Posts tagged the director.
Y’all Come Back Now
Text prompt from Nem: “he’s a cowboy lost in a long steel hall, see how he can run.”
They had told him time and time again that he didn’t need the accent in order to be a cowboy. They weren’t even sure what accent he was trying to do, because at eight years old, all David knew was that he didn’t want to be an Indian. Their names were cooler, but cowboys got to wear boots. He liked his boots. He had attached cardboard spurs to them for authenticity.
He’d think about that classic game with the neighborhood kids in the program a lot. Happy memories were hard to come by towards the end. He’d remember how much he struggled to sound like he was from Texas and hung out in a smoky, musty saloon. He remember how he’d always elongate the wrong vowel for the accent he was going for.
He remember it when the Director spoke. It got harder and harder to listen to him, towards the end.
RvB Drabble: Distraction
“You are out of line, Agent Wyoming,” the Director said sternly, but the man, so much bigger, didn’t move.
“It’s just a distraction,” Wyoming supplied. He was still standing attention, even with the bold proposal on the table, sitting in the air between them, the only way to close it is to act on it.
“That’s all it is, Agent?” the Director said, crossing his arms in front of the other man.
Wyoming looked at the man, glasses reflecting light like always, neatly groomed facial hair and thin mouth set in authority, in determination. Wyoming looked at the composure and the intensity of his leader and was reminded of the way it melts for a moment, just a moment, when he looks at Tex. Remembers how it softens when he addresses her, ever so slightly, so small it must be unconscious. He remembers how the Director reprimands himself, almost immediately, how the scowl returns in full force, how it directs itself at everyone (but her). He remembers how he can see that moment of realization, moment of knowing his guard was down, that odd moment where it looked like he didn’t recognize Tex, not really. He remembers the way he looks at everyone else right after, the way he storms off, the way he scowls at himself.
And Wyoming thought of Connie, or CT, or whatever she called herself now. He thought of how she stood in defiance with every fiber of her being. He thought of how she glared at him, how she felt for him, anger or love, it didn’t matter. It was intense, and that’s what Wyoming cared about. Intensity. The purity of it. The way she stood for something so completely, so unwavering in her ideals. So unlike anything he’d ever think of doing. This small woman, who didn’t like him, didn’t like this, who questioned and fought and felt with such intensity, this small woman who he studied from afar because he’d never be able to touch her, not in any way. This small woman that drove him insane without ever even knowing it.
“I think it’s what we both need, Director.”
queen-of-france asked: "I saw her body organ/ She was laughing while pressing the keys/ She said my favourite book was dirty and /'You shouldn't shout, you can read'" - The Knife, "Forest Families"
The way she moved was music. It felt so odd, since her apartment was so bare from any kind of instrument or player, she was so content to sit in silence, but Leonard realized she was never sitting in silence, not really. Every small movement a short, quiet note, every violent motion a sudden rush of horns, every muscle relaxing a relieved string, Allison was a symphony.
It was the hardest thing to get right about her. The Allison that had appeared along with Alpha, the Omega, Tex, she had Allison’s thoughts and words and, to a certain point, her memories, she had her smile and expression and attitude, but she so obviously, inescapably lacked her music. Allison was an orchestra and Tex was a rock band, and he could never quite completely hide the look of disappointment when his Agent moved, and moved wrong.
RvB: Recovery (inspired by Arisu)
(Inspired by and happening directly after this bit of wonderfulness here. Seriously, go read it. This will make more sense, AND it’s so perfect.)
He wasn’t burdened with many visitors. The infirmary wasn’t exactly a place anyone liked to visit anymore. York stopped by, Carolina, predictably, North brought in a few books.
The Director was a surprise, though.
Wash made the attempt to stand upright in the bed, winced as the post-surgical pain soared through his abdomen, and sank back down, defeated. The Director nodded, a non-verbal “at ease”, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.
Sat in silence.
After a few minutes, Wash felt the need to speak up. “..Sir?”
It was another few seconds before a response came. He didn’t make eye contact or move, staring off in the distance instead. “You were in love, Agent Washington.”
“What? No, I-“
“It wasn’t a question.”
Wash could only stare as his jaw slacked open and any hope of a reply died in his throat. The Director waited. “You knew,” Wash finally said, not surprised.
“You don’t hide it well.” He smiled, the Director actually smiled. “There comes a point when you really…you really can’t.”
“You knew. You knew, and yet you sent me.”
His head snapped around and the sudden eye contact made Wash retreat deeper into a pillow on instinct. “I sent you because I knew, Agent Washington.”
“I don’t understand.”
The director stood, in that dramatic way of his, and looked off into the distance again. “Love has to die, Agent Washington. It has to die, so we can get on with our lives.”
“And me getting shot, that’s supposed to mean it’s dead?”
“Her shooting you is supposed to mean it’s dead. Did her betrayal not kill it?”
Wash stared back as the Director’s intense gaze found his face again. Stared back, swallowed hard, and spoke evenly. “Yes, it did,” he lied.
phaeburri asked: Well I didn't tell anyone but a bird flew by/Saw what I'd done/He set up a nest outside/And he sang about what I'd become/He sang so loud, he sang so clear/I was afraid all the neighbours would hear/So I invited him in just to reason with him/ - Wyoming/Director (attempts to suck you into this crack pairing like you did with Wyoming/CT)
“I’m not them, you know,” Wyoming said one evening in the dark room, laying on the bed and seeing the scarce light glint off of the Director’s glasses as the man turned to face him.
“And I’m not her,” he said, angrily, and Wyoming stared hard, his muscles tightening until the Director sat up with a heavy sigh. “Isn’t that the point of this?”
Wyoming didn’t think the Director meant for him to find out, about Allison, about Tex, even in that odd, twisted way, about Carolina. He wasn’t supposed to know, but it was because he knew that he was here, now. It was because he realized it that it somehow made him safe - if Wyoming knew the Director was so hung up on someone else, then he’d naturally know that this would mean nothing. And the Director knew the spark Wyoming himself carried, that odd longing for the girl he’d never really have.
They were both each other’s place holder. They were a physical release that was so far from those who caused the need for it that it was alright, it was justifiable. Their emotions were still wrapped up in their obsessions, their lust and longing still geared for someone they’d never be able to have, someone so different in every way that this was easy to seperate, to deal with, to dissect. It was easy, they had figured at the start of this, to keep yourself from growing to like, enjoy, become attached to something so different from what you coveted.
Over the months they kept this mantra, even as they stopped thinking about the women they couldn’t have. They kept those initial justifications as the desire for a physical release began being motivated not by the unattainable, but the object responsible for the release. They repeated it in their heads as they stopped thinking of other faces as they reached their goal, as they fell back, breathless, they repeated it as they smiled at each other, as they started living in the moment for those brief, secret meetings of theirs. They repeated it, but it didn’t matter.
Denial only works if there’s someone to believe it.
queen-of-france asked: "I am the third/ a master/ a sentinel of awakeness/ I hold truth like a torch/ shadows flicker before me/ rapid eyes follow the chain of thought/ until the silence ends" - Silent Hill 3 OST, "Rain of Brass Petals"
The Counselor wasn’t blind, he saw everything he knew that Agent Connecticut could figure out, followed every thought and trail until his curiosity had been satisfied, gently pushed every issue as far as he could with the Director until he pieced it all together: Allison, her death, the project and the devotion to his work, Alpha, the AIs, Tex, everything. He saw it all and with each step further he learned to better hide his face of horror and disgust from the Director as he kept going, spurred by a thirst for truth and a curiosity to what evils he has helped bring into this world.
In the end it was precisely this act of seeing everything for what it was that made him more loyal, more devoted, and more determined to stick by the Director through everything that would surely come after the days of the war.
januaryembers- asked: "You taught me everything I know / Wave goodbye, wish me well / You've gotta let me go"
He knew Allison always hated saying goodbye, so he liked to think she’d understand when he vehemently refused to let her go.
delkios asked: Any Church iteration "Come sail your ships around me/And burn your bridges down/We make a little history baby/Every time you come around"
The Director thought he might make a memory unit - not a whole AI, or an entire program, just an Epsilon, just for her - but then he thought of the memories that would make up this unit, of Allison at first, then the placeholder Carolina, and finally Tex; all of them gone, all of them ending in the one thing he can’t reverse, no matter the years of trying, and, for the first time, he thought that maybe memories were meant to be forgotten.
RvB Drabble: And Try One, and Try Two
And here I dreamt I was a soldier.
He used to stare at her. Just stare. She’d eventually say something mean, with a fair amount of cursing, but she’d keep that smile on her face and he’d chuckle and poke fun at her. She’d call him a fucking nerd, he’d call her a weapon-obsessed psychopath. It was their courtship.
When she said joined the army, he stared at her. He stared while she told him, talked about it for two hours. All he could do was stare. She waited, patiently, for him to say something when she was done. All he could think to say was “Why?”
She spoke of patriotism. Of being able to make a difference. Of the war and how she needed to be part of it because she’s one of the best marksmen out there and everyone knew it. She needed this in her life because she dedicated her life to it. This was her chance. Her one thing she could do better than anyone. The one thing she could do to help.
He hated her dedication, hated it because he didn’t have it. He didn’t understand it. It was only after she was gone that he understood how she threw herself into everything she did, into everything she was. It was only after her death that he filled what used to be his dedication to her with his dedication and fever for science.
And just to lay with you
There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do
Save lay my rifle down
And I am nothing of a builder
But here I dreamt I was an architect
When he was handed Project Freelancer, it wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t even handed to him. He stole it, from anyone in his way. He wanted it. He wanted to have his hand in every part of it because this war had killed her and this project was what would eventually kill it.
For a long time, he was doing exactly what was needed of the project, and nothing more. He was a picture of efficiency. His Agents were an example of excellence. He carefully crafted every aspect of the project, building it up and caring for it as one would a child. He sometimes thought of it as a child, the one he had idly thought about having with her all those years ago. When he started writing Alpha, the thought of everything he’s built, created, gave birth to, drove him forward.
It was when she came along that he realized he’d just as soon watch it crumble to nothing, if it meant she could watch it with him.
Even though my work is unparalleled
This structure fell about our feet
And here in Spain I am a Spaniard
His story was one of adaptation. He would eventually present it to the jury as just that. It was being a Roman when in Rome. It was being the best fucking Roman anyone had ever seen. Adaptation and excellence. He would never tolerate anything less.
His story was Shakespearean. A tragedy of the ancient times. A loss of love, of life, of the spark that kept him in check. A story of overcompensation. Of war. His entire cast was tragic heroes. He chose them for that very reason.
His story was human. That’s what he would hold to. His story was human in every way, it was human nature. It was human and because of that, no human jury would convict him. No jury could convict him. He only did what humans do, in their misguided, flawed, extremist ways.
He never quite found out if his story would hold. He couldn’t tell his story to her. He couldn’t tell it when she showed up in her light blue armor with Epsilon because she knew it. She knew the story, the whole story, and she’d already found him guilty. Telling it to her would serve nothing. His story was useless.
His story was over.
I will be buried with my marionettes
RvB Drabble: Command (during/post Recovery One, s9 spoilers)
Sometimes the Director realized how much the lack of flight got to her.
He could hear it in the edge of her voice during the suicide mission they sent Wash on. She started out professional, toneless. As the hours dragged on she lapsed into familiarity, even calling him “Wash”. He supposed the look that earned her couldn’t have helped, but with every order he had her transmit her voice got more impatient, more confrontational. Finally it sounded like she conceded, like he had won some sort of victory over her and her will, her voice tired as she ordered Wash to kill the other twin. Her voice impatient as she tricked an old friend into pretending to kill an old…friend, her nerves frayed as they went off the grid for a while, not knowing if Wash stuck to his profile. Not knowing if he was crazy enough to be crazy, if he was going to follow orders or if he had just enough left in him to be the good person he came into this program as.
Usually, when he realized that she was struggling so much, he’d give her a break. This was a time sensitive operation, so he couldn’t really allow her to go flying for as long as he knew she needed. “If you need a brief relief, Agent-“
“-I’m a pilot,” she slipped in quickly, the pride at the words and title unmistakable. She didn’t like her new name. Her old teammates called her “Command” as she barked orders at them, growing more and more frustrated at the business of it all. The least she could do is still make the Director call her 479er. “And I’m fine.”
He didn’t push it again. They waited, patiently, until South called in and reported that the mission had gone as planned. That Wash had been killed by the Meta, that she wasn’t coming back. That she had Delta.
As her voice came through the radio, she wanted to plead with South. She wanted to say how South was like a reminder from before this all happened. Admit how much those “meetings” in random empty hangars, rooms, closets, bathrooms, anything-with-four-walls kept her sane. Warn South that she wouldn’t be safe on the run, that they’d get to her, that she didn’t have to do this, she shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t leave her alone with the Director and her new name and the remains of this project she joined so long ago never dreaming the pilot would have a front seat to watching it slowly die.
Her desperation, her plea, her desires came through the radio like all her emotions came through lately: as commands, as threats, as tired orders from the Director that she was passing along impatiently. She didn’t know how to make her voice sound friendly anymore. All she had left was the cold, hard tone of Command, with the snark of 479er buried only a little less deeply than all of her other feelings. As South’s last transmission played into the room - “it’s not you I’m worried about.” - the Director slammed his mug on the table. She didn’t even flinch at it. She just stared at the computer, taking off her headset and leaning back into her chair.
He sighed slowly. “Age-Pilot 479er,” he said slowly and with great effort. “You are on leave, starting now. You have access to anything you’d care to pilot for the next two weeks.”
She didn’t respond. She continued to sit there and stare at the computer, at the transcript of her last few conversations. She wondered if the Director knew about her and South, if he had some sort of soft spot for the fact that the closest thing she could have had to any kind of relationship, be it friends or otherwise, had just flown away off the grid. She slowly reached forward, her hand as steady as ever because you don’t get to be like her, at her level, if your hands start shaking with emotion, and picked up the headset.
“-I’m fine.” She saw in his face that he knew she wasn’t, that he knew that this refusal of being able to fly was like a nail in her coffin. She also saw in his face something like respect, and she thought, how fucked up was he that he would respect her for trying to kill her soul, bit by bit? “Recovery Six, come in Recovery Six,” she spoke into her microphone, convincing herself that the ships (the ships? They used to be her ships) would still be there tomorrow morning. She told herself she’d take her leave in the morning, after this was set in motion. After this was figured out.
She told herself she could leave her post as Recovery Command and not care who ended up killing South, because she’d be flying and in the air and when she was a pilot nothing else mattered.
She told herself all of this because she knew if she stepped foot in another cockpit again she’d never leave it, so she wouldn’t leave this post until she knew what happened to South, until the last of her old almost-friends was taken care of, one way or the other.
She still called herself a pilot. Only now she said it bitterly, with resentment and disgust, with a twinge of desperation. No one dared to call her anything else.