to avoid the destination.

“Fives,” you grunted. “Is this really necessary?”

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, arms still around you.“Well, if I put you down, will you walk to the medbay?”

“No.”

“Then yes, this is necessary.” He smirked. “Although, I do appreciate your honesty.”

“But- but the medbay is for people who need it.”

“And you need it. I saw you at the hangar. Don’t you want to get better?” Fives resumed walking, and you huffed.

“It’s nothing. There are so many soldiers and people out there who need it more than me.” While it was true you felt that way, it wasn’t the only reason you were so desperate to avoid the medbay- or rather, someone in the medbay. Feelings for a medic is what kept you away.

“Come on, ________,” Fives said with a sigh. “I know you’re not crazy about the medbay, but I hear Kix is on his shift. You know Kix. He’ll take good care of you.”

But that’s what you were afraid of.

In actuality, you and Kix were good friends. You’d gotten to know him well on and off the battlefield. You aided the 501st in many ways by helping to move or distribute weapons, gear, or other necessities on board the ship and on missions. On a few occasions, you had been an unofficial assistant to Kix when he was short on help in the heat of battle to get injured troopers to safety and give them the care or medicine they needed. You admired how good he was to the men. Sure, it was his job to ensure their survival, but it was evident that he truly cared about them. You were touched by the depth of his compassion, which was evident whether he was tending to troops or civilians.

You were determined to not let these feelings get in the way of your job, and they didn’t...until one day when Kix tended to one of your injuries. You weren’t used to the close contact with him, even if it was strictly professional. With pulse racing and skin growing warm, you fumbled over your words while answering his questions. You hoped to avoid another interaction like that.

Your heart dropped at the sight of the medbay doors. Fives walked you right in and finally released you from his hold. You winced from the movement. His hand rested on your shoulder, but it was pointless. Kix had already glanced up from his datapad. There was no turning back now.

“Hey, _______. Hey, Fives. What seems to be the trouble?” Kix asked, though he directed his question more towards the ARC trooper. It made sense, considering he was usually the one getting himself into trouble.

“_________ here has an injury she’s been neglecting,” Fives informed him. “I caught her wincing all day, but she refused to come see you. Had to drag her down here.”

Kix looked to you, brows furrowing as he went into medic-mode. He motioned for you to follow him to the nearest empty gurney, which wasn’t far since things were slow in the medbay. You quietly took a seat. Kix noticed your silence and offered a small smile.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you checked out, and you’ll be out of here in no time.”

His efforts to ease what he thought were nerves about the medbay made you feel guilty for being a little distant, yet seeing that smile simultaneously thrilled you.

“Well, my work here is done.” Fives gave you a casual wave. “I’ll see you later.” As he left, your nerves grew. There was no one here to buffer your interaction with Kix.

“So, what’s going on, _________?” Kix asked, eyes meeting yours. This was what you feared...Having his undivided attention in a moment of vulnerability.

“I, um...was… I was moving some supplies in the hangar, and I-I think I pulled something,” you said. “I’m getting sharp pains when I lift anything now” You failed to mention it was an injury you sustained lifting very heavy gear during the most recent battle, and it was reinjured because you hadn’t received the proper treatment or rest since then.

His brows furrowed again as he thought. “I see. First thing we’re going to do is locate the source of pain.” He leaned forward and put a hand on your shoulder. “Does it hurt here?”

“No.”

Kix’s hand travelled to your shoulder blade where he pressed. “Here?”

“No.” Your cheeks were burning.

He carefully lifted your arm, and a sharp pain jolted in your ribs. Air hissed through your teeth, and Kix looked at you apologetically. “Those muscles don’t pull easily, but when they do, they hurt. You must have been really exerting yourself.”

Unable to think of a response, you simply nodded.

“It’s nothing that a little pain-dulling stim won’t help, but you’ve got to rest. I’m giving you a note to excuse you from heavy-lifting for a while until you recover.” As he began to administer the stim, his eyes found yours again. “________, is everything okay? You’ve seen me do this a hundred times with others. You know there’s nothing to be afraid of, right?”

You took a deep breath, and the pain that was usually there already started to fade. You figured it was time to at least give him a little insight as to what was going on in your head. “Actually, I guess I’m just a little nervous being treated by...you.”

“Me?”

“But it’s not because I don’t like you or anything! It’s quite the opposite. I mean…” You cleared your throat. “You’re my friend, and I guess I’m not used to you being my medic.”

He nodded, that small smile returning to his face. “I think I get where you’re coming from.”

“Really?”

Ugh, he was handsome, strong, smart, compassionate and understanding. This wasn’t helping the situation with your feelings, but you were glad he didn’t take offense.

“If I’m being honest, I feel the same way sometimes,” he continued. His gaze was on the datapad again as he typed some notes. “Being that you’re a female.”

“But you deal with female civilians, and you never look nervous,” you pointed out curiously. “Why am I different?”

He stopped typing, but didn’t meet your gaze. “I suppose it’s the same reason as yours, because you’re my friend. And a young, attractive female friend at that.” Then his brows went up. “But it doesn’t interfere with my work. I don’t want you to be in pain, and nothing hinders that.”

Your heart nearly melted in that moment. “You think I’m attractive?”

“I was hoping you didn’t notice that part,” he muttered, giving a shy sideways glance. “But yes. You’re attractive, smart, caring...”

You suddenly noticed that the medbay was empty, save for the two of you. Good thing, too, because you had gathered your courage. “I, um...The feeling is mutual. I think you’re attractive. You’re kind, intelligent, compassionate.” Kix’s gaze snapped up to meet yours. Something was communicated in that look between you two. In the next instant, he had left the datapad behind and walked over to stand in front of you. You were still sitting up on the gurney, legs dangling over the side. There was nowhere to go as he leaned in- not that you wanted to go anyway.

Kix’s hands rested on your shoulders as he quietly asked, “Does this hurt?”

You took a breath. “No.”

His hands moved to rest on each of your arms. “This?”

You shook your head.

Finally, he wrapped one arm around you to pull you off the gurney and to your feet, his other hand tipping your chin up. “And this?”

“Not one bit,” you whispered. You leaned in the rest of the way to press a kiss to his cheek, pausing to gauge his reaction. He returned the gesture on your cheek, and then all at once your lips captured his. Kix leaned into the kiss gently at first, as if getting used to the feeling. Then, he took control and pulled you tighter into his embrace as he kissed you over and over. Your arms wrapped around him, just as you had wanted to do many times. It felt safe there. Secure. He pulled away momentarily before placing one last soft peck on your lips.

When you separated, reality started to hit you. You kissed Kix. He kissed you back. It was something you had dreamed about, and it happened in the empty medbay. At the same time, you felt waves of affection as you gazed into each other’s eyes.

“So this happened,” you said.

“Yes, it did.” Kix smirked. “You had it coming. You’re too beautiful, you know that?”

You smirked back, revelling in the newfound confidence in front of him now that your feelings were revealed. “And you’re talking too much.” You pulled him in for another electric kiss.

The moment was interrupted when the medbay doors slid open. Kix quickly turned to shield you from the view of whoever entered, quickly trying to think of a cover.

“Relax,” Fives’ voice echoed in the room. “It’s just me. And you’re lucky it is because if anyone else spotted you locking lips, you’d both be in trouble.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Had to say, I approve. I just wish it hadn’t taken the two of you so long to get together.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He raised a brow at you. “So, did you at least get your injury taken care of, or was this whole thing a plot to avoid getting checked out?”

You laughed. “Kix took care of it. I have to tell my boss that I’m off the field for a few days. I’ve got a note and everything.”

“I’m sending it directly from my datapad,” Kix informed, releasing you to retrieve the device. “In the meantime, why don’t we hit the mess?” He glanced up at you.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to some grub,” Fives agreed. When you and Kix stared at him, he shrugged. “What? I feel like going to the mess hall too. I think I’m entitled considering I know of a little secret of yours.”

“You’ve got a point.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Fine, but you can’t come on our official first date.”

He held his hands up. “Like I’d want to. I’m going to have to rinse my eyes out after catching you swapping spit the first time.”

Kix clapped a hand on the ARC trooper’s shoulder. “You certainly have a way with words, brother.” You and Kix held hands on your way out of the medbay, and Fives led the way. At the sight of the first trooper in the hallway, you and Kix let go of each other’s hands and put some distance between you. You caught Kix’s gaze out of the corner of your eye, and he smiled knowingly at the secret the two of you shared.

This was going to be difficult, but you knew you could do it together.

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moonlit-imagines · 4 years

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Speechless

Cal Kestis x reader

warnings:

a/n: hi heaven!!! thanks for the request💖 (you did it just fine!) i think i deviated from the request a liiittle bit but i hope you like!

prompt: @queen-destenie: “EVENT ALERT?! YES QUEEN! okay, so our favorite Jedi Cal Kestis and one of my favorites “Speechless” from Aladdin. where the reader never does down without a fight, they will always fight for the right thing. they will protect Cal and be there for him for everything. there’s a big fight, she gets captured but breaks out and saves him in the end, defeating all the bad guys. i hope i did this right!? thank youuuu 💕”// Speechless - Naomi Scott

“Ready?” Your redheadded Jedi counterpart grasped his lightsaber in one hand and reached out for you with his other. You took a deep breath and nodded, accepting his hand with confidence.

“Definitely. I’ve got your back, Kestis.” You turned your head to him and gave him a wink.

“I know you do, and I’ve got yours.” He chuckled and waited for the elevator to reach the desired floor, he knew that they knew you were coming, he just didn’t know what to expect. The door slid open to reveal a crowd of stormtroopers with all weapons trained on you, what a way to start a battle.

“This is gonna be messy.” You picked your blaster from it’s holster and fired the first shot before diving behind the small bit of cover that this lift provided, Cal was quick to catch on. Taking to the other side of the enclose space, he was able to deflect a few blaster bolts from the Empire. “I have a plan, you interested?”

“I don’t have many options, do I?” Cal joked while the two of you were cornered, unfortunately it wasn’t the best time since your upper arm caught a bolt from a stormtrooper, the groan of pain was sure to catch Cal’s attention. “Y/N, hey! Are you okay?”

“Yep! Doing fine!” You ripped a piece of your shirt and began to treat your wound. “Keep doing what you’re doing, okay? We’re just going to thin out the crowd for a few more minutes and then hop right into the middle of the rest, that sound good to you, ginger?” You used your teeth to tighten your makeshift bandage and waited for Cal’s response.

“Yeah...yeah, that could work.” Cal was on board for your plan and quickly evaded the oncoming blaster fire from the open door while he moved to your side. “You sure your arm is okay?” He covered you while you switched positions and used the opposite arm to shoot.

“All good, Cal, quit your worrying. On the count of five we give them hell, ready?” You began the countdown and reached one, running out behind Cal so he could deflect any more gunfire. Luckily, the two of you did pretty good getting rid of the stormtroopers, there were only a handful left to take down, or so you’d thought.

“It was a trap...” Cal grabbed you by the unharmed arm and watched as the two of you were foolishly surrounded.

“Take the one with the blaster, leave the Jedi for us.” A purge trooper instructed and you backed away, but there was nowhere for you to go. You couldn’t shoot your way out of this one.

“You’ll have to go through me first.” Cal stood in front of you and his arm extended to protect you, but you pushed it aside.

“It’s okay, Kestis.” You whispered. “I surrender.” You set your weapon down and let yourself be capturing, which baffled the Jedi until you looked back to him to shoot him one last wink. You had a plan.

—————

Not long after you left, Cal had managed to take down every stormtrooper in sight. Now he had to find that blaster you set down. He kicked over the corpse of a cocky stormtrooper and lifted your prized weapon to find a tracker attached.

“BD? Can you find y/n with this?” He plucked the tracker off and handed it to his trusty droid who gave a positive beep and pulled up his holomap to reveal a red blinking dot. “There they are. Hold on, y/n. I’m coming for you.”

—————

A violent stroll through an Imperial base was nothing to Cal, especially when you life hung in the balance, he could only imagine what they plan on doing with you. It made him physically sick.

“We’re close, BD. They might not like us taking one of their prisoners.” Cal whispered as he snuck around the corner and neared your cell. “That one?”

“Be-beep.” BD hopped off of Cal’s shoulders and picked the cell controls in record time, your head spun towards the door while you paused your pacing.

“You left this behind.” Your ginger Jedi never failed to joke around in a time like this, he tossed your blaster your way and you smugly chuckled at the situation.

“Can’t get rid of us that easily.” You were just about to exit your cell when you heard the sound of a shock trooper’s baton ignite and you were quick you tug Cal out of the way. The purple electricity buzzed against the wall and was swung at you once more. You weren’t so lucky this time since you got a shock straight to the chest, but you still managed to shoot the trooper down.

“You need to let me take the next blow, okay?” Cal caught you just as you lost your balance and gave you a stim.

“Maybe, maybe not. I won’t go down without a struggle.” You dusted off and led Cal away from the cell block, getting first shot of any enemy that stood in your way.

“How far are we from the Mantis?” Cal asked BD and viewed the location, not too far from safety.

“Hold on, hold on.” You blocked the Jedi from passing you and pointed at the same purge trooper that captured you. “Him. The mark on his helmet. He’s the one that took me.”

“And..?” Cal was a bit worried by your investment in the trooper, but you were gone before he could get an answer. He watched in worry and delight when you snuck up from behind him, kicking him between the shoulder blades. He dropped his weapon and you gladly picked it up, using it against him.

“Don’t ever!” One shock. “Think!” Another. “You can!” Shock. “Hurt me!” Buzz. “Again!” Shock, shock, shock. After a minute of you abusing your captor, Cal stepped in and handed you his lightsaber.

“You wanna..?” Your eyes lit up at his offer and you finished the job on a high note.

“I told you, Cal. I’m not going silent.”

#this was kinda sorta not my best work 😌#cal kestis x reader #cal kestis imagine #cal kestis #star wars #star wars x y/n #star wars x reader #star wars imagine #star wars jedi fallen order #jedi fallen order x reader #jedi fallen order imagine #jedi fallen order

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csykora · 4 years

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[A tabby cat curled up in the middle of a bubble hockey board. Or you, being comfortable in an athletic community that’s good enough for you]

Hiiiiii! I’ve been looking at ice hockey and it seems a cool sport and something that I might want to do as a hobby. Only Im disabled. Do you think I could still do the thing? Do you have ideas on how to start doing the thing? Ive often found it hard to do sports because coaches or trainers don’t know shit about disability and so have no clue how to teach you things or what you may or may not be capable of and telling them is useless because they make assumptions about your body and gah. Cheers

Hey—

Yes. Do the thing. Please go do it! I am not your coach, not your trainer, only friendly local bone witch—which I am very annoyed to have to say because you are a great athlete to work with.

Can I point out a couple things you just said?

You’re offering to do a trainer’s homework for them.

The early game didn’t have coaches. People milled on and off in whatever situations they felt like. Coaches and trainers came onto the scene so that someone was keeping track of who was actually good at what, when they needed support, and how to use them to best effect. That’s their whole gig.

Talking to folks on this blog, I’ve learned lots of people have this impression that capital-A Athletes have some factory-settings-standard body, any deviation a disaster (and they themselves can’t be athletes because they don’t.)

I think it’s very useful to smash this idea. Every athlete is a grab bag of weaknesses and weirdnesses, from old injuries down to handedness. Every coach longs to have three right-shot defensemen, and has made peace with the fact they’re not going to get them. Their job is to play with all the mismatched pieces they do have until they fit into a team.

If you present a coach or trainer with information about your abilities, and they don’t want to use that information, the problem you got right there is a shit coach.

Despite what the National League believes, there are more than 32 coaches in the world.

Throw a stick up here and you’ll hit another amateur coach. When we’re little, if we get a shit coach or PE teacher, we get stuck. That does real and lasting harm, which I am happy to go on at length about, but to flip it around:

Now, you are a big Zee, who wants to learn to play as a hobby, with the goal of having fun. That’s a powerful place to be.

I won’t say there aren’t stakes: you could get hurt, physically or emotionally. Sharing information about your body with other people to try to keep yourself from getting hurt all the time can be hard. Playing can make you feel physically accomplished and capable in your body, which is a deep need I think we all have, so having to back away if a team does turn out to be shit is hard. So I don’t say “you can always quit a team” lightly, but…there is no threat if you quit a shit team, no one (who matters) will get mad or make you go back.That means you can advocate for yourself, and if a reasonable shot at advocacy reveals that a coach isn’t just unfamiliar with how to do their job for someone with your disability but uninterested in doing their damn job for a disabled person, you can wave them farewell and find another.

Now, our goal is for you to find a good trainer, who just needs to be given information about what you (not someone with the ‘same’ condition, but you specifically) have got going on.

I’m going to tell you to look up an adult learn-to-skate program. Most rinks will have regular learn-to-skate and learn-to-hockey programs spaced throughout the year (often paired so you spend “first semester” on skating before the people who want to move up to hockey). Look up different rinks, talk to people about the rink culture and the coaches there. If you have the time, maybe spend a while hanging out there watching the open skates, local team practices or public classes, getting a sense what it’s like and telling yourself you have as much right to be in that barn as anyone else. Then sign up for a class. But first I want you to be devastatingly, Hepburn-ishly confident in talking about what your disability means for you.

From the information you’ve just given me, I don’t know almost anything I would need to work with you. You may or may not know that information about yourself already, but you can figure it out.

“Mild hemiplegia” is not a super-medical phrase. Hemiplegia is complete paralysis on one side of the body, where you are unable to move those muscles on purpose. A mild to moderate loss of muscle strength on one side is hemiparesis.

These terms are, to be honest, mostly used to organize medical literature. They describe very specific signs that might happen for a variety of reasons. Other symptoms like loss of sensation, loss of range of motion, involuntary muscle spasms, or loss/delay of involuntary motion (reflexes), which may or may not occur with plegia/paresis, have to be specified and described. If I were treating you I definitely wouldn’t describe your case as “hemiplegia”, I would call it “hemiparesis” with a lot more descriptive words around that (and I probably wouldn’t use either when talking to you).

It’s not that you used a word wrong. I’m concerned that 1. people have made you think you have to use A Medical Name for your disability for it to be taken seriously, but also 2. because the stroke happened so early, you’ve actually been denied care and opportunities to learn about it.

1. First, for the record, you don’t have to justify your disabled identity to me. And while I really (really) understand the self-protective urge a lot of us have to try to say, “my condition is really real and serious, it has a Real Medical Name, please believe me”, I think that (outside of a legal context where you’re seeking protected accommodations) that strategy often isn’t as useful as we hope it will be to communicate with other people in our daily lives. The people who demand to see your Really Medically Serious card before making accommodations will always find something else to demand, while people who aren’t trying to be assholes will be better able to help you if they know exactly, practically how.

It’s not that one way of talking about your disability is wrong, but I want you to talk about it in ways that are useful to you, that help you connect with other people and get you what you want.

2. I’ve worked with a lot of elders who have paralysis or hemiparesis from strokes later in life, after being able-bodied for most of their lives, and doctors and therapists jump right up in there teaching and training them to “recover” that “lost function”. They/their families can’t not know all the medical words just from hearing them over and over. But what often happens when a person is disabled since childhood is that…they aren’t seen as having “lost capacity” that can be “saved”, but as having a baseline “low level of function” that’ll never change, so much less attention is payed.

I’m using the air quotes because many people’s disabilities are present throughout their whole lives, and someone’s disability or disabled identity is not just a “problem” to be solved or gotten rid of. But people with disabilities grow and change, especially when we’re, you know, children. What often happens is that parents/authorities encourage able-bodied children to play, practicing motions and building up their bodies’ ability to move, while children with disabilities get benched from practice, benched from not just one activity but from being active at all, which means being benched from developing their bodies in the ways that might actually work for them, and from developing relationships with their bodies.

Proprioception, for example, is a combination of some fundamental ability/capacity/threshold/potential/whathaveyou and skill developed through experience that changes in context. Ever seen a baby? None of them know where the hell they are. A baby that can crawl is let loose to explore the world and bump into things that trigger their nerves until their body learns to fit all that sensation information together and use it. A baby that doesn’t crawl for some other reason often doesn’t get a chance to explore, to experience those sensations or train up that skill. And a kid that has a different threshold for stimulation, who naturally seeks out more or less or a different sort, is often stopped from stimming in ways which would provide their body information they could process.

As an adult, you get the chance to look at what you want to do and how your body can do it again.

So…

I want you to go throw a ball at a wall. Try to catch it. If you do any exercises already, sit-ups or pushups, do some of those. Run around the block, jump around on your bed. Stretch or just swing your arms and legs around. Find some small objects to use as weights and lift them, with either arm and then either leg (or set them on the floor and see if you can push them).

Work your way up your body one limb at a time, first thinking just about that limb on its own and then comparing the two sides after you’ve done them both. Don’t put a value judgement on anything yet, just pay attention: if your feet feel okay after running around, if you had more strength in one spot than you expected, if you had fun jumping, if there was a time you thought you might wobble but were able to correct, count that too! Think about each activity you did, the sensations around it, and whether that stim was satisfying, overstimulating, or not stimulating enough.

I want you to be able to go to a learn-to-play program, ask to talk with the coach at an appropriate time during the application or orientation, and say things like, “I have this condition. This is what it means: I have less strength with one arm, but I can move it as fast as the other, and with the same range of motion. I don’t grip items as well with one hand, or I tend to grip very hard. I don’t feel this type of sensation in this area, but I do feel that”.

Your coach is then going to recommend exercises to build strength in particular areas, or modifications to exercises so that you can do them without needing to use a particular area; they might have you try different equipment (find a tape job or adapted hand position that helps you keep hold of your stick, etc), and they may also encourage your towards and start training you for a particular position where you could do the most. When it comes to sensation, they’ll know to watch you closer for injuries in that spot that you might not notice.

This came in while I was applying to go back to university, and I bribed myself through the short essay section by pausing every hour to eat chocolate and sketch out what I would have you do for hypothetical positions and exercise plans. That’s still a long way off, but I’m very invested, so a couple things I want you to think about as you work towards the goal:

Keep sled hockey in mind. It’s not always a fit for people whose disability involves their arms, but it’s a cool community and most rinks will offer clinics where you can try out a sled and get a sense of the game.

How do you feel about getting hit with a puck? From your description, stickhandling and shooting may not be super fun for you. They may be, but if you give them a fair try and start to fee discouraged, try picturing yourself as a defender focussing on positioning or shot-blocking, or a goalie. Some people never ever want to do it, which is fair, but if you’re at all interested I’d love to see you try some time in goal! Everyone’s different but some folks the weight of the pads and the focused role can be really good stimulation. If your handling or footwork doesn’t feel great, goaltending would let you focus on moving your body more naturalistically as a whole to position in front of shots. And everyone else will love you for volunteering!

Write back and tell us how it goes!

#long post

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vroenis · 3 years

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Part 2

This is part 1.

It turns out reflecting over my whole life is going to be a daily affair. It doesn’t really feel that different. Also I don’t know when it started.

- When a domestic interaction induces stress, my immediate response is to reduce external signs of my presence in that space. I look for objects that indicate my presence and remove them. I am an extremely tidy person, but things like shoes etc., I’ll withdraw them from a common area i.e., foyer, and put them in the most invisible place possible such as in a bedroom wardrobe.

I’ve been doing this for a long time. I also do this socially. When I read friction or difficulty between myself and others, I withdraw from them, even when it’s one-sided on my behalf. I wait for them to demonstrate to me that they want my company, which leads to

- I’m confused as to why people don’t demonstrate that they’re desirous of my company enough, even if obvious and understandable logistics prevent it.

I appreciate that as an autistic person, I spend a lot of time in self-observation, so I may have quite literal timers running on how often I’ve been communicating with the various people in my life. For neurotypicals, I assume much of this is allegedly natural, whatever that means, so if it isn’t, I don’t know what’s happening. I’m left to assume I’m not welcome. If I’m not welcome, I’m abandoned.

- There are people in my life who have had greater awareness of my health states than others and for a longer period of time, who have nevertheless behaved in manners that I can only describe as controlling, manipulative and abusive.

Today is the day I’ve realised this and I don’t know what to do about it. They hold positions of immense power in communities. I don’t need retribution, that’s not something I’m ever interesting in, but knowing something means reconciling it and never unknowing it. They won’t acknowledge it, won’t recognise it, will absolutely deny it, will be deft and intelligent at disarming and gaslighting, and I suspect may have for a long time been subtle in what they communicate to others in shared social circles about who I am and behaviours I exhibit. This is the first time I’ve ever spoken about these things. Until now, I’ve thought of these people only in good faith. The sinking feeling I have is that their behaviours have for a long time affected others and will continue to into the future. And I don’t know what to do about that.

- I keep thinking back on things I’ve done and now that I understand myself and autism, I know exactly how I fucked-up and I wish I could go back and explain to everyone I ever met why I did the things I did and how I wouldn’t do the same things again.

Over time my self-observation and self behavioural analysis has taken over so much of my time and energy spend, not only on the present i.e., what I do in the present right now, but on reflection and how I’ve made mistakes in the past and even things I’d taken for granted; interactions from the past I may not have ever rostered for assessment. My entire life would have had a myriad of different trajectories had I been aware of ASD. The earlier I’d had awareness, the more things may have changed. I did mention this before with regards to bipolar, as in I’ve had my bipolar diagnosis for longer hence more awareness, more education, more management, but now with autism and neurotypical/neurodivergent behaviour I keep going back thru my entire life or events and interactions keep coming to me - my mind brings them to me for assessment as if to say “so what about this, then?” - not in a malicious way, either, I genuinely enjoy it, it feels like the action comes from a place of curiosity because I genuinely want to know. So many things that hadn’t made sense or had baffled me or were incongruous in my life are beginning to connect and make sense and it’s simultaneously pleasing but also sorrowful to have happen.

I don’t ever seek to alleviate myself of my accountability, I would never seek to say something wasn’t my fault as if to treat my autism as this thing that’s somehow separate from myself. I’m still me. I still did what I did. I just wish I could explain it to people and apologise to them because I’m still so so sorry and no matter who they are, even if I still don’t like them, every human deserves respect and dignity. Outside of the fact that so many things are so difficult for me to navigate in this life, regardless - I still don’t want to harm other people.

- Showers are surreal and wonderful instances of suspension and isolation.

There are few activities that can suspend time but a shower seems to be one of them. Being enveloped in heat, moisture and constant, sustained sound is immensely pleasing. I enjoy clarity of thought in which I can meditate, pursue linear, parallel, multi-dimensional, scattered or nebulous meandering thought-spaces, or simply be in suspended null-space and simply hear and feel. There are the actions of washing, including those times that are wash days for my hair, and then the rest of the time is simple state of being. I can’t simply treat a shower as brutal utility. I have few moments of peace left in my life, let me have this one.

- Oddly either I don’t stim as often or only in specific circumstances, or in specific ways, or I’ve been admonished so often by others that I’ve clamped/suppressed it so hard I can’t do it any more. Nevertheless, when other people keep making human noises all together at the same time, I become distressed.

This is a different statement to the human noises of people doing their shopping at the grocery store/supermarket. These situations are more specific to perhaps being in a room together attempting to focus on something specific or driving in a car. It’s difficult for me to be specific because in certain contexts, a cacophony of speech and noise is not only understandable and acceptable but totally fine and encouraged as in, I will encourage and induce it and I’m totally fine. Some specific board games would be good examples and I love them and enjoy them. This would make it understandably difficult for the neurotypicals around me to try and understand under which circumstances I might need calm and peacefulness given I’m not always a quiet person, altho perhaps my own behaviour at the time might assist in telegraphing that. In some situations, people seem *to me* to begin emitting strange and unrelated noise that is difficult for me to reconcile and my response is distress. This is likely due to the lack of ability in psychoacoustic filtering. Neurotypicals can remove/ignore sounds, or have some or all of it have a reduced effect on them. I can’t speak for all ASD people but I’ve never been able to do this. All audio stimulus arrives and is processed with equal importance at all times. To loop back to the music and advertising at the supermarket, this is why I have to remove the music and advertising that plays at the supermarket, because it’s so godawful and I can’t bear it and I *can’t not hear it* and I *can’t ignore* it.

- Most neurotypicals don’t know that many of their behaviours induce stress to neurodiverse people. I don’t know how to educate them directly.

This is an edit so I hope I can get this in before too many people miss it. Some people are really receptive to learning about something and making an attempt to modifying their behaviour, others are less so, especially the elderly which for some of us at our age, means our parents. The other challenge is depending on our stress levels, it can be extremely difficult to communicate in a way that is conducive to others hearing it what our needs are. I should stop speaking in the collective and speak in the individual/personal. Unfortunately when I’m distressed and people around me ask “what’s wrong?”, that’s probably the worst time for me to tell you what I need i.e., that something you and/or everyone present is doing something that’s causing me distress. I know and understand that no-one is intentionally doing anything to cause me stress, but neurotypicals tend to take it personally.

Often NT’s first response when we tell them something they’re doing is causing stress is to get offended and say

“I didn’t mean to do this to you”

and we didn’t say you did - that’s not the point. The point is it’s distressing anyway. It’s a bit like an industrial jackhammer down the street. It doesn’t mean to offend me either, it’s a machine. It’s still battering my ears, tho. (I usually don’t mind industrial jackhammers, by the way).

This is why I’ve generally not ever said anything about anything that distresses me my whole life, I’ve just suppressed my reactions and endured it.

I’ve been suppressing and carrying so much my whole life and I think doing that has been taking it’s toll and I don’t know what the long-term consequences of that are. It’s beginning to leak, now, at my age, and I can’t really do it any longer, because I’m tired. I need the people around me to understand and help me cope.

- Only this week, in May of 2021, am I learning that Tumblr is actually a wonderful place and resource for neurodiverse people.

I will always adore and respect the rebloggers, I love you all. I’ll never be someone who reblogs endless content but I’m so happy to see people doing this, it’s a way to keep content alive, keep it distributed and keep it visible - don’t ever stop. But what I have found is that the autism tag has a high volume of people actively writing about their experiences, whether it’s their encounters with the medical industry, the process of diagnosis, social stigma, daily interaction, challenges or triumphs. All of it is important - all of it - the memes, the writing, the twitter screencaps, the push against the bad orgs and systemic misunderstanding, it’s been heart-warming to go exploring. While I write wholly on my PC, I tend to go exploring on my phone and I’ve saved started to save a few hilarious memes, but also really touching and meaningful images that mean so much because they capture so perfectly what our lives can be like.

We might be strewn across the globe, separated by kilometres and miles, we may never meet in person, and we may be very different people and personality types with broadly different artistic and cultural tastes from a myriad of different backgrounds, but in this we are united and we have this common understanding.

So far this week if I have two good things, it’s showers and Autism Tumblr.

#2021 #chrono #mental health #autism #ASD #bipolar

0 notes

keldae · 6 years

Text

Drastic Measures (Chapter Nine)

Yep. This planet was miserably cold and wet, and Xaja still hated it. She hunched her shoulders under the borrowed black robes and followed her father out of the hangar to the speeder station. She was thankful for the double dosage of stims given her by both Doc and Dr. Lokin before leaving the ship, keeping the poisoning symptoms at bay. Behind her, she could hear Doc and Theron as they walked in something vaguely approaching unison, their armoured footsteps enough to drown out Dr. Lokin’s footfalls behind them. Somehow, the knowledge that she couldn’t speak to her father or friends, or that her father wouldn’t risk their lives by breaking character to give her any sort of reassurance, made her feel even more small and afraid. Reanden’s last direction had been to not say or do anything without his lead until they were safe within the Citadel and in her brother’s company — there were eyes and ears everywhere, not all of which reported to him. “Acina and Vowrawn have their own spies in the city, not to mention people taking credits from Zakuul or… certain individuals in the Republic. Assume everyone’s directly reporting to either Saresh or Arcann.”

“Even the droids?”

“Especially the droids.”

Xaja kept that in mind as she boarded the speeder taxi to the Citadel. The pilot droid gave all of its passengers a cursory look, but didn’t voice any questions, merely accepted her father’s orders. This wasn’t her dad talking though: this was the Sith Intelligence Commander, his voice cold and emotionless as any Imperial spy might have been expected to sound. If she hadn’t known her dad to be caring and gentle and protective behind closed doors, she would have been intimidated by him. She still felt a shudder down her back, as it was. Little wonder Cipher Nine is still feared in the Republic — and across a good bit of the Empire. Even Acina’s still letting him do whatever he wants. Does she fear him, too?

The taxi wound through Kaas City, landing on the pad before the Sith Sanctum. Glancing to the right, Xaja could see the entrance pad for what her father had informed her was Intelligence’s headquarters; to the left, the nearly-deserted Mandalorian Enclave. Most of the bounty hunters in the service of the Empire had been recalled by Mand’alor the Avenger, the newest leader of their people. The few remaining were either token representatives, or not Mandalorians at all. Either way, it certainly was not somewhere that Xaja wanted to visit.

Of course, the kriffing Sith Sanctum wasn’t somewhere she wanted to be either. But it really was their best option right now, between the element of surprise and the hope that her brother could protect her, Theron, and Doc. She didn’t need to be a spy like her father to know that if she showed fear now, all five of them were probably going to die as their covers were blown. The arrogant Sith Lord walk isn’t too different from a Jedi’s stride. Just act like you own the place. You’ve spent enough time around Scourge. Just mimic how he stood and walked… but, y’know, shorter. She fell into step behind her father as he started walking in, sensing Theron, Doc, and Lokin retaking their positions behind her. To anyone observing, they hopefully would look like an escort for a Sith visitor for Darth Imperius — and if the Commander of Sith Intelligence was walking with them, who was going to question it?

“Ahhh, Commander.” Okay, apparently someone was going to question it. “Finally had your fill of gallivanting around the galaxy, hmm?”

“Are you now trying to keep track of my schedule, Lorman?” Her father sounded like he was trying to sound polite, while keeping himself from strangling this newcomer. “I’m flattered that you’re following me, really.”

“It’s Minister Lorman!” Xaja raised an eyebrow under her hood at the furious sputter from this Lorman. “Is that really so difficult to remember, Commander?”

“My pardon. My mind gets so consumed with things of importance like the security of the Empire and doing my job… oh, and remembering what groceries I need to pick up on my way home.”

More angry sputtering. “Why I -- the nerve -- Empress Acina will hear of this!”

“Yes, I’m sure she will. Doesn’t the Empress have a pair of boots for you to lick, Lorman? If you’ll excuse me…”

“It’s Minister Lorman! Minister!”

“Yes, you’ve said. Move. I need to speak with Darth Imperius immediately.”

“Darth Imperius is otherwise occupied at the moment,” Lorman said through gritted teeth. “If you’ll pass along your message to me I’ll make sure it gets to him—”

“The only message I have for you, Lorman, is one that isn’t repeatable in polite company. The important message is for Imperius’ ears only. Unless you’ve been hired on as his new secretary? If I’d known he was looking for one, I’d have offered him a protocol droid.”

Lorman sounded too angry to speak for a moment, and Xaja almost grinned under the hood. Only the reminder that her lips were still visible kept her expression still. “Your position does not make you invincible, Commander! I am the Minister of Logistics! I still outrank you!”

“And I know your HoloNet passwords, the names of your pets, and where you sleep. By the way, your taste in music is terrible.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You’re asking that of the man escorting Imperius’ newest apprentice?” Reanden’s feet shifted in front of Xaja’s vision as he seemed to move closer to Lorman. “… How did your brain learn human speech, Lorman? I’m just so curious.” Xaja felt a tug in her mind from the little knot that felt like Theron, warm and bright and comforting — it felt like he was desperately trying to not laugh.

“It’s Minister!”

“I would have named my childhood neighbour’s cousin’s pet gizka as a minister instead of you. Acina really must be desperate.”

“You -- ! You would compare me to a gizka?!”

“… No, you’re right. The poor gizka deserved better.” Xaja wanted to laugh at how much her father was taunting this so-called minister. She could feel Theron’s grin under his helmet through their bond.

“You insolent -- ! You would insult me like this in front of a Sith?!”

“Acolyte Xalia seems quite amused by this. If she wasn’t, you would probably already be dead or wishing you were.” Xaja could almost hear the smug smile in her father’s voice. “Bit of a psychopath, this one. Doesn’t talk a lot, although she doesn’t really need to, as far as I’ve seen. I think she comes from a group of cannibals.”

Dammit, Dad, you’re having far too much fun with this.

“… So, he picks ex-Jedi and aliens for his apprentices, and now… cannibals?” Lorman sounded a little bit squeamish. The tug that was Theron fairly vibrated with his amusement.

“I value my life enough to know not to question his choices in apprentices. I’d be careful though, Lorman. This one’s also got the patience of a Jawa on stimcaf and…” Reanden turned, and Xaja wasn’t sure if the sudden shift to his voice was supposed to be nervousness or suppressed laughter. “… Doctor Lokin, do you remember the last time she ate anything?…”

“About four hours ago, sir. She, uhh… might be getting hungry again --”

Xaja couldn’t resist. She turned her hooded head in the direction of Lorman’s voice and gave him what could be best described as a maniacal grin, knowing her mouth was still visible, and was rewarded with a stifled yelp of terror. Even her father shuddered. “Oh, bloody hell, not right now, Acolyte, please don’t make me have to file more paperwork…” he muttered under his breath, just loudly enough to be audible.

“She’s mad, Commander! And Imperius must be insane if he’s picked this one as his newest apprentice!”

“Like I said, I don’t question Darth-kriffing-Imperius. I’m just grateful he gave me the warning to keep her under armed guard. Any more questions before she completely runs out of patience and I have to pay to have you cleaned out of my uniform?”

“… As you were, Commander.” Xaja heard what sounded like boots scrambling for purchase on the smooth floor as Lorman beat a hasty retreat.

“Thank you, Lorman. Come along, Acolyte, and please remember your master said to not eat these guards, or me…”

“It’s Minis --!” Xaja turned her head in the direction of Lorman’s voice and emitted a tiny hiss around her grin, and heard him yelp as he ran. She heard something that sounded like Doc trying not to choke on his own laughter behind his helmet and felt Theron’s amusement through their bond — if he hadn’t been undercover, he probably would have been on the ground laughing.

Reanden led the group to one of the turbolifts down a corridor and, once everyone was on board, entered the command for the lift to rise a few storeys. A few moments later, the turbolift opened on the destination floor, and Xaja could never figure out how her father mastered the stride of someone acting like he was hustling out of a confined space with a questionably-sane Sith without looking like he was trying to escape. She followed with an almost lazy stride, and Theron, Doc, and Lokin all exited after her. This area of the Citadel had been decorated with a much more luxurious hand: Red banners adorned the walls, proudly displaying the Sith Empire’s crest; echoes bounced around the corridor as their footsteps sounded on the black marble floor. She shouldn’t have been surprised her father knew his way; he lead them down the hallway, around a corner, and through a door without bothering to knock.

The Kaleesh standing in the atrium turned and inclined his head minutely. “Commander,” he said in a deep voice, his words clipped and sort. “You have returned sooner than expected.”

“There were… developments that required an in-person report sooner than later,” Reanden answered. “Is your master in, Xalek?”

The alien Sith glanced toward the closed door leading deeper into the chambers. “He, and the ambassador from Zakuul. They have been speaking for some time.” He paused. “My master’s patience is growing thin.”

“Yes, well I don’t blame him,” Reanden growled quietly. “That moron has got the worst timing.”

“Yes. Any timing.”

“Ha! I knew you had a sense of humour in there.”

“My master is training me well—” Xalek looked sharply at the door as Xaja raised her head slightly, sensing a burst of frustration. “And another lesson.”

“And what lesson is that today?” Reanden asked. “How to diplomatically tell someone where to go and how to get there, and what they can do with a rusty hydrospanner and an angry kath hound on the way?” Xaja could feel Theron and Doc both wincing behind her.

“That was last week.” Xalek looked back at the spy, then at the door again. “Today it may be how to verbally skin someone alive.”

“… I’ve never wished for Minister Beniko to be around as I do right now.”

Xalek didn’t get a chance to respond, as the door slid open with perhaps a bit more emphasis than was strictly necessary. A golden-armoured figure stormed out of the inner chamber, radiating fury. Xaja sensed Theron tensing behind her as he recognized the Zakuulan armour. “You will reconsider this, Imperius!”

“They are Republic assets, not Imperial. What interest should I have in this?” Xaja nearly cried when she heard her baby brother’s voice. He’d definitely embraced the Sith persona, his voice low and arrogant and all but dripping in anger. Darth Imperius had come into his own. “This is Zakuul’s mess, Exarch. Surely you can sort out your own problems with the Republic. Three people can’t be that difficult to find.”

“The terrorist and the assassin, and their accomplice on Rishi, have vanished. You must deploy your agents to find them!”

“It’s hardly my fault if your agents are so inept as to lose three people, one of them a bloody Jedi. You still can’t have any of mine.”

“Your insolence is noted!”

“As is your idiocy. Do you honestly think that I am going to divert Imperial resources to hunting three of your problems?” Imperius rolled his eyes as the Exarch opened her mouth. “If my agents happen to come across anything, I will inform you with all due haste. But I am not retasking my people to fix your damn problem.”

The Exarch stayed quiet, breathing through clenched teeth. “Izax damn you,” she finally hissed. “Fine. We will be waiting for your intelligence reports. If your agents are half as good as you claim, they will find something useful soon.”

“Of course,” Imperius said through gritted teeth. His molten eyes glanced over at Reanden, then at his escorting company. Xaja didn’t feel any sudden jolt of recognition from her brother, even when his brief mental probe touched her mind with a soft brush. “If the Jedi and her accomplices are foolish enough to show up in Imperial space, on my bloody doorstep even, I’ll deliver the news to you myself. But might I add they are Republic assets, all of whom seem to have enough survival instincts to avoid my people’s territory.”

“I am aware they are not Imperial,” growled the Exarch as she turned to stalk out of the room. “Consider this, Imperius: if they can attack my people like this, what’s to stop them from going after yours? Are they still not your problem?”

“If your Emperor wants them that badly, he’ll find them before they’re a threat to my people.” Imperius smirked coldly. “And my people can defend themselves against a mere terrorist. Are yours so weak?”

“You play a dangerous game, Sith. I will be waiting.” The Exarch finally stormed out and shut the door emphatically behind her. For a few seconds, nobody moved or spoke.

Reanden finally shook his head and sighed. “I’m so glad she was too mad to remember what my job is. Good job not actually frying her, kid.” Xaja glanced sharply at Xalek as the Kaleesh relaxed against the wall. Right, her brother’s apprentice had already known about her after Ziost -- it was only reasonable that he would know about his master’s father by now.

“Mum’s influence is still lurking, all those years later,” Imperius said as he seemed to deflate with relief. The voice changed — this was Sorand Taerich talking now. “This isn’t… it can’t actually be… Xaja?”

It was clearly safe now. And Sorand had recognized her Force-signature after all. Xaja pushed her hood back and watched her brother’s eyes bulge, amber fading to dark brown like their father’s… then his mouth turned upward in a delighted smile, and a second later she was being hugged tightly enough to be lifted off her feet by her much-taller sibling. “Oh, kriffing hell, you Jedi pain in the ass, I thought you were dead! And you come back by pissing off Zakuul?!”

“You should know I don’t do anything without causing a commotion! I wasn’t about to leave you alone in the galaxy without me to pester you, little brother.” Xaja laughed as she clung to her brother’s shoulders, so grateful to have at least one of her siblings alive and well. She glanced over when she heard the sounds of Theron and Doc removing their helmets and felt Sorand’s Force-presence stutter in surprise. “Uhh… this isn’t going to be a problem, is it…?”

Sorand looked back and forth between the fugitives for a second, then grinned and shook his head. “Not in the least. Oh, the Exarch is going to be livid if she realizes you’re under her nose like this and I conveniently forget to tell her… Xalek?”

“I have seen nothing, Master. The Intelligence Commander merely had a new report for you. The fugitives were never in Imperial Space.” The Kaleesh almost sounded innocent.

“Excellent, apprentice.” Sorand looked back over at his father. “Uhh, what is their cover story here, Dad? I figure Theron and… Doctor Kimble, wasn’t it?… are nameless soldiers in here…”

“Oh, yes. This is your new apprentice, son. She’s a psychopath that may or may not have been affiliated with the Red Hulls — y’know, cannibal and all. Probably crazy enough to scare even your uncle if he’d ever met her.”

“A cannibal? Really?” Sorand sighed, then looked at Xaja. “Did Dad actually call you a cannibal psychopath to give you a cover here?”

Xaja just gave her little brother the same grin she’d shot at Lorman. “Rawr. I ate the competition on Korriban. Or something. Fear me.”

“… I’m having flashbacks to Rishi.” Sorand groaned and looked up at the ceiling. “Dad’s created a monster.”

“My finest work yet.” Reanden leaned against the wall for a moment and smirked. “Lorman’s scared shitless of her.”

Sorand burst out laughing, the sound lighter and easier than one might have expected of one of the Dark Council. “Please tell me you got holos, Dad. I want details!”

“I’ll tell you the full story. But you might want to sit down — we’re going to be here a while, son.” Reanden started walking back into the inner sanctum, sobering. “And for obvious reasons, this is top security.”

“Of course. Shall I summon Talos so we don’t have to explain this multiple times? I believe Mako’s around while Shara’s in a meeting in the Enclave.”

“Mako’s here? Excellent, get her in here — we could use a genius little slicer like her. If you trust Talos to stay silent, we’ll brief him too. Shara obviously will need to know about this — any idea when she’ll be out of that meeting?”

“She’s busy kicking the collective asses of one of the hunters’ guilds, so Force only knows how long that will take…”

Xaja did try to focus on the conversation between her dad and her brother, right up until the point that the headache resurged in her head, painfully enough to make her wince. She didn’t even have to be moving for her balance to suddenly give out, and if Sorand hadn’t still been hugging her, she likely would have wound up in a heap on the floor. As it was, the young Sith squawked in alarm as she sagged with a strangled moan. “The hell?!” he exclaimed. “What’s wrong? Just being on Dromund Kaas shouldn’t be hurting you like this, no matter how much of a Jedi you are!”

Xaja wanted to answer, but couldn’t seem to focus enough on coordinating her mouth and lungs and vocal cords all at once to speak — it was enough effort to not completely collapse, even with Sorand practically holding her up until Theron had lunged forward to grab her by the waist and her father came running back. She could only count herself very, very fortunate that the stims hadn’t worn off sooner.

“And that’s a big part of why we’re here and not hiding on Tatooine or Hoth,” Theron finally said as Sorand looked up at him while Lokin hurried around them to get to Xaja’s side, syringes of drugs already coming out of his satchel. “She’s been carbonite poisoned by the Zaks, and it’s bad.”

Sorand’s eyes widened in shock — Xaja felt dismay and fear pulse off of him for a second. He apparently already knew what that meant. “... Shit.”

#drastic measures #theron/xaja #in which ideas from Rishi get reused #featuring a cameo from MINISTER Lorman #short chapter is short #but delightfully full of snark #SpyDad's a dick #but a funny one #I giggled writing this #Imperius #Xaja #Reanden #Sorand #Theron #Clan Taerich #also Firefly reference FTW

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mikenips · 4 years

Text

Together Now

Fuck. People better start showin’ up soon. Ate the tab too early. Already did my Johnny Thunders makeup. Shirt with a missing sleeve Dylan tore off. And the classic shredded denims around my waist. Even wore a dog collar this time. Jake better have been serious about gettin’ people to dress up. Hope he was able to find one of those oversized greeting cards. Went to three places and couldn’t find one for Brendan. Even rearended someone in the process. Some Vietnam vet that didn’t even bother to take the cig outta his mouth while gettin’ my info. That’s what I need to calm these nerves. A cig. Bought a second pouch in case I start chiefin’ ‘em. That’s how the acid goes.

Take a shot of etizolam. Half dose. Don’t wanna kill the trip. But definitely need to slow it down. Would’ve been fine if I had waited another hour. But wanted to peak during Brendan’s last Toeheads set before dippin’ for the Navy in Rhode Island.

Blink and the living room is startin’ to fill with bodies. Jake’s orange wool hat clashin’ with his costume. “Brendan isn’t here yet is he?”

“Nah.”

“Cool. Pass around this poster board. Have everyone sign a goodbye card for him. Couldn’t find a real card. So we’ll fold it in half. You got any good photos of him?”

Tear the one off the wall. Stimmed out in the cig room at the end of Summerfest. Tape it to the center. Not a bad turn out so far. For a show thrown together in a couple days. Luckily Wednesday is my off day at work. Devil’s Night. Fifteen minutes after start time. Hour after load in was supposed to be. Jake never did clarify what time music was gonna start. Just asked to use Belmont for the occasion.

“We’re on first right?” Chuck says from the front door behind me.

“Yeah. Go ahead up and you can start settin’ up.”

Jake hides the card in the coves upstairs where 208’s gear is already tucked away. KQ adjusts Jordan’s kit. While Owen and Ben plug in amps. Chuck sets a pumpkin on the ground. “PHARMA” scrawled over the front in Sharpie. A large pill bottle with the label torn off next to it. They dip for the front porch for a preshow cig. Cig room already hotboxed by Dee and everyone at Ham House. They do this shit everytime. Just need to step in for a minute. And the second hand smoke smothers the urge for the cig you just rolled up.

Dylan is on the front porch with a sheet over his head. Makin’ everyone guess who the ghost is. Drew and Tina drinkin’ Buzzballs in the kitchen. X’s on their foreheads. “They taste like a flat Four Loko. Not good. But named appropriately.” Pop the empties on the shelf in the kitchen with the memorabilia from after parties and other sets here. Glad people actually wore their costumes.

Everybody’s here and the benzos are makin’ the night extra surreal. Like this night is somethin’ from a dream we all avoided sleepin’ through. The King of the Scene arrives. Different pair than his normal octagon sunglasses over his eyes. Stroh’s already cracked as he walks in. Peter’s upstairs testin’ the projector setup. His hazy visuals on the ceiling and the Peanuts sheets on my mattress propped against the wall. Time to uncork the liter and a half wine bottle.

The feedback whistles from Owen’s cranked amp upstairs. Whistlin’ everyone into the dark bedroom. The neighbors only complain about the noise when the hardcore bands play. So tonight might not be their favorite show. But after this Belmont is closin’ for the season. Gotta clean the bathtub for my landlord’s property inspection next month. Can’t believe I’ve been here for two years now. And averaged a show a month this past year. Couldn’t pick a better closin’ ceremony the King’s departure.

The crowd stands anxiously against the wall as Pharma plows through their first song. Chuck pacin’ around the room with mic in hand. Scoops the pumpkin from the ground as KQ beats the sticks together. One two three. And on the fourth the orange splinters on the blue carpet. Tyriq shoves Joey mid kick as Chuck’s screams clip the speaker. Everyone’s flesh collides. Oozes against each other before slidin’ off the sweat. No amount of AC or open windows able to stop the humidity of body friction. Bones crack and disintegrate to the marrow of our lives. Rail the line and jump in. Bottle in hand. Joey’s skull makin’ contact with the base. Spewin’ a geyser onto the wall from the palm of my hand.

The red wine paints streaks on the white drywall that still stands defiantly against our chaos. Drops run down at a fraction the speed of Owen’s blurred hand makin’ the strings wail. And in ten minutes, the masochistic treatment of our eardrums unfortunately ends. Light flicks on. Showin’ a mess of pumpkin guts. Seeds. And capsules of an unknown drug woven into the carpet by our feet. When did that shit burst? “Nips, you want me to clean this up at the end of the night?” Chuck pants. Red in the face.

“Nah man. It really ties the bedroom together.”

He smiles as Kyle drags his amp from the cove for their set. Shelby adjusting the kit. Walks away as Jake towers into the room. Emptyin’ a Stroh’s into himself. “Thanks for askin’ us to play Jake. Super stoked to get to play a show with Toeheads.”

“Man. Thanks for comin’ here from Florida.”

“Well thanks for acceptin’ us into this. We didn’t know anybody here when we moved out here. But you all made us feel so welcomed into this family.”

Gotta get a cig in before this set. Once 208 starts you’re gribbed in. As tight as the stranglehold Kyle has on the neck of his guitar. The reverb slaps back with the thud of Shelby’s drums. Bouncin’ you from wall to wall. Body to body. Drowns out the thoughts reverberatin’ off the walls of your skull.

He’s gotta have the shoes off every show. Release the hounds! Let the brutalization of instruments begin. The things we do for tone. He mumbles almost incoherently into the mic behind shags of hair. “This next one’s ‘Hotel California.’” Shelby’s tom thumps in the background as Peter’s lights pulse on the walls. Kyle droppin’ to the floor. Body twitchin’ with each crunch of distortion he bends outta the amp. Until it gives out. Forcing a finale from the duo.

“I forgot the tambourine!” Drew yells to Joey.

“Fuck. Should we run down the street to grab it.”

“I got bongos.” Pass ‘em to Drew while the three Toeheads debate their setlist. Gonna play the full EP that drops at midnight. Cassettes from Remove Records comin’ soon.

Grab a beer from the fridge. Drew standin’ in the kitchen. Joint tucked between lips. Greasy hair falls on the shoulders of his bright shirt. Tappin’ the bongos surrounded by women with X’s on their foreheads. “That’s gotta be the most cult leader lookin’ thing I’ve seen in my life.” Joey passes by. Tosses a beer can in the sink. And grabs a plate to set upstairs.

The ceiling and wall covered in shots of the trio performing on the front porch. The same front porch I first spotted Brendan and Jake from at the first show I threw a year ago. Just two goons sittin’ in a red Dodge. Drinkin’ Labatt. Heavy. And the one hidin’ behind octagon shades tells me about this tape label he started. Remove Records. “King of the Scene!” Drew yells perched on the head on top of Joey’s 8x10. Jake cuts his goodbye speech off early. Don’t wanna get too heavy before the heavy music.

The chords crunch under his fingertips. The brass crashes under Brendan’s sticks. Joey gettin’ some futuristic fuzz from the bass. This is the future of garage. Happenin’ right before my dilated pupils. The noise ceases as Jake’s mumbled first line grows into a scream. Then pounds faster. Harder. Sloppier. How can Peter’s camera even handle this noise? “With a knife!”

Standin’ by the stairs the group begins a cover of “Anna (Go to Him.)” The crowd dances with each other. Belts the chorus in unison as the peak takes my brain into this dream. Everybody gathered in this sweaty bedroom. Vibin’ together. What more could you dream of? One last night for all of us to be together. Together right here. Right now. Hidin’ the makeup streakin’ under my eyes in the cig room from Rae and Kyle from the Waterheads.

The group ends the onslaught of feedback. Screeches. Of both instruments and vocal cords. Reverb. Thuds and crashes. Hi-hats through the wall. And every jarring sound your ears dream of bein’ berated by. Joey trades the bass for a second guitar. Yells for a pick. While Jake begs for some noise to stop him from continuin’ a corny speech. It is Devil’s Night after all. Brendan trades his sunglasses for the pair of octagons in his leather jacket while takin’ a bow.

“Burn down Midtown!” From Drew.

“Has anyone seen my wallet?!” From Dee.

“It’s not fuckin’ workin’!” From Joey who can’t rail a line through the humidity. Gives it up before his ode to DMT and a rambunctious cover of “Blew My Mind” to close the set.

“Don’t we have a bunch more?” Joey yells across the room.

“Well some of us working class folk have a job to go to in the morning.” Evan jokes.

“Alright. We’ll do an encore for Brendan’s last ride.” Jake plugs back in. Drew stands in the center of the room. Pulls back up the bongos in sweaty, red hands. “This one’s called ‘Demon House.’

“I’ve been livin’ in a demon house!” None of the notes are distinguishable in the final barrage of sound. But the bodies crash into each other. For one last connection to the King that gave everybody somethin’ to show their parents. I can still hear him behind the bottle of Stroh’s at Painted Lady before we bootlegged the Milk Bath gig at Outer Limits. “Just somethin’ to say ‘you guys might not be into this. But somebody out there thinks it means somethin’.’”

As the party filters out, Jordan video calls me on Snapchat to say goodbye to Brendan before he sets sail. Says the broken hi-hat stand was the least he could offer in return to the King of the Scene. Joey spills the bottle of wine next to me. Looks up from rollin’ around on the floor. “That’s the difference between me and Jay Retard. I know when not to break shit.” The words fill the holes the acid burns into my brain as he dips to prep Ham House for the after party. Leavin’ his shoes behind. The picture of me and him in his underwear will surface in a few days but doesn’t help fill the gaps in the night.

Sittin’ next to me, Brendan dents a Stroh’s can in his hand. Hood over his head. But no octagons to hide the tears in his eyes. “It’s just… For the first time… I feel like I finally got a family. And now that I have that feeling. I gotta leave my home behind. Over a mistake I enlisted in months ago.” He sniffles and kills the can. Somethin’ about the way that last drop of beer hits makes you puke it all up. “And I don’t know how long until I’ll be able to get back to that feeling.”

“But that’s the beauty of it.” Take a swig from the remains of the wine bottle. “No matter what happens now. You got the security of family. We’re all still gonna be here. And whenever you get back, the empty space you left will still be here for you. Ya know now no matter what you always got a family somewhere. Forever. Maybe the scene ends. Maybe Joey moves somewhere like New Mexico or some shit. Maybe I finally clean the bathtub like my landlord and Jake keep askin’. But no matter where any of us are or what’s different. You’ll always be able to show up and have people and a place where you belong. No matter where we are we’re all together now.”

One by one people nod to sleep at Ham House. People find their way back to their beds. And don’t have to dream about a home. Cause they got a place to be free. Like Manson sang about. Brendan hugs me goodbye. And I find my way to the after hours where my friend Josh asks sincerely if I’m doin’ alright tonight. Cause he knows it’s not just the acid and benzos makin’ everything feel surreal. But at least when I get home. There’s a pair of octagon glasses in the explosion of pumpkin seeds and prescription strength anti-inflammatories. I’ll end up losing ‘em in a few months. Life’s cruel that way. Even all the shit that means somethin’ to us will pass. But at least we got it together now.

#hail the riff #grown up fucked up #toeheads #belmont house #pharma #208 #vague glimpses of beauty #remove records #detroit garage rock #detroit diy #a vibe

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inexcon · 7 years

Text

RSI Comm-Link: Collision Course: Part 1

The normal weekly News Update will be taking a brief hiatus in order to bring you this special multi-part adventure, Collision Course. We hope you enjoy.

The aircycler kicked on overhead and the grate covering the vent began to rattle. Again.

How many hours of uninterrupted sleep was that this time? One? Two?

With her eyes still closed, Clara debated if she should try to ignore it, or if she should just give in and wake up. Almost in response, a tingling itch began a slow crawl up her arm. That settled it. Better to get up and do something than lie here trying to ignore it.

She sat up and checked her mobi. 4:00 am SET. She turned off the alarm she had optimistically set for 7:00 am and switched over to her comms. No responses from any of the jobs she had applied for.

Crap.

Clara had hoped that Gunther reaching out to his contacts would have given her a boost, but it seemed like both Crusader Security and Blackjack on ArcCorp were pretty firm in not wanting to throw any work her way. She thought that guild standings wouldn’t matter as much in Stanton, but apparently, they did. Or at least they did when it came to contracting with her.

She brought up the job board and cruised past all the postings she had looked through yesterday. She hadn’t had any work since escorting an Aciedo repairman to a downed comm array in the sector a few days prior. By now her dry spell had lasted long enough that she was toying with the idea of shutting down a comm array herself just to generate another escort contract, but knew in her heart that if things ever got that desperate she’d try Hurston before going outlaw.

Standing up, she waved her hand over the light switch and winced as the harsh overhead kicked on. The EZ-Hab was already looking worse for wear since she had moved in ten nights ago. She quickly rinsed her mouth with a half swallow of stale Smoltz and proceeded to get dressed.

Clara was comforted by the weight of her pistol as it locked into place on her hip mount. Even if she couldn’t fire the thing aboard Port Olisar, she still liked knowing it was there. Plus, you never knew when you might run into a potential client. Always pays to look the part, she thought as she slicked her hair back and tucked it under the blue Mercenary Guild cap.

Nothing wrong with wearing a hat, right? It’s people’s own fault if they leap to conclusions.

Boots laced, she shoved as much of the trash as she could from the table into a grease-stained Whammer’s bag, and turned to head out into the station.

Or at least she tried to. With a sigh, Clara waved the bag in front of the door’s motion sensor until it finally decided to pay attention. When EZ-Hab offered an econ-suite, they really meant it. Next job, she promised herself, she’d look into an upgrade, or at least pay the extra creds for the cleaning service.

After depositing the trash in a bin, she navigated her way through the light crowd of travelers waiting to catch transfers down to the gas giant below and headed towards Garrity Defense.

“I’m telling you, I know my stuff,” said Clara. “Go on, test me.”

“Look, I’m sure you do,” replied Diego, the Garrity Defense third-shift manager. “But I’m just not looking to hire.”

“Test me,” insisted Clara, “and then decide. That’s all I’m asking.”

Between docking fees, insurance and the price of keeping her ship loaded, fueled, and ready for action, her funds were rapidly drying up. Crunching the numbers, she had only about two days of credits left before she was going to have to either start living in her ship, stop eating, or worse. She figured if she could pull a couple shifts selling guns and armor, maybe she could hold on long enough until she could drum up some real work. It’s not like she was sleeping anyway, so why not?

Diego, glancing up at her guild hat, finally shrugged and said, “Fine. You want a test? See that guy? He’s a shuttle jockey. Stays aboard Olisar once a week and probably spends half that time staring at the merch, not buying anything. Get him to actually spend some creds and we’ll talk about getting you some shifts here.”

Clara appraised the man in question. The undersuit he was wearing was higher quality stuff than any transfer shuttle pilot should need — full armor connects, light EVA thrusters, and most importantly, spotless. Even the man’s boots looked untouched. Probably the most telling thing was the simple fact he was wearing it all inside the station when most people couldn’t wait to change into regular clothes after a flight.

She walked up next to him and looked at the display of rifles on the wall. A moment passed before she said, “Thinking about getting the S71?”

“I’m fine. Thanks,” the man responded.

“That’s good ‘cause I don’t work here.”

“Oh, sorry. I just thought —”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” Clara took a step away and trained her focus on a lower rack showcasing some scopes.

“You were saying something about the S71?” The man asked, gesturing towards the sleek, black rifle.

“I was going to tell you not to get it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because carrying one makes you a target. Strap that on, and everyone in the room marks you as a serious operator. I mean look at the thing. It screams, I’m a threat.” Clara put on her best thousand-yard stare and softened her voice, “My ex-partner Gunther used to pack one. Sure, he did a lot of good with it and yeah, there’s definitely a few less outlaws out there, but do I think he’d still be alive if he had chosen to carry a lesser weapon? You bet your ass I do.”

The man stood slack-jawed as she finished.

“I know it’s not my place to tell you what to do. I just promised myself that if I ever saw someone thinking about making the mistake he did, I would warn them if I could.” Suddenly, her mobiGlas chirped to alert her of an incoming comm. “Anyway, I gotta go.”

With that, Clara turned and headed towards the door, making sure to give Diego a wink as she passed. She parked herself around the corner and brought up her mobi.

She was a little surprised to see that the comm was from Eckhart Security. She had heard of the company back when she was with the guild, but she didn’t know much beyond their reputation of playing fast and loose with the rules.

Then again, her rep wasn’t that great at the moment either.

She answered, “Hello?”

“Yeah, is this Clara Lin?” asked a gruff voice belonging to an equally weathered face. “I’m Miles Eckhart.”

A comm from the man himself, thought Clara. That’s something.

“A friend of yours contacted me this morning and had some interesting things to say.”

She pretty much only had one friend in the ’verse right now. “Gunther?”

“That’s the one. Me and him crossed each other’s path a few years back and long story short, I owed him a favor. Guess you’re it.”

“You’re giving me a job?” Clara asked, trying not to let too much hope seep into her voice.

“Ease up, all I’m doing is giving you an interview.”

“What do you need to know?” Clara asked.

The customer from Garrity Defense walked past. He tried to avoid eye contact as he quickened his pace and turned the corner.

“Not over comms. I’m old fashioned that way,” said Miles. “I’ll send you my location.” A popup showed that she had received the coordinates. “One last thing. Show up ready to work.”

The comm line switched off as the manager from Garrity Defense popped his head out of the store and came hurrying over.

“There you are,” said Diego. “What did you say to him? He bought an S71 and every single attachment we carry. The job’s yours.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know,” said Clara, leaving behind a slightly confused Diego as she headed off to grab her gear.

Clara had never been to Levski before, and stepping into the station, she instantly suspected that this had been a good call. She knew about the People’s Alliance, but was surprised how much being surrounded by their anti-UEE sentiment made her skin crawl. She hadn’t served in the military or ever seriously considered becoming a Citizen, but she had been outside of the UEE before, and if she had to choose between the mess out there and the mess inside the Empire, the one where you can get a hamburger and a medpen whenever you wanted was the clear winner.

The giant statue of a dead kid in the lobby didn’t really help with the vibe either.

Avoiding the aggressive hawkers in the bazaar, she weaved her way to Cafe Musain, the local watering hole. As she stepped down the stairs, she was surprised by how comfortable the bar looked. The warm lighting, the worn art on the walls, the lingering smell of stale stim in the air, it all reminded her of the places she used to —

Clara forcefully stopped that train of thought. She needed to focus right now.

There. She spotted Eckhart sitting at a high-top table off to the side of the bar. The drink he was holding sloshed in his glass slightly as he browsed his mobi.

Clara approached and was about to introduce herself when —

“Grab a seat. I’ll be with you in a second.”

Clara pulled out the stool across from him and waited. She noticed his particularly thick jacket and wondered if it was to hide weapons or if it was armored. Probably both, she decided.

“You need a drink?” He asked as he closed his mobi.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Good,” he said before taking a long sip of his own. “Then let’s get down to business. Which hand do you shoot with?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering, “Left.”

“Let me see.”

Clara raised her hand and held it out. Miles took another swallow as he watched it. Her hand stayed steady.

“Now the other.”

Taking a deep breath, Clara held out her right hand. The slight tremble was apparent immediately.

“Not good, but definitely not the worse I’ve seen. You clean?”

“Three months,” said Clara as she lowered her arm.

“Good.” Miles brought up his mobi again and sent her a file. “I just sent you the details for a black box retrieval.”

“Wait, you had me come all the way out here just to look at my hands?”

“You’d be surprised how many people I weed out just by making them fly to meet me,” said Miles. “Plus, I find it’s much harder to screw someone over after you’ve met them in person.” Miles finished off his drink. “Now, a client of mine lost a ship of theirs and wants to keep the whole thing private. I need you to recover the flight data before the insurance company can. Take a look and let me know if you can handle it.”

Clara brought up the contract and looked it through. Seemed straightforward enough. The ship had been lost out near the asteroid cluster surrounding Crusader’s moon, Yela. Not particularly dangerous. Well, not any more dangerous than the rest of Crusader. Pay was a bit low. She said so.

“Damn right, it’s low,” said Miles. “This is just a tryout. You pull it off and it’ll mean more jobs and more credits. You screw up and at least I’m squared away with Gunther. What do you say?”

When she was part of the guild, Clara would have walked away from the table. It wasn’t that anything Miles had done or said was hinky, but one of the first things she learned starting off as a merc was to trust her gut. Right now, it was telling her Miles wasn’t exactly the sort of man she wanted to be in business with. It was telling her that she should just go back to Olisar and sell weapons and armor to people who most likely didn’t need them.

She pressed the accept button on the contract anyway.

She completed her fourth and last scan. Other than some residual EM signature from the few batteries that still had power scattered throughout the wreckage, all was quiet among the asteroids.

It was a bit strange to be doing a mission solo. Caution was the key. In the past, she had flown with Gunther for five years, and with Jenn and Tal for the last two. Moving in a group always meant you had someone watching your back. Solo was a whole different beast.

She scanned one more time for luck, then nudged her Buccaneer closer to the mass of debris that used to be a Constellation. Whoever had done this had done a thorough job, that’s for sure. Rotating slightly, she steadied the headlight of her ship onto the twisted and torn bridge. The black box would most likely still be in there. Clara debated if she should power down all the way, or leave her ship running just in case she needed a fast exit. In the end, she decided to just cut the engine, leaving the rest of the systems on, telling herself it was prudence and not the fact it would be really creepy out here with her ship’s lights turned off.

She double checked her O2 levels, the seals on her suit, her pistol and her rifle, before finally pulling the cockpit release latch. The glass lifted up and with a small push off her seat, she drifted into space. She mentally rotated her center of gravity so that the bright ball of Yela was below her, instead of above.

Following the beam of light from her Buc, she slowly pulsed her thrusters forward, carefully clearing any small bits of debris out of the way as she went. At the Guild, they always taught the new members SSKY: Stupid Stuff Kills You. Even then, about a third of the merc deaths you read about weren’t from outlaws blasting them out of the sky, but from little things like not tracking oxygen closely enough or forgetting to carry an extra medpen. The job was dangerous; no reason to make it more so.

Clara cut her EVA thrusters and drifted the last few meters till she hit the cockpit glass with a soft ‘thunk.’ The ship groaned and creaked as metal scraped and settled. She swung her flashlight around the interior and saw that the black box was still safely nestled where it should be.

Now to find a way in.

She had never served aboard a Connie herself, but she had fought against one once. If she had been the attacker, the first thing she would have targeted was the turrets and from what she remembered, they weren’t exactly known for staying attached once you blew them up.

She rotated so she was facing right way up relative to the plane of the ship, and then pulled herself to the top of the bridge. Sure enough, a gaping jagged tear along the hull marked where the dorsal turret had once been. Clara climbed into the empty turret shaft headfirst, to where the emergency hatch had sealed off the bridge once the turret had vented. She was about to manually override the hatch, when she noticed it.

The thrusters of an approaching ship.

TO BE CONTINUED …

#RSI.CommLink.Repost

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