fragment memories

Imagine an AU where Loki actually dies. You, a healer, manage to bring him back but with fragments of his memory gone and his speech and mind severely impaired. You attempt to nurse him back to health as best as you can and he develops an incredibly strong need to protect you. The only problem is trying to get it across to you that he loves you.

10

In Memoriam Part 1; 
Collaboration with @ofkingsandlionhearts | Part 2: x

2017; in a time of revolution and a land of turmoil, otherwise known as Wales, Merlin, still waiting for Arthur; is living a quiet life spending his days as a librarian and his nights in a small, yet cosy flat close to the lake. Though in recent years he knows the quiet isn’t going to last, there’s a crackling in the air: he can feel the change, an awakening. On one of these nights Merlin makes his usual way home, says goodbye to his colleagues, pops in for a cup of tea and a chat with the lady who works at his favourite cafe, and takes a detour to past the lake to his flat. Turning on the radio that night (he owned a television once, but after accidentally stumbling onto an episode of Camelot that was the end of that) he hears another another tale of disappearances. There seems to be one every day now; completely random it would seem, but he knows better. 

The next day on his way to work Merlin senses that same unease in the air. He feels the air is quite literally being knocked out of his lungs but sees nobody there, he falls to the ground. The next thing he remembers is waking up in an operating theatre. “You’ve been in an accident,” a soothing voice tells him, “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” He doesn’t remember losing blood. He doesn’t remember anything. “Your memories will come back to you slowly. We’ll refer you to a psychiatric,” says another voice he thinks he’s heard before, but it’s gone with another dose of morphine. As it happens, his short term memories, however fragmented, do return to him quite quickly. It’s not until three months later when he’s on his way to work that he notices something quite amiss: a man in full body armour following him. 

“Your memories will come back to you slowly.” A year gone past since the accident and Merlin hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. The man is everywhere, infecting every memory he has - chasing him, haunting him, teasing him, even in his dreams. He faintly remembers other things, like waking up to strange conversations on a hospital bed, but they’re gone as quickly and sporadically as they come. His outpatient treatment is going well according to the doctor. She says he’s healthy, and the man is just a figment of his imagination he conjured up to help with the pain. They give him more drugs and sent him on his way. It never occurred to Merlin to seek a second opinion. He goes back to his old routine, says goodbye to his colleagues after work, pops in for a cup of tea and a chat with the lady who works at his favourite cafe, walks home, and turns on the telly.

...

at the edge of the fires light
earliest of the morning

bathed beneath the moons gaze
so bright, casting shadows in the night

stars, shining in the trees
mirroring the skies

the moisture of breath
revealed as it flows into winter air

filtered, fresh
every inhalation

a balm…

its fragrance, subject
to the warmth within us all

- The smell of winter in the air -

I asked for some inspiration…
@unsng sent me this one via ask

Thank you!
Be well

what my depersonalization / derealization feel like
  • looking down at myself like through a camera lens
  • I feel like I watch life from above or next to my body
  • bad short term memory, fragmented memories, questioning my memories
  • I can move these hands and legs just like that? how is it that I’m walking?
  • feeling like I was put into this world without any reason or agency
  • I can’t visualize what people look like (but it has gotten better)
  • everything looks like I am looking through frosted glass
  • familiar faces and places can feel foreign, recognizing them is not always that easy
  • everything happens very slowly or way too quickly
  • I have no understanding of time progression, was this yesterday or two weeks ago?
  • feeling no emotional connections and attachments, life and everything in it bears no meaning
  • hearing a second voice that’s constantly commenting and mocking me (not anymore)
  • my body feeling like a shell to me, being separate from it, bodily functions are weird
  • numbness, I can “feel” pain, but most of the time there is no “hurting” to it
  • feeling nonexistent when my environment doesn’t react to / interact with me
  • my reflection being distorted and/or blurry
  • difficulty forming thoughts and verbalizing them, fragmented thoughts, no thoughts
  • delay in understanding what others are saying, delay in responding (at least it feels like it)
  • dizziness, feeling like I am going to faint
  • disorientation, forgetting where I am and how/why I got there for a minute
  • feeling weightless or feeling endlessly heavy
  • clumsiness
  • being on autopilot and not remembering what I did during that period
  • patterns can look like they are vibrating
  • my voice sounds different, clearer and louder, foreign to me, this can make it hard to speak
  • being unable to focus and concentrate, reading can be tough
More Important Things

• The way Fenris’s hair is so fluffy over his pointed ears and how it sways when he teases about practicing his flattery
• The look he gives Hawke when he says that he’d never wanted anyone before Hawke and that things might be different with him
• The deadpan manner in which he jokes with Varric
• That heartbreakingly sad and vulnerable smile on his face when Hawke says, “I’m here, Fenris,” when Fenris thinks he’s all alone
• His adorable friendships with Sebastian, Donnic, and Aveline
• The way his ears glow (the way all of him glows, really, but look at his glowing ears in cutscenes! So cute!)
• The way he caresses Hawke’s face
• That look of hope on his face when he first sees Varania and recalls a fragment of a happy memory of her
• Those very full and very kissable lips of his
• Those bold, expressive eyebrows
• The way his bangs hide his eyes when he’s feeling vulnerable and self-conscious
• His dry sarcasm and wit
• The way his eyes light up and he smiles when Hawke suggests giving him a few more problems
• The way he finds happiness, love, and a home when he thought he never would

All very very important.

A well-documented feature of trauma, one familiar to many, is our inability to articulate what happens to us. Not only do we lose our words, but something happens with our memory as well… we no longer recognize memories as belonging to the traumatic event. Fragments of memory can become activated later by anything remotely reminiscent of the original experience.

Mark Wolynn, It Didn’t Start With You

When I write, I take certain.. liberties. I had written Banshee in somewhere in the third chapter, used him as an example of how surprisingly fragile exo minds could be, especially the higher that number gets. I sat and unintentionally listened to Banshee-44′s dialogue, I was doing other things and that’s where I happened to put my controller down. And I noticed something.. odd. The way he spoke was disjointed, full of fragments of memories from previous wipes. Then, while preparing for a raid, I hunted through the tower to try to find a lounge or some points of reference to use in From here, the stars, I came across two interesting pieces of dialogue about Banshee. One of our Ghost telling us he asked Ikora what the number meant, and then this one too.

I guess what I’m saying is that I really love when I write something into a story and later find out it’s actually true.  

You ever wondered why the gunsmith stops mid-sentence sometimes? Why he picks up the conversation to himself that’s totally unrelated to what he was saying before? Or just says something to himself, corrects it, then keeps talking? Try it, go sit near him and just listen to what he mutters. His number is 44. That’s how many times he’s been rebooted. It starts to do some damage over time.” 

–excerpt from chapter 3, still a rough draft at this point

Memory is the Key: Epsilon Meta

At the end of S8, as Epsilon is preparing to jump into the capture unit, possibly to “die” since the unit is failing and he might not be able to be retrieved, he tells Caboose: “If I don’t come back then, you’re in charge of remembering me, okay? Don’t let Tucker help, he’ll just fuck it up.”

This line about Tucker could be read as a joke. It’s very in line with the way Tucker and Church always talked to each other, but that was Alpha. At this point in the series, Epsilon hasn’t spent a lot of time with Tucker. They had one conversation in the caves when he was in ball form before he ditched the Blues to go with the Reds and chase the “memory” he was having of Tex. 

This impression of Tucker always fucking things up could actually have come from Caboose and the stories he told Epsilon when he was in the memory unit. And if that’s the case, it can effect your reading of all of Epsilon’s actions. 

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We Need to Talk About AIDA

I think the problem with the Framework is that AIDA doesn’t understand the core of humanity - emotions, struggle, regret. These are formative to our experience and perspective. She does not have any of them. So to her, it’s like simplifying code to make it more elegant. Remove the tangled bits, take people back to a time when they had the least to regret or struggle with, when their emotions were as baseline as possible. But be aware, baseline doesn’t mean happy - it means that somewhat numb middle ground. You’re not experience joy, you’re not experiencing pain, you’re not experiencing sadness. It is the ideal, to a robot, because it’s what they know and experience.

By removing their struggles, regret, and in a large part, their purpose, their sadness, and their joy, she has dismantled the formative things about our heroes. Now, their journey is to break from this mediocre unreality, coloured in Pleasantville Grey, back into the world of technicolour pain and joy and suffering and love - something they know deep in their core. 

Because here’s the interesting thing about people and memory and emotions - when the mind forgets, it’s the body that keeps score, that remembers. As a person with PTSD, I know this implicitly. They’ve done brain scans and numerous research into the phenomena - because science has proven that what LMD Fitz said, that ‘the brain and the body can be separated’ is inherently incorrect.

I want to see Coulson rubbing his harm when the weather changes, and wondering why he has phantom pain. 

I want to see Fitz struggling with finding words when he’s upset, or having an anxiety attack, rubbing his hand, and describing it as ‘feeling like he’s drowning’ without having any context for it. 

I want to see Ward press his hand to his chest when he catches sight of Coulson out of the corner of his eye. 

I want to see Mack researching online, late at night, when no one is awake, whether men can be affected by post-partum depression/psychosis, because something inside him could swear that the beautiful little girl he tucked in hours ago is not his, but something else. He feels like he’s going crazy, because he feels this immense sense of loss when he looks at her, and goosebumps when he holds her - goosebumps that tell him something just isn’t right.

Imagine, like PTSD memory integration, when Jemma grabs Fitz’s hand for the first time, and suddenly, he feels her grip in his palm the thousands of times it has fit there, the slide of her thumb over his knuckles, so familiar, and a flash of a memory ghosts, disembodied, in front of his eyes. her hand in his. The first time. The last time. The time he took her ring finger and contemplated asking her to marry him. 

When they kiss, and it is the agony of her loss, the universe between them, the surety that she is not for him, and the sheer bliss of knowing, deeply, settled and rooted in his chest, that no - that was once and this is now and she has always been his, and will always be his, that they are together, entangled, rooted within each other. And he barks a laugh and cries and pulls away, terrified and elated and shaking, and breathes, “What the fuck?”

Iwant to see each of them, trapped in the framework, take the risk to dig deeply, grasping their fragmented physical memories like shards of glass, to cut away at the web of lies the framework has trapped them in. I want to see them be vulnerable and scared of knowing that they will feel pain, knowing that this will be scary and this will hurt, but somehow, it’s going to be better. It has to be better, to know. To be who they are, instead of parts of a phantasmagoria of life.

japan journal、2.

Probably the hardest thing after not writing for a long time is overcoming the guilt to do so again. Creating always starts with forgiveness, a lot has changed but this still holds true. All I needed was a touch of color. I owe Tokyo a lot, I think I learned to breath different here. It’s such a shock to think back on the months prior and realise I was waiting for something—anything—to grab me by the shoulders and will me to live again. There’s so many moments I’ve locked away inside vending machines and in between metro seats.  I’ve left pieces of myself, as crumbs in the streets to find my way back.

If you find these,
           please,
                 put them back.

A quick colored doodle I did of Rarity and Twilight in the Guardian!AU. The general idea is maybe showcasing the bond the two have and how dependent they are on one another, but because I talk so much about how Bonded Guardians are dependent on their charges, I guess this one is more focused on how the dependency works for the one the Guardian protects.

While Twilight is the one to typically seek out physical affection or reassurance, Rarity is no stranger to seeking comfort from the hulking Guardian. Part of the process of her becoming the “Princess of Mistral” is that her memories of her previous life, the life she had before she was stolen, are wiped and essentially “replaced” with new ones to have her believe she was born in Mistral and that it’s her “birth-given duty” to be an icon to the civilization. But Rarity knows that something isn’t right, nevermind the fact that she’s a literal prisoner behind pretty walls; that’s part of the reason why she wants to escape in the first place.

Anyway, Rarity in this AU has frequent nightmares and suffers from insomnia. Her nightmares are often fragments of her memory trying to break through her conditioning, particularly of the night she was kidnapped and ripped away from her family, and their blurry yet oddly familiar faces haunt her. It’s during these times that she’s at her most frail and seeks out her Guardian for comfort, of which Twi is more than willing to give however she can. These nights usually has Twi curling around Rarebear and the mare finally falling into a fitful sleep, but sometimes it doesn’t work, and all Twi can do is provide a supportive and protective presence while Rares stays close.

The more I delve deeper into this AU the more I think the RariTwi is platonic in this case. They’re kinda like platonic soulmates in this AU, and I’m kinda diggin’ that for this one. o3o

Dude this AU’s so fun I love it. ;_; But ye, here ya go have a messy doodle with some lore. O:

Soulmate AU: Soulmates Get Reincarnated with Their Memories Usually Intact

P/N = Previous Life’s Name


The images were usually very fragmented and fuzzy for you but if you focused hard enough and just long enough, you could make them out.

It was the 70s, you were in a hospital bed, and you could see his silhouette. He was tall yet the furthest thing from intimidating, even as he stood over you, saying something. You could never really make out exactly what the words were, but judging by the tone of concern that surrounded them, you could tell that they were words of worry. Maybe even a light scolding. You felt his hands cup your face and his lips pressed to your forehead. If you looked down, you’d see that your leg was in a large cast.

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“Porous memories fuse and interpenetrate. Fragments of song mingle in hot remembered afternoons, mysterious angers return at a flush with a chance forgotten postcard. Such memories were once the motions of old fluids, animal spirits which meandered and rummaged through the pores of the brain. They held experience and history in bodies which were themselves porous, uncertainly coupled across tissues and skin with their air, their ethics, their land. Now they are patterns of activation across vast neural networks, condensing and compressing innumerable possible trajectories into the particular vectors of flashing or torpid memories. Dynamic cognitive systems coevolving with the physiological, environmental, and social systems in which they are embedded need the wishful mixings of absence which interfering traces bring.”

John Sutton, from Philosophy and Memory Traces: Descartes to Connectionism (Cambridge University Press, 1998)