Adult || All pronouns 🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️ Here be fandom content, my musings about the human condition and beyond. Safe space for urban hermits alike, make yourselves at home. Apeirophilia: Antonym of apeirophobia. Love of deep, deep eternity.
Last year, I befriended a Catholic seminarian. We've gotten to be pretty decent friends. Seeing as he was staying in town for the summer and I wasn't, I entrusted him with caring for my plant.
He did a wonderful job, but as he was returning my plant to my custody, he explained "I watered her every other day, I gave her new dirt, moved her into the sunshine, prayed the rosary-"
"What?"
He looked at me, confused. "Isn't she a plant you pray with?"
"No," I said slowly. "She's a prayer plant. That's the... colloquial name of the plant."
Upon seeing his stricken face, I realized something went wrong. Turns out, this entire time, he's been including my plant in on his prayers and leaving her near icons.
Listen, totally cool. My plant becoming Catholic is a great deal for her not dying over the summer. But now I must navigate this interfaith household. Keep me in your thoughts.
Dilation of the Mind (CH24) Resident Evil Fanfiction
Summary:
“It's funny. I just realised I can actually imagine myself older now. I've never really let myself think about any kind of future ahead of me. I never thought I was capable of building one properly for myself, and mostly kept going for the sake of others. Claire, Jill, Barry, you. But I can't afford to keep doing that now. If I don't believe in myself and what I'm capable of, how am I supposed to help keep the promise we made when we founded the BSAA?”
A.k.a. Chris is done having nightmares (kind of), Rebecca aims to unfuck the world, and Wesker sincerely hopes they will succeed.
a/n: This chapter is dedicated to Charlie (shesmycollarr/unlikecharlie on ao3 and tumblr) who died by suicide earlier this month. I am still devastated by her passing, as she had always made me feel welcome in the RE fandom even as I believed I didn’t belong anywhere in it for having entered it so late. I only hope that she is resting soundly, that whatever must have pained her so much in life is gone forever. Let this be a reminder to check-in with your loved ones, to call your friends and family who make you feel cherished, to wish a stranger good day and to send that positive message you’ve always been meaning to send. There is so much warmth within us that is waiting to be expressed, which we are often just too timid to do, but the sting of rejection is always far more tolerable than that of regret for leaving loving words unsaid.
If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, please reach out for professional support. Help is available to us all.
Thank you all for being here. And please stay.
(Berlin, 1996)
“So… Where are we headed tomorrow?”
Chris bunched his legs together and rested his arm across his knees as he watched Wesker. He'd definitely heard him, as Wesker had lifted his chin in a slow, wide nod, but wasn't yet in a position to answer. He had his reading glasses on and was reading through the bottom of a page. Chris had noticed that Wesker was a fairly static reader, unlike himself, though his foot moved in slow half-circles as he read, and that his reading pace was impressively fast. Every so often he'd pause, however, pressing his eyelids together and looking off toward the far edge of the room, blinking rapidly before resuming. Chris would learn later that this was because Wesker's eyes eventually lost focus on close objects he was staring at for too long, and had to "reset" them, in a way.
The warm glow of the bedside lamp made his hair look a richer, warmer blond, and his face even smoother than it already was. Light fell across his chest from the side, and Chris was faintly surprised to see a few remaining flecks of cooling sweat between his pecs. The shadow of his glasses fell askew across the page, with the book itself propped low against his pelvis, pressed into the trail of blond hair leading downward. Chris thought distantly to himself that he would never see books the same again. Very likely for the better.
Eventually, Wesker hummed and turned his head toward Chris, laying the book face-down over his groin.
“We will head south onto Marseille. We are yet to deliver the files to the operations division stationed there. The information is sensitive in nature, as you know. So it is best to deliver it by hand.”
"I see." Chris nodded and rubbed idly at his knee. Wesker studied him a few seconds longer before turning back and picking the book up off his lap, bending his right knee closer to prop the spine against it. Chris's gaze drifted down between his legs, and then further down to his thighs and his calves. Wesker’s legs were leaner and longer than his own, but their musculature was much more defined. He trailed his eyes back up to his face, and saw that Wesker was frowning very slightly at something in the text, his brows twitching at some particularly intense passage, and from this angle there seemed to be the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth. It might have simply been the book, of course, but Chris had seen it a week ago as well, and the week before that, when they were in exactly this position. It sent a bright, warm pulse straight through the center of his gut. Chris swallowed and considered what he could possibly say that wouldn't immediately put his captain on guard.
“I care about you,” he finally said.
Wesker's eyes lifted from the page, hovering somewhere on the wall behind it for a moment, before settling back down onto the text.
“You cannot.”
“...What?” Chris’ eyebrows shot up. It wasn't as though Wesker had said it unkindly, or as a reprimand, although perhaps he would have been less surprised if he had said it that way. “What do you mean I ‘cannot’?”
“It is for the simple reason that we have not spent enough time together.” Wesker continued matter-of-factly, playing at the corner of the page between his fingers. “You do not know me, and it is hard to say you ever will during the time you will be serving under S.T.A.R.S..”
He pushed his reading glasses up onto his forehead and finally turned toward Chris. His expression was perfectly neutral, although there was a trace of that same smile lingering on his lips.
“What you are experiencing is attraction. And lust. It is not yet anything more.”
Chris was surprised once again, but this time by the fact that he found himself nodding, perhaps out of habit, or actual agreement, or a combination of both. Counting their joint service during the military, albeit in different ranks, Chris had been working alongside Wesker for the better part of five years. He'd been Wesker's first choice for lieutenant and lead pointer when the newly formed S.T.A.R.S. unit was assembled, and since then they'd worked through operations both domestic and international. This present assignment in Western Europe had been different, though. They needed to be quieter and slower in their movement to remain as inconspicuous as possible while analysing schematics and intelligence reports, ready to call in for reinforcements in case of last resort.
It had been a considerable stretch for the RPD to spare its decorated captain from his own team for nearly a full month, though Chris understood that the decision wasn’t entirely up to department command. It was an uneasy realisation to see their unit, which was meant to stand as an exemplar of integrity and valour within the force, bend so easily to the will of the banal self-interest of corrupt bureaucracy. Still, they had managed to cover significant ground through scouting and surveillance, and their modest size as a duo had allowed them to preserve their anonymity. They had intercepted moderate-level threats tied to national security and made contact with the UN. Of course, it had given Chris the rare opportunity to observe his captain at close range and explore the true source of their otherwise tense chemistry among the rest of their team.
Indeed, he had gotten to see a side of Wesker he’d never dreamed of seeing, although he had definitely fantasised about it multiple times, and however much sex helped them sort out their differences, it didn’t exactly help with the ache lodged deep in his chest.
“What if it is more?” Chris tried, clearing his throat. “Or… It can be more. Someday.”
After a brief hesitation, he turned back over to Wesker, who was still looking at him. Breaking his gaze for a moment, Wesker put his book and his glasses aside on the bedside table, and sat a few inches closer.
It still felt strange, seeing Wesker without his sunglasses, despite having caught glimpses of him without them during their previous deployments. He'd even joked with Jill once about whether the man slept in them. He really didn't, as it turned out. But, of course, Wesker’s bare eyes by themselves were not the sole object of his fascination. It was this particular moment, the way they were in the same bed, sitting shoulder to shoulder, naked after another night together, feeling each other’s breath ghost against the other’s skin. In Wesker's eyes, Chris caught a brief, fleeting flicker of surprise, whether at himself or at Chris he couldn't say, layered over lust and affection, as he had just described, a trace of pride, and the unmistakable, nauseating hint of pity.
Chris' jaw clenched instinctively. A viscous bitterness rose fast and sour in his throat, and he braced to turn away. Just as he did, Wesker reached over, guided his face gently back, and kissed him. The kiss deepened steadily, gradually, and his hand traced over Chris’ chest and then down to his stomach. Chris let out a shaky breath through his nose when his fingers brushed against the underside of his cock, which was already half-erect, and he moaned into Wesker’s lips as his palm began to gently pump him from the tip. Wesker parted from Chris to look down at his rosy lips in clear, lurid hunger.
“You sound exquisite,” he murmured, first kissing the corner of Chris’ mouth, then his cheekbone and then the corner of his jaw. A shiver sparked bright and alive from the top of Chris’ neck, and it travelled down to the bottom of his spine in time with Wesker’s caress down his back. He cupped his ass roughly, making him twitch urgent and hot in Wesker’s hand, who chuckled grimly into his neck.
“Go ahead,” Wesker, bit at the crook of Chris’ neck, eyeing the vein popping out from the side. A trembling sigh billowed out of his lips as Wesker slathered his fingers in precum and kept pumping him with broad, confident strokes.
“Don’t hold back.”
————
Chris woke up.
He blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low light of the room, which was illuminated only by the emergency lamps in the corners. It took a moment before he realised he was alone. Had he really fallen asleep right here?
He straightened up on the sofa, cracking his neck in the hope of loosening some of the tension in the muscles before they started to cramp. There was a light, knitted blanket that had been draped over him, and it slid to the floor as he pushed himself upright. As soon as he was sitting properly, he frowned, and slipped a hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants to feel around, then groaned in annoyance.
“Fuck me…” He muttered under his breath and reached down to gather the blanket back up, folding it against his lap. Had Wesker done this? He didn't remember him getting up at any point during the night, so Chris likely hadn't woken for it. He yawned into his palm then dragged a hand uneasily through his hair. Hopefully Wesker hadn't noticed the state he'd been in when he put the blanket over him.
He folded the thin fabric and set it down beside the sofa, deciding not to disturb Wesker in his room if he happened to be asleep, and it wasn’t like he was particularly eager to see him right that moment, either. Scratching the back of his neck, he made his way quickly back to his room, changed into a clean pair of sweatpants, and was asleep again almost as fast as he'd woken.
—
October 13, 2009
It is early morning at the time I am writing this. I have not been able to sleep since I returned to my room. I am hoping that writing this entry will bring some ease to my mind.
The previous day had been largely uneventful, and I had been looking forward to my planned evening with Chris, who had insisted on selecting the film himself, likely out of caution regarding my own taste. However, our taste in movies has once again proven to be very much aligned, and I was not particularly surprised when he chose Dead Ringers. What did surprise me was how closely the content and the characters seemed to mirror our own circumstances, though in the film both twins end in death, while the intruding party, Claire, is permitted to walk away.
It occurs to me that among the three of us, it was Jill who emerged from our encounters relatively unscathed, while Chris and I were left to face one another directly, over and over, in whatever form that confrontation took. Perhaps it was for this very reason, and largely unconsciously on my part, that I kept her under my control for as long as I did, and in the particular manner I chose. She had not, in my estimation, received the reckoning owed to her for disrupting the future I had designed, nor for her role in the loss of my own humanity and the failure of my mission within that mansion. Chris himself has chosen to preface our impending conversation with a film centred around the tragic tale of spiritually conjoined twins, perhaps upon developing a deeper understanding of our dependence on each other. As I am writing this, I find that I am progressively more certain that he has picked this movie intentionally.
I did not expect him to be so direct with his own feelings during our conversation, nor did I expect him to prepare the grounds for me to mirror that same openness towards him, so that I might, in turn, allow myself to be equally exposed. We spoke to one another at a level entirely unlike any prior conversation between us. It is new territory within whatever this partnership has become, or whatever term their official records might eventually assign to it when all is over. I noted that he drank more than was usual for him, and alarmingly so, given that he is in the process of repairing his relationship with substances. And yet I believe that he did not want me to intervene or to curb his intake, but to meet it, to match his vigour and intensity. He appeared to be challenging me to make myself as susceptible as he, to the currents of memory and emotion he intended to submerge himself in. It is remarkably poignant that he selected Dead Ringers specifically as the mechanism for this chemical synchrony between us. It is surprisingly poetic, coming from him, though it is perhaps well past time that I stopped underestimating him.
In any case, I find that I am glad the conversation took place, and more glad still that he felt safe enough to let his guard down in order to initiate it. He has reached for me through his words and his touch, and I hope in retrospect that I have been able to touch him back. It was bold for him to pick the path of direct tenderness, and to extend mercy toward both himself and the history we share.
I am proud of him.
A. Wesker
————
It was a quiet, overcast morning. The facility was filled with the diffuse smell of coffee, with the present batch brewed to be extra potent, and there was a trace of petrichor drifting in from outside, where the ground was still damp from overnight rain. The additional heating, turned up to counteract the humidity and keep temperatures stable, hummed steadily beneath the clatter of dishes at breakfast.
By the time Chris came inside, Wesker was already seated at the blocky metal table, just beginning on his eggs and toast. Chris was mildly surprised that Wesker consistently chose simple, unfussy breakfasts every single time, though he wasn't sure exactly what he'd been expecting instead. He had displayed his share of flamboyance and extravagance in their previous hostile encounters, certainly, but back in S.T.A.R.S. where Chris had seen him more regularly and formed a more consistent picture of the man, he had always been precise and to the point from the way he dressed to the way he wrote his reports, and to how he instructed his team. Apparently, that extended to what he ate as well. Chris found himself briefly amused, imagining what would happen if he’d shown up to the office one day with some absurdly elaborate meal, fairly sure he'd be able to feel Wesker's judgemental glare even through the frosted glass of his office door.
"Good morning," Wesker said, nodding as Chris crossed to fill his mug to the brim from the filter machine.
“Morn’.” Chris grumbled back.
Wesker huffed out a quiet laugh at his bedraggled state, but didn't comment further. Once Chris had his coffee at hand, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, tucked it between his teeth, and headed for the balcony off the back of the kitchen. He didn't feel much like eating yet, as he was still too stuffed from the beer the night before. He also noticed that Wesker had less food on his plate than usual, not to mention he was much slower in eating it, but it was still better than nothing. A small twinge of concern passed through him, and he paused under the archway, turning back.
“Thanks, uh,” he called out to Wesker, “for the blanket. Last night.”
Wesker glanced up, smiling faintly, and gave a small nod in time with lifting his cup before looking back down. He was quieter than usual, which was understandable given their conversation the night before, and appeared to be working through a stack of printed documents beneath the table as he sipped his coffee. It looked like he'd already finished his report and was now onto edits. As Chris smoked outside, Wesker continued through the printout, rolling a pen between his fingers as he slowly chewed at his food, occasionally pausing to underline a section or scribble a note in the margin to be cross-referenced elsewhere. He was steadily working through his final pass of the middle section when he heard Chris suddenly yell from the balcony and come clambering back inside.
“Shit!” Chris slammed the door shut behind him and leaned back against the counter, muttering under his breath. The cold air carried the smell of smoke and cologne back into the kitchen, mixing with the fading scent of breakfast.
Wesker glanced over at him with a raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained unaffected.
“What is it?”
"I haven't checked my email in hours." Chris pressed his palm against his forehead, blinking rapidly. "What if Rebecca wrote? Or called and I missed it? I already tried calling her yesterday and she didn't pick up. What if she's been having some kind of trouble?"
Wesker shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. He'd added a dash of milk and sugar to it. "She would have alerted someone else to reach you, if that were the case. You would have been notified immediately if anything were wrong. There is no need to trouble yourself unnecessarily."
"But what if—" Chris started, gesturing with his open palm toward him. Wesker simply waited for him to finish his sentence, but the way he was looking at him made Chris’ mouth snap shut again. His shoulders dropped as he sighed.
“You’re right.” he admitted. “But I still need to check.”
"Do," Wesker said, crossing one leg over the other. "Otherwise you will never let me finish my breakfast in peace."
"Yeah." Chris rubbed the back of his neck. "Be right back."
Silence settled over the kitchen after Chris left, broken only by the faint hum of the heater, until his voice suddenly echoed back down the corridor.
“She did write!”
Wesker blinked, raising his eyes from the papers and looking down at his hand instead.
“What does she say?”
“You expect me to read it out or somethin’?” Chris’ voice rose to a sharp, humorous pitch. Come here!”
—
Now in Chris’ room, the two men peered at the screen of his private terminal. Wesker stood hunched beside Chris, leaning against the desk with both hands. He had pushed his glasses to the tip of his nose in order to read the tiny letters on the bright screen better, which Chris had tried to make easier by tilting the terminal sideways toward his direction.
Hey Chris! I hope all is going well. How are you holding up?
I’m doing good at the facility. I was able to sort through my team’s meeting notes from the HQ, which I’ll be bringing over to the site eventually so you can take a look at them. They even have a basketball court here, can you believe it? I haven’t gotten to play in years. You guys certainly spare no expense for your personnel!
On that note, I’d like to thank you again for registering me as a private admission. You really didn’t have to bother, and I would have been more than well accommodated regardless. Thank you, truly.
We’re doing something of a mix between EMDR and exposure therapy. I had already done EMDR in the past, and since this episode is more recent I thought it would be best to address it this way. My therapist is Dr. Miriam Hale, from Manchester. She’s an expert in trauma recovery and a really good therapist. If everything goes right, I’ll be continuing to see her online from now on as well.
This first week I received some psychological first aid. I’d thought that kind of treatment was only meant to be applied immediately after the event, and my training had mostly involved either the first response to acute psychological shock or the more long-term treatment of trauma in survivors of bioterror attacks, but apparently there is an in-between stage as well. Maybe if there’s one thing to take away from this whole sordid business, it is just how important it is to manage mental health in times of crisis. There must be something about fighting microscopic agents that move faster than any soldier can that has managed to shake national administrations, at least for the time being. Of course, the BSAA has been exemplary for mindful practice for years now, well ahead of the response teams of most other military organisations.
Eventually, things will relax again, and people will have the luxury of forgetting how much effort it took to preserve human life and sanity, provided everything goes right over the next few decades. But do you think we can make up a fake outbreak so the United Nations would be forced to keep funding their mental health policies and practices?
!!For any third parties who may be reading this!!
1) you should absolutely not be reading this, this is a private message, and;
2) this is entirely off the record and said jokingly between two friends, so I am not literally proposing to organise fake outbreaks around the world. I am stating this plainly in case it needs to go on record, because I would rather not have unwillingly solicited anything that can get me into more trouble than I already have!
Speaking of which, please check the file attached for the photos I took with my digital camera entitled “mankas”.
Also, I couldn’t answer your call yesterday because I was in session! How about we call at around eight today, your time? I’ll see you very soon.
Love,
Rebecca
– –
Below the correspondence, there are unremarkably pleasant photos of the different areas in the facility. They feature a grass hill, the basketball court mentioned before, a motley of wildflowers along the fence line, and a tuxedo cat, who happens to belong to one of the resident nurses. Underneath the photo there is a small parentheses that says “Lemon.”
In the attachment, however, are different sets of photos. One is of the fire escape, seemingly taken from the roof. The early evening light makes the stairs appear almost flattened and two-dimensional, with sharp, rectangular shadows falling across each step in even, geometric spaces. The structure stands a dull, bronzy grey against the striking, slightly bluish green of the gardens below. The sharp contrast resembles how a sharp knife would look pressed against a soft block of butter.
The second set shows various plants from different angles, depicting their stems, natural colouration, and the different shadows created by the leaves as their edges catch the light above. There is a close-up of a red-leafed herb with its veins showing through beneath a strong blast of direct lighting, which turns them an almost fresh, greenish hue that is normally entirely absent from the plant in daylight, where it looks firm, matte, and inert. The tag beneath the image notes that these were taken in the facility's greenhouse.
The next set consists of several scans. There is an EEG printout, dated and labelled under Rebecca's own name. There is a cross-sectional slide of cortical tissue, magnified and stained in violet. On neatly cut and slightly faded pages are vibrant anatomical illustrations of Alex Grey, which were famously produced under the influence of psychedelics. The scanned pages depict a single human figure, reminiscent of Da Vinci’s Renaissance Man, and the second shows a male and female form embracing.
There are snippets of non-fiction writing scanned back to back into a single image, including a page from Ecce Homo. The below passage is highlighted in pink.
“I attack only things that are triumphant — if necessary, I wait until they become triumphant... I attack only those things from which all personal differences are excluded... Attacking is to me a proof of goodwill and, in certain circumstances, of gratitude. By means of it, I do honour to a thing, I distinguish a thing."
Further below, there is a photograph of a moving box containing mostly pale, green and light brown winter clothing. Resting on top is the last official photograph taken of the entire S.T.A.R.S. team. The glass has been removed from its frame, presumably for the moving process. Rebecca's positioning and the angle of the light make the figures difficult to distinguish. The outlines of the people are still visible, however, and for the trained eye it is easy enough to recognise exactly who is who.
In the next image, Rebecca is holding the photograph up against a mirror in the corner of the room. Half her face is visible below the eyes at the edge of the frame. The overhead light makes her freckles especially prominent, and the curve of her upper lip peeks through from the edge. Her index finger rests against the lower left corner of the picture over a young woman crouched low on one knee with the other leg propped up. Her elbow rests against it, and the other hand is placed confidently on her hip. She’s wearing a red bandana tied behind her forehead, and she looks comically small next to the rest of the team. She stands slightly apart and awkward from the group, but her upper body is leaning toward them in a friendly, warm manner. She smiles boldly into the camera, squinting slightly from the sun.
It is herself.
—
Immediately after finishing reading, Chris sat back on his chair, making the piastic spine bend and creak under his weight as if it, too, was as vexed as its inhabitant. Wesker remained perfectly still, but there was a slight smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes, appearing to be relieved by what he heard in Rebecca’s written voice but also hurt by that same thing. It was a stoic and melancholic expression all at once.
Chris scrolled back up to her photo with the rest of S.T.A.R.S. She looked so, so young. She was very young, but she was even more so when it came to the rest of the members. She had been their protégée. She'd looked up to all of them, and they were supposed to guide her, protect her.
Splendid fucking job they did with that.
“Rebecca…” Chris shook his head slowly, mumbling into his palm.
“It’s relieving to see she is in good spirits,” Wesker said. He'd straightened slightly over the table, though his eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
“She always is.” Chris scrolled back to the top of the file of photos. “When she first spoke to me about wanting to go to the wellness centre, it was the first time I’d seen her that distraught. That, and after the mansion incident.”
Wesker nodded, drawing in a slightly deeper breath, but said nothing else. The shifting photos shone a faint light across his face, catching dimly in his glasses. He smiled to himself after a brief moment, and Chris peeked over to him before gesturing at the screen with his chin.
“What does the file say?”
“Μάγκας.” Wesker read aloud, and Chris was surprised to hear it sounded nothing like what he'd imagined. He was suddenly very glad he hadn't attempted to say it himself. “It’s a colloquial expression in Greek.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Tough guy.” Wesker smirked. “Or show-off.”
“You think she means me?” Chris frowned and rubbed at his chin nervously.
Wesker glared at him, clearly incredulous. “Even so, why would she write it in Greek when you clearly do not speak it?”
Chris stared back at him, blinking blankly for a few moments, and then his eyes sharpened suddenly, widening and focusing back on the other man’s face. Wesker rolled his eyes and looked pointedly back at the screen.
“So it is Greek,” Chris said, with no small amount of satisfaction. “You’re Greek, Wesker!”
Wesker hummed, unamused by his enthusiasm. “When do you intend to write a response?”
“Uh…” Chris blinked at him again, so thrown off and amused by his capricious dismissal that he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, how about… after coffee?” He settled, nodding over at his cup. It was barely touched, except for a mouthful that spilled over the balcony floor when he rushed back inside. It was still steaming, much to Wesker’s surprise.
“Might also be good to do some rounds around the facility. Should help me think of what to write.”
"Fair enough." Wesker pushed away from the table and stood to leave.
“I’ll call to you when I’m done,” Chris said as he stood up from his chair and flipped the monitor back down over the keyboard. “And I sent over the photos to the printer.”
Wesker looked out to the corridor toward the command centre where the printer was, then back at Chris, who was taking a cigarette out of the carton in his desk drawer. Turned out they had somehow agreed to send the email together.
"Why do you not take the box with you?" Wesker asked, tilting his head as Chris tucked the cigarette into his pocket.
"So I don't end up smoking more than one at a time," Chris said, shrugging, reaching to close the drawer before Wesker stopped him.
“Give me one, then.”
Chris frowned, squinting at Wesker's outstretched hand, but retrieved another cigarette from the half-shut drawer regardless. He crossed the room and set it neatly in the centre of Wesker's palm.
“Are you out of cigs?” Chris asked.
“No.” From the way he said it, Wesker sounded almost offended at the prospect of scrounging cigarettes out of necessity. Chris snorted at his tone.
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
Chris gestured at the door, and Wesker promptly opened it after placing the cigarette between his teeth, waited for Chris to squeeze past, then closed the door behind them.
It's good to know you're doing well. Sorry for calling you out of the blue earlier. We should really play basketball sometime here too, if we can find a suitable spot and the weather holds up for it. I know you haven't forgotten that time you demolished us during a three-on-three with Bravo.
We’re doing okay. We started Dead Ringers last night but couldn’t finish it. Will continue sometime. I’ll tell you about it later this evening.
Psych first aid and EMDR is standard protocol for all major scale close-combat encounters, as far as I know. Got to ask the admins of the division for up-to-date information. Although I could never get into it, since I already get vivid nightmares and didn't want to make that worse. I was told that with EMDR there's a chance you might get worse before you start to see improvement and I couldn't risk that, at least not now. So I'm glad it's working for you. Anything else you need, please feel free to tell me.
It really is a shame not a lot of organisations are adopting mental health protocols. After we founded the BSAA and started looking at the international data, the numbers were astounding. I think it's the second most disregarded form of care after early intervention honestly. It could help a lot of people before they ever qualify for a full PTSD diagnosis. It's still a black mark on your record once you seek help and get officially diagnosed, so a lot of soldiers and law enforcement personnel end up trying to deal with it themselves or through unofficial channels. I hope the BSAA fares better in that regard after our time as well.
Things tend to improve and then get worse again once people get too comfortable. That's just how it goes. But then it gets better again in some other way, in ways we probably won't even recognise once we're old timers. I keep imagining myself in the future complaining that we're facing the same problems with different faces. You'd think evil would eventually run out of new ways to be evil, but the people on that side of the spectrum are creative. I'll give them that. But thankfully so are we. I bet we've still got surprises for them they won't soon forget.
It's funny. I just realised I can actually imagine myself older now. I've never really let myself think about any kind of future ahead of me. I never thought I was capable of building one properly for myself, and mostly kept going for the sake of others. Claire, Jill, Barry, you. But I can't afford to keep doing that now. If I don't believe in myself and what I'm capable of, how am I supposed to help keep the promise we made when we founded the BSAA?
I can even picture the kinds of conversations I'll have with Claire someday, about retirement or what to do with our old house. But if she ever heard I was picturing her as an old lady I'd never hear the end of it. So this stays between us, okay?
You’ve stood by me through all of this from day one. It’s me who should be thanking you.
Times are quickly changing. Turns out we're changing along with them too. I remember reading something James Baldwin wrote once about Americans being trapped in history and history being trapped in them. Maybe we're finally on our way to getting past that. I really hope we are. That's the best any of us can do, right?
See you at 8.
Chris
(In small, bold text is a note added far below the body text)
P.S. File name? Very hurtful. Nice photos. Fake outbreak ready a.s.a.p. All is well.
—
October 13, continued
Chris has contacted Rebecca over video call earlier tonight. They spoke via the open BSAA line, so I could not be present in the room, but I was able to hear her voice through the door. She sounded healthy and vibrant, if somewhat ruminative. Which is understandable, given that she remains under supervision and is in the early active phase of her therapy. I am glad to know she is improving.
It appears she has discovered a way to reach me directly through my own terminal, via a secure line, employing some of the same intercept tools I used during my efforts against the local networks of Sein Island. It is delightful to see how resourceful she can be. I accepted her request to speak through a channel she intends to construct on our server, one that will encrypt and later disperse into unreadable code once the conversation ends. I find myself looking forward to it, though not without reservations, which are admittedly more sentimental in nature.
My hesitance is that her absence, however necessary for her recovery, is not going to permit the same natural ease of communication I have always experienced in her presence. This, in turn, leaves me susceptible to the possibility that our exchanges will not continue in their usual manner once she has returned to the facility. I am wary that she will come back changed in some way I cannot anticipate, and that I will no longer feel anything for her. That whatever clarity her treatment will afford her is going to illuminate something in me she had not previously seen, and that the impossibility of a closeness between us will finally dawn on her, closing her off from me entirely. I hope this is not the case for either of our sakes, as I do not believe, over the course of these past several months, that she has found my company particularly intolerable. But if distancing herself, and whatever emotional investment she may or may not hold toward me, proves to be the healthiest course for her, then I will concede to it. I will, however, be the first to declare that I am a selfish person. And in my selfishness, I wish for our proximity to remain intact.
It is also worth remarking that I find invoked within myself a considerable degree of patience. I would almost liken it to the patience I have exercised since the age of eighteen in unraveling Spencer’s plans, and later, in formulating the pathogen meant to reshape humanity's future. Though it is not difficult to see that it is not of the same character. That earlier patience was cultivated around the foreign kernels that have been planted into my mind, and my own unconscious recognition of their unnatural presence inside my head had caused my thoughts to twist and rotate ceaselessly around them like a whirlpool. The mask of subtle, intelligent caution that I have been successful in projecting to those around me had successfully hidden the turbulence of my thoughts. Had it not, those around me would have judged me mad, and rightly so, and I would never have been permitted close enough to them to benefit from any sort of collaboration. With Rebecca, it is an entirely different case. It feels as though I am observing her from a distance, the way a scientist watches a budding flower just on the verge of blooming. Except I am no mere observer in this scenario, but another flower growing alongside her, reaching upward into the same sky, powerless to hasten the natural process of nature, and equally powerless to stop it. I find that I have come to cherish this helpless state.
I have once again looked over the photographs she sent me. It perplexes me how effortlessly she is able to render the beauty she perceives in the world into something so simple, so unadorned. I was equally struck to find that the text she has chosen to read through her recovery is Nietzsche, though it is possible she simply recalled that particular passage and included the scan spontaneously. She is not wrong, in any case, in her implicit observation that my own relation to the institutions and people around me shares a resemblance to that of Nietzsche. I agree that I have attacked only those institutions I hold in genuine regard, because it is my sincere belief that whatever I do not respect is unworthy of any attention at all, positive or otherwise. That mechanism, however, renders itself entirely obsolete where Rebecca is concerned. I find, at this point, that I cannot bear the thought of directing toward her whatever offence my nature would be inclined to produce. Such an offence would only ever wound myself, while she would remain untouched and unharmed by it. There is some amount of reconciliation to be found in knowing that whatever undoing eventually finds me will be mine alone to bear, while she will undoubtedly rise above it, victorious, standing alone and bright beneath the sun.
R.C. > Well, hello you!
> It’s been a while since we wrote to each other like this, hasn’t it?
E.J. > It has.
R.C. > I’m good, by the way. Thank you for asking.
> Therapy is going well. There is steady progress because we were able to address things so quickly. I was hoping that would be the case.
> By the way, who let you access that email?!
E.J. > Chris did.
> We read over the email together.
> I suppose he would demand that I leave if it contained sensitive information. I do not believe it did.
> Unless you count your warning against worldwide annihilation as one.
R.C. > I don’t think so! But who knows..!!
> That is very lenient of him. Although I’m not too surprised. He told me about what you two spoke about last night. It’s a relief to see that you two have been finally communicating openly.
> I’m proud of you both.
> Maybe now you will finally start to get along further down the line!
E.J. > Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
R.C. > Ha! Fine.
> And what have you been getting up to?
E.J. > Abela has been visiting to stabilise the samples still at the lab until the next transfer.
> I volunteered to assist her with the sequencing and the recombinant strain analysis.
> She has reluctantly agreed, on the condition that I remain under constant supervision throughout.
R.C. > She’ll come around to you.
E.J. > She does not need to.
> She is perfectly justified in her caution towards me.
R.C. > That's true. But you've willingly come to us and worked alongside us for considerable time now, and you're still a monitored asset under our watch. It's our job to keep you safe, and yours to help keep us safe, using what you know about Umbrella's offshoots and organisations like them. You've personally demonstrated you're eligible to remain here as part of our field consultation program.
> You are not unbefitting of trust. At least not anymore.
E.J. > For now.
> Have you considered how things will proceed after I will inevitably have to be turned over?
R.C.> I have.
> Not at length, and not with every detail worked out, of course. There's protocol we need to follow in protecting your identity, but it has to be handled in confidence, among a very tight group within the UN, given the risk of plants and leaks. The UN isn't immune to corruption, no more than any organisation of that size. So I do believe there's a positive case that can be made for you.
> There is of course the consideration that at some point, the decision will be out of our hands entirely. Whether you end up incarcerated or entrusted to the BSAA directly will be determined somewhere in that vague grey area.
> It's not something I like thinking about. I know we have to, though. We run through simulations with Chris periodically.
> I thought it was best we didn’t tell you that.
E.J. > It is like a living funeral, indeed.
R.C. > Don’t say that!
> There's a strong likelihood you'll be delivered into our custody. And it increases with every day you continue to cooperate.
E.J. > Is that the reason why I am still here?
R.C. > Well, partly. As you know, this present situation mostly due to caution after the attack on the Umbrella facility. We need to secure exactly how much information is out there. But then again, this speculation around Umbrella and HCF’s previous work was going to continue regardless of what happened. I remember your projections indicating the same conclusion.
E.J. > Correct.
R.C. > So it's in our best interest to do our due diligence, to coordinate with operational forces and the intelligence division, and to scour every remaining lead to gather as much as we can.
> Your due judgement is just going to have to wait a while longer.
> Am I to understand that you have grown bored of us???
E.J. > On the contrary.
> Chris told me he had always known that the bond we shared during our time in S.T.A.R.S. was temporary. That he looks back on those days fondly, though with a bitter and wounded heart.
> Had he told me this years ago, I would have dismissed it as the maudlin sentiment of a snivelling young man, as sentimental rubbish.
> Now, I understand him. I know how he felt.
> I sense the same foreboding at the approaching end. I have not felt anything like this in a long time.
R.C. > Isn’t that a good thing, though? For your project to reformulate your sense of being.
E.J. > Systemically, yes.
> Psychological disturbance is a positive indicator for change. It is a rather juvenile sensation, previously confined to my memories of the orphanage.
> It is an uncomfortable experience.
>But you are right in your assertion that it is necessary.
R.C. > It’s necessary *and* normal.
E.J. > Be that as it may.
> I do not fear the judgement of the self-professed authority tasked with overseeing the safety of the entire world.
>Relying on the resources of whichever countries it deems sufficiently civilised, and whose dealings with them remain most profitable.
> My concern is for my own person, and my regret that I will not have the opportunity to share a place beside you once this operation concludes.
> Nevertheless, I wish only that you are safe. With or without me.
R.C. > I would much prefer it if it was with you.
E.J. > I do not deserve your care. Or your consideration.
> But I am glad you think so.
R.C. > So am I.
> I’ve got to go. But please, take care.
> And don’t worry. We still have time.
> Oh! Do you know what my friends back at HQ have been calling our antiviral project, apparently?
> “A most fair attempt to unfuck the world.”
E.J. > That sounds ludicrous.
> But I admit it is a rather winsome way to put it.
> Take care of yourself, Rebecca.
i Love that anders’ clinic delivers babies and treats STDs. thank you for calling planned parenthood of Kirkwall. we are one guy in the sewer. they’ve been trying to catch him for Years . for birth control inquiries, press 1. for hormone therapy, press 2
public service announcement: this post has escaped dragon age containment and to everyone tagging it “wow! this sounds cool! i need to play dragon age!” and i need you to understand: if you agree with me that you think this idea sounds like it would be cool, DO NOT BEGIN PLAYING DRAGON AGE FOR ANY REASON
there’s a post on tumblr about like. if you could do something to bring people a little relief, why wouldn’t you do it? which has unironically informed my practice as a nursing student and patient care tech
This is - legitimately - my favourite delivery of Shakespeare I have EVER seen (and I have seen some good-ass productions yo, in the Globe Theatre itself even). Like seriously, even though the words are unchanged, he’s stripped away ALL of the archaic pretense and assumed grandeur of ~presenting the bard~ that makes even the most wildly talented of actors and innovative of productions inherently inaccessible to a modern audience. Like, they’re still great, they can still communicate the message and (some) of the nuance, but they’re still always a step removed from being identifiable to any viewer’s lived experience. They’re still always reciting 15th century poetry. But this guy? This guy is like, screw iambic pentameter, to hell with being precious about the material, HOW WOULD AN ACTUAL PERSON SAY THIS SHIT?
Like this. And it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful to hear a soliloquy I loved so much already, and have it come to life in a way it never, ever, did before. I feel like I grasp his motivations, his twists and turns, no longer on an academic level but on a visceral, instinctive one. Because he’s presenting his mental and emotional journey in a way that speaks honestly, like a real person.
So yeah, this shit post? I love it. Deeply and sincerely.
