Noli me Tangere
Noli me Tangere
Tuesday, March 28th, 2081
Igor POV
He's doing it again. Morgan. But not morgan. I hate it when he acts like he's someone else. I mourn every day that goes by, that he is no longer whole, he acts different from when we first met, back all those long years ago. Like a puzzle with a mangled piece. He was a breakthrough for me, I'm sure doctors would have proclaimed back in the half-way house I lived in once, morgan was the first male I had ever been able to reasonably trust. Even St.Bastard, as completely muddled into a false sense of security as I was by his kind and friendly demeanor, I never trusted him as fully as I learned to trust morgan. He used to be more opaque in his personality status, more tangible. To me it seems as though morgan is in less control of his own body, as though each passing moment the demons inside him grow stronger, while he becomes ever so transparent. It's almost like watching him die. No, it is like watching him die; he's losing what made him who he is, slowly being taken over by his own parasitic mental projections.
People passing by, entering. More people passing. Entering.
I know where he's coming from. I know the reason 'why'. He doesn't want to be here, so he blacks out, goes somewhere else in spirit. Something tells me that if morgan hadn't held a mental illness within him, that he would already be long dead. Sometimes I wish that I also, had this bizarre ability to recede into my shell like a mollusk, and let another me take over. Another me...someone else who wasn't such an exposed nerve. I can only understand the ailment as far as I can read in books...
A couple more pass by. Why would they subject themselves to this? How can they consider it entertaining? A blonde man passes. Then a mulatto. I sigh and look at the ground. Wince at the pain in my shoe. The sense of it all escapes my feeble, underdeveloped mind.
...in a way this mission was the most compatible assignment that morgan could ever be part of. Anything involving undercover toil requires the alias, and morgan was brilliant at being something that he is not, but myself? The concept of any other self is beyond my comprehension. I cannot be anyone other than who I am already, what I have been made into. Morgan is like clay mud in that he can take any form at any given time, and that form is chosen based on what the 'artist', his environment, is molding him into. Although something tells me that even that, is far too simple to fully explain his manic, self-destructive tendencies.
I feel as though I am lapsing into insanity. My head hurts. But not like a headache. More like its a beast, longing to escape mortality. Where is this? Who? Him? What about him?
Seven is angry. Very angry. What really bothers me is the fact that it could be him acting in such a manner to play his cover role, or it could be real abhorrence. Seven was almost as outstanding an actor as Morgan was, you could almost always bet that he is serious about whatever action he takes, but how serious? To what lengths would seven go to keep himself from being exposed as more than his portrayal? Would he actually turn on us if we mess up too much? How much is too much in sevens eyes? We have known each other for quite some time already, but the man is still an enigma to me. Something tells me that he was just as secretive long before Black Ops, was he like this with his family? Did his mother know him at all? It baffles me that a person of abillity would wish to keep themselves private. To wish that they had what I have. I've always wanted to share, and to know. I cannot. He can, and yet he does not.
I've been forced into being a very private person. I know nothing of translucent behavior. Nothing of sharing myself. Likewise, I know nothing of being anything other than what I am. I cannot act, I cannot be. It's a tumultuous existence.
At my post. Stay. I will stay at my post. I should not listen to my free will, it only gets me in trouble. They're always right, I'm always wrong. You're a drone. You cater to the will of others, not your own. That Gato man will not stop staring at me, I hate his eyes. I hate eyes period. The repugnance I hold for the acid manifestations knows no limit. They are to me, no less frightful than a needle or a bullet to the head. He makes me wish to rip them both from his putrid skull. There is no denying the monster I've become. Especially now, after seeing the outside world in more than I've ever really seen it. You don't know anything other than what you've been exposed to. Up until now I've seen little more than a basement and another room, that was used in the same fashion as that prison basement was utilized. This is the creature that Black Ops made me. There is no getting around the violence. It'll be against myself alone, or it'll be against others and myself included, either way every passing day seems to make me worse for the wear. I cannot escape a beating, in one form or another. Existence, is a beating. Maybe it is better for other people, but it is not for me. I don't think it'll ever be good for me. Some people were just made to suffer at the hands of others.
A man dressed in womens clothing passes. Another with a jewel encrusted fan at his face. Who's to say which of these oddities are what we're looking for? Any of them are subject to have done those horrible things that the killer committed. They're all the same. I cannot tell them apart. A red head passes me, a black man and a lanky fellow are denied entrance. Redhead...
Morgan? What are you doing? Seven is allowing that activity? You're sitting on his lap. You both blend into this crowd so well. Your invisibility is just making me more visible. Fate is cruel. It takes what you want the most and does the exact opposite of what would make you happy for just a single moment. I forget who made the profound statement...
"If God were suddenly condemned to live the life which he has inflicted on men, he would kill himself."
Unbearably and undeniably too true.
Tuesday, March 28th, 2081
Igor POV
He's doing it again. Morgan. But not morgan. I hate it when he acts like he's someone else. I mourn every day that goes by, that he is no longer whole, he acts different from when we first met, back all those long years ago. Like a puzzle with a mangled piece. He was a breakthrough for me, I'm sure doctors would have proclaimed back in the half-way house I lived in once, morgan was the first male I had ever been able to reasonably trust. Even St.Bastard, as completely muddled into a false sense of security as I was by his kind and friendly demeanor, I never trusted him as fully as I learned to trust morgan. He used to be more opaque in his personality status, more tangible. To me it seems as though morgan is in less control of his own body, as though each passing moment the demons inside him grow stronger, while he becomes ever so transparent. It's almost like watching him die. No, it is like watching him die; he's losing what made him who he is, slowly being taken over by his own parasitic mental projections.
People passing by, entering. More people passing. Entering.
I know where he's coming from. I know the reason 'why'. He doesn't want to be here, so he blacks out, goes somewhere else in spirit. Something tells me that if morgan hadn't held a mental illness within him, that he would already be long dead. Sometimes I wish that I also, had this bizarre ability to recede into my shell like a mollusk, and let another me take over. Another me...someone else who wasn't such an exposed nerve. I can only understand the ailment as far as I can read in books...
A couple more pass by. Why would they subject themselves to this? How can they consider it entertaining? A blonde man passes. Then a mulatto. I sigh and look at the ground. Wince at the pain in my shoe. The sense of it all escapes my feeble, underdeveloped mind.
...in a way this mission was the most compatible assignment that morgan could ever be part of. Anything involving undercover toil requires the alias, and morgan was brilliant at being something that he is not, but myself? The concept of any other self is beyond my comprehension. I cannot be anyone other than who I am already, what I have been made into. Morgan is like clay mud in that he can take any form at any given time, and that form is chosen based on what the 'artist', his environment, is molding him into. Although something tells me that even that, is far too simple to fully explain his manic, self-destructive tendencies.
I feel as though I am lapsing into insanity. My head hurts. But not like a headache. More like its a beast, longing to escape mortality. Where is this? Who? Him? What about him?
Seven is angry. Very angry. What really bothers me is the fact that it could be him acting in such a manner to play his cover role, or it could be real abhorrence. Seven was almost as outstanding an actor as Morgan was, you could almost always bet that he is serious about whatever action he takes, but how serious? To what lengths would seven go to keep himself from being exposed as more than his portrayal? Would he actually turn on us if we mess up too much? How much is too much in sevens eyes? We have known each other for quite some time already, but the man is still an enigma to me. Something tells me that he was just as secretive long before Black Ops, was he like this with his family? Did his mother know him at all? It baffles me that a person of abillity would wish to keep themselves private. To wish that they had what I have. I've always wanted to share, and to know. I cannot. He can, and yet he does not.
I've been forced into being a very private person. I know nothing of translucent behavior. Nothing of sharing myself. Likewise, I know nothing of being anything other than what I am. I cannot act, I cannot be. It's a tumultuous existence.
At my post. Stay. I will stay at my post. I should not listen to my free will, it only gets me in trouble. They're always right, I'm always wrong. You're a drone. You cater to the will of others, not your own. That Gato man will not stop staring at me, I hate his eyes. I hate eyes period. The repugnance I hold for the acid manifestations knows no limit. They are to me, no less frightful than a needle or a bullet to the head. He makes me wish to rip them both from his putrid skull. There is no denying the monster I've become. Especially now, after seeing the outside world in more than I've ever really seen it. You don't know anything other than what you've been exposed to. Up until now I've seen little more than a basement and another room, that was used in the same fashion as that prison basement was utilized. This is the creature that Black Ops made me. There is no getting around the violence. It'll be against myself alone, or it'll be against others and myself included, either way every passing day seems to make me worse for the wear. I cannot escape a beating, in one form or another. Existence, is a beating. Maybe it is better for other people, but it is not for me. I don't think it'll ever be good for me. Some people were just made to suffer at the hands of others.
A man dressed in womens clothing passes. Another with a jewel encrusted fan at his face. Who's to say which of these oddities are what we're looking for? Any of them are subject to have done those horrible things that the killer committed. They're all the same. I cannot tell them apart. A red head passes me, a black man and a lanky fellow are denied entrance. Redhead...
Morgan? What are you doing? Seven is allowing that activity? You're sitting on his lap. You both blend into this crowd so well. Your invisibility is just making me more visible. Fate is cruel. It takes what you want the most and does the exact opposite of what would make you happy for just a single moment. I forget who made the profound statement...
"If God were suddenly condemned to live the life which he has inflicted on men, he would kill himself."
Unbearably and undeniably too true.
