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Post by atticus mikael svenenström on Feb 17, 2012 23:33:38 GMT -6
  ,HE STARED INTO the mirror just as he did every morning. except it wasn't morning. it wasn't anything. why? because atticus svenenström had long lost track of time. the walls within the psychiatric ward of the local valkyrie hospital were colourless. the windows were boarded. no one told him anything. all because the doctors in tweed suits and tenure-glazed eyes thought he was like the rest of them - an invalid incapable of functioning properly in everyday society. every word spoken to the patients went ignored. they didn't understand. they wouldn't know. why bother? cloud their minds into prescription fogs and collect your paycheck. after two weeks, he had stopped asking. the only way he knew how the days passed were because he saw the newspaper get delivered every morning. and that was because he had the first appointment of the day, somewhere between six and six-oh-eight in the morning. he was difficult, it said on the upside-down pad of paper his doctor scribbled on for hours. it was an emotional roller coaster to spend more than five minutes in the same room as him. i guess doctor christopher moore assumed his impossible patient couldn't read, either. half of these ridiculous sessions were spent in silence, atticus reading everything they assumed about him. he would see the underpaid paperboy sauntering up the stairs to the seventh floor at precisely five fifty-eight. that's how he knew it was morning. but then the rest of the day would dissolve into a poppy-red haze and he would find himself watching the paperboy again. but today, there was no haze. no. he was a good person now. his doctor had sighed at the pouting twenty-six year old leaning against the back wall, demanding to control his own brain again. they lowered his medications to a functioning level. they didn't pull the strings on his frail puppet frame anymore. he spent more time trying to guess the time of day than anything else. it was easier when he was hazed. weird, isn't it? besides, he didn't get to look into mirrors too often, either.
only during those ridiculous self-esteem exercises reserved for fourteen year-old girls with insecurity issues did any reflective surface make its way into the colourless ward. people were agitated by them, one of the nurses said. privately, atticus agreed. one look at yourself and you could quite easily be sent over the edge. so here we have a very unusual situation, my friend. he was looking into a mirror. he pretended he did every morning when, really, he hadn't looked at his reflection in days. and it wasn't morning. he drew the image of doing that because it calmed him. or something. do we follow? no? well, that's fine. all we can assume is atticus svenenström was looking into a mirror for the first time in days, not every morning. and it wasn't morning. it was somewhere between he had no idea and he didn't care.
regardless, here we are. atticus stood in the bathroom on the seventh floor of valkyrie hospital. he was leaning heavily on the sink, pale fingers gripping the chipped porcelain in an uncomfortable tightness. light eyes looked back at him, empty and dark, rimmed with faded reds, shadowed by the blue and purple from days without rest. maybe this was why he wasn't allowed to look at himself. playing a staring contest with the monster looking back at him, atticus longed for nothing more than to shatter the mirror. this wasn't him; he wasn't this person. but reality is a sad side effect of lowered medication levels. he no longer had the power to lie to himself. stupid therapy. while he had concluded much of his doctor's business as nonsense, osmosis is a painful thing. doctor christopher moore, m.d.m had a wheezy voice that wouldn't cease and desist his constant echoes. medical terminology and graphic descriptions danced before his eyes, forming pretty scriptures sentences. they didn't call him names or discredit his existence - that had been pushed back because of this overgrown ball of doctorly yarn. no. they told him he wasn't ready. he needed more time. he needed help. he needed these talented people to bring his brain chemistry back from the edge and to balance it, and then he could work on his personal issues. or something. he'd been hearing that for years. a dark expression crossed his sickly face. he wanted to scream at the voices in his way, argue that he was fine if he could just be left the fuck alone. but he couldn't. because that would be admitting defeat, doctor moore had never been more correct. and defeat would bring his entire life to an end. atticus had too much to live for. or not live for. he wasn't sure what he wanted anymore. there was too much on his plate. there.
the wheezy voice was in the real world this time. he warned atticus again, he needed more time. all atticus did was snarl at the doctor, gripping his hand in an uncomfortable, unfriendly shake. "i'll be fine, doctor. thank for you all you've done." the sarcasm was thick, a cruel smile haunting on his face. all the good doctor did was ruffle his moustache awkwardly, mumble something and back away into his office. he was afraid of atticus. most people were. that was one of the only reasons he had been released so soon. fiddling from work, something about laws, and the fact they all knew he could turn disturbingly violent if he didn't get his way. on more than one occasion, the now outpatiented atticus svenenström had exploded. he broke furniture, threatened to break his own bones. it was the only way he knew to get results. it was disgusting - he despised himself for it - but it worked. if he hadn't, he wouldn't be holding a half-empty box of his belongings and signing papers at the front desk of the hospital he never should have been at in the first place. atticus offered the receptionist a tight smile, the cold gleam in his eye slicing her into pieces. she went from staring at his sickly face to the thick bandages secured around both of his wrists, and back again. nurses gossiped. he had little doubt there were whispered conversations about the handsome but unstable patient up on floor seven. "i have little doubt i won't be seeing you again soon." he smiled cheekily this time, winking at the receptionist before spinning on his heel and finally leaving the place that would have been the end of him.
high contacts on both sides of the legal-illegal map and no one could offer for a ride? or a taxi, at least? ridiculous. breathing a heavy sigh, atticus pushed a hand into his pocket. he hadn't been in valkyrie long enough to memorize the city before someone had unfortunately discovered what should have been his last day on earth. it took him half an hour to wander back to his apartment building. it took him ten minutes to convince a sweet old lady he actually lived there, he just didn't have his keys. almost an hour of his day wasted trying to get home. really now. slamming the door behind him, soon after hearing the protests of his neighbours at the unexpected noise, atticus searched his small, sparsely furnished living space. there was a thick layer of dust on everything; his mail box was filled; and no one had bothered to get his papers. so much for a nice neighbourhood. only insults danced on the tip of his tongue. the last several months had made atticus svenenström a testy one, no doubt. it all just felt…weird. odd. surreal. he had felt so isolates from the world for so long, he was unaccustomed to not being told what to do every ten seconds. he had a certain amount of freedom. and he had been right - it was early evening when he finally managed to leave that godforsaken spit of a hospital. too bad he didn't have more time to be nostalgic. the messages on his recently returned cell phone were a-plenty. it was the agency's fault for not providing transportation back, or else he'd be more caught up by now.
he was leaning against the wall, even an hour later, when he managed to hang up his phone. troubled times, agent svenenström. he caused quite a ruffle in the world's feathers with his "breach of company policy". sensitive, i know. a new insert into his little undercover world was walking around with no sense of direction. and he had been so stupid as to attempt suicide before he could offer information. there is only so much marloes and the other agents could tell her. atticus was the star here. he knew the innermost workings of the verrentenikov bratva. he had the power to do just about anything he wanted. it would be nice if he provided actual updates, but they understand his disconnection because he had to commit to this identity completely. yeah. that works too. he had to roll his eyes as he hung up. had the federal bureau of investigation been at all intelligent, they could have figured out the puzzle he was designing. he just didn't know where the pieces fit, is all. but this girl, bright-eyed and "adorable, with a face that can break anyone" was going to ruin everything if he didn't control the situation. like always. huffing a sigh, atticus stole one more look in the mirror before departing. he still disgusted himself and he still didn't know why. his clothing had been ironed to a wrinkled perfection, and if he smiled enough, it looked like he was human after all. too bad it didn't work. running his hands over his scalp, further messing up his hair, the undercover agent swore softly and slammed his door again.
stanislav verrentenikov was much more helpful. he didn't breach any ridiculous policy. he was simply fortunate there had been no immediate assignments while he had been "dealing with personal issues". it was kind of nice. no one cared what the fuck he did as long as he didn't blow his cover. the identity of sven mikkelson was trusted, if a little troubled. it was to be expected for him to derail sometimes. the meeting that evening would require his presence, because important issues simply could not wait. stanislav himself would be there, as well as outstanding members of his inner circle. not the important ones, mind, but the faceless ones like mister mikkelson here. and he had only…quick glance at his phone, less than two hours to prep this new insert to be presentable. his role would be easy. whatever he said, people generally accepted. having someone play another role is what concerned him. the only person who had managed to reach his expectations had been marloes, and she was off controlling everything. thanks, partner. it didn't take long to locate this upscale chinese restaurant. how cliche. the italians were supposed to do shit like this. what was wrong with the inferno? he shook his head as he pushed the front door open, blinked into a steel-eyed stare and let his expression grow bored. atticus svenenström was dead. sven mikkelson was walking around now. selecting a booth somewhere between suspicious and careless, he snapped at the waitress to leave him alone until the wide-eyed girl with the face-breaking skills to finally role in. impatiently, "sven" tapped his fingertips on the table, eyes located at his phone and the silly game he was playing.
[/size][/blockquote] ----------------------------------------------------------- TAGGED, emilia !
LOCALE, explosion, yo.
LENGTH, 1947 words.
ATTIRE, hurr.
NOTES, first post, y'know. i rant.
CREDITS, formate to me. gif to tumblr.
lyrics to slaves to gravity - "big red"
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Post by emilia on Feb 23, 2012 22:53:43 GMT -6
[/size][/font] unlimited, my future is unlimited, and i've just had a vision almost like a prophesy. -------------------------[/center] Who am I?
Emilia Demtra looked at herself in the mirror as she did every morning after she got out of the shower. And as she did every morning, she had showered, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and swiped the last of the leftover steam from the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. On a normal day, she would just continue to get ready for her day – put on her makeup, do her hair… Normal getting ready for work things. However, today, the reflection that stared back at her had given her pause and now she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from it. It wasn’t really, in perspective, an extra-ordinary, show stopping, make everyone in a room stop kind of reflection; she had a nice face, good hair, and a decent body now that she’d been working out regularly. But just who was she?
She knew the basic things, of course. She was a twin, a daughter, a Valkyrie Academy and UCLA grad, and most recently, a member of the Valkyrie police force. She was a solid student, a quick study, and she did her best to be a good friend to the people she still talked to from school. She was a romantic and a bibliophile, and someday she wanted to write a book. All of these things, the traits, the plans, all of them made up the person that was Emilia Odessa Demtra, but when it got right down to it, did that constitute who she really was? Did the traits make up the person? Or was it something else?
As she stared at herself, wrapped in a towel and starting to shiver a little at this point, Emilia had to laugh at herself. She wouldn’t be thinking about this at all if it weren’t for her job. When you decide you want to go undercover, you have to go through rigorous testing. She’d been tested mentally, physically and emotionally for years until her captain finally agreed to let her do the job. Then he’d also made her see a psychiatrist, as was generally the norm. One of the things that the good doctor had told her was not to lose track of herself, of who she was really was on the inside, or risk either blowing her cover and getting killed, or get in too far and get herself killed anyway. Oh, of course you had to put yourself in the job – you couldn’t confuse your two lives in any way, or risk…you guessed it… getting yourself killed.
Emilia sighed, shaking her hair vigorously so that it flopped in front of her eyes. The whole assignment was just frustrating anyway. How were you supposed to know who you were at twenty-five anyway? As far as Emilia was concerned, her life was only a quarter over. She had three quarters of her life left to figure out who she was. There were those that said that living through something as awful as rape could define you as a person, but it just made her angry. That wasn’t who she wanted to be for the rest of her life. If there was one thing Emilia knew, it was that she had to do something positive with her life – something that could really change the way things were. So, who knew, maybe this whole under cover thing would help her find out what she was meant to do.
Finally, her reflection released her from its clutches enough for her to look at big, bronze clock hanging over her sink. “Shit.” She muttered to herself, rushing out into her closet and throwing on some of the first things she could reach. Why was she wasting her time on personal reflection when she had a damn meeting in fifteen minutes? Pausing in the action of putting on a pair of boots, Emilia looked up at her reflection again and straightened her shirt nervously. She didn’t exactly understand the logistics of the Russian wardrobe quite yet, but she assumed that, were a relative thrown into the mafia as a punishment, they wouldn’t either. Besides, she was in a hurry, and if she didn’t leave now, she was going to miss her contact and then she’d really be screwed. With that in mind, Emilia grabbed her jacket and purse and hauled ass out the door.
She didn’t live far from where she was meeting the contact – just a few buildings down the street – but it was just enough time for Emilia to reconsider what she was doing. I mean, what was she doing anyway? Was she crazy? She could get killed getting into this, especially when all of the gang activity was starting up again and getting worse and worse. Her parents were already worried sick and so was Ben. They had talked on the phone earlier that day, and he’d asked her again not to go through with all of this. Why couldn’t she just stay behind her desk? Or just go on simple calls. Nothing that would put her in any extra danger, for god’s sake. She knew he was just worried, but something in the conversation sparked a flash of anger from her. Why couldn’t they just support her and tell her they believed that she would be just fine? Instead, they had to go and make her paranoid about it, which would probably just put her in more danger in the long run.
Hadn’t she proven that she could take care of herself? After all, she’d gone through a real tragedy all by herself. Yeah, it was her own fault that she was alone in it, but she didn’t feel like she could have coped with it any other way. But to Emilia, it only made her surer that she could handle all this on her own. It couldn’t be worse than anything else she’d already gone through.
Emilia pushed open the door of the Chinese place in a rush, and looked around quickly for the FBI agent she was supposed to be meeting. They’d never encountered each other in person, but Emilia had been shown a picture of him before and knew the basics of what to look for. Honestly, she’d been hoping for a couple face-to-face meetings before being thrust into all this, but the agent had apparently been taking some time off for personal reasons. She hoped that wasn’t indicative of the job – she wasn’t sure how well it would go over for her to have to take time away from the Russians for her own sake. After all, how would they trust her? But finally, she spotted the man she was meeting, about halfway back from the front door and totally engrossed in his phone. With a long breath to steady herself, Emilia walked over and slid smoothly into the booth. “Are you um…” Shit, what was his name again…? Oh, right. “Are you Sven?”
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status:; done!
tagged:; atticus.
word count:; 1,155 words. not half as impressive as yours. <3
credit:; lyrics in post to the original cast of wicked.
notes:; top name has clothes. sorry if some of it was weird, i'm getting back into emilia's shoes.
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Post by atticus mikael svenenström on Mar 25, 2012 21:39:50 GMT -6
,WHEN ATTICUS OFFERED his hand to the poison fanged monster hiding in the cave, it bit down and he didn't even move. watching sharp knives poke holes in his skin was a relief. when the blood gathered into a pool of mistakes and agony, he could finally breath. whispers escaped his body when his flesh cage was ripped open. everything he seemed incapable of rationalizing (and often compartmentalizing) crawled out, bleeding onto dirty pavement to stain someone else. sometimes, people stepped on the blood puddle, pretty and new. it ingrained itself into the soles of their shoes, drying in a warm new home. he liked when that happened. to atticus, it was the transfer of his issues to someone else. his blood was black. his blood was infected with darkness. when the monster feasted upon him, the poison took over his insides. he rotted, delicate as frozen glass. push him too hard, and he would break. he was decayed now. he had watched, sick and pleased, as the monster nipped at him, eager for this new taste. he had glared, numb, as it shivered. this new body was different. it didn't run and hide, it stood patiently, breathless. when the poison fanged monster speared him, and he bled all over the floor, atticus began to rot. everytime his flesh quivered, desperate for a second chance, and began to sew his body together once more, he approached the cave. he was running out of poison. his body was adapting. like an addict, he injected more acid into his sandpaper veins. he had to remain rotten, ashen and grey. he could not imagine himself without his black insides. he did not want to imagine himself without his black insides. the poison fanged monster hiding in the cave was his witness, his only friend. tired eyes stared back at him in the reflection of his cell phone. but when he blinked, catching the screen in the light, he saw the monster growing inside of himself.
was he becoming a monster, lurking deep in the cave? atticus didn't know. when his thin flesh had managed to build a bridge, rested on weak joints and flaccid hope, he poked more holes until it broke. his blood was black. his insides were rotten. his brain was ash, starved and desperate. he never had to think about it anymore, when he had to rip his cage open again. it was a mindless task. he would be ruined if he didn't honour his commitment. perhaps he was reaching a new plateau. the poison had turned his veins weak, collapsed. it had infected his organs and they never fought back. maybe his body was melding together with the poison now; it had finally accepted the fact he had to be this way. there'd be a cloaked desire, once, to breath real air. he wanted to be healthy. he would listen to his doctor, nod and accept the fact that yes, life had cheated him at the poker table. a crooked dealer presented him with an unmanageable hand. he lost, for awhile. but when the right cards began to show up, he could grasp them and form a sort of promise - he could come out of this game without losing anything. not winning, perhaps, but not scrubbing himself clean, either. too bad. that was over, lost and murdered. atticus didn't want to get better. all he wanted was to peel himself back until he was nothing but a stained pile of bones. he wanted to feel cruel winds blow loose screws and shreds of rust into his skin. he wanted everything he never should have wanted. or that he never use to want. his body never rejected it anymore. it was defeated, crippled by this disease he had created, isolated deep in a mad laboratory. he needed to move into the cave with the poison fanged monster, really.
this was impressive. less than a day as a prisoner on parole an outpatient, and he was already successful in chipping away the frail shield doctor moore had managed to construct. there were times atticus had fallen for it. when the words formed right and danced in the air, agreements bubbled in the back of his throat. he couldn't swallow them in time. the medicated fogs did their job, kicking any sense that may have existed in his mind. i think the plan was to push him off the edge of oblivion, tumbling down a canyon surrounded by poppy-red and naptime grey fog. he would have nothing to hold on to, no sense of safety. all he would have would be their words, grim smiles and empty promises. he would be forced to listen because he was so desperate, anything was a relief. and then he would believe them because those words become a comfort, no longer a thread he's stubbornly told himself to believe. by the time he can be shoved out into the sunlight, those words would be an echo in his mind. trapped. never to leave. and he would like it that way. their words, their plans, that is what made sense now. he was never supposed to have found his footing. too bad he washed all of that down with boiling water. their medicine fogs were poured down the toilet, one pill at a time, until his weekly reminder case was emptied. he did not need the false sense of security his doctor assumed he needed. atticus needed to pierce his brain with sharp knives until it was cleared and alert. he needed to cut holes in his skin to make all of those believed lectures leak out and stain the pavement, where they belonged. so far so good. atticus svenenström needed to shred the mask he was supposed to be wearing. the ugliness hiding behind his charming smile and pretty eyes was what he needed to protect himself. he needed…everything they thought he should never have had.
perhaps it would have turned out differently if he wasn't isolated. the job atticus had undergone, undercover in the bratva, brought a sense of loneliness. he could not rely on the people he'd trusted for so long. few agents could do this properly. self-reliance, a sense of identity - those were the most important. you could not lose yourself, agent svenenström. this is a job, and you have to protect people. that's what everyone told him. isolation was not good for someone of such delicate mentality. if anyone knew, he would be body slammed back into treatment and pulled from this case immediately. he'd be given a new name, a new life. marched into small-town georgia, with a comfortable desk job and an honourable attempt. he would be fine. too bad. there was a reason he kept as many secrets as he did. atticus wanted this. he wanted the isolation and odd freedom this assignment allowed him. he could, quite literally, do whatever the fuck he wanted. there were no rules, no guidelines. smile for the camera and no one would ever have to know. because, really, the verrentenikov bratva holds little value for its members. his unusual role to play was no different. he mattered, because he would do what he was told with no questions. stanislav asked none, so neither did atticus. he could be a raging heroine addict and no one would judge otherwise. point and shoot at the right time, don't miss, and they go take another hit. he liked it this way. it was, like everything else in his set of circumstances, all the things he didn't need.
instead of sitting in doctor moore's office, with its thick air and desperate need to be dusted, confessing all of this like he should be doing, atticus svenenström was sven mikkelson. he was on assignment. sort of. he was playing his role perfectly, because everything was okay, he just needed to lend a helping hand. this was still his assignment. and if anyone were to tread onto suspicious grounds, it would be an entertaining race to see who would torture that person first - the fbi, stanislav or atticus. this was all he had. swallowing the sick desperation, he forced the bubbling dread back into his empty stomach. he had to remember to find a numbing pill of his own. his brain, apparently, wasn't quite ready on its own. no, he did not need pills for balance. he needed pills so he didn't explode and make a big mess everywhere and ruin everything. maybe a pepper-black one. tapping the tip of his index finger on his screen, watching as the colourful little bird flew through the air, he sensed her before she spoke. her footsteps were too loud. and her breathing was too uncomfortable. and, quite frankly, he wasn't impressed. "they credit you too much. you're late." his words holding the ever-present impatient bite, although laced with a faint threat of person desperately needing to be on suicide watch, atticus looked up at emilia. so she could break faces with her eyes. she needed to break faces with her teeth. pushing his phone into the pocket of his blazer, he leaned back in the booth and tilted his head to the reproaching waitress. "black coffee for me. decide, will you?" leaving no room for deliberation, he snapped at her for the first time. he would have hated this person if he wasn't this person. he fell quiet again. the desperation gleamed brightly in his eyes, breaking down the steel he'd constructed so carefully. this was stupid. looking down at the dark tabletop, he rested his forearms against it, shifting his sleeve up slightly so he could look at the bandages wrapped protectively around his left wrist. touching it lightly, he took a slow breath. "what did they tell you about this assignment? apart from pretending you don't know my real name." his voice was lower, steadied into a forced calm. looking at emilia with tired eyes, he raised his eyebrows, head titled again.
[/size][/blockquote] ----------------------------------------------------------- TAGGED, emilia !
LOCALE, explosion, yo.
LENGTH, 1671 words.
ATTIRE, hurr.
NOTES, sooooo late. -fail-
CREDITS, formate to me. gif to tumblr.
lyrics to slaves to gravity - "big red"
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