" PEACE AND JUSTICE ARE TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN. "
#justxez : an independent, private and selective roleplay blog for an original character Mae Aust. a clinical/forensic psychologist by day & vigilante by night kinda type. formerly known as justxe (est. around 2016-2018, revived 2025). created & written by m., 28+. (very) slow & sporadic activity.
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(02/23/2025): this blog is on an undefined hiatus until further notice.
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NAME: "Mae" Aust
SPECIES: Human (fun fact: Mae originated as a vampire for the Preacher comics)
AGE: 38
ORIENTATION: Interest in any gender
HERITAGE: Central Europe
LANGUAGES: English, German, French, ASL
OCCUPATION: Clinical psychologist, forensic psychologist – working as an independent contractor; self-proclaimed Vigilante
SPECIAL SKILLSET:
Combat Proficiency:
– Unarmed melee (boxing, MMA, Krav Maga)
– Dual wielding of blunt and edged weapons
Psychological Expertise:
– Criminal profiling and behavioral analysis
– High emotional intelligence (especially in manipulation & interrogation)
Tactical Strengths:
– Sharp observational skills
– Strategic thinker with a strong ability to improvise under pressure
– Skilled negotiator, especially in high-stakes or emotionally volatile scenarios
FACECLAIM:
– Elizabeth "Liz" Sherman by Mike Mignola for comic-verses,
– Michelle Monaghan for live-action-verses
PERSONALITY: Calm and clinical. Justice-driven, but morally flexible. Emotionally restrained on the surface, deeply conflicted beneath. Hard shell & soft core. Empathetic, calculating, wanting to be in control, and harder on herself than anyone else.
BASIC CHARACTER VIGNETTE:
Mae believes she was born to be a forensic psychologist. Her early life fueled that ambition - until it warped. The desire to heal never left, but it became entangled with a hunger for revenge, driven by an unwillingness to accept that some people never get what they truly deserve, regardless of the help they’re offered.
Now, she juggles her professional life with a secret role as a vigilante. Mae feels the walls closing in, but the deeper she sinks into this double life, the harder it becomes to break free. The guilt never leaves. She tells herself she’s in control, that her actions are justified, but deep down, she knows better. Mae is an expert at convincing herself that her actions are justified, even as the truth becomes harder to ignore.
Mae wears a mask of calm professionalism, detached and unreadable. But as trust builds, that mask slips, revealing a vulnerable and conflicted self beneath. Her internal contradiction - trying to bring peace and justice - has turned her into her own unreliable narrator.
And it’s that contradiction that defines her.
(I'd recommend to check out the headcanons tag for more in-depth info & musings about Mae. As well as this post about how & why Mae got into vigilantism - as well as what broke her.)
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ABOUT THE MUN:
Hi, hello, hi! You can call me m., lvl 29, Austria born & bred (CET / UTC+01:00). Currently living, working, and on the way to becoming a psychologist there as well.
This blog is very slow activity as well as very sporadic dash activity. I tend to lurk on in my IM's or live in my drafts when I'm here.
GENERAL RULES & DISCLAIMER:
General rp-rules apply. No drama, please.
This is a highly selective & mutuals-only blog; Chemistry (IC and/or OOC) matters to me a lot.
Queue runs on one post a day.
This blog is a fictional portrayal of an original character created and written by me. While some elements may draw from personal experiences or emotions as a form of creative exploration, all events and dialogue are fictionalized or invented for dramatic purposes. This blog may include sensitive or triggering content (e.g., trauma, violence, manipulation, horror, suggestive themes, strong language). Reader discretion is advised.
Pinned post drawing by TrashySoda
GENERAL SHIPPING & NSFW:
I love to explore all kinds of relationship dynamics (romantic, platonic, antagonistic) but they have to be chemistry-based or pre-established.
I'm fine with writing mature themes. I don't like to write smut.
VERSES:
I enjoy exploring different settings for Mae and am confident she can fit into almost any universe or time through tailored OOC chats beforehand.
I love people who have specific characters that are their "no one understands this character like me. not even the writers." because they're genuinely not joking. the way they understand those specific characters is so profound that it'll change your entire veiw.
Okay, so I've watched the Brighter Sing-Along more times than a person is probably supposed to while analyzing the murders, and there's something I just can't ignore.
What is Vincent's cult even about? Seriously, what is he offering these people? You can assume everyone standing in the water surrounded by electricity paired with Vincent's "who's ready to be baptized into a new era of entertainment" was part of a group suicide, as is often the case with cults, but what was the point of any of that?
cracks knuckles this is an interpretation of someone interested in psychology & forensics pieced together as a personal opinion/reading into that, as well as Vincent/Vox as a character (and with Brighter understood as a fully stylized psychological origin montage).
TL;DR (long long version under the cut): Vincent's "cult" seemed to essentially be a media-fueled ideological movement built around himself rather than a traditional isolated cult. Over time, he probably transformed his network into an identity system where most likely employees and audiences (as well as the cult of personality around him) emotionally tied progress, entertainment, and the future to him personally. He seemingly genuinely believed he was reshaping reality through media, which is why he later (S2E1) calls it a "movement" instead of rejecting the word "cult" outright.
The aquarium meeting where he died was likely/comes across as a symbolic culmination event for this vision - part corporate rally, part ideological spectacle, part "baptism" into his "new era of entertainment" (to use his rhetoric). The deaths were most likely accidental, plausibly resulting from the collapse of the unstable spectacle architecture he built to reinforce his own godlike image.
(the "it's not that deep, bro" unintentionally turned into a layered interpretive reading that separates canon inference, structural fanon assumptions, and symbolic reconstruction where necessary, oh well)
What Vincent built is better understood as, not fitting the traditional definition of a cult, even if it was perceived as one from the outside given what the show showed us so far, and even if parts of it psychologically functioned like one.Structurally, it does not clearly read as a completely isolated belief system detached from society in the way people usually imagine cults. The people around him likely still would have lived in the outside world, still worked jobs, still existed inside a functioning media industry and broader society (my fanon re: structural assumptions about full network integration: actually is that the attendees were most likely his employees once he owned and conceptualized the network).
What made Vincent dangerous was not physical isolation or total enclosure, but the fact that he was gradually turning a workplace, a media network, and eventually an entire public image ecosystem into something that behaved like an ideological identity system centered entirely around himself. The cult of personality formed around him to me seemed most likely like an addition to this internal perception.
That distinction matters to me because Vincent himself most likely did not think in terms of "I'm creating a cult". He probably thought in terms of building something larger, more legitimate, more historical than that - something that fit his, at this time, deteriorating mental state.
This is exactly why, years later, in Hell (S2E1), when Valentino calls it a cult, Vox neither fully denies nor fully accepts the label ("You could call it a cult. But I'd say it was more of a movement").
That line only really makes sense to me when I'm looking at Vincent's psychology as a whole. He (especially later as Vox) seemed to understand why people would perceive it as a cult because by the end of his life, people genuinely revolved around him emotionally, professionally, and ideologically. But I think in his own mind, "cult" was too small, too irrational, too unserious a word for what he believed he had achieved.
A cult is, by what I know/researched (always open for correction though!), centered around blind devotion; a movement implies inevitability, historical significance, transformation, momentum. Vincent probably did not see himself as manipulating a small isolated group of followers. He probably saw himself as reshaping entertainment itself, reshaping mass communication, reshaping how people emotionally experienced reality through media.
To him, it seemed, the emotional devotion surrounding him was proof that he was right, not proof that he was dangerous.
(Interpretation note: This relies on fan-inferred time depth, used as a structural rather than literal reading) The important thing to me personally is that his worldview evolved gradually. Early in his rise, his murders can be read as having been framed (in-universe or in fanon) as pragmatic. They seemed to be about advancement, elimination of obstacles, and insertion into positions of greater visibility and influence. He killed people above him because he, how I read it, wanted their roles, their authority, their access to the public. (I'm aware of other/additional interpretations, though given the topic of this insight, I don't see the need to elaborate on them further.)
But as his public image grew and the murders went unsolved or misclassified over and over again (I also have many thoughts about how that was possible, but I digress), something psychologically changed: The public adored him (especially regarding the cult of personality formed around him). The network increasingly depended on him because of his status at work. Ratings probably rose around him (which eventually led to him being called the "God of Entertainment").
Internally, probably even people who distrusted him still treated him as indispensable because every crisis somehow ended with him rising higher. The unresolved deaths, the "curse" (I personally think there'd be a "curse" reputation since it seemed very plausible for 1940's media environments) surrounding productions connected to him, and his apparent uncanny ability to survive every scandal all may have contributed to what could be interpreted as a growing mythos around him instead of destroying it.
By the late 1940’s, Vincent may have reached a point where he was no longer merely succeeding professionally (in interpretive terms). He could be interpreted as becoming symbolically untouchable.
That is the point where the network seemed to stop being just a company to him. He maybe began psychologically converting it into something closer to an extension of himself.
The rhetoric in the final speech (S2E7, "Brighter") demonstrates this perfectly: "I will be your voice. [...] We will redefine what it means to rule the airwaves. [...] Trust me, and your future will be brighter.”
None of this reads to me as ordinary executive language anymore. He is no longer speaking as a network owner or even as a celebrity. He is speaking as someone attempting to merge institutional identity, public identity, and personal identity into one thing. The employees are no longer just employees in his mind. They are participants in a future he alone understands: to him, loyalty to the network becomes loyalty to his vision, and loyalty to his vision increasingly becomes loyalty to him personally.
(my fanon re: distinction between “movement” and cult of personality is treated here as partially separate systems that later converge. What I've said in this paragraph is why I strongly believe that this movement and the cult of personality formed around him were two distinct things. I like to imagine that, later on, at the event, we got to see in canon both probably have somewhat merged together regarding the attendees.)
This is why I think the word "movement" is so important. Vincent seemingly was trying to transform a workplace hierarchy into an ontological identity system - not just a place people worked, but a framework through which they understood progress, entertainment, modernity, and even themselves (which is exactly what VoxTek turned out to become).
His medium was television, which made this especially dangerous because, unlike traditional cult leaders who isolate followers physically, Vincent worked through saturation. He did not remove people from reality; he attempted to overwrite reality by controlling the narratives people consumed every day. In his mind, if he controlled the medium through which people interpreted the world, then he effectively controlled the world itself.
That is why to me the line about feeling "closest to being a god" (S2E1) matters so much. He does not say he felt like a god in a metaphorical sense - and he is a character who seemingly not only takes things at face value but also very carefully chooses words, so yes, semantics. I read it as him saying he felt closest to being one because, from his perspective, he had achieved something approximating omnipresence: he was seen everywhere, trusted everywhere, admired everywhere, and emotionally internalized by both audiences and employees alike (and given how it ended for him if it had gone on longer - my fanon is it was like 2 years, but that doesn't really matter - he probably could have actually gotten to perceive himself as a god).
The meeting at the abandoned aquarium, to me, is essentially the culmination of that psychological evolution. It probably was not a normal company meeting, nor a conventional cult gathering, nor a public rally. It was something in between all three.
The abandoned aquarium setting seems deeply important because it removes the event from ordinary institutional space. If it had happened in a studio boardroom or soundstage, it would still feel grounded in ordinary corporate reality. By staging it in a surreal repurposed environment filled with hanging televisions, water imagery, neon slogans, and industrial infrastructure, Vincent transformed the event into a symbolic spectacle (and we all know how much this character loves spectacle).
The space itself became liminal - no longer entirely workplace, no longer entirely performance, no longer entirely ritual. That ambiguity is exactly what, to me, made it psychologically powerful (besides the clear annotations to his interest as well as his overall character design having influences on marine life/sharks).
How I view it, the attendees were most likely primarily employees and internal network personnel rather than isolated cult devotees (in general nor of the cult of personality) in the traditional sense, but again, I do believe that there could have been a mix at this event especially. However, by that point, I could see many of them psychologically behaving with cult-like devotion because Vincent had spent some time collapsing the distinction between career success, emotional belonging, and ideological alignment.
I can imagine that some people in that room genuinely believed in him. Some were opportunists who recognized his power and attached themselves to it. Some were skeptics who privately thought the rhetoric was excessive but had learned to reinterpret his increasingly grandiose behavior as theatricality or visionary eccentricity. Others were simply caught in the emotional momentum of the environment. The important thing is that, at this point, probably nobody in that room experienced the event in entirely neutral terms anymore. Vincent had successfully saturated the institution with himself.
(Interpretation note: This section relies on fan-inferred timeline extension and is a heavily interpretive reconstruction combining symbolic reading, inferred institutional mechanics, and speculative engineering failure. It is not intended as a literal canon claim but as a layered analytical model.)
There are a few possibilities of how this can be read, with the meeting itself most plausibly not being the first of its kind, but also not an ordinary recurring event. It was likely a culmination event - either celebrating the completion of the network’s ideological restructuring under his control or inaugurating a new phase of expansion and identity consolidation. I do, however, believe the one we as an audience got to see (S2E7, "Brighter) was a first in terms of it being as celebratory, groundbreaking and theatrical (just by judging the set-up and Vincent's speech rhetoric).
The language of "baptism" strongly suggests transition rather than routine. Baptism symbolizes rebirth, entry into a new state of being, and symbolic purification (come again with the aquarium). Vincent was seemingly effectively announcing with framed rhetoric that the old entertainment world was dead and that his version of it - bigger, brighter, newer - would replace it.
The event was therefore less a business presentation and more an identity fusion ceremony. He was not simply asking (given they were the attendees) employees to work for him. He was asking them to emotionally and symbolically join his vision of the future.
Therefore, I personally think - out of all the possibilities that this moment gives us as an audience to speculate on - the deaths may have been accidental, plausibly resulting from the collapse.
The visible cable strain before the television falls supports this interpretation strongly. Vincent does not clearly read as orchestrating a murder-suicide or a predating Jonestown-style massacre (thematic interpretation note: This reading is primarily driven by narrative symmetry (hubris to excess to collapse) rather than explicit confirmation in-text).
In my eyes, that could be seen as potentially contradicting the psychological tone of the speech itself: His rhetoric is future-oriented, expansionary, triumphant. He fully intends to continue forward. He believes he is on the verge of something transcendent.
The irony is that the very spectacular architecture he built to reinforce his godhood becomes the mechanism of his destruction. The suspended televisions, the overloaded symbolic environment, the unstable infrastructure - all of it reflects his psychological state perfectly: increasingly grandiose, increasingly excessive, increasingly convinced he could indefinitely sustain total control over an ever-growing system.
In the end, I believe Vincent's "cult" was not truly about religion, nor simple celebrity worship, nor even straightforward authoritarian control. It was about the fusion of media, identity, emotional dependence, and institutional power into a single self-reinforcing system centered around one man who genuinely came to believe that controlling perception was equivalent to controlling reality itself (which, wonderfully again, leads down the path of what Vox as character as well as VoxTek as company is).
casually drops this bc i'm not normal about it; awooga good art y'all have to see it
by @bambitek
Ok cue me being fucking emotional for a sec because not only has @yet-another-vox-ask-blog been the first person to draw Mae in her Hellaverse (unprompted!😭🥹) but also I bought my very first ever comm from @bambitek for the oc x canon ship with Vox I have for her in this verse (it was such a long process to figure out which of all the amazing artists out there I'd like to commission and I'm very happy with my choice) And I'm just???? SO IN LOVE!!!!!
I couldn't have ever imagined a better comm experience; 10/10 can't recommend enough. But also y'all I AM IN LOVE WITH THE RESULT! LOOK AT THEM!!!!
Seriously I'm just so grateful whenever somebody takes the time of their day to get involved with Mae as character (whether that's by rping - regardeless of the blog hiatus, just letting me yap about her, or actually draw/paint her).
Whichever is the case, people still take the time of their day to make time for M(a)e and I'm just... THANK YOU!❤️
i've had some time to think and with a heavy heart, decided to put this blog on hiatus for an undefined time because i'm not really feeling the rp-spirit anymore, on tumblr or elsewhere actually and have been exploring Mae's character in other forms of creative writing; i don't know if or when i will come back (knowing me, sooner or later i probably will, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ).
i'll still be around on tumblr. You can reach out via IMs if you want, but please don't expect fast replies as my social media use is very limited.
THANK YOU so much for the wonderful time & connections! You're all great and so very fcking talented!
GET TO KNOW YOUR MUTUALS ― answer and tag six people you want to know better.
favourite color: reds to pinks
last song: Are You the One That I've Been Waiting For by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
currently reading: simultaneously listening to audiobooks of "The Master and Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov, "Aus dem Leben eines Taugenichts" by Joseph von Eichendorff & "Der Zauberberg" by Thomas Mann
currently watching: various yt videos to occupy my mind while procrastinating
currently craving: spring to come around (yes I'm a winter baby but I detest the colder months bc I don't like the ✨vibes✨) & achtsam morden s2 to come out asap
the jury thinks that they sit silent for me as i talk. they don't. they ust think they do. i can hear their hearts beating in their chests. i can hear their clothes rustling from the slightest shift. they also couldn't imagine that under this two-thousand-dollar suit is the uniform of a man the city knows as DAREDEVIL— the man without fear.
indie matt murdock / daredevil from marvel comics. defended by liam
Heavy raindrops fell on the car in a non-rhythmic manner, too slow to be soothing, too irregular to ignore. Inside, the light of the dashboard barely lit up Mae's face. The road stretched out like a liminal space; slick with rain and lit only by the gleam of headlights cutting through the dark. The music that drifted through the car speakers was barely there - a low, droning guitar, soaked in reverb, each note lingered just a second too long, as if reluctant to leave. It wasn’t just background noise. It was the sound of the night itself: cold, hollow, waiting.
The shriek of tires tore through the almost meditative drive. The brakes locked for a split second. The rain only made it worse - a slick hiss under the tires, like the road was trying to shrug the car off. Then she saw it - a figure in the dark, standing in the middle of the road, staring at her car like a deer in headlights.
"What the fuck," Mae shouted - somehow to snap back to reality.
Mae knew that it would be best to listen to her gut. Her intuition rarely proved her wrong, but something about the figure made her feel like she should help.
She hadn't seen anyone on the road in a long time - no other cars and certainly no other people.
"Hey!" she called, the window rolling down, but she didn’t get out. Whether it was the rain, or the sudden sensation of stones weighing her down, she couldn’t say. "Where are you going?"
There's a reason I never truly get deep into Mae’s backstory - especially the how and why of her becoming a vigilante.
It’s not because I don’t know. I do. But to me, the ambiguity drives her character developement.
Mae as a character is partially based on me. So using this ambiguity could be a plot/character device (like how I never mention her having a home). It could be because Mae is written as an unreliable narrator.
I don't want to specify.
As mentioned in her character vignette "the desire to heal never left, but it became entangled with a hunger for revenge, driven by an unwillingness to accept that some people never get what they truly deserve, regardless of the help they’re offered." - this was the reason for why she became a vigilante in her own sense.
What I've never mentioned - and this could also give enough hints to the reason she became a vigilante, is the case that broke her: it was a case resembling the plot of the movie "Loveless"/"Нелюбовь" (2017) and the feeling evoked by the song "Aljoscha" by Die Andere Seite (which was inspired by said movie).
With that case, Mae experienced a kind of rupture that doesn’t scream - it gnaws.
It's uncertain whether this case simply hit too close to home (trauma resonance), or whether it was the final straw that broke the camels back in a long accumulation of burnout and moral injury. Realistically, it was both.
That's when her clinical detatchment failed and she couldn't talk herself out of the impact anymore. The case that made her flee - to survive.
The case didn’t just break her. It showed her where she was already cracked.
(It's really explored in this thread with @firstblxxd, where Mae comes to seek refuge at John Rambo's ranch after the case.)
WHEN THE WOMAN SPOKE NEXT, it felt like a punch to the side of cat's face, and she half choked on the bite of food she had in her mouth. heart had gone still, and skin turned cold. suddenly, her appetite felt empty, and the focus of her gaze could no longer maintain upon anything in the room. the name was a HORROR in her mind, in her soul, cutting beneath her flesh and digging into the marrow of her bones.
cat hadn't heard that name in years, and she had planned to never hear it again. so twisted within the recollections that slammed through her mind that she hadn't even considered to panic over her known involvement. the brunette's hands were clean, after all, but it seemed lucky that mae's interest wasn't in ensuring her wrists were the ones cuffed.
it was difficult for her to imagine that someone actually had information on copper. his manipulation of her head had had her c o n v i n c e d he could never be found, never be caught. a huge reasoning she had felt her only option had been to run in the end. run and pray to a god she wasn't sure she believed in that she might somehow escape. it had worked... for now.
the mention of payment was enticing, but was any amount of money worth it to potentially get trapped by him again?
despite the clear reaction of momentary freeze, the street rat got herself back together and stood idly. emotionless. though she did stop eating for the time being.
"i don't know where he is. quite frankly... i don't want to find out."
"That's fair." Mae wasn't surprised, nothing in her voice conveyed anything other than the expectation of the teenager not wanting to continue. She'd watched in silence how the composture of the other changed the moment Mae stated the offer. Not even the food did its job of satiation.
But that was just the start.
Even if Mae did feel her throat close up at the thought of actively manipulating a child, she told herself it was a means to an end. Before any more doupts could cloud her mind, she stated with emphasis on why both of them were here this moment: "You won't find out but I'd need your help for me to find out."
Mae got up, calmly. Her hands reached to the other end of the table to grab the leftover food in its container and the cutlery. With precision she packed it back into the bag she brought it all with her. A symbol of a clean slate. Show, don't tell.
"It doesn't involve you getting close to him again. I just need information on him. All of it."
And I'll be here for you while you share, echoed in her mind. It was just a child in front of her. And Mae was using them to get towards something bigger. The human inside of her creeped through the cover of professionalism she put on before coming here.
"If you decide to help me, we can talk further whenever you'd like."
Mae reached into the pocket of her jacket and put a white piece of paper onto the table. If one looked close enough at the paper, it revealed Mae's name as well as a phone number in small black letters.
"It was nice meeting you, Cat," she said while walking past the other towards the door.
❝ i’d go out of business if i did that every time. maybe next time, if you promise to return. ❞ Peter responds with a charming smile, very well aware that this business is a thin line he walks every night, with a face half in the light & half in the dark. however, Earth is under-stimulating.
being around risky individuals keeps him AWAKE. ❝ ah, no. your table is all the way out here. i figured i’d save you the trouble and say hi since you’re a new customer. if you want to be left alone, though, that’s fine too. ❞ the hybrid leaves the menu on the table just in case, heading back behind the bar after speaking again.
❝ lemme make ya one of my favorites. ’s called the Collapsed Star. ❞
There was no polite pause to ask her name, nor was there a question. But Mae was sensitive to the information asymmetry of their conversation. "Mae Aust. Call me Mae," she just put her name on the table in a matter of how the man would put drinks on it. Just as he did, with a smile. It wasn't just a promise to return, but a way to not having to answer if she was going to.
She decided that there was more than enough time for a side-quest. "With that name, I'd love to know how you make it," she invited herself to the bar, leaving her table and the menu behind without looking back. Partially to get a better look at the guests in the place as well as to observe how they'd treat him and vice versa.
"You don't seem to be from around here," she said vapidly while taking her seat. "Too nice. Even for a Businessman."
the patient seems to stare at the doctor with a mixture of exhaustion and---.....fear. it was the best way to describe it. the blonde nurse could feel it coming off her in drones and their icy blue eyes shift towards the corner of the room where a little girl did, indeed, sit in a seemingly empty chair in the corner. tongue clicks on the roof of her mouth before her attention is brought back to the patient in question.
"doctor. i swear there is a little girl in the corner and she wont stop following me!" it's the sound of a distressed woman who feels like she isn't being heard. ( something that lennon was far too familiar with. ) though, he puts on her professional face, her hands moving to slip into the pockets of her black scrub top.
"well, i believe her." the nurse says rather carefully, eyes narrowing at the corner in the room. ( though, this wasn't just a normal little girl spirit, it seemed. ) this was one that followed the woman here, not one of the many spirits that walked the hospital grounds. "i do think their is a little girl here. i don't think samantha needs to be in soft restraints but i'm just a nurse," she says this with a little song in her tone.
Mae gave the nurse a nod. She could feel warmth closing her throat - not because of anything happening in the room, but because she knew that the standard procedure to contain psychotic patients was restraints - and this rubbed Mae the wrong way, always. "You're right, she doesn't need to be in soft restraints. Can you help me loosen them?" There were thoughts Mae didn't want to share in front of the patient, so she put them in a mental archive for later. And it wasn't about Samantha or the nurse.
As the girl was able to sit on her bed, Mae still kept her distance. This wasn't the séance she had hoped it wouldn't turn into, but a special case of folie à deux. Or so it seemed. "Okay, since you - Samantha and Nurse Lennon - can both see a little girl here and I can't…" she suppressed a sigh. "Could you both please just describe to me what the girl looks like, what she is doing in the room, and if she has spoken to you, tell me what she said." Mae wanted to know what this was about now. The obvious fear in Samantha’s eyes wasn’t directed at the nurse - but that didn’t mean anything yet. Lennon didn’t strike Mae as malicious either. That also didn’t mean anything yet.
To the official reason Mae had been asked here, a personal question was added: What's the situation between these two?
Unsteady, uncanny, freakish blue eyes peer at Mae Aust. They recognize the observer, and study her back. Something of a scalpel's edge, how brightly they glint in these unforgiving lights. Brighter than they should be. This young woman has about her the air of cave mystic, someone who has been pried open by something too large for her, and whose body is now forced to make it fit inside. That is what her terror is. A gnawing at her seams. She is staring at the doctor with that same quiet, gnawing terror. And the first spark, just underneath, of protectiveness.
She despises it, despises how her story doesn't belong to her anymore. All these doctors and cops and judges, demanding to know why she did this, why she did that, what was done to her. They try to slice her open and claw her stuffing out of her, soil what has happened with their apathetic stares or gooey-sweet pity. Miriam wants to grow claws, dig them into her memories and never let anyone close enough to touch them. She wants to speak in tongues.
It occurs to her that she could start screaming. She's done it before. Let out a shriek, shake and quiver, throw herself back against the chair until it tips over. That'd send the guard scrambling. Maybe the doctor would flinch. She feels the sound building in her throat. You want the pain? Here it is. Listen closely.
—But there are worse things she could ask about.
"I killed a guard." She says, cleanly. No point stumbling over that now. "It was curious, because nobody came to stop me even though he made so much noise. But the mess hall isn't close to any of the big cell blocks, so maybe that's why. Maybe nobody bothered to check. They found us in the morning and hauled me away. I assume they took him down. I do apologize for scratching up the tables. It was necessary."
The words felt like coins falling on metal ground in Mae's ears. Yet she proceeded to observe, trying to fall back into the role that brought her here. "I see," she finally exclaimed after a minute of silence. Her tone was dry, conveying the tone of what a written standard forensic protocol felt like. Almost mindlessly, her hands swept over the table in front of her as the woman across mentioned scratching up the tables at the former crime scene. It wasn't in this room; it also wasn't this exact table. Mae could feel that there was more than the covered psychosis cue.
In a mechanic manner, Mae glanced over towards the guard. Moving her hand in a motion that would signal something being swept away, she told him to leave: "I'd like to speak in private. Turn off the mic and cameras. Then leave." Her words didn't sound like a threat. It wasn't usually done like this - but then again, this was Arkham.
The moment the women were left alone, Mae leaned forward. Just a bit - just enough to catch a good glimpse of the blue eyes that peeked towards her. "I've done this long enough to know that this was just show." Now she leaned back again, building a distance as if she were in a negotiation. This hadn't become personal in the sense of Mae's assessment.
She already knew what she'd write the moment she walked in. Not because she wanted to smear the case, but to make room for her own personal curiosity. And leverage - for whenever she'd need it, if she'd ever need it. "There's no reason for you to tell me, but sometimes asking goes a long way," she whispers more towards herself than the other. "What for exactly?"
What was safe anymore? He had once been safe enough. A normal teenager. And then the portal accident happened and there was no...safe anymore. Between his own rogue gallery of ghosts and his parents attempting to dissect him, moments of SAFETY were fleeting.
And then his parents HAD dissected him and safety was all forgotten. He'd been taken to the Ghost Zone, and once healed enough, he had left, hiding away in abandoned buildings and forgotten places until he moved onto the next place.
The spirits kept him company. Not solid enough to be ghosts, but they were solid enough and aware enough to speak to him at times. It was enough company.
"Safe is a relative word." He hadn't heard anyone coming. He would've gone invisible if he HAD. His focus now was on escaping, inching his way towards the exit.
Mae stopped as she heard his words. Not because they kept her from proceeding but they sounded like she was the one disturbing his place. The voice was none of an adult - it didn't close the gap between the potential perpetrator or the victim. She herself had no information about the age of who she should have been looking for. The investigation was titled to just look for anything out of the ordinary. So anyone besides her could be either friend or foe.
Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness she was in. Dressed in all black herself to not be seen, besides maybe her face that she hadn't covered this time. Turning her head, there was nothing out of the ordinary around her. The sounds on the ground hadn't changed since the other person spoke.
"Right... Did I catch you at a bad time?" Mae's patience - usually able to draw out and spread thin before breaking - came to an end. It was as thin as the line she was walking on, between her role she was in professionally and as just a person.
Door swung open, lace from the window's ivory curtain fluttered out, the blend of old and new welcomed Mae. A fusion of tastes, decor from the generations before, cared for by John and embellished by his own additions. Small keepsakes placed on the shelves, framed pictures and wooden statues, banners on the wall and displayed tokens. Color schemes that didn't change, save for fresh coats of paint over the years, the point where beautiful memories married into hopeful futures. An irony; so much like John, who couldn't help but cling to the past. Refused to release - protected the good times, the happier occasions, kept them close to his heart. Warm and safe, the ranch that Reevis and Helga built decades before. Plank by plank, stone by stone, furnished with all the love that they could give. A home that breathed still their souls; deep in the foundations, with every step that John could take, the path of his boyhood then man. A memorial to all who had ever come to the door, who walked over the threshold, John too proud to rid the house of its integrity. In many ways, it was all he had left.
Gentle in movement, John shut the door and turned the lock. Inhaled deeply, embraced the familiar scent of vintage maple, maneuvered past the kitchen counter and headed to the fridge. Ducked beneath the stainless steel pots and pans that hung above on the ceiling, fixed the carpet by the stove that had become slightly overturned with the tip of his boot. Grabbed two glasses from the cabinet - cleaned and spotless, almost better than pure crystal - took hold of the pitcher of lemonade and was about to pour. Only had time to close the fridge before Mae so politely took over, more than gladly traded responsibilities. Decided to instead retrieve the ice tray from the freezer compartment; filled the day before, on the belief that the sun would be especially unforgiving. Bold and bright, the life that was found in Arizona. Better than Vietnam, better than Thailand, the promise of a quiet existence only troubled by that damn sun. Rubbing the back of his hand against the tip of his nose, the gross sweat, John, nevertheless, considered himself lucky. A chilled glass of lemonade would soon be found within his grasp. It could've been worse.
Pushing the underside of the silicone tray, three large cubes of ice were plopped into each of the glasses that Mae had filled. A delicious pale yellow, not too sweet but not too tart, made from fresh lemons and focused hands. Repetitive work that wasn't too terrible on the muscles; sore and tender, from age and experience, the easiest of chores. Glasses rested on the countertop, white marble, John took one for himself and then led Mae to the dining room table only a few feet away. A rectangular slab of oak that Reevis had carved by hand, assisted by a collection of devoted friends and several cold beers, once finished with the four chairs of the entire set. Sturdy and dependable, John pulled the back of one for Mae, a gentleman's offer and silent appreciation for pouring their drinks. A kind woman - her actions thus far didn't provide reason to think otherwise - of who would be taught what she didn't yet know, of who was bound to teach John also.
Seat next to Mae taken for himself, John closed his journal that had been left open. Pages of scribbles and doodles exposed on the table, what his therapist had said would be good for him. A way to write out his emotions, his frustrations and happenings, to speak when the voice didn't want to. Penmanship that spanned many lines, involved two whole pages, the pen nearest to it rested on top once formally shut, not mentioned but not so hidden, either. John's eyes glanced down to them for but a moment, returned to Mae after her question was asked, the tartness of the drink finally reached his throat. His thirst satisfied completely.
"Gabriela. My niece." John answered, licking his lips, attention fixed to the opposite side of the room, so difficult still. "Died six years ago. Her grandmother's a friend of mine, grew up together. The three of us, we all used to live here on the ranch. We were a family... I didn't want her buried in some cemetery. I wanted her home."
Glass raised to his mouth once more in drink, the sourness that calmed nerves, prevented tears from storming his eyes, settled the voice that called him sweetly Uncle John, Uncle Johnny, John attempted to regain his composure.
A hard swallow of lemonade, "I like to keep her gravesite clean. Pluck the weeds that try to grow near her headstone, trim the grass, nurture the flowers that her grandmother and I planted. She likes... liked primroses."
A frown brushed off his countenance, by a hand quite rough, John paused his tale, counted to 10 and then continued, gave himself some kindness, a lesson from his therapy sessions.
"It's only me now. Her grandmother moved in with her aunt after the funeral. It's been quiet... I hope, despite that, that this place brings you peace, Mae."
"I'm sorry," she could feel her voice almost tremble. She swallowed, and the tremble found its way toward her hands. Naturally, she hid them between her now crossed legs - never show signs of weakness, hallowed in her mind.
Mae didn't know if she was truly sorry for strangers like Gabriela, John, or herself. But she could feel the almost tingling sensation of her muscles tensing up. It started around her arms and led toward her upper body, then down her legs toward her toes. It was a sensation Mae had come to know better in the last few months. There were ways to express her emotions - her pain - and she knew better than most why she should. Instead, her body took over when her mind didn't want to. Soma over Psyche.
Yet she tried to focus on John's words. How he liked to keep the gravesite clean. And she clung to every one of his words as if they were lifesavers, keeping her from drowning in her own mind. His words strung an accord that she had managed to forego on her journey to the ranch. She expected the reason she was here to catch up with her, but not this early.
A faint smile at the information of Gabriela liking primroses. The visual of small yellow flowers tangled within the green of its leaves appeared in Mae's mind as if she'd just taken a photograph of them.
The same time John paused, Mae decided to immerse herself in every detail of that inner photograph of primroses. How the tints of yellow changed from the middle of the flower toward the perimeters of its petals. Then she saw red ones next to the yellow ones. Followed by white ones, as she broadened the perspective of the picture in her mind.
From an outside perspective, there were two people sharing something intimate while deeply lost within their own heads. John's words cut the silence, and Mae exhaled deeply, as if it would help to loosen the tension in her muscles. It didn’t, but she could feel her mind wander on to something different than the reason she decided to come here.
Even if it was just the water droplets outside of the glasses on the table, formed due to condensation. It was a start.
Something about John and the ranch did make her feel safe.
"I'm sorry, John. I didn't want to ignore you," she admitted, with a now steadier tone in her voice. "I'd like to know more about Gabriela and the ranch once I'm more grounded."
The words "It's been rough lately" pressed themselves against her now closed lips. Mae didn't want to let them go - yet.
Instead, she focused on getting one of her hands to move as naturally as possible from between her crossed legs toward the table, and to grab the glass of lemonade in front of her. The tart and sweet sensation that hit her tongue made her swallow the words she so desperately wanted to say but prevented herself from.
"It already brings me peace to know that I can be here. Everything else will fall into place once the time is right. Thank you, John."
*
Mae focused on the sensation of the wooden panels of the porch as she stepped outside. Her feet bare. She could feel the sun warming her tired face. With a sharp inhale, she tried to steady herself. Steady her wandering thoughts away from the place she wanted to forget and bring her back into the present moment.
She glanced toward John and nodded. "Wasn't the best first night, but sleeping in a foreign bed never is," a shrug of her shoulders. "I also hope tonight's dream doesn't come true."
HAVING PRACTICALLY HELPED TO BIRTH AN ENTIRE SUBGENRE OF SCIENCE INTO THE MORE MAINSTREAM THREADS OF ACADEMIA, HE'D HAD TO ADAPT. Such an achievement hadn't come easily; in a field as vast and polarising as parapsychology, prior to the intervention of a few, primarily Ray, Peter and himself, there'd been little, if any, work done on distinguishing fact from fallacy. Of course, the first step to mastering any field was always to acknowledge its inherent nonsense.
STILL, THEY'D WORKED HARD - AND, TO A LARGE DEGREE, IT'D PAID OFF. Granted, in an age where independent publishing was possible, there'd always be a few stray outliers, but, it was scores better than it'd ever been before.
THUS, ASSISTING MS. AUST WAS GOING TO BE EASY. Not to say that she wasn't capable of rising to the occasion herself - she'd demonstrated more than enough ability, and scores of skill - but it never hurt to have someone with a little insight on hand, just in case.
❝ Not bad, for a general summary - you have to consider the level of detail that can be obtained from documentation when most of it is redacted. ❞
She sighed. Partly out of defeat, partly because of course he knew the book from end to end. There wasn’t a hint of regret in having asked for his help. And she knew better than to compare, but admittedly, she had been out of shape when it came to research.
There were times in her life when she'd spent hours on end reading as many books as she could to gain knowledge and insight. The discipline had paid off - greatly. So maybe, yes, she did compare. To her past self - the one who used to focus on the written and spoken word for hours without fail.
"You’re telling me you don’t perhaps have the non-redacted version lying around somewhere?" Her eyes scanned his face - not in search of a change in emotion, but for a sign of attentiveness.
"Or at least something else you can recommend for a general summary - just to get the abstract going?"
Mae did wonder why he took the time out of his day to help her - even if she knew it wouldn’t take him long, since this was his field of work.
Still, she was thankful for all the help she could get.
"Don’t forget to put your extra minutes of work on the fee note for me," she added, with irony in her voice.
