Author Topic: Springfield ‹ * ♕ * CATCH HELL BLUES. — OPEN, JOINING. * ›  (Read 278 times)

Offline GECKO

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( ooc: only the last two lil paragraphs matter lmao )

"What th' 'ell is wrong widja? Y' can't be settin' fire to everythin'! Y'coulda' killed someone!"

Maybe, but it had hurt. Fired-up and too angry, bad threatening to bubble up and spill out, slip through the cracks and they had needed it, needed the roaring heat, the bright and the burning—

"This ain't normal. None a' this is normal! Snap outta it!"

They'd tried. God, they'd tried, but it had been too much and they'd felt like they were dying— like they were going to die. Please stop shouting I'm sorry I didn't mean it please just let me go.

What they'd wanted to say was "fuck off, leave me alone, I'm fine". It had never worked out that way, though. Their chest had always been too tight, pressure bleeding into pain, breath too fast and head too light, dizzy and nauseous, unable to breathe, maybe vomiting. "Gecko, sweetie, you've gotta listen to me—" Shut the fuck up. I'm fine, goddammit. I'm fine. Stop babying me.

But it hadn't been fine, still wasn't fine, and apparently the panic attacks were worse than the fires. (Their family home was in the middle of nowhere, though, a ranch with plains for miles. 'Wasn't much that could be damaged.) Their mother had tried her best, but she'd always been overwhelmed, like their pain hurt her, like her inability to soothe them cut deeper than a knife.

Gecko didn't blame her for sending them to Springfield. It was probably their best option — and it got them out of her hair. It just didn't help that they were there without someone more emotionally-astute to describe their issues in excruciating detail, because talking about their personal problems had never been on the cards. They were more of a "punch shit and see if it calmed the pain inside" sort of person. If it bruised, it was fixable. If it was a seemingly metaphysical urge to burn everything and a stupid habit of panicking for (in their humble, long-standing opinion, at least) no good reason, then it was a little more difficult to deal with.

They probably weren't Springfield's average visitor. Three large lizards, leashed and surprisingly placid considering their proximity, swarmed around their feet; a smaller lizard gripped their shoulder, blue tongue darting out to taste foreign air. (If anyone peeked inside their bag, they'd find a baby snake. They weren't called Gecko for nothing.)

"Gutshot, stop eating my shoe." If the tegu heard them, he didn't give any indication. Gecko grumbled wordlessly and scooted out of the way of his insistent jaws, keeping a firm grip on his leash. "We've actually gotta behave today. Mom'll kill me if I get kicked out."
« Last Edit: June 08, 2019, 11:19:56 PM by sango »

Offline Aaron.

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Having just been accepted, Aaron found himself wandering the border quite frequently, particularly after providing emotional support to patients. Even he needed some quiet, peaceful time to himself, after all those secrets had been whispered into his ears by those that poured their hearts out to him in the hopes of recovery.

The black haired man hadn't expected to run across anyone else, but he did, and it seemed he was the first to arrive upon the scene. What interested him the most about the newcomer were the lizards. They were enough to draw his attention away from the individual for just a moment, but despite his surprise and curiosity, Aaron's facial features remained stoic.

"Hello. Welcome to Springfield. My name is Aaron, a psychologist here. How can I help?" Though his voice was firmly neutral, it was not unkind. Aaron let his hands settle into the pockets of his dark black suit, his FBI bullet proof vest in full display over the top of his clothing.


everybody only remembers the killers
WHEN WE SHOULD BE REMEMBERING THE VICTIMS

Offline fletcher

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cw for mentions of shooting, blood, and murder

fletcher probably wasn't the kind of person you thought of when you imagined springfield, either. nineteen, nearly twenty years old, trapped in the frustrating realm between childhood and adulthood. she grasped at the straws of maturity, plagued by a desire for independence, but when the going got rough, she always found herself sitting at anton's kitchen table, letting her uncle cook her eggs and satiate her fears. some part of her would always remain young and wide eyed, laughing when she's nervous and running when she was frightened. but there was another part of her that had grown up too soon, a part of her that had been twelve years old and watched a man with a twitch in his eye put the barrel of a gun to the back of her mothers head, watched him make her an orphan in a few seconds.

she'd never been kind, not like her uncle. anton saved lives, he cut people open and stitched them back together, and she admired that, but at the end of the day, fletcher was the opposite. she was someone who punched things when she was angry, she was someone who craved the taste of gunpowder in the air, someone who was thrilled by the rush of the fight. she was plenty capable of sticking an iv into a vein and stitching up a cut, but it didn't satiate her the way she wanted, the way she needed. she needed the rush, the noise, the aching of bruised flesh and the wet feeling of blood streaked across her own skin.

she didn't look like a doctor, like a nurse, like much of a healer. she wore the snug black tank top that hugged a tan, lean frame, old scars littering across her arms. most were stupid things, scratches from anton's cats and marks left from falls, but there were a few that called attention, that spoke of knives and bullets and surgeries where she'd almost bled out on the table. her knuckles bore small callouses from years of punching vinyl bags, but that wasn't what really set her apart from the other springfielders; it was the gun. it sat comfortably in the waistband of her pants, metal warm against her flesh, loaded and ready to fire. few of their people carried weapons, and only guards carried guns. they were the only ones who hadn't sworn themselves to do no harm, and while they were sworn to only do harm when absolutely necessary, they were capable of it. the guards were trained and readied to protect staff and patients, and though there was only a handful, hardly any compared to the general population, those guns set them apart.

❝i think what the suit here means is,❞ she said as she walked forward, arms crossed, tone flat and eyes focusing on the stranger and their... parade of lizards, ❝are you about to bleed out or something?❞ most people, all too many, who turned up at their borders were on the brink of death, and the teenager had spent the last five of her seven years there picking up strangers and toting them back to the hospital for anton to doctor and dote upon.
to give your lack of interest an explanation

Offline GECKO

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( ooc: sorry this is so long skskjkl... the only bits that matter for replying are the spoken parts! the rest is just me waffling )

Everyone always looked at the lizards. Never mind how Whiplash flared up a little at the intrusive stares — the others seemed fine and it wasn't like anyone understood their body language enough to look into the nuances of how they stood. Most people claimed Gecko was always overreacting when they bristled as bad as any wild animal, or that they were lying when they said they'd take a bullet for any of their pets.

But they'd always been the weird kid in school, easy to pick on despite their many siblings by people who didn't understand who they were. The lizards were difficult to care for, rowdy at times and painstaking to earn the trusts of, but they were Gecko's only reliable source of companionship. No other friends were quite as non-judgemental. None were as easy talk to.

Aaron's greeting earned a restless twitch and wary eyes. "So you’re a shrink," Gecko said dubiously. "A real psychologist, not some hack who just likes the gossip." Either way, it was better than nothing. Maybe. The last one had been kind of awful. Aaron didn't look like a liar, but he certainly wasn't anything like Gecko had ever envisioned. The longer they studied him, the stranger he became. "What kind of shrink has a bulletproof vest?" (And an FBI one to boot. Did the FBI still exist anymore?)

They opened their mouth to speak again but only got as far as a small, quickly-aborted noise, one that died caught in the back of their throat. Not fear, but the understanding that a new presence meant new speech, and they didn't want to run their mouth too quickly, say something unnecessary or something she didn't need to hear. The shrink, maybe, but certainly not her, because she had a gun, and that wasn't psychologist protocol. They knew that weaponry was important for protection in a world as cruel as this, but something about having guns in a hospital seemed hilariously counterproductive. How easy would it be for a nutcase to take it from an unsuspecting guard? Too easy for it to be safe, probably. (Some dangers were worth it.)

'I think what the suit here means is are you about to bleed out or something?'

"No, but you might be if you don’t step back," they blurted. It took them a minute for their mind to catch up with their mouth and they winced, eyes screwed shut for a painful second. God. Shit. Fuck. They probably sounded like a psycho. Maybe they were. (They ignored their eldest sister's voice in their head telling them that psycho was a negative, misused term.) "That wasn’t a threat. It was a warning. Whiplash gets nervous when strangers come too close. The rest of them are friendly."

Silence beat between the trio and it occurred to Gecko that Aaron had asked them a question before gun lady had even decided to show her face. How can he help? They’d known that part of coming here would entail detailing their issues, but it felt impersonal like this. Prying and filthy, and they had a nasty habit of clamming up, especially around shrinks (and even more so around unqualified strangers).

They swallowed the it’s none of your damn business because it was, unfortunately, Springfield’s business. That was the point. It was just— there was no delicate way of wording it. I need someone to sort out my head. My mother thinks I'm going insane and she doesn't deserve to deal with this. Their nature was directly interrupted by their mental state, and they didn't know how to separate the two and bin the latter. Or incinerate it, preferably, but that tied into their second issue and they were trying not to think about it.

Maybe it'd be simpler if they were crying and vulnerable. Easier said than done. There wasn't a switch for panic; if there was, they'd have flipped it off and stuck it down a long time ago.

"... I need help," they admitted finally. It was vague, but it was a start. Talking was difficult, but they'd never been a liar and they weren't about to start now. "You said you were a shrink— a psychologist— right? Can I... talk to you?"

Another few beats of silence. "I’m Gecko," they added. "Like the lizard." Not that they owned any geckos. That was part of the joke. (At least, they thought it was. They couldn’t even remember who’d first given them the name, if it was their own choice or someone else’s.)

Offline Aaron.

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this is a fancy by aj inspired by thes
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Aaron glanced toward Fletcher when she arrived, she was youthful, unlike him, and she had a gun. Aaron had surrendered his own after he had joined, because he worked with patients in the hospital itself, he had no desire to give them the chance of snatching the weapon from him in order to hurt themselves or somebody else. Even his assortment of pocket knives was out of his possession in that moment. He'd only ever need his weapons when leaving Springfield, anyways. There was no need for them within the perimeter of the hospital, unless you were a guard, he supposed. It was for that reason that, despite her young age, Aaron deduced that the woman beside him, calling him 'the suit' must have been a guard herself. Aaron shifted his gaze back toward the newcomer, instead of the lizards. Though they were certainly interesting to look at, they weren't the center of his attention. That title belonged to Gecko.

They had called him a shrink, a word Aaron himself didn't particularly appreciate, but he kept his features firmly neutral, and didn't emotionally react in the slightest.

"A real psychologist." Aaron confirmed with a brisk nod. He didn't answer the question about his vest, remaining stoic and quiet until the warning from Gecko about Fletcher potentially being bitten by one of the large lizards filtered into the open air. The black haired man raised a questioning brow, and determined that if the lizard did indeed cause any harm to others, especially considering that Gecko probably wouldn't be allowed access to it, concerned him. He doubted anyone wanted to put the animal down, but if it couldn't be fed without Gecko, and actively attacked those trying to care for it while Gecko was confined to the hospital as a patient (which is what Aaron suspected, given their next statement of needing help), then there was not much else that could be done.

"Of course you can talk to me." Aaron responded gently. He didn't know what problems plagued the mind of Gecko, but if they were strong enough that they felt like they required psychological assistance, then he was on board for at least trying to help. Not every patient could be improved after long-term therapy, some were too far gone, but almost all of them could at the very least, improve through help enough to live a somewhat comfortable existence. "It's nice to meet you, Gecko. But if you're going to be a patient here, you'll have to follow some rules." The psychologist began firmly, though his voice was not at all unkind.

"I'm new here myself, so Anton might have to confirm as well as state them in more detail, I'm sure, but for one, I believe your lizards cannot accompany you into the hospital. I believe caretakers will care for them for you. You also won't be allowed outside to see them. Patients aren't allowed outside of the hospital itself. You'll have to wear a hospital gown, and follow a strict routine, and if you choose to resist treatment, you'll be sent home. I'd ask where you're from, but if you'd rather talk about that in private with me, I understand." Aaron explained some of the many rules put in place for patients professionally, and with a smoothness to his deep voice.

« Last Edit: April 24, 2019, 10:22:27 AM by Aaron. »

everybody only remembers the killers
WHEN WE SHOULD BE REMEMBERING THE VICTIMS