#institask

[telepathological]

i’ve got stamina // a jean grey playlist

+ hunger - florence & the machine

+ too much to dream - allie x

+ doses & mimosas - cherub

+ bad at love - halsey

+ pity party (xvii remix) - melanie martinez, xvii 

+ gods & monsters - lana del rey

+ the greatest - sia

+ dreams in the hollow - jesca hoop

+ run - awolnation

+ do you feel it? -chaos chaos

[xinstitute]

TASK 004 - PLAYLISTS

Create a playlist including at least 8 songs that describe your character best. Are they the same in 1878 as they are in 2018? Feel free to add reasons why you chose certain songs and which version of your character the playlist fits. Also, make as many as you’d like!

This task does not expire. Please post for at least one of your characters and remember to tag with #institask and/or #institask004.

[goodasgxld]

TASK 002 - Memory

September 14th, 2012

Josh sighed, staring glassy-eyed at the front door. He knew he’d have to go in eventually, no matter how long he put it off. And he had put it off. Deciding to take the long way home, he walked the full twenty blocks instead of taking the subway. He made desperate small talk with the guy manning his favorite Halal cart on 10th Avenue until he was finally told to go home, kid. 

But home was the exact place he was trying to avoid. 

He had messed up. He messed up bad. 

He’s not sure what he was thinking when he ditched school to go to the cinema with his friends. They had all made it sound like such an innocent thing to do. Come on, they goaded, it’s just one time. What’s going to happen?

Josh swallowed. Hard. 

He figured he could go up the fire escape and get in through his window, which would certainly buy him some time. Time for what...? He’s not exactly sure, but it’s his best and only option. Hurrying down the six flights of stairs, he went around back and scaled the fire escape. Josh pried open his window as quietly as he could manage and slipped in, tossing his backpack onto the bed. It took him all of two seconds to notice his door was wide open, and that his father was standing in the hall. So much for time.

“Come here, boy.”

He did as he was told, mechanically. His mother took one look at the two of them and put down a basket of newly folded laundry, retreating to her bedroom. This set off immediate sirens in his head. This is how it always was. She knew what was about to happen, but hated to watch. It was easier for her to convince herself that none of it was going on behind a closed door. Josh couldn’t even bring himself to hate her for it. 

He found he’d backed himself up against the thin wall. His father wasted no time in raising a hand at him, and he winced well before it made contact with his skin. But he didn’t make a sound. He knew better than to beg or plead, knew better than to say he’ll never do it again, that he’ll be good this time. He tried all of that before and it only made him angrier. Crying made it even worse. So he sunk deep into himself and just waited for the whole awful thing to be done with, which, this time, ended right after that initial hit. A minor miracle. 

“Go clean yourself up.” His father ordered, taking a step back. “And grab me a beer from the fridge, would ya? Games about to start.” 

Over just like that. Josh dragged himself to the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cold water. There was some blood from where his ring had caught Josh’s cheek. But the most obvious damage was a stinging red blotch on his face, like one big expressionist splat of color. By all means, it was a rather mild beating. Last weeks was far worse. He was still in pain from all the heavy-footed kicks, a nasty purple and green bruise had bloomed and spread over most of his left side.

Numbly he went to the living room. His father had already taken his spot in that old recliner in front of the tiny television set. He retrieved a Budweiser from the fridge and handed it to him. Not sure what else to do, he sat on the hopelessly faded rug a few feet from his father’s chair and drew his knees up to his chest. They watched the game in silence.

Then all of a sudden, during a commercial break, his father spoke to him. “You know I have to do those things, son.” He said, years of smoking evident in his gruff voice. “I have to do those things because I want what’s best for you.”

Such a fierce wave of sick passed through Josh that he feared he might actually vomit all over the rug. The words played over in his mind. I have to do those things. I have to do those things. I have to do those things. He nodded robotically as hot tears began to burn his eyes, and he kept his gaze glued to the screen so his father wouldn’t see them fall. 

That was the closest to I love you Josh had ever gotten from his father. And somehow it hurt far more than any kick or punch.

[vampyfatale]

TASK 002 - Memory

October 20th, 2007

Poppy ogled at the blur of red and orange outside the car window. Her family’s Ford Taurus ploughed down an Oregon highway at a steady pace, tires crunching over caramel-colored leaves. A James Taylor track played softly on the radio, one of her dad’s Old Man songs. Something about rain and fire.

“Do you know what happened to Anne Boleyn, Mouse?” Her dad asked.

“Come on, David,” said her mother, earrings jiggling back and forth as she turned to shoot her husband a reproachful gaze, “Don’t you think that’s a little, I don’t know, grim for a seven-year old?”

“She got her head cut off!” Poppy chirped from the back seat.

“That’s right, Mouse,” said David, proudly. “She was decapitated.”

“Really, honey?”

He gave his wife an innocent it’s-just-good-fun smile. Heather had to sigh, but it was somewhat good-natured, supposing this is what she gets for falling in love with a history nut. She thought back on the long debate they’d had over what to call their first born daughter, and how he’d been insistent on Artemisia after some Greek queen (or was it an obscure Baroque era painter? Heather could hardly recall.) She had fortunately and swiftly talked him out of that one. She guessed at the end of the day she might as well let him ramble on about history trivia, if he wanted. Marriage was compromise. 

“Why did she have to die again?” Poppy asked, breathing hotly onto the glass and drawing little pictures in the steam with her fingers. Flowers and hearts, mostly. 

“No one can seem to agree on that. Some say her husband... Do you remember who her husband was?”

Poppy knotted up her brow as she tried to recall the answer. “Oh!” She exclaimed. “Henry the V. I. I. I.”

This got a chuckle out of both parents. David continued, “The eighth. But, yes, some say her husband made up things about her that were untrue, just so he could get rid of her.”

Poppy went saucer-eyed. “Why would he do that?” A husband and wife were supposed to love each other, she thought. The concept of a couple being anything less than, well, in love, was entirely foreign to her. 

“Well, some say he wasn’t a very nice man.”

Heather twisted around to face their daughter, now invested and ready to put her two cents in. “It was tough being a girl back then. Even a queen didn’t have much power without a man behind the throne.”

Poppy pooched out her lips. “That’s stupid.”

“Don’t say stupid.”

“I’m never going to get married,” Poppy declared suddenly, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her face had taken on that hard expression of stubbornness that made her look like a spitting image of her mother. 

“It’s not like that now, Mouse. You don’t have to worry.”

“See? I told you this isn’t appropriate talk for a seven-year old...”

“No, I mean it,” She says, doubling down. “No man is ever going to decca-pate me.”

“Decapitate.”

“David. Seriously.”

“I’m just going to be queen all by myself. Then I’ll have the real power and I won’t even need a king. And I can keep my head,” Poppy adds, very logically. “That’s important to me.”

“It’s important to us, too.” 

[nxghtshaded]

- ̗̀⡪ TALIA ASHKAR || ENFP-A ⡪ ̖́-

More than just sociable people-pleasers though, Campaigners, like all their Diplomat cousins, are shaped by their Intuitive (N) quality, allowing them to read between the lines with curiosity and energy. They tend to see life as a big, complex puzzle where everything is connected – but unlike Analyst personality types, who tend to see that puzzle as a series of systemic machinations, Campaigners see it through a prism of emotion, compassion and mysticism, and are always looking for a deeper meaning.

[beastxly]

Henry “Hank” McCoy || INFJ - The Advocate 

Introverted - iNtuitive - Feeling - Judging

Advocates tend to see helping others as their purpose in life, but while people with this personality type can be found engaging rescue efforts and doing charity work, their real passion is to get to the heart of the issue so that people need not be rescued at all.

[prxfessorx]

- ̗̀⡪ charles xavier || enfj-a ⡪ ̖́-

Protagonists are natural-born leaders, full of passion and charisma. Forming around two percent of the population, they are oftentimes our politicians, our coaches and our teachers, reaching out and inspiring others to achieve and to do good in the world. With a natural confidence that begets influence, Protagonists take a great deal of pride and joy in guiding others to work together to improve themselves and their community.

[cptdeadphool]

- ̗̀⡪ WADE WILSON || ENTP-A ⡪ ̖́-

The Debater personality type is the ultimate devil’s advocate, thriving on the process of shredding arguments and beliefs and letting the ribbons drift in the wind for all to see. Debaters don’t do this because they are trying to achieve some deeper purpose or strategic goal, but for the simple reason that it’s fun. No one loves the process of mental sparring more than Debaters, as it gives them a chance to exercise their effortlessly quick wit, broad accumulated knowledge base, and capacity for connecting disparate ideas to prove their points.