he feels like he's seen something incredibly personal, here. from the way rynlan looks so different - he can put together context clues - to the shaky tone of an addict. it's familiar in a way that it shouldn't be familiar, and he finds that he's not really breathing as the memory plays out.
his arm hurts.
he closes his eyes as it finishes, finally, and lets out a deep, gusty breath, and -
after a moment, reaches out and gently puts his hand on rynlan's back, rubbing it gently. sometimes, there aren't really any words. ]
[...he doesn't exactly flinch, at first. but he does tense at the touch, a bit, ears twitching, before he finally eases into it a little more. if he'd asked, rynlan would have told him no, but what he wants and what actually helps are very often two different things.
[ tragically, or perhaps lucky for rynlan, lu bixing is very good at reading people. or, in this case, elves. he can tell when someone needs a hug, even if they won't ask.
the hand stays, rubbing gently as he continues and then settling between his shoulderblades. ]
You don't have to be ashamed - addiction is hard. [ he wants to ask more questions, but holds them, for now, to give rynlan a moment to recover. ]
It works like that. I won't bore you with the chemistry of it, but - sometimes people are more prone to addiction than others. No weakness or lack of fortitude about it.
[ that's the kind of thing that's always been comforting to lu bixing, anyway - basic facts. cold science. the reminder in the way that vaccuocerebrals were just a myth, in the simple and methodical ways of testing theory to find fact. his voice is soft as he speaks it, quiet and steady. science, and the bottomless well of his compassion. ] I have a feeling magic doesn't make that much of a difference, in that regard.
[ there's a little shift, and he presses a little more, and - if rynlan doesn't object, scooches over to like, actually hook an arm around him to give him a hug. ] ...I'm sorry, Rynlan. That that happened to you - to all of you.
...mm. If that's right, then no, it doesn't. I just found new problems after we restored our source.
[there is something reassuring in it being chemistry, honestly. in it being something as simple as the substances he created and later ended up just as reliant on, though at least he broke those particular vices before ending up here without them. at least he still has access to the ones he didn't give up.
...he does allow the hug, after a second, leaning into it only slightly-- but enough to show he accepts it.]
[ he nods, going for a smile that's a little encouraging - when rynlan leans in, he goes ahead and tugs him in for a proper hug. lu bixing gives excellent hugs - he's warm and smells nice and is just the kind of person who is comforting, who being in his presence can make you feel safe. ]
Still. It doesn't change the fact that it happened.
[ and, as if on cue, the screen starts to flicker, again - lu bixing glances up, and makes a little bit of a noise, his fingers tightening a bit around rynlan's shoulders. it's his turn, now, but - at least it's not his first rodeo....? ]
cw for suicide attempt, suicidal ideation, self harm, human experimentation, drug use
[ after lin jingheng and monoeye hawk die, you spend one hundred days locked in your house.
you're working. the eighth is a mess in an aftermath of the battle with the seventh galaxy, and zhanlu has been destroyed. you have to fix him. you spend one hundred days in your house, alone, sending out missives. speaking to prime minister edward, too sickly to do much, taking over his duties where you can. you try and fix zhanlu.
five hundred days into your restart of life, prime minister edward passes away, of sickness, of old age, and you officially take his spot. you, as the new prime minister, host the state affair of his funeral. there was a eulogy. you think you remember people looking at you. staring. watching. you remember the casket and the tombstone and passing monoeye hawk's and lin jingheng's (empty graves, symbolic tombstones) and now... you're home.
home. for five hundred days, this is where you've spent all your time. five hundred days ago, monoeye hawk and lin jingheng perished, in the battle for the seventh galaxy. five hundred days ago, your entire world ended.
there were no funerals, then.
when you first arrive at the home of engineer 001 and commander lin, as the sign cheerfully reminds you, hanging over the door, you make it all the way inside. you go to the kitchen. the ai of zhanlu, in butler mode, greets you, you think, but it sounds like it comes from underwater. you go to the refrigerator. you think - a drink. i need a drink. and you open the fridge. there's hardly anything in it - supplies in the eighth galaxy are heavily rationed, right now, and alcohol is no exception - but at the back, an unopened bottle of beer, and as your hand curls around the neck, you remember -
you see the mental image, of lin jingheng in his pajamas, bedhead, staring at the beer bottle like it personally wounded him for being so disgusting, and putting it back, and sulking to the kitchen table to a cup of cold tea, instead, and for some reason, the grief and the memory snaps the last remaining piece of your stability in two.
you scream. you just scream, at the top of your lungs, as the image vanishes, the bellow of a miserable animal, and the whole world goes dark as you stagger to the area of the house where the medical capsule is, you bang your fist on the edge of it in your frustration and start asking it, i need a hallucinogen, i need an opiate, i need drugs, give them to me, i need it, i don't want to be awake, i need it, i need it - and the capsule doesn't respond. you're shaking too hard to do anything or type anything and your fingers claw in desperation at the metal. you scream, again, despairing, drowning, miserable, slam your fist against the capsule again.
zhanlu's voice comes over your head. soft, quiet, concerned - you scream at him, too, the AI unable to do anything but warn you. "Headmaster Lu, I can't accept those requests right now, you're too unstable. Headmaster Lu, this is your first warning."
he's an AI. he has to listen to you. you ignore him, shaking, almost hyperventilating, and after the second warning, you snarl - ] Zhanlu, give me a gun.
[ because you've lost everything. in one fell swoop, in one moment, you've lost everything and you can only run from it for so long. you've worked so hard. you've done so much, to not look it in the eye, but the grief is a monster that lives under your bed and in your brain and today it rips you in two. it's all-consuming, like it was when you were a child, and zhanlu can't ignore you, and as the gun is placed into your hands, you start to bring it up, to your head, start to --
then
zhanlu projects footage on the wall in front of your head.
A 14-year-old Lin Jingheng was attending the opening ceremony of the Black Orchid Academy. The ceremonial hall was decorated with heroic histories of the Union since its founding, motivational and inspiring. The young boy sat in the corner with his attention being pulled away occasionally. But even then, he still wanted to act cool, and pretended to look around in boredom whenever he remembered he was still in the middle of a ceremony. He then accidentally noticed the small camera beside him that was recording his every move; his face reddened in embarrassment and anger as he slapped his hand down and turned off the recording.
you forget everything.
you sink down to the floor, and you watch the clip again. you watch it again. you watch it again. you watch that clip hundreds of times and you don't sleep, and the next morning, you drag yourself to your desk, grab a pocket knife, and carve a single hatch mark on your desk. you push yourself to standing. you turn off zhanlu's automation function, so he can make conscious decisions, because you - you can't be trusted with yourself, all the time. you know that, now you've fallen and burnt to ashes, and now you have to rebuild yourself. one scratch mark says i fell, and i nearly quit, but i dragged myself to standing.
--
three years pass in the new independent era in the eighth galaxy. you are their leader, the face of their revolution and their prime minister, and no one outside of your home knows the turmoil that you go through. they can't see you that way. in those three years, a group of pirates and black market illegal merchants reemerged, emboldened by the chance to disrupt the economy you've worked so hard to build. it launches the galaxy into a war that lasts three long years, and you command your military forces and your political forces like an expert. you are an expert, you're the prime minister lu bixing. you can do anything.
five more scratch marks are carved into your desk.
you promised prime minister edward before he died this - if you fell seven times, you'd get up eight. these are your falls. these are your dips into despair that are so deep that you want to die. you want to die. locked into the misery of your ruthless job, alone, you want to die. you want to die, you want to die, you want to die.
you can't die. the eighth needs you.
after the first one hundred days on your own, your house is invaded by other engineers who come to help you work on zhanlu so he's no longer just in emergency mode. it takes you all a total of four hundred days to get him online, but the other engineers are so crowded and messy that you force them out, and you need to move things to the attic. the attic is untouched and filled with lin jingheng's things. you could almost see him next to you. you could almost have him there.
you light up a cigarette. you inhale, just for the sake of the familiarity. to feel like he's there, that you could see him, that he's not gone and you were just delusional the whole time, stupid -
- the smoke burns your lungs, and you start to cough, violently, violently, and you take the cigarette and you smash the burning end into your arm until the pain is so bright and smart that it forces you to come back to your senses. he's dead. lin jingheng is dead. nothing will bring him back and he is dead.
two hatch marks.
another day, you find yourself trembling as you inject a biochip in your arm. it's an opium biochip - the kind being used to create 'perfect humans', though the data is incomplete. it won't be, for you. it becomes your pet project. you work. you experiment on yourself. you inject yourself, over and over again. you work. you work. you don't sleep. you rule the eighth galaxy, you unite its forces through carrot and through stick, monitoring public executions and supply rations and economic growth and population happiness all at once, and you pull an entire galaxy to its feet while you tremble on your knees in the dark.
three hatch marks. four. five.
(you download all of the video data of lin jingheng in zhanlu's system. you watch every single part of it. you work. you work, you work, you work, you throw yourself into your duties and at night you take drugs and force yourself to sleep only when you need to, or when zhanlu forces you to, like a tiny hand tugging at your pinky finger when you're about to let loose on the world.)
--
in the seventh year of the new era, one of your students, brilliant, brilliant mint, pilots the first program to travel through the heart of the rose, the wormhole at the edge of your galaxy, your natural barrier. you are told not to go, but you go, anyway. what's the worst that could happen? you'll die? you don't care. you go on your own.
the people in the eighth praise your courage when you return with fresh research for mint's project. you didn't die. instead, you gathered data, and from the inside of the wormhole, the data gathered gets you the visuals on what happened when the seventh and the eighth galaxy fleets, respectively, were destroyed. your father's ship. lin's. gone. destroyed, in the blink of an eye.
you come home from your trip. you order captain turan to station patrols around the wormhole, now that it's active. you lock yourself in your lab. you take a strand of lin's hair you extracted from the couch and you open a breeding tank in a fit of madness nad you think, i could just reconstruct him, because you could, you're a genius, it would be easy, it would be so easy, and zhanlu blows up the breeding tank.
you stay in the dark lab for three days afterwards, but when you emerge, the knife comes out, and you scratch the sixth mark into the wood of your desk.
--
the final hatch mark is the product of your research, nine years into the new era of the Eighth Galaxy.
you stand there on the precipice. you stand there, with your completed opiate biochip research. with this completed project, with all the tests you ran on yourself, you've given yourself those abilities. you are fast. you are strong, you are, in essence, the perfect human, and you've found a way you could transplant it into anyone. tested on mice, tested on yourself. you have learned that the rainbow virus can be used to break humanity down to ashes, and rebuild them as something greater. you know, now, why you lived through that first outbreak.
you could have an army of superhumans, you could take over the IUS. you could take over the entire universe. it has taken you nine years to prove this scientific theory, and you found out that it's true.
(you could wreak destruction, on the people who took your father and lin jingheng from you.)
you stare at the papers in your hands. they tremble.
this time, you don't call captain turan. this time, you don't call the engineering department. this time you don't deliver the research. you go to your office. you work, all day long. you come home, and you stare at the papers.
you walk to your lab, where you've secretly kept those strains of the rainbow virus, papers in hand.
and you set the sample and every single paper ablaze, and destroy it for good.
when you return to your desk, you mark the final hatch mark.
if you fall seven times, you have to rise eight.
with a storm in your heart, you turn away from destruction.
[he sounds horrified, but-- it's not him. it's not at him. rynlan doesn't step away, shifting to hold on to him in turn and wrap his own arms around bixing, quiet for a minute as all of that sinks in.
it's... honestly, it was hard to watch, it made him visibly flinch in places, and parts of it he can only imagine living through. parts of it, he doesn't have to imagine.]
...it's the hardest thing there is, I think, just to keep living in those circumstances.
[he says it quietly, ears dropped.]
Had eyes on me all the time after he was killed, or I'd have tried, too. I kept begging them to just let me die. Hated them for forcing me to keep going. And I didn't even have half the responsibility you did, I can't imagine--
it's not the first time he's seen his own grief replayed this week, but it never gets any easier. all lu bixing really feels with it is - shame. he doesn't return the hug immediately, arm falling just a little slack before he remembers himself and does so, and when he listens to rynlan talking, it hurts his fragile heart. that he had to go through it too, that he knew what that felt like, but also -
he shakes his head, quietly. ]
It's alright.
[ it's not, really, but that's okay. ] The responsibility of taking care of the Eighth was mine. It... what matters is that I was able to stand.
...I'm sorry, that you had to go through something similar. Even remotely so.
[ haha yeah!!! as it turns out, lu bixing is pretty hard to crack when he wants to put his wall up, and it appears this is one of those things he's got a wall for made of solid steel.
it's just the tiniest bit apologetic, though - like he recognizes what he's doing, and is just continuing to do it. he is both extremely competently aware of his emotions and also extremely competently aware of how easily he puts them into a box and puts them away. ]
For that, I'm more thankful than anything. They say hell is other people, you know? But, I've found the opposite, here. That goes for more than just him, of course, but - well. I'm just glad we're together.
[he gets it. it's why he doesn't bother to press; there are things he prefers to wall off, and he likes bixing well enough to respect what he'd rather keep closed.]
I don't know, in some cases here hell is definitely other people.
[a little amusement in his voice, there, waving it off as he continues.]
...you're not wrong, though. It's-- the company isn't at all what I'd have expected.
[ he's going to take this opportunity to order a drink, actually. i'm assuming they're kicked out of the hole and i don't know how that works but he's gonna order a beer... a poison curing beer... not that he's figured that out yet.
I'm starting to wonder. We don't have 'hell', really, but I've been hearing from people who are familiar that this doesn't exactly line up with theirs.
Mmm. It's not, really, short of the part where we're supposed to be suffering. Even most of the 'suffering', beyond the obvious [ the whole. you know. murders and execution and cyoas thing. ] is mostly like minor inconveniences.
[ he seems very glad to talk about theoreticals instead of his memories, actually. what if he just never addresses his grief. ever. ]
By the traditional depiction, I think maybe we're actually in a state of limbo, if we're even dead at all. Why can some people be killed here? Why is there an opportunity that our lives could be restored? If judgement is already passed, then shouldn't that be impossible?
But then what's the point of-- all of this? It isn't like whatever happens here is going to be that different from whatever we did when we were alive...
[by the void. if the things he's done in hell count against him. oh no]
I don't know. Sometimes, I think, things don't have a point. Sometimes, we have to be content to have the questions themselves. It's a frustrating view, but that doesn't change it, either.
[ ugh. he takes a big drink of his Tolerable Beer. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he feels like he's seen something incredibly personal, here. from the way rynlan looks so different - he can put together context clues - to the shaky tone of an addict. it's familiar in a way that it shouldn't be familiar, and he finds that he's not really breathing as the memory plays out.
his arm hurts.
he closes his eyes as it finishes, finally, and lets out a deep, gusty breath, and -
after a moment, reaches out and gently puts his hand on rynlan's back, rubbing it gently. sometimes, there aren't really any words. ]
no subject
for several moments, he stays silent.]
...not the proudest time of my life.
no subject
the hand stays, rubbing gently as he continues and then settling between his shoulderblades. ]
You don't have to be ashamed - addiction is hard. [ he wants to ask more questions, but holds them, for now, to give rynlan a moment to recover. ]
no subject
All of my people were. We never realized we were reliant until we lost our source. Just-- some of us handled it worse than others.
[others never seemed to have a problem, keeping themselves restricted. staying balanced.]
no subject
[ that's the kind of thing that's always been comforting to lu bixing, anyway - basic facts. cold science. the reminder in the way that vaccuocerebrals were just a myth, in the simple and methodical ways of testing theory to find fact. his voice is soft as he speaks it, quiet and steady. science, and the bottomless well of his compassion. ] I have a feeling magic doesn't make that much of a difference, in that regard.
[ there's a little shift, and he presses a little more, and - if rynlan doesn't object, scooches over to like, actually hook an arm around him to give him a hug. ] ...I'm sorry, Rynlan. That that happened to you - to all of you.
no subject
[there is something reassuring in it being chemistry, honestly. in it being something as simple as the substances he created and later ended up just as reliant on, though at least he broke those particular vices before ending up here without them. at least he still has access to the ones he didn't give up.
...he does allow the hug, after a second, leaning into it only slightly-- but enough to show he accepts it.]
We were fine. Eventually.
1/2
Still. It doesn't change the fact that it happened.
[ and, as if on cue, the screen starts to flicker, again - lu bixing glances up, and makes a little bit of a noise, his fingers tightening a bit around rynlan's shoulders. it's his turn, now, but - at least it's not his first rodeo....? ]
cw for suicide attempt, suicidal ideation, self harm, human experimentation, drug use
continued ideation cw
[he sounds horrified, but-- it's not him. it's not at him. rynlan doesn't step away, shifting to hold on to him in turn and wrap his own arms around bixing, quiet for a minute as all of that sinks in.
it's... honestly, it was hard to watch, it made him visibly flinch in places, and parts of it he can only imagine living through. parts of it, he doesn't have to imagine.]
...it's the hardest thing there is, I think, just to keep living in those circumstances.
[he says it quietly, ears dropped.]
Had eyes on me all the time after he was killed, or I'd have tried, too. I kept begging them to just let me die. Hated them for forcing me to keep going. And I didn't even have half the responsibility you did, I can't imagine--
no subject
well.
it's not the first time he's seen his own grief replayed this week, but it never gets any easier. all lu bixing really feels with it is - shame. he doesn't return the hug immediately, arm falling just a little slack before he remembers himself and does so, and when he listens to rynlan talking, it hurts his fragile heart. that he had to go through it too, that he knew what that felt like, but also -
he shakes his head, quietly. ]
It's alright.
[ it's not, really, but that's okay. ] The responsibility of taking care of the Eighth was mine. It... what matters is that I was able to stand.
...I'm sorry, that you had to go through something similar. Even remotely so.
no subject
[his voice is a little firmer, there. he's been through enough to know.]
It's not alright, to have to go through that with so much on your shoulders-- it's not alright for it to have happened at all.
no subject
Well. Even still, Lin's here, now. That's at least half of it solved.
no subject
...he is. You have each other now, at least.
no subject
it's just the tiniest bit apologetic, though - like he recognizes what he's doing, and is just continuing to do it. he is both extremely competently aware of his emotions and also extremely competently aware of how easily he puts them into a box and puts them away. ]
For that, I'm more thankful than anything. They say hell is other people, you know? But, I've found the opposite, here. That goes for more than just him, of course, but - well. I'm just glad we're together.
no subject
I don't know, in some cases here hell is definitely other people.
[a little amusement in his voice, there, waving it off as he continues.]
...you're not wrong, though. It's-- the company isn't at all what I'd have expected.
no subject
anyway. a little dryly: ]
Ever think we're not in hell at all?
no subject
[he's ordering a beer, too.]
no subject
[ he seems very glad to talk about theoreticals instead of his memories, actually. what if he just never addresses his grief. ever. ]
By the traditional depiction, I think maybe we're actually in a state of limbo, if we're even dead at all. Why can some people be killed here? Why is there an opportunity that our lives could be restored? If judgement is already passed, then shouldn't that be impossible?
no subject
[by the void. if the things he's done in hell count against him. oh no]
no subject
[ ugh. he takes a big drink of his Tolerable Beer. ]
no subject
[he's never been good at being content, in general, but. he sighs as he finishes off his own beer, acquiring another one.]