Fisk's yelling echoed across the water. The ocean made voices travel far, even in the uneveness, even with faint gunshots peppering the background, punctuating sentences. His name erupted from Fisk's lips, and Ivan shrank deeper into himself, the blanket covering his vision completely. The schooner had a small cabin - cot that would pull out, smelling of mothballs, sawdust, and sea. It rocked gently as inhaled, breath catching, exhaled in a shaky, circling sob of pain.
He missed the closet in the house boat. At least that didn't have a lens peering down at his shivering form. His pants and tank top lay flat against the deck of the cabin, little puddles slowly spreading as they dried as best they could. He shivered against the fatigue, exhaustion, and sound of Fisk's voice.
"Emmy?" he said, and hated how small his voice sounded, "are you back?"
Deafness.
Mentorshot.
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The Honeless Beard
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The response from Ivan's collar takes a while, but it does come.
"Hey, Ivan. I'm here."
"Hey, Ivan. I'm here."
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The Honeless Beard
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"It's getting so much worse," Ivan said, voice strained, "and I can't talk to anyone about it. I don't know what's happening and it's - I don't remember coming in here, or walking anywhere, but I remember you. Can you just - I don't know - talk for a minute? Get me out of my head?"
"Okay. Of course.
"Maybe just... try and focus on one thing at a time. The things you definitely know that are there."
"Maybe just... try and focus on one thing at a time. The things you definitely know that are there."
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The Honeless Beard
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"I got attacked. No, I attacked someone and then they retaliated," Ivan said.
"They hurt me really badly. People in masks." Ivan said.
"You told me their names. You left- you left someone out? I was mad at you for that, but couldn't tell you because of - someone named WinRar." Ivan said.
"I've killed... three people. You don't want me to, because we were-" Ivan said.
"We weren't, were we? Were we?" Ivan asked.
"They hurt me really badly. People in masks." Ivan said.
"You told me their names. You left- you left someone out? I was mad at you for that, but couldn't tell you because of - someone named WinRar." Ivan said.
"I've killed... three people. You don't want me to, because we were-" Ivan said.
"We weren't, were we? Were we?" Ivan asked.
There was a pause, while spectators rushed to their gifsets and captions, cackling all the while about free trials of mentoring expiring.
"Classmates?"
"Classmates?"
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The Honeless Beard
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"No," Ivan said-
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The Honeless Beard
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A brief moment of insanity that leads to clarity: rewatch. The moment that started all of this, a freeze frame bonus amidst a sea of chaos, of kicking and punching and casual theft that circled and swarmed around him, sharks and flies taking turns around freshly turned and bloodied meat. You can see the moment that spawned the rest of his life, the moment where, if you listen carefully, you can hear a shattering glass of experience and tangential truth and memory. The moment right after steel tipped leather met bone, a head mid tip-back, one eye rolling to the left. If you pause it there, you see an expression void of expression, a blank emptiness.
At the time, he'd thought of a kind-of love. Someone who would, at the very least, have given a shit about him. It wasn't a familial love but one he forged himself, through shared interest and a meeting of minds. When steel tipped leather met bone, the memory shuddered, a brief intense cold spell, chills down its spine. The vibration started low and coiled upwards so that he would've had to squint to see it, but his eyes weren't his to control. He could've heard it, but the leather had popped an eardrum and left his hearing impaired. He could've felt it, but masked teenagers held his limbs tight.
When the vibrations stopped, he couldn't see her, but she was there.
To call it a transformation wouldn't exactly be the truth, but he was past things like truth now. Truth is informed out of experience and wisdom, and he'd run low on the second and had been robbed of the first. In objective terms, it was less a transformation than an obfuscation, but he didn't see that through bleary vision: he just saw an absence of her. She was pleading with him through a television screen, and he had a vague idea of talking shop over discord with her, and she was in class looking at a girl with pain and he was sending her a dick pic under the desk.
In a very real way, she had shared with him a moment that was far more intimate than any he'd shared with her. She begged for trust and mercy, promised to make good on the awful position in which she was found. While he’d had his fair share of intimacy with her, it was she that he gravitated towards in these moments of unbridled tension and stress. A face on a screen asking for positive feelings in a sea of uncertainty overrode everything, everything, that he had shared with her. To say he forgot her would be to undersell what was taken from him - instead, she was her, and that shaped the rest of his existence.
At the time, he'd thought of a kind-of love. Someone who would, at the very least, have given a shit about him. It wasn't a familial love but one he forged himself, through shared interest and a meeting of minds. When steel tipped leather met bone, the memory shuddered, a brief intense cold spell, chills down its spine. The vibration started low and coiled upwards so that he would've had to squint to see it, but his eyes weren't his to control. He could've heard it, but the leather had popped an eardrum and left his hearing impaired. He could've felt it, but masked teenagers held his limbs tight.
When the vibrations stopped, he couldn't see her, but she was there.
To call it a transformation wouldn't exactly be the truth, but he was past things like truth now. Truth is informed out of experience and wisdom, and he'd run low on the second and had been robbed of the first. In objective terms, it was less a transformation than an obfuscation, but he didn't see that through bleary vision: he just saw an absence of her. She was pleading with him through a television screen, and he had a vague idea of talking shop over discord with her, and she was in class looking at a girl with pain and he was sending her a dick pic under the desk.
In a very real way, she had shared with him a moment that was far more intimate than any he'd shared with her. She begged for trust and mercy, promised to make good on the awful position in which she was found. While he’d had his fair share of intimacy with her, it was she that he gravitated towards in these moments of unbridled tension and stress. A face on a screen asking for positive feelings in a sea of uncertainty overrode everything, everything, that he had shared with her. To say he forgot her would be to undersell what was taken from him - instead, she was her, and that shaped the rest of his existence.
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The Honeless Beard
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"-Oh god."
"Ivan, you okay?
"Hey, I'm here. Just, talk me through it?"
"Hey, I'm here. Just, talk me through it?"
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The Honeless Beard
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The blanket came down, and Ivan leaned back against the cot, blood from his arm filling the sheets, the bedframe. Ivan's awkward gaze fell on the camera lens, looking through it, trying to conjure an image of Emmy in his mind.
It didn't work.
His eyes were red-rimmed, face still bearing scars, bruises, the bloody and marred F. He scratched around the not-fully-healed scab, wiped at an errant tear. He didn't feel like he was crying, but he felt moisture everywhere, mixing with the salt of sweat and surf.
"I can't keep - I don't know how to keep going," he said, "I had a goal, but all I have is how much I hate those fuckers, and - it feels like nothing is in me anymore. Like they stole something. And I'm not even sure if what they took was good, or noble, but it was mine."
He wiped his eyes again with his palms.
"So am I - how do I keep going? There's nothing after they fall. There's - I'm nothing. This whole time I thought you were-"
His throat closed, and he buried his head into his knees, pressing them so hard into his eyes he saw stars.
It didn't work.
His eyes were red-rimmed, face still bearing scars, bruises, the bloody and marred F. He scratched around the not-fully-healed scab, wiped at an errant tear. He didn't feel like he was crying, but he felt moisture everywhere, mixing with the salt of sweat and surf.
"I can't keep - I don't know how to keep going," he said, "I had a goal, but all I have is how much I hate those fuckers, and - it feels like nothing is in me anymore. Like they stole something. And I'm not even sure if what they took was good, or noble, but it was mine."
He wiped his eyes again with his palms.
"So am I - how do I keep going? There's nothing after they fall. There's - I'm nothing. This whole time I thought you were-"
His throat closed, and he buried his head into his knees, pressing them so hard into his eyes he saw stars.
"I don't know what you thought, Ivan, but...While you're still alive, you still have something.
"They didn't kill you. I know you're beaten up, and know you're hurt, but you're still here."
"They didn't kill you. I know you're beaten up, and know you're hurt, but you're still here."
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The Honeless Beard
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A brief pause, shoulders wracking. Shuddering. A few sounds that gasped out, attempts to speak through strangled tears.
Nothing came forward. Minutes of nothing, trying and failing to form words, a jaw quivering over possible vowels.
Eventually, they ran out of time to talk.
Nothing came forward. Minutes of nothing, trying and failing to form words, a jaw quivering over possible vowels.
Eventually, they ran out of time to talk.