slight rant about my experience with ASPD because i got reminded of my distinct HATRED of true crime creators.
a lot of the time when i tell people i have this subsection of disorder (i actually have CPD, but i use ASPD because its more well known and because i plan to be rediagnosed with that), one of their first questions is:
“well, if you have that, then why havent you committed a serious crime? i thought it was common?”
which, yes, is a very fair question to ask. my first instinctive response is that i do commit petty theft from time to time and am not caught, my second answer is that i would never commit a serious offence because
1) i think its logically stupid to do, and
2) i am so deeply angered about the thought of me murdering someone to end up in videos by true crime creators who do not have a SINGLE qualification in relation to human psychology/criminology explaining my life and repeatedly going “he was obviously insane”, “it was clear he was a psychopath” and/or “they shouldve put him in a hospital”
i had a decent life, i am like this because of genetics in which i have been nurtured enough by my surroundings to not commit such serious offences. i would not say my parents are ‘good’, but they did enough for me to understand good morals and look at things from a logical perspective which, in turn, makes me view crime as illogical (excluding theft), all of this is to say that;
THE PERSISTENT ARMCHAIR DIAGNOSING OF CRIMINALS BY PEOPLE WHO ARE UNQUALIFIED IS THE SINGLE MOST ANNOYING THING IVE EVER EXPERIENCED.
Rahas yawned and stretched, a self-satisfied smile appearing on his face, from where he lounged comfortably in the astartes-sized chair. He was currently wearing a blue toga, trimmed in gold, and sipped on the Talasarrian wine that the poor, blind fool who believed him to the the Ultramarine he’d presented himself to be, had gotten for him. He was snacking on a plate of cured meats, fine cheeses and a small selection of the on-board fruits that were grown as a luxury and a flex that the Rogue Trader whose retinue he had been sent to infiltrate over two decades ago by his captain in order to see what side of the impending Conflict that they would likely side with, or if they would attempt to stay neutral.
It had taken time for him to build up trust, until he had gone from the stray Ultramarine who had been picked up having been separated from his squad by foul xenos and badly battered. He’d proven himself adept in the areas of logistics and paperwork - as dreadfully boring as that was. He had, of course, hidden his psychic abilities as Librarians would need to be returned to their respective chapters, and it was not the Ultramarines that Rahas had been ordered to infiltrate the ranks of.
Two decades of careful, useful service and being a steady presence in their life had rewarded Rahas handsomely, and he had ascertained that this fool of a Rogue Trader would rather stay loyal to the false emperor, rather than seeing the truth, the freedom that was promised. A pity, but not surprising. He’d sent off the encoded data packet to the agreed upon dead drop four months ago, when he’d been brought with his soon to be replaced employer with a baseline who had been altered to look and sound like them, but who knew to support the correct side.
His vox chirped several times. Rahas hummed and answered it, making sure to keep his voice with the Calthian twang that he used when speaking with the mortals aboard this ship “Yes sir, did you need something?”
“Ulysses, I need your help! I’ve just gotten a message from the Inquisition! They’re going to be doing a surprise full inspection of my ship and crew and I need you to help me make sure that everything is in order. They definitely implied that they would have me killed, should they find anything seditious. I don’t know where they got that idea, as I am a loyal servant to Him on Terra…”
Rahas chuckled, knowing that the Lord Inquisitor was another Alpha Legion plant. “No matter what you try to do to prove your loyalty to Him on Terra, it’ll be for nothing.”
“What… What do you mean by that? Ulysses, you know that I am loyal to Him! I don’t have any filthy xenos as part of my retinue, unlike some Rogue Traders I could name because they are a perversion of the human form!” The Rogue Trader spluttered, confused and unaware of the scheme that they had so completely fallen for.
“You know as well as I do that when the Inquisition comes a calling for such an inspection, they will find something to censor you with, especially as your Writ of Trade has been proven to be false.” Rahas purrs, relishing in the fear and confusion he could hear in their voice.
“But… But my great, great grandfather told me that he received the Writ of Trade from the Emperor Himself on Terra over three hundred years ago! It’s as real of a seal as can be.” They spluttered, equal parts enraged and terrified.
“What can I say? Your great great grandfather lied. Or someone stole the writ of trade and left a fake copy in it’s place.” Rahas smirked. The true writ of trade had been sent to his Captain five years ago, and no one was any the wiser as to the switch. As an Ultramarine it was his duty to report such a serious breach of paperwork to the Inquisition. “My hands are tied, your grace. I wish you good luck in the trial to come.”
“Wait! But aren’t they going to put you on trial as well, as part of my retinue?” The Rogue Trader protested, spluttering a little, trying desperately to throw anything at him that they could.
“Mmm, but see… I was the one to identify that your writ of trade is a false one, and I was the one who reported it to the Inquisition. Additionally, as a Son of Guilliman, I have certain protections and immunities that you do not, your grace. I wish you good luck in handling the Inquisition. I have orders to return to my squad, effective immediately.” Rahas purred before terminating the connection.
He would vanish from the monitoring devices on board this ship, and meet up with his brothers tomorrow. For now he relished in the fear and confusion that reigned on the ship as it descended into a beautiful symphony of chaos.
F/O, wearing S/I's hat: No. Why are you asking me? I haven't seen it. I haven't seen any hats anywhere. I would not steal a hat. Do not ask me any more questions.
When he'd gone to sleep at that party, he hadn't known what he was going to do. He'd been too out of it to move, too tired, too drugged to do anything. He remembered touching the heart tattoo on the back of his neck just in time to pass out when he saw a large heeled boot appear near his head. He was safe. Ozzie wouldn't let anything bad happen to him.
Waking up was odd. He was warm, too warm, and in the backseat of a car he didn't recognize. A huge car that he didn't recognize.
Getting out of the convertible, he dropped onto the cracked sidewalk and began to walk. His head was pounding, and he wanted something to drink. As he rounded a corner, he came across a huge building that looked kind of like what he assumed was a skyscraper. He'd never actually seen one in real life before.
Erasmo wandered inside, heading for a vending machine he saw in a little alcove near the door. Voxerade? He frowned. That seemed like his only option here, so he went to buy a blue one; only to discover that the machine wouldn't accept his dollar bills.
Damn it. It wasn't like they were wrinkled to Hell and back! And six dollars for a single drink? That was ridiculous.
Glancing around, he noticed this part of the lobby was fairly empty. With a sigh, he dropped to his knees, mindful of his tight, high-waisted shorts, and pulled a lockpick kit out of his pocket. Sliding it into the lock on the vending machine, he wiggled it around until it popped open.
Taking two blue Voxerades out of the machine, he set them on the floor beside his heeled boots. Closing the machine up, he locked it again, turning to grab his drinks off the floor just in time to see he'd been caught. By a-- What the Hell was that?
"Shit." He mumbled, before putting on a flirtatious smile, "Uh, hi~ I promise this isn't what it looks like." He needed to figure out what it was, though. All he knew for sure, now, was that he was not in California anymore.
Hm? Oh yes! I am more than okay! I was recently breaking and entering the mansion of a very powerful mage, and I found the best supplies for starting fires! I stole it, and I've had the best arson-filled day! What about you? Has your day had lots of fun arson? Or at the very least mild vandalism? Since you don't seem to enjoy manslaughter, perhaps you enjoy fire! Or... Maybe theft? Though I find theft rather boring compared to arson, so we wouldn't have much in common if you did. -Jeff
Arson...filled... Alright. I guess that’s probably got something to do with the war. You could probably say that fighting bandits in that field with the professor was vandalism? It was definitely worse off than when we got there.
Maybe I should say I’m a knight of Faerghus, since we don’t really do anything that... Shady. The only fires I’ve started are campfires and the only people I kill are other soldiers. I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘boring’ before, but it does seem like you and I have very different ideas of fun. Extremely different.
Wow. Mafia II is insane. Steal a car? The police will spawn from the nearest manhole to ram you with their car; killing you, themselves, and countless pedestrians, while destroying the stolen property they were meant to reclaim.
Kill twelve people stealing another car? Fire your gun in a street full of innocent people?That’s fine. No worries, my dude. No one will call the cops.
Break every traffic law ever written and some that don’t exist yet but should? Turns out you’re still a better driver than the AI because at least you don’t create a third lane of traffic when you get irritated.
[ @such-haunting-melodies || Continued From Here || Therin ]
[ Draven ]
Sighing softly, he handed them over, keeping one in his hand that he held up to the light. After a moment of looking at it, he placed it on top of the small pile of four, eyes down.
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry... I meant to leave you something, and ended up kind of...” His fingers wiggled, and he finally looked up, “Sometimes I can’t help it, but I couldn’t keep them. Anyway, there’s a present on your bed, and uh... I still owe you dinner. If you don’t want it to be a date anymore, consider it an apology.”
Was it normal to sit outside of the grocery store, looking as homeless as possible, playing oldies music on a beat-up acoustic guitar for drug money?
Maybe in a bigger city, somewhere like Denver. Probably not in South Park, Colorado.
Did he need the drug money?
Absolutely.
He’d had an astonishing twelve cents, no wallet, his ID, and pocket lint on him when he’d gotten there, even his flask had all but crawled away from him. He’d woken up on the floor of the house he was squatting in that morning with a pounding headache and blinding sobriety, and he couldn’t possibly survive either.
So, here he sat, playing his guitar and singing, watching a few pity coins fall into the guitar case. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice that he’d swiped it from an actual homeless man with his Speedster abilities.
Another pair of feet paused in front of him, and he finally looked up, squinting in the light framing the man before him.
“You gotta favorite song, man? Play ya anything for ten bucks.”
