Freedom (1/?)
Mar. 30th, 2005 10:29 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rainweaver13.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliTitle: Freedom 1/?
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando/some Sean
Summary: A highly trained empath's first case is a shattered mystery man.
Rating/Warnings: Slightly sci-fi AU. Suitable for adults who can deal with adult language.
Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. To the best of my knowledge, neither Orlando nor Sean Bean are empaths, nor has Viggo ever been a battered amnesiac. It's just something I dreamed up. It has no relation to reality, and I'm not making any money from it.
A/N: Seems like once the muse got cooking, she really got cooking. This bunny came to me in a dream and wouldn't stop gnawing on my ankles after I woke up. Don't worry: It's not taking the place of either All the King's Horses or Growing Room. It just insisted that it needed to be told, too.
23
Outside the bars, outside the mesh, outside the thick unbreakable glass, is grass. Thick, lush, unnaturally green grass. Perfectly green grass, no weeds, no wildflowers, no bugs. Full of chemicals. Seeping through the grass, sliding, sleeking, sliming onto into the ground and down weaseling down through cracks fissures tiny hairline imperfections into trickles and streams and aquifers and wells.
We drink it.
No wonder we're crazy. We poison ourselves for perfect grass that we don't even walk on. Nobody walks on the grass here. We aren't allowed. The grass is outside and we don't go outside. But I can see the grass. Green. And the sky. Blue. Sometimes clouds are white and sometimes gray. Sometimes almost black. I like those. They mean a storm and storms are interesting. Storms make interesting things happen here. I always hope the storm will happen while I'm awake so I can watch. Listen. Smell. Learn.
Being here is hard. So many things are not allowed. I write now on this flimsy paper pitiful cheap shit so easy to tear I wouldn't use it to clean my ass in the real world but now it's all I have and whatever color they give me. Today is green. Like the poison grass. Goddamn kindergarten scrawls crayon on tissue and I only have a little while just a little while then the drugs will take my mind away and when I wake everything will be gone.
I don't understand why it has to be this way. I don't understand what I did to deserve this. Eli eli lama sabach thani why oh why maybe today will bring a storm. Maybe lightning will come maybe wind and storm and blow these walls down and let me free please please me help me I'm falling with you who who who blue blue blu..r...l..b....l....u
-----------
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Open
Today I begin my first real solo case. I'm excited, yes, but also somewhat terrified. Sean, my Advisor, has suggested that I tranquilize myself lightly before I approach my initial session, since the Adjudicators have deemed the case particularly difficult. I'm honored that they think I can handle it, but maybe Sean's right about the tranks. I don't want to toss on the poor guy, after all.
His med record says he has a brief period of clarity in the mid-afternoon and another at mid-evening. Apparently his meds have to be cranked up as soon as he starts showing signs of clarity. Poor bastard must be living in hell.
Okay, for my official record, here's the background:
John Doe 439 was found six weeks ago alongside the Las Vegas Escapeway. He was alone, unconscious, badly sunburned and dressed in only a tattered shirt. The salvage unit which eventually picked him up found him to be suffering from dehydration, sixteen cuts of varying sizes, massive bruising, a broken left arm, a mild concussion and severe anal tearing. He also had what appeared to be cigarette burns over much of his body.
When he began to regain consciousness in the salvage med center, he immediately became combative and started screaming incessantly. After ten days with no luck in calming him down, the salvage med called the Empath Center and reported him. He has been here ever since.
He has tried to kill himself six times in four and a half weeks and still hasn't spoken a word to anyone.
This is my first case. John Doe 439. Is there enough of him left to save?
-------
19
Fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple .....
------
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Session 1
Even sedated, he huddles protectively on the padded floor. He's clearly afraid. My first observation. And now for my first touch.
Oh.
I think it best if I stay on the other side of the room for this first session. I'm not sure either of us is ready for physical contact. That first touch, even sedated, was almost overwhelming. His mind is ... demolished. Chaotic. A huge crowded hall of shattered mirrors. Nothing at all makes sense. I'll spend my time settling, meditating, until he begins to rouse.
...
He's begun to stir, looking around carefully with that blurry lack of direction that always accompanies deep sedation. He's heard my murmur into the speaker now and has gone still but for his eyes, dark blue under a rough mane of sandy brown hair. His left arm is still in a light cast and the last of the bruises are yellow. The burns are gone except for the small scars of the worst ones. He isn't allowed clothing now, since he ripped apart his last pajamas and tried to strangle himself with them. He's lean almost to the point of emaciation. Only the threat of a nasogastric tube keeps him eating the barest amount.
He's located me now. I suppose my dark hair stands out against the white of the walls and the white of my clothing. We consider each other across the room. I make no move. He crouches and waits.
With exceeding care I open myself to him, only a limited amount, carefully controlled. I'm waiting to see if he notices my presence, but so far I seem to have slipped under his defenses. I search, lighter than a breath, for something solid in the chaos, not to grasp it but only to know that it's there. We need a place to begin if we are to have any progress.
I hear him move and shift my attention back to the visual. He has straightened slightly, back to the wall, and begun to move ever so slowly toward the narrow padded shelf on one wall. Ahhh... An oversight on my part. I'd forgotten the one thing his watchers say he seems to value. On the shelf is a sheet of flimsy paper and a yellow crayon.
Never taking that wild blue gaze from my face, he grabs the paper and crayon and sidles back to his corner. Now he's looking away from me, at the crayon. At that moment, I shift all my perception back inside and that's why the wordless scream of rage nearly knocks me to the floor. The rage is so vast, so colored with betrayal and pain and desperately choking despair that I'm literally knocked backwards against the wall.
In that moment, his mouth open in a silent scream, he's over the bed and clutching my throat, wiry hands banging my head ...
---
Followup:
Four watchers and a hefty dose of thorazine dropped him between one breath and the next, and against my recommendations, he was strapped to his mattress and covered with a couple of thin paper sheets.
I spent a while questioning the watchers who work his afternoon shift most often, and did a little sleuthing work while my adrenalin was still running high. At the end of it, I knew at least one thing about John Doe 439, and I knew I could do one thing to help him.
It was with a great deal of pleasure that I added to his orders: Do not give John Doe 439 any yellow or other very light colored crayons. Also do not give him a purple crayon unless his Empath is scheduled to be present.
What John Doe told me, very clearly through his clotted fury, was that he can't see what he writes with yellow. In his mind, it's just another inexplicable form of torture.
That torture, at least, I have taken away. It's not much, but maybe it's a start.
End report
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando/some Sean
Summary: A highly trained empath's first case is a shattered mystery man.
Rating/Warnings: Slightly sci-fi AU. Suitable for adults who can deal with adult language.
Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. To the best of my knowledge, neither Orlando nor Sean Bean are empaths, nor has Viggo ever been a battered amnesiac. It's just something I dreamed up. It has no relation to reality, and I'm not making any money from it.
A/N: Seems like once the muse got cooking, she really got cooking. This bunny came to me in a dream and wouldn't stop gnawing on my ankles after I woke up. Don't worry: It's not taking the place of either All the King's Horses or Growing Room. It just insisted that it needed to be told, too.
23
Outside the bars, outside the mesh, outside the thick unbreakable glass, is grass. Thick, lush, unnaturally green grass. Perfectly green grass, no weeds, no wildflowers, no bugs. Full of chemicals. Seeping through the grass, sliding, sleeking, sliming onto into the ground and down weaseling down through cracks fissures tiny hairline imperfections into trickles and streams and aquifers and wells.
We drink it.
No wonder we're crazy. We poison ourselves for perfect grass that we don't even walk on. Nobody walks on the grass here. We aren't allowed. The grass is outside and we don't go outside. But I can see the grass. Green. And the sky. Blue. Sometimes clouds are white and sometimes gray. Sometimes almost black. I like those. They mean a storm and storms are interesting. Storms make interesting things happen here. I always hope the storm will happen while I'm awake so I can watch. Listen. Smell. Learn.
Being here is hard. So many things are not allowed. I write now on this flimsy paper pitiful cheap shit so easy to tear I wouldn't use it to clean my ass in the real world but now it's all I have and whatever color they give me. Today is green. Like the poison grass. Goddamn kindergarten scrawls crayon on tissue and I only have a little while just a little while then the drugs will take my mind away and when I wake everything will be gone.
I don't understand why it has to be this way. I don't understand what I did to deserve this. Eli eli lama sabach thani why oh why maybe today will bring a storm. Maybe lightning will come maybe wind and storm and blow these walls down and let me free please please me help me I'm falling with you who who who blue blue blu..r...l..b....l....u
-----------
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Open
Today I begin my first real solo case. I'm excited, yes, but also somewhat terrified. Sean, my Advisor, has suggested that I tranquilize myself lightly before I approach my initial session, since the Adjudicators have deemed the case particularly difficult. I'm honored that they think I can handle it, but maybe Sean's right about the tranks. I don't want to toss on the poor guy, after all.
His med record says he has a brief period of clarity in the mid-afternoon and another at mid-evening. Apparently his meds have to be cranked up as soon as he starts showing signs of clarity. Poor bastard must be living in hell.
Okay, for my official record, here's the background:
John Doe 439 was found six weeks ago alongside the Las Vegas Escapeway. He was alone, unconscious, badly sunburned and dressed in only a tattered shirt. The salvage unit which eventually picked him up found him to be suffering from dehydration, sixteen cuts of varying sizes, massive bruising, a broken left arm, a mild concussion and severe anal tearing. He also had what appeared to be cigarette burns over much of his body.
When he began to regain consciousness in the salvage med center, he immediately became combative and started screaming incessantly. After ten days with no luck in calming him down, the salvage med called the Empath Center and reported him. He has been here ever since.
He has tried to kill himself six times in four and a half weeks and still hasn't spoken a word to anyone.
This is my first case. John Doe 439. Is there enough of him left to save?
-------
19
Fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple fucking purple .....
------
Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Session 1
Even sedated, he huddles protectively on the padded floor. He's clearly afraid. My first observation. And now for my first touch.
Oh.
I think it best if I stay on the other side of the room for this first session. I'm not sure either of us is ready for physical contact. That first touch, even sedated, was almost overwhelming. His mind is ... demolished. Chaotic. A huge crowded hall of shattered mirrors. Nothing at all makes sense. I'll spend my time settling, meditating, until he begins to rouse.
...
He's begun to stir, looking around carefully with that blurry lack of direction that always accompanies deep sedation. He's heard my murmur into the speaker now and has gone still but for his eyes, dark blue under a rough mane of sandy brown hair. His left arm is still in a light cast and the last of the bruises are yellow. The burns are gone except for the small scars of the worst ones. He isn't allowed clothing now, since he ripped apart his last pajamas and tried to strangle himself with them. He's lean almost to the point of emaciation. Only the threat of a nasogastric tube keeps him eating the barest amount.
He's located me now. I suppose my dark hair stands out against the white of the walls and the white of my clothing. We consider each other across the room. I make no move. He crouches and waits.
With exceeding care I open myself to him, only a limited amount, carefully controlled. I'm waiting to see if he notices my presence, but so far I seem to have slipped under his defenses. I search, lighter than a breath, for something solid in the chaos, not to grasp it but only to know that it's there. We need a place to begin if we are to have any progress.
I hear him move and shift my attention back to the visual. He has straightened slightly, back to the wall, and begun to move ever so slowly toward the narrow padded shelf on one wall. Ahhh... An oversight on my part. I'd forgotten the one thing his watchers say he seems to value. On the shelf is a sheet of flimsy paper and a yellow crayon.
Never taking that wild blue gaze from my face, he grabs the paper and crayon and sidles back to his corner. Now he's looking away from me, at the crayon. At that moment, I shift all my perception back inside and that's why the wordless scream of rage nearly knocks me to the floor. The rage is so vast, so colored with betrayal and pain and desperately choking despair that I'm literally knocked backwards against the wall.
In that moment, his mouth open in a silent scream, he's over the bed and clutching my throat, wiry hands banging my head ...
---
Followup:
Four watchers and a hefty dose of thorazine dropped him between one breath and the next, and against my recommendations, he was strapped to his mattress and covered with a couple of thin paper sheets.
I spent a while questioning the watchers who work his afternoon shift most often, and did a little sleuthing work while my adrenalin was still running high. At the end of it, I knew at least one thing about John Doe 439, and I knew I could do one thing to help him.
It was with a great deal of pleasure that I added to his orders: Do not give John Doe 439 any yellow or other very light colored crayons. Also do not give him a purple crayon unless his Empath is scheduled to be present.
What John Doe told me, very clearly through his clotted fury, was that he can't see what he writes with yellow. In his mind, it's just another inexplicable form of torture.
That torture, at least, I have taken away. It's not much, but maybe it's a start.
End report
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no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 05:33 am (UTC)now that that's out of the way.... :)
omg, how do you keep doing it? i haven't read anything from you that has been less than absolutely wonderful, and these are very different stories. love this idea, very interesting. and love how it's being presented, viggo's scrawls and orlando's reports.
you are, officially, my hero.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 06:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 07:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 07:20 am (UTC)You have such a gift for psychological thrillers, you should consider writing professionally. I would buy your books.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 08:51 am (UTC)Umm... wow. Just... wow.
*sits down and waits for more*
Adrienne
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 10:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 06:07 pm (UTC)Yes, you are a pro
Date: 2005-03-31 07:45 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for being here, writing in this fandom, for sharing. I think I love you - I know i love your writing.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 09:43 pm (UTC)::covering face:: Yer embarrassin' me. Glad you're liking my scribbles, though. Very glad. :D
Rain
Will try to be an okay hero ;D
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 09:45 pm (UTC)P.S. Love your icon. ;D
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 09:47 pm (UTC)Psychological thrillers, eh? Damn, I never considered that. ::laughing:: Maybe I should get a real job.
Glad you're liking my crazy boy. I loves him.
Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 09:48 pm (UTC)::offering peanuts and Hershey bars::
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 09:49 pm (UTC)Re: Yes, you are a pro
Date: 2005-03-31 09:54 pm (UTC)That said, wow, am I complimented!! Thank you so very much for such kind words. It's a pleasure to have such an intelligent, humorous and welcoming place for my stories to find a home.
I love my readers. Believe it.
Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-04-01 02:59 am (UTC)Adrienne
no subject
Date: 2005-04-01 03:08 am (UTC)your writing is like scribbles if the sistine chapel is like a doodle...
-katy
will try to be an okay hero-worshipper :P
no subject
Date: 2005-04-01 03:31 am (UTC)Rain
Time for the meds