Owen Clark; Organized Chaos

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

owen–organized–chaos:

[ He flinches subtly as they step out the front doors, but he has a clear destination in mind, so it helps to distract him. And he counts—clearly in his head, he counts, because that helps too. 

It is exactly two hundred and nineteen steps to the stables. Another twenty seven to the place in the loft he intends to go to, where the is a large window and a seat of straw. A view of below and a roof over over his head, even though the wind blows through the loft like it is outside. And it smells of outdoors and it feels of outdoors, so it is the best kind of outdoors he knows, because he can be both inside and outside at the same time. 

His feet scruff in the grass softly as they pace.  It is getting drier by the day. It is usually not very green, even in the summer. The world is unhealthy, mother nature sick now. But winter is coming and She is making it worse. 

He shrugs at the question. ] I do not know. I do not know, really. It is hard to explain. I guess like.. what people are thinking, and who is telling who lies and who has something to hide. That kind of knowing. 

[ The outdoors had never felt like home to Roy, he always preferred to be behind walls, hidden where he was safe from the elements. There was nowhere like that left, nowhere was safe from the wrath of Mother Nature who had grown angry, maybe because humans had so long abused her. The grass had browned as the atmosphere grew warmer, the world looked vastly different than it had once. 

He didn’t know where they were going, but there was something calming about even just the act of walking. Feeling the earth as it was against his feet, reminding him of the months after the first Falling. He had wandered for so long, and seen so many things - terrible yes but also enlightening. ] 

Well I’m not telepathic, so I don’t know what you’re thinking. [ And he’s glad for that, he doesn’t want to know what goes on other people’s minds when he can barely handle his own. ]

[ He frowns gently. It is a mistake many make, and he thinks the only reason he does not make it, is because Owen as a rule spends more time listening and observing than actually engaging, than speaking with people. ]

Oh, telepaths do not read minds. Telepaths project their thoughts into other people’s heads. If two people are telepaths, they can communicate in their heads. But they do not read thoughts. They actually just... intend for their thoughts to be read.

[queenc-x]

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screenshotsofdespair + colony 22 [2 of ?]

[theweekendin1975]

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[owen--organized--chaos]

Pumpin’ Blood - NONONO

It's your heart, it's alive It's pumping blood And the whole wide world is whistling

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

[ Roy found easy amusement in how flustered the other became. It reminded him of a small creature that was in a new situation - sort of how bambi acted after his mother was shot. Yet, as amusing as it was ( for it truly was oh so hilarious ) it was also quite endearing which was strange.

He raised an eyebrow at the next comment - surprised the other had even found words but more shocked that he was being compared to a cat. Perhaps one of the cats from those old stop-animation films where the animals were skeletal. ]

It isn’t necessarily bad. [ It was all perspective, and while Roy would rather be predator than prey - others might disagree. ] And what sort of things do my eyes look like they know?

[ He flinches subtly as they step out the front doors, but he has a clear destination in mind, so it helps to distract him. And he counts—clearly in his head, he counts, because that helps too. 

It is exactly two hundred and nineteen steps to the stables. Another twenty seven to the place in the loft he intends to go to, where the is a large window and a seat of straw. A view of below and a roof over over his head, even though the wind blows through the loft like it is outside. And it smells of outdoors and it feels of outdoors, so it is the best kind of outdoors he knows, because he can be both inside and outside at the same time. 

His feet scruff in the grass softly as they pace.  It is getting drier by the day. It is usually not very green, even in the summer. The world is unhealthy, mother nature sick now. But winter is coming and She is making it worse. 

He shrugs at the question. ] I do not know. I do not know, really. It is hard to explain. I guess like.. what people are thinking, and who is telling who lies and who has something to hide. That kind of knowing. 

[robsonsgirl]

[owen--organized--chaos]

smoke | open

[owen--organized--chaos]

andreya-roche:

[It’s all very procedural – step by step, one thing leads to another. Step one: move away from immediate danger. Step two: check if it is safe to help others. Step three: if it is, help; if not, get to safety, alert authorities. Step four: continue to problem-solve. The underlying issue is that figures of authority are sparse and somewhat unreachable – their best bet to alert others is the fire alarm. And she notices Owen hesitating.

She sees the wheels turning. Fast. His eyes whiten and his skin pales, his thoughts whirling between his ears and out his mouth with every breath. She recognizes panic, distress, uncertainty, but she also knows how to knead through it like toughening dough – add water. Add calm. Add the smoothing agent that will soften the dough, loosen the muscles, knead the thoughts.

Looking to him with a gentle seriousness, she keeps the back of her hand on the door.] I need you to pull it now, Owen.

[And he does. With a shriek, the bells go up in a chorus of wails and rings. Even though she was expecting it, she still jumps. Her hand begins to warm, but it’s not deathly hot to the touch. Still, she doesn’t want to risk opening the door. If the smoke reaches the sprinklers, fingers crossed they’ll activate.

With the alarm pulled, she feels safe enough to recoil and take Owen’s hand.] Come on. [People start to filter, slowly at first, out of the rooms lining the hall, their heads ducking this way and that, trying to find the source of the fire and the reason for the alarm. She decides the best way to round up people in this kind of emergency is to play follow the leader, so she leads with decisive steps and focused eyes down the hall, immediately finding that the two of them are collecting followers. They start to drain the building in slow (even aggravated) droves.

But Andreya can’t get that smell out of her head. It wasn’t wood burning, or even hot metal. What was that?] Owen? [She looks back at him, seeing the unmistakable worry, and realizing his hands are still clapped over his ears. She reaches to put a hand on his back, ushering him out the door and into the grounds.] You okay?

[ He knows the moment it comes, he will flinch. 

Not the bell, but the outside. All this time. All this time, and he still finches, just slightly, when he steps from inside to out. Like the sky just might collapse on him one day. Suffocate him in all its vastness, despite the fact that it never has yet. It only needs to happen once, to hurt, and so he never stops worrying. Even if it is just a little. 

He focuses on the touch of her hand on his back as they traipse outside and he lowers his hands from his ears slowly. He tries not to think about the open sky above his head, which turns out to be not that hard because all he can think about is the smoke. ]

Yes. [ He nods ] Yes, i am okay. I am okay, thank you. I just, um. What... what do you think that was? What do you think that was? The smoke. I am a bit worried. Do you think the sprinklers will start? 

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

[ Roy easily catches up to Owen when given the chance, finding himself strangely walking in step with him. His eyes however stay diligently trained on the ground, even as he enjoys the awkward lapse in conversation which he created. The responding question amuses him too, and though he knows it isn’t fair he toys with Owen. ]

Indeed you’ve got the eyes and - [ He pauses for a few moments, looking over at his companion as if looking for something in his face. When he responds, it’s with a sort of grin on his face and a faked look of understanding. ] - the tousled hair. Plus, your facial expressions. Definitely reminds me of a baby animal, a deer even.

[ He thinks now, and he realizes, that he does not remember the last time someone spoke about the way he looks. He does not remember the last time, really, though he does think it was probably with Landon. Mr. Landon said many nice things that Owen did not deserve, and he seemed to notice all the little things about Owen that Owen never did because he was too busy noticing all the little things about... everything else.

Mr. Landon tried to teach him that Owen cared too much about things, and where they sat, and how they looked when stacked orderly on a table—he tried to teach him that what he should care about it people. People mattered more. 

It was a nice thought. But it was one that was hard for Owen to appreciate believing in, when Mr. Landon went away. 

He thinks he might be flushing a little, and his eyes cast around for words, for stability. ]

Oh. Um. I do not know if that is good or not. I do not know if that is good or not, but thank you, I guess. [ He chances a grin, looking at Roy just briefly. ] I do not know what you look like. A cat, maybe. Your eyes look like they know things. Cats are like that. 

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

[ Roy feels oddly defensive, considering that he had agreed to go with him. A stubborn retort almost slipped through his lips before he realizes that Owen wan’t trying to boss him around. He closes his mouth which had opened slightly, and just nods.

Then he takes a step forward, glad that his legs are cooperating because he’s face enough embarrassment in his opinion. He stares at the floor, knowing that staring up wards will have him staring at the back of Owen’s head, and he was never in the mood for that. There’s a whisper - like the wind in leaves only nobody else hears it. The voice tries to convince him that he shouldn’t go, that he shouldn’t put Owen as risk like that. 

Roy’s gotten pretty good at ignoring the voice he calls his conscience, believing that it’s tainted by all the demons that hide in the crevices of his body - of his soul. He hums to drown it out, listening to the symphony of sounds and is reminded of the intro tracks to video games. The next words slip out of his mouth, out of habit to push people away. ]

So GlowTime, is it the reason you look like bambi?

[ Owen keeps his pace metered, counting, though he knows he shouldn’t, he should not. But no one is really telling him not to, anymore, and maybe he is feeling sorry for himself but it is making him bitterly rebel against his old therapists wishes. Today, he does not care that he should not be counting his steps, marking where he steps and memorizing the lines in the tiles. He does not care because Dr. Hall is not here anymore and Landon does not touch him anymore and Owen is too lonely to care about being ‘better’. Today, anyway. Today he does not care. 

But he does try to wait for Roy, because he does not like the feeling of Roy walking behind him, so he pauses, counts to two, then steps again in time so that his housemate is walking beside him. 

He does not really know how to answer the question, or how to feel about the fact that it has been asked. Is it a joke? Is Roy mocking him? Is he making conversation? Owen can not tell and he does not quite know what to say. ]

I... I look like Bambi?

[owen--organized--chaos]

smoke | open

[owen--organized--chaos]

andreya-roche:

owen–organized–chaos:

[Owen is happy with his schedule. Maybe the Colony is not perfect, maybe there are people who threaten and pressure and force others to oblige by rules no one can agree upon. Maybe the Colony is not perfect. But he does like the schedules, the order. The sensible rhythm of this and then that and then this again. It is safe. It is predictable. 

He is on his way to his Histories class when he sees it. 

 Smoke seeps like an eerie, grey hand, reaching like bony fingers beneath the crack of the door to the researcher’s laboratory. The room no one but the Elite scientists are allowed to go into. The one no one knows what’s beyond the door, or what goes on behind it. Science, some say. Evolution, some say. Inhumanity, others say.

There is a rich and sick smell of chemical, and the smoke swells like fog, slow and sinister. Owen is frozen, feet rooted to the spot, and he stares and he stares and he stares and time is slow. When he finds the courage to look away, to glance around hollow corridors hoping for a presence, the help line of someone else seeing what he sees, someone else making a decision, choosing a path. 

He hates choosing paths with the uncertain. There is no right answer, so nothing is safe, nothing predictable. He could make a step and it could be the wrong one and he could never go back. Never take it back. Never fix it, never fix it, never fix it. 

Footsteps come from around the corner. His breath is tight in his ribcage and he looks up, unmoving.] There’s smoke, [he says. Obvious, but with the absence of knowing what else to say. Stuck on the crises, unable to move beyond it.]

[She wonders how her life would have been different if she had learned crisis management in a classroom rather than the teachings of survival. A rigorous schedule, a lesson plan, methodology and course restrictions, signed waivers and thoughtful commentary – versus feet to the fire, versus jumping in the ice cold water before sticking your toes in, versus seeing the blood and smelling the fire before having a thought about what to do. There had been no timeline for her education, but she had come out a graduate. No deaths in her clan, no illness unhealed, no broken bones unmended. Her inner and outer fortitudes were crafted and shaped by the unforgiving territory of reality.

Which is why, as she comes down the hallway after another mind-numbingly boring science class, she suddenly feels at home again. Instincts she had thought to be hampered down by the monotony, the schedules, the rules, the predictability, suddenly spark to life again. They hum and fizzle and warm like a long-forgotten engine, rearing in the back of her mind and speeding to light.

There is Owen in need, and there is smoke bleeding through the bottom of the door.]

Okay. [She comes to him, sets a hand on the back of his arm and pulls him back a step or two, just to put some distance between them and the potential hazard floating up into their faces. She sniffs, trying to detect the source of burning – plastic, wood, metal, chemical – and decides it’s too strong to be anything but toxic. And if anyone’s in there… She pounds loud on the door with the side of her fist.]

Hello? Hello, there’s smoke. Is anyone in there? Owen, pull the fire alarm. [She turns to him, points to the small red tag soldered to the wall. Andee places the back of her hand to the door, feeling, waiting.] Pull it now, please.

[It is funny—not funny, very not funny, but funny in the sense that people use it when they mean not funny at all—but he hadn’t even thought of the possibility of someone being inside. He hadn’t even thought about what kind of dangers lie behind the door, simply the danger it might release to this side of it. 

He steps back at Andreya’s hand, and she is the presence of strength and courage. She reminds him, a little, of his sisters, in the way she is brazen and fearless and wears confidence on her face as though it has never known what it is like to be without it. 

The fire alarm—he stiffens, looks to where she points. 

The fire alarm. 

He chokes, and it hurts, and it stings like it did when the smoke was in his eyes, and he coughs like he did when it had smothered his lungs. 

Or perhaps it is just the memory of coughing, perhaps he isn’t moving at all. Is not. He certainly feels immobile, frozen. But how can he move or think or breathe when all there is is the memory of Bailey strapped to a table, the fire taking away her freckles. One by one, cinnamon powder toasting into tar. He can still smell the stench of it. The girl with black hair and eyes like clouds, who sat upon her, still haunts his nightmares. The ones he wakes from screaming. 

The fire alarm. The fire alarm. 

One, two, three. 

His heart beats fast, fast, slow, and it hurts, it hurts. But he thinks of Landon and he thinks of Mr Hall and he suddenly does not want to be this person anymore. He does not want to give in to helplessness, see the sadness in his mother’s eyes again. He no longer wants to seek forgiveness, but rather surprise. 

With effort, he forces himself to move and turn and pull down the alarm, hands flying to his ears to block the sharp nails of the bell from piercing him.

He looks to Andreya for instruction, eyes wide with what he is sorely attempting not to let be panic.] 

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

owen–organized–chaos:

[ He seems like he is weak, winded. He seems like he is a small cracked leaf in the winds of autumn, brown and yellow and disintegrating with every unassuming scruff against the pavement. Crackling into dust that swirls by the feet of kids on their way home from school. 

Memories in the Long Ago. Lost and fading, just like them. 

Something clenches in Owen’s chest, and the single word is not a reassurance, but it is also not a dismissal, and he tries to find courage in that. Tries to remind himself what the kind people who have crossed his path have done for him, when he had been fragile and frail and a breath away from being nothing but a memory.

He thinks of Jeremy, and he thinks of GlowTime, and it is the best he can do. ] 

Um. You… I mean. [ The mistakes sting, and he winces,  but tries to push down the discomfort. He will fix it later. He will fix them all later. ] When I am upset and when it hurts to breathe and think I try to have Glow Time. A friend taught me about it a few years ago. Glow Time is when you find the most comfortable place you can be or the most pleasant thing you can do or think about, and you focus on nothing but those things that make you feel good, or used to make you feel good, in the Long Ago. And you use the time to be selfish and calm and just… [ He is pretty sure he is not explaining it like Jeremy did, and he bites his lip, nervous. Wishing he could do better. ] I do not know. It is hard to explain. It is like mediating a bit, I guess. But um, less hard, I think. [ A shy grin. ] Do you… do you want to go away from here? Somewhere? I know a place.

[ The soft, unassuming voice of the person he was staring at reminded him of the wind on a cool spring day. Present just enough to offer something more than the bland silence with disrupting anything, and Roy wonders when Owen learned to speak like that. Each word reflects how aware he is of its impact, and Roy wishes he could speak in such a beautiful way.

When the other suggests something that he calls Glow Time, at first Roy considers the strange name. Usually a teasing jibe would slip from his lips but as the other continues to explain it, he realizes that it isn’t that bad of an idea. Aside from the fact that he can’t think of anything or anywhere that would make him happy, and memories from the Before make him feel powerless. But the thought is nice, and maybe trying would help. ]

Yeah, okay. [ As Roy takes a step towards the other, it feels as though he is face Mt. Everest, and he struggles to breath for no reason other than pure fear. He silently hopes the other isn’t an empath - knowing that others could feel what he felt made him more anxious than anything. Slowly his feet begin to move, quietly shuffling against the floor as he approaches Owen.]

I’ll try. [ The word anything seemed to echo violently even though he didn’t say it, in the way only the truth can. ]

[ Owen realizes, with those two words, that he hadn’t expected Roy to say yes. He had been more prepared for a dismissal, maybe a few sharp words. He’d been more prepared for the rejection, and he was okay with that, really, because Owen has never seen himself as exceptionally good at helping people. He can hardly help himself, though he tries. He tries. 

He falters a moment, and Roy’s voice sounds rough. Coarse like sandpaper. It is not easy for him, this agreement, and he is tense around the neck, Owen can see. He is like a jaguar pacing, stuck somewhere between fear and loathing, between a flee and an attack. Owen feels a bit like the Mouse that is baiting him. 

But there is something in the broadness of his eyes, those flecks of silver and grey in blue, that has Owen holding his ground, shifting on the soles of his feet though he is. He clears his throat,  eyes dropping a moment, checking his footing on the tiles. He hasn’t counted in a while today. He supposes his therapists would say that is a good thing. He isn’t sure he would agree. It only makes him feel slightly queasy. Maybe that’s what normalcy is though. He wouldn’t know. ]

Um. Okay. Okay. [ A small nod, as he pivots carefully, glancing at Roy with a tug in his eyes, like a replacement for words, or for touch. Owen doesn’t touch people often, but he thinks sometimes of Mr. Landon, and he thinks sometimes he misses it. ] This way....? [ Like a question. Because Roy is not the kind of person one bosses around. ] 

[owen--organized--chaos]

smoke | open

[Owen is happy with his schedule. Maybe the Colony is not perfect, maybe there are people who threaten and pressure and force others to oblige by rules no one can agree upon. Maybe the Colony is not perfect. But he does like the schedules, the order. The sensible rhythm of this and then that and then this again. It is safe. It is predictable. 

He is on his way to his Histories class when he sees it. 

 Smoke seeps like an eerie, grey hand, reaching like bony fingers beneath the crack of the door to the researcher’s laboratory. The room no one but the Elite scientists are allowed to go into. The one no one knows what’s beyond the door, or what goes on behind it. Science, some say. Evolution, some say. Inhumanity, others say.

There is a rich and sick smell of chemical, and the smoke swells like fog, slow and sinister. Owen is frozen, feet rooted to the spot, and he stares and he stares and he stares and time is slow. When he finds the courage to look away, to glance around hollow corridors hoping for a presence, the help line of someone else seeing what he sees, someone else making a decision, choosing a path. 

He hates choosing paths with the uncertain. There is no right answer, so nothing is safe, nothing predictable. He could make a step and it could be the wrong one and he could never go back. Never take it back. Never fix it, never fix it, never fix it. 

Footsteps come from around the corner. His breath is tight in his ribcage and he looks up, unmoving.] There’s smoke, [he says. Obvious, but with the absence of knowing what else to say. Stuck on the crises, unable to move beyond it.]

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

owen–organized–chaos:

[He remembers telling his family he was fine. He remembers being stuck in the hallway of his apartment, between step 17 and 18, for six hours, thirty minutes and roughly nineteen seconds, because he had messed up his steps and been too afraid to go back and restart. Somehow, too convinced that stepping again in the wrong spot would be worse than staying here all day, unable to move, unable to answer the phone or the door when his sisters had come looking for him. 

They were due for family dinner. 

He remembers telling them, when they finally got into the house with the spare key lent to them by the landlord, that he was fine. Fine. Fine.

He remembers also, telling the nurses of the Colony that he was ‘fine’ after watching Bailey’s lovely freckles get licked off her cheeks by bright orange flames. He remembers saying fine many times, but he does not remember it ever being true. 

It makes Owen sad, because Roy has always been so volatile, and perhaps it is his loneliness that Owen relates to that makes him want to help, but he has never been the kind to help anyone, to be of any use to anyone other than for help in the occasional history homework.] 

I’m sorry, [he finds himself saying.]  I did not mean to upset you… [He should leave now, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to move. There is a tired and lonely ache in the boy’s grey-blue eyes and Owen would feel worse to walk away from him.]

[ The apology makes the situation more awkward, though perhaps only to Roy whose perception of these things can admittedly be rather flawed in comparison with others. The tension only serves to remind him of the eternal battle within his mind, one that existed even before the falling. Does he let someone get close and risk ruining everything?

It certainly isn’t an easy choice and it isn’t one that he’s ready to make just yet. And still, when he looks at the other and tries to tell him that it’s fine but to leave - nothing comes out. Instead a dull silence hangs in the air, allowing the awkwardness to grow. There’s something so sad about Owen, but so pure at the same time and Roy doesn’t know that he wants to contribute to breaking him. 

So instead of telling him to leave, to get lost he breathed out a single word.] Okay.

[ He seems like he is weak, winded. He seems like he is a small cracked leaf in the winds of autumn, brown and yellow and disintegrating with every unassuming scruff against the pavement. Crackling into dust that swirls by the feet of kids on their way home from school. 

Memories in the Long Ago. Lost and fading, just like them. 

Something clenches in Owen’s chest, and the single word is not a reassurance, but it is also not a dismissal, and he tries to find courage in that. Tries to remind himself what the kind people who have crossed his path have done for him, when he had been fragile and frail and a breath away from being nothing but a memory.

He thinks of Jeremy, and he thinks of GlowTime, and it is the best he can do. ] 

Um. You... I mean. [ The mistakes sting, and he winces,  but tries to push down the discomfort. He will fix it later. He will fix them all later. ] When I am upset and when it hurts to breathe and think I try to have Glow Time. A friend taught me about it a few years ago. Glow Time is when you find the most comfortable place you can be or the most pleasant thing you can do or think about, and you focus on nothing but those things that make you feel good, or used to make you feel good, in the Long Ago. And you use the time to be selfish and calm and just... [ He is pretty sure he is not explaining it like Jeremy did, and he bites his lip, nervous. Wishing he could do better. ] I do not know. It is hard to explain. It is like mediating a bit, I guess. But um, less hard, I think. [ A shy grin. ] Do you... do you want to go away from here? Somewhere? I know a place.

[owen--organized--chaos]

mirasigar:

owen–organized–chaos :

[One thing Owen has always been able to appreciate about the Colony is the routine. There are schedules and protocols and time tables, and yes, they change from time to time, from time to time they change…but they are recipes towards Owen’s sanity. A little piece of the safety net he has not been allowed since the Falling. There is no safe apartment no one enters, no soft white kitty from down the hall, at his door looking for milk. But at least there are routines, and breakfast is his favorite one. In the Long Ago, Owen always woke up at the same time every morning, went through the same steps. At the Colony, they expect that much of him, and he is happy to oblige. 

Today, the food seems fresher than some days. Nicer than what Monday’s had looked like. In his experience, there are no set days that the food is fresh off the crates on the ships because the ships still make unexpected stops, still take more or less time than planned. Still suffer delays and set backs. There is no rhyme or reason in these desperate times. But at least they run, and today looks like some of the fresher foods from larger city-remains have made it to Colony 22′s little island. There are eggs on his plate from the serving window already, and he is collecting a a small bowl of yogurt, and instead of canned fruit, some— mostly fresh!—apple and banana slices. He smiles softly to himself, then glances up at the voice.]

Um. [A wrinkle in a brow, but he looks at the food display thoughtfully.] From the table you are allowed anything. The fruit is fresh today. You should have that. We do not often have fresh fruit. And there is strawberry yogurt today, which is nice. And if you go to the serving window they are making fresh eggs. We do not have eggs often, so it is a nice treat. Sometimes they make cinnamon pancakes, but not today. But the eggs are nice. [He looks at her] Are you new here?

Anything? [ The disbelief in her voice was pretty evident. How could she possibly decide between all of this food? Everything looked wonderful, but it wasn’t her place to take food away from those who needed it more than she ever would. However, looking at everything before her and listening to the boy beside her talk about each food item was slowly pulling her closer to the table. Mira didn’t need this food, she was sure of it, but something inside of her was craving it. ]

Maybe some fruit would be good. [ She nodded her head as she reached for the apple and banana slices. Mira could see them on the other’s plate so she used his amount as a measure for how much she should take. On top of them though, she found herself grabbing some grapes and throwing them into her mouth before they could even reach her plate. They were surprisingly satisfying. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps her father programmed her to feel hunger in order to make her appear more human. That would have been nice of him, she thought. ]

[ Smiling to herself, she continued to pick up the same things the boy had on his plate. He seemed to know what he was talking about, so his food choices were definitely something she could trust. Mira looked at him for a moment before smiling at him. ]Thank you for helping me.[ She liked this boy. She liked how he spoke. He was easy to understand and she hadn’t yet needed to furrow her brow at him. That was nice. ] I am. I got here some days ago, but I’ve only recently been allowed out with the rest of you. My name is Mira. I am happy to help.

[ She has a nice smile, something Owen always appreciates. Kindness in the eyes that glow like sunrays, and it makes him feel relatively safe. She has a certain element of control about her, of ease, and she does not intimidate, like some. He thinks she must be a Calyset, or maybe a Brink. Though that is sort of generalizing, and his mother always told him it is not fair to stereotype. It is just that he can not help but calculate based on what he knows and has experienced, and what he has experienced is that most Torrens and Delmas are louder and brasher. ]

It is fine. It is fine, I am happy to help. [ Her name, four letters, makes him bite back a grin to himself. Four letter names make him think of home, and security. He has always like four letter names. ] Mira. M-i-r-a. Mira? That is a nice name. That is a nice name, I like it. 

[ He grins softly, but as she continues, a frown buckles into soft caterpillar brows. ] Why would they not let you out? Before, I mean? Did you come in from another Colony? Or were you from a wasteland clan?

[andrewgarfield-daily]

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

[ Roy isn’t sure if he could tell the difference between pity and understanding anymore. Once upon a time they had existed as completely separate concepts but ever since that terrible awful day they seem to have begun overlapping more and more. He finds himself struggling to interpret the look in the other’s eyes and as Owen steps forwards he stumbles backwards.

The cotton that sometimes hazes his senses seems to find its way into his mouth where it coats his tongue thus delaying a response. How could honesty possibly be better when all it does is make people pity him? What role does the truth play when nobody believes in it? That question helps Roy draw the line in between pity and understanding - someone who understood would know that the truth is subjective and usually useless.

Roy takes another step back, this time more confidently even as he swallows around his suddenly dry tongue. It feels as though it could choke him as he tries to speak and manages very little success.]

The truth is that I’m fine.

[ Fine was a subjective word, wasn’t it? ]

[He remembers telling his family he was fine. He remembers being stuck in the hallway of his apartment, between step 17 and 18, for six hours, thirty minutes and roughly nineteen seconds, because he had messed up his steps and been too afraid to go back and restart. Somehow, too convinced that stepping again in the wrong spot would be worse than staying here all day, unable to move, unable to answer the phone or the door when his sisters had come looking for him. 

They were due for family dinner. 

He remembers telling them, when they finally got into the house with the spare key lent to them by the landlord, that he was fine. Fine. Fine.

He remembers also, telling the nurses of the Colony that he was ‘fine’ after watching Bailey’s lovely freckles get licked off her cheeks by bright orange flames. He remembers saying fine many times, but he does not remember it ever being true. 

It makes Owen sad, because Roy has always been so volatile, and perhaps it is his loneliness that Owen relates to that makes him want to help, but he has never been the kind to help anyone, to be of any use to anyone other than for help in the occasional history homework.] 

I’m sorry, [he finds himself saying.]  I did not mean to upset you... [He should leave now, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to move. There is a tired and lonely ache in the boy’s grey-blue eyes and Owen would feel worse to walk away from him.]

[owen--organized--chaos]

royxxwalters:

[ Roy can feel his own scream caught in his chest, as if it can’t bubble out of his lips due to some blockage. Yet, somehow he hears the echoes of screams and voices in his mind. All the voices all overlap offering instructions and please alike, tauntingly reminding him of what he is and of what he’s done. It’s like being caught in a nightmare that you can never wake up from.

Luckily, or perhaps unfortunately a voice manages to break through the haze that his own mind provides. It seems closer than the whispers that echo through his mind, seems more real even to him. It’s easier to focus on a voice that has a face, a voice that he can see the source of rather than a source that he has to imagine.

The question seems to innocent, just a beautiful arrangement of words that one might ask someone who they think might need help. Except the fact that Roy is pretty sure that nobody can help, no matter how much he wants them to be able to. He wants nothing more than to scream that he’s not okay, but that’s not productive and it’ll only make other come closer to getting hurt. ]

I’m fine.

[ His voice comes out choked, sounding as though he might be holding back either tears or unimaginable pain. He pauses, spending moments searching his brain for the name that he knows that he knows. It takes time but it comes to him. ]

I’m fine, Mr Owen. 

[ It sounds like a lie to his ears, and he knows it is. He wonders if Owen knows it too. ]

[There are many things Owen may not understand, and there are many things others may not understand of Owen. But one thing he does understand is loneliness. Is isolation. Is a feeling of being trapped in a body that defies you, a knowledge that no one looks at you quite the way you wish they would. 

Owen knows fear, and he feels sad for Roy. Always had. Because beneath the scathing remarks and biting eyes lies a boy Owen thinks he may understand, perhaps.

The ‘I’m fine’ sounds worse than the choked scream, almost, and Owen’s heart breaks a little. Roy is so often alone. So often the blackest spot in his own darkness and it has always been a hard thing for Owen to watch. He has always felt powerless to help, to change anything. For he is just a scared wisp of a person, and Roy probably does not want him to. But Owen can’t help but try, especially now. 

He takes a few small steps forward, considering words and how they feel on the tip of his tongue before he lets them loose from his mouth like wandering caterpillars, fur warm from the sun.] 

You... you do not have to be. You do not have to be fine. I think it is better to be honest, than to pretend, even if it is hard.