Players:
Summary: The importance of the asylum in Heather's mind is discussed with Mike.
Date: October 11, 2010.
Log Title: In My Head
Rating: PG.
Tegu-Haaz - The Slaughtered Lamb
Outside the wooden sign displaying a Wolf's Head on a pike along with the name 'The Slaughtered Lamb' swings in the breeze of the run down old pub. Inside the wooden floors creak as extra weight is applied and the smells of lingering alcohol and tabacco smoke permeate the air. Oil lanterns are hung on the walls circling the pub to provide light the patrons while the walls are marked with old tally marks from games long ago played. Behind the bar are old barrels of wine and ale, an hearth for cooking up meals and a layer of dust is caked onto the dishes. Long tables that can sit at least ten people each are still sturdy but some are turned over while the chairs are scattered across the place. A second hearth with ash from long ago still sitting in it is built against one of the sidewalls for light, heat and additional cooking. If one were to search the pub they might find food that is mysteriously still edible.
Note: If anyone has the log for what happens before this, please feel free to post it.
Always amazed by the students' histories, David simply sighs when he hears about the bigoted Crabtree. He offers a sympathetic smile to Mike, "Wow…that is some story. Please continue."
"Well, my experience up to then - and I had been to eight other schools by that point, my parents were rather mobile - was that the bad administrators were universally unwilling to listen to students, and even when parents were able to get them to back down, they didn't really repent, and found a way to punish them." Mike shook his head. "Authority unchecked and extremely limited power corrupts more than absolute power, I suppose. I stole Crabtree's pride, his Ram pick-up. It was in terrible shape mechanically, even though it was beautiful on the outside, so I turned it into a Corvette, and took off for a small town where I knew they liked to give tickets for everything."
A rueful head-shake, as Mike explains, "I was going to leave it there, let him get a taste of his own medicine trying to fight an un-winnable battle with petty authorities. And I would have done it, except that I wasn't paying attention and got hit by a train at one of the three un-gated railroad crossings left in Ohio. Totaled the car. Basically, killed me."
Heather enters through the front door, the case she constructed, pickaxes, a shovel, and a hammer strapped to her body and covered in dirt. While it looks like she's decked out for war, that's not the unusual part. In her arms, she also carries a skeleton, which she puts down carefully on the floor. Using the test language that she's been trying to develop and force David to know by virtue of knowing it, as well as speaking along with her actions that that Mike can also get a chance to learn the associations, <Please. Do not mind me. I am just here to rest for a little while. I suspect this is my own skeleton.>
David blinks and says,"Wow…" Heather then comes in and he says, "Wow.." again. He stands up,"What's this?" He then pauses, "Your own skeleton. You were at the asylum!" He seems mad, but more out of concern.
Mike hasn't tried to learn the associations but he has, simply by dint of that machine-mind thing, learned and organized much of the test language. "I'll finish my story of woe later, David, but obviously, I did in fact lose my template when that happened. Or most of it … the rest came when they crushed the car I was unconsciously merged to into a cube."
Meanwhile, he gestures to Heather, <Where did you get that?>
<Not at the asylum. I was around the asylum,> she signals to David, before turning towards Mike, her hand gestures getting faster and her speech becoming more natural. The more people she can get to communicate with her normally, the less frequently she has to use the case. "Did I interrupt something here? I don't mean to be bothersome. I've just ran a long way, and I need to catch my breath."
Mike's reply is a little lagged, but not too badly, as he can speak and listen (though not move effectively) at her speed. So no gestures for him.
"Are those the corresponding gestures per word? You're not intruding. I was explaining my history to David. He tends to try to think ahead, I had to be a little rude to him to get him to stop trying to second-guess me. Had you considered learning one of the pre-existing sign languages? Unfortunately I haven't acquired any of them yet." Of course, to David's ears, that's probably arthxcsdgwyrnddxplakprsgnufnaxyt, at a rather high pitch.
"I have considered it, yes, but at the moment, without a translation device, I need to improvise and this method works reasonably well among some people," says Heather, still pairing gestures with words, "And yes, every gesture I make is with the appropriate word. It's difficult to keep track with increasing vocabulary, but the gestures are intuitive to myself, at least."
Mike sorts gestures, figuring that there will be some interesting associational analysis when he's done. Perhaps a "how Heather's mind works" paper for Mutant Psychology or something. Meanwhile… "So, you dug up those bones at what claims to be your gravesite? Is there one for me as well? I'm not sure that there should be, but it would be interesting to know what's in it."
"I don't know. We can go back and check it out. We dug up mine and Chloe's, since we both agreed we wouldn't mind," says Heather. He gestures towards the skeleton and adds, "But we only found my skeleton. In Chloe's coffin, there was nothing but a note."
"Was it legible? What did it say?" He looks at the bones, and tries to find a reference in what he's read for decay of bodies. "It seems like it would have been buried for several years to decay to simple bones, but we can't trust anything about this place. Physics doesn't work the way we're used to it working, here."
"I just want to know if it actually matches up to my skeleton. We have to learn the rules to this place. Perhaps it was populated, and perhaps not?" Heather shakes her head quickly and notes, "It said, 'The Fault Lies with the one who isn't'. That doesn't mean anything to me at the moment, but I will think about it."
"Joy. So, this IS a riddle game. Well, there are probably other riddles then. If it's as I suspect, then we won't get enough clues until we've collected them. And while we know who brought us here, we don't know how, or what brought Blackmoore to our place, or where or who he is. Have you come across that name anywhere?" Talking Head Mike, because while he's moving, it's so very very slow.
"Of course it's a riddle game. It's always a riddle game, but the riddles aren't usually written out. I feel like the note is incomplete, and a further piece may be possible to find in another grave or another conspicuous location. I still want to enter into the asylum, but I'm still forbidden," says Heather, shaking her head quickly and sighing softly.
"Asylum, that's rather an odd thing. Have you learned the history of asylums and what the word is supposed to mean?"
Mike sorts his memories of Heather's previous disclosures. "What did they call the white room prison you were held in?"
"The White Prison? Yes, they called it a 'Psychiatric hospital' and they kept me there, because I was diagnosed with, well, nobody cares about the specifics. But some of the people, other staff, I heard them call it an asylum," says Heather, shaking her head. "I don't know what the word means, not completely, just that it's a bad place."
"Asylum means refuge, a hiding place, a sanctuary. In the bad old days, when people were insane, or believed to be mentally insane, and they did differentiate between mental and physical insanity, 'sana' being 'clean' or 'healthy', but such people when their families were wealthy enough, were generally taken to what was called an Insane Asylum, where they were prevented from harming themselves, though they were unable to actually help them much otherwise. Except to keep them from being harmed by others. Except their own staff." Gloomy much, Mike?
"I'm not insane," says Heather, in response to Mike's explanation, more than a little defensively. "I was kept in the White Prison because they thought I was dangerous and crazy and they could not risk the staff. They sedated me any time someone had to interact with me. It's not like what you're talking about, not exactly, but I have been in a place like that before. Which I think makes me the perfect candidate to explore. It will not form any scars that I do not already possess."
"They thought you were insane, of course, and you ARE dangerous, according to people who've tried to eat your cooking." There, humor from Mike the Machine, before more seriousness. "You shouldn't assume that whatever is behind this place is unable to come up with things that would scar you mentally or physically. Nor should you mis-estimate the fragility and the strength of others. I've been surprised by what's affected me more in my own experiences."
"My cooking is fine," says Heather, furrowing her brow at that. People haven't really brought up the issue of her cooking to her face before. "People like it. And yes, maybe they can scar me physically, but people won't notice the difference between me with or without the mental scarring. I do have my own history and my own problems, but I am the only person I trust to send in. Anyone else who feels the same way, that's fine, they can come. But I know me. And I know what I can handle. Any amount of madness this place can dish out, I have already experienced and overcome it."
Mike would do that 'ORLY?' face, but fortunately lacks the suitable face. "Your cooking is inventive, Heather. You combine things that aren't normal. I can't say because I can't eat anymore, but … you should ask for honest opinions."
He's also suspecting that she lets the ones that are too accurate fade into the noise, but … that's not uncommon, really.
"I'm pretty confident that you shouldn't go alone. But I also know I couldn't keep up with your timeframe. It's safest to go in pairs, with other people aware of your location and intention."
"I want Chloe with me, if I go. She can keep up to me perfectly and I trust her. But I don't know how scary it will be," says Heather, "I don't want to break someone who is not broken." She shrugs and says to Mike, "If people give me their honest opinion, I incorporate it into my food journal. The food I cook follows an evolutionary scheme, where I make changes and then compare recipes against others, letting the fittest survive. Sometimes, it's not as good as others, but on average, it's good."
Mike would smile, really. "Have you considered studying the cookbooks and recipe books that slow-worlders use? They've already done considerable amounts of the work you're describing. It might me more efficient. And, while I understand that you don't want to stand around stirring things that are happening at a slow rate for you, there are plenty of things which can be used without constant attention, as long as you remind yourself."
He considers the pairing-up. "I might ask Tara if I were going inside. We have a similar scanner-sense."
"I have looked over the cookbooks, yes, and I know that most of the food in the cookbooks I find decent. That's not what I want. I want recipes that risk breaking out of normative constrictions, and I want to try things that other people don't try," says Heather, furrowing her brow, "But most of all, I want to know what the flavours are like when they combine. There's a quality to the combinations themselves. Peanut butter and steak, you'll taste both, very distinctively, but tomato and hamburger, it melts together. I want to experience different things, and that's okay. My cooking is not dangerous, but it is something that most people are not bold enough to even try." When she's in her own speaking pace, she's pretty good at ranting, actually. "Anyways, I'd want Chloe because I communicate with her well."
"Ah, so there is an intention rather than simply apparent ignorance. I'd tell you that the majority of people don't lack in boldness, but simply, want to eat something that they know they enjoy. Some lack imagination. And steak and peanut butter, from my own memory, would be all right, but not a texture I want." Mike is amused by the rant, because it reminds him of something he did himself for a while.
"People are afraid to try new things, but I'm afraid of total routine, especially in what I eat. It was the same routine in the White Prison, I would sometimes wait overnight with my dinner in order to combine it with breakfast, just because it was /different/. I want to try something for the first time every time I try something," says Heather. She sighs and scratches her head, "Mike, people think I'm crazy and that I'm stupid. Don't think that about me so quickly that way from what you hear others say."
Mike would shake his head, but the gesture won't work properly. "Please don't misunderstand me, Heather. I don't go by rumors, I go by observation. You told me yourself in the first few days you were at the Mansion, things that made me believe your upbringing gave you a very non-standard perception of reality. That doesn't mean stupid or crazy. And, I was there when Christopher wanted to teach you how to cook because he was horrified by something you'd made. People are, sometimes, afraid of new things. It comes down to a question of safety. You, on the other hand, are so out of sync that people make the wrong assumptions because they can't talk to you."
The robot-boy adds 'speed bursts' to his wish-list for his future upgrade, so he can interact with people stuck on fast. "The situation you went through sounds truly unpleasant, but it's also not that unusual - but you were trapped without adequate stimulus, so it's reasonable that you've become a stimulus junkie, to use a too-strong term."
"My upbringing is different, and yet, it's my upbringing. My perceptions of reality are my perceptions of reality, and there is a meaning to them just like there is meaning to anything else," says Heather, rubbing her forehead lightly. "There are times in my life when I've both been overwhelmed and understimulated, too much. I feel like I'm numb to it, now. I'm not upset about being faster. Or anything, really. I get frustrated that I have to wait sometimes, but it's just frustration, and I feel it shallowly. They've said that at the White Prison. I have a 'flat affect'."
"I wonder what they'd say about me, given that I have generally no body language unless I deliberately force it to be there. But that's a design flaw, I suppose. Or feature. I'm not sure what it means to say your perceptions have meaning; strictly scientifically, the question is, how well do they map to the environment, how well does your internal map of the universe correspond to the independent objective universe, and how effective are your situational rules at deriving a pro-survival action set for yourself or for the people you choose to care about." Philosophy bot is philosophical? Mike's been considering what to do about adding senses in his "next" design.
"No, I mean, I just know that everything in the world has proper meaning, and I'm special. Every part of my design is significant in interpreting the world itself. If people think that my senses and emotions are skewed, then it is necessary that they think that way. It leads a causal sequence that will lead to me achieving something I was meant to achieve," says Heather, tilting her head back and forth a couple of times, "Even if I don't know what that thing is. But figuring out the design, putting together the pieces of the puzzles, the moves in the game and the answers to the riddles, it's important. It's all important."
"That's actually true for everyone, in their own way, you know." Mike's aware that what she's saying is on one level consistent with a form of mental illness, but it's not irrational, and on another level, it corresponds to a theological point he tried to make once, in a discussion with someone else. Something about the comprehension of God, but not quite phrased the same way. "It's crucially important, but do you consider the similar import of the lives of others? I haven't heard you say whether or not you do."
"It strikes me that other people don't actually exist, honestly. But they are still important. Most people assume that because I believe that I am the only one, I don't care about other people. But they are important to me, they exist because they are here to help guide me to understand what the scheme's that is playing out. My attachments, my friendships, my enmity, my affections, they're all real, originating from my mind," explains Heather pretty flatly. "This place and these people are no different from any other places or people I have known. I'm glad, though, that's it's people that I have already interacted with instead of a new set."
"Oh, I exist, I take considerable effort to do so," Mike says, a near-laugh in his voice. "It's a common enough belief set, that says other people don't exist, or that you cannot know what they think, feel, or believe, in any meaningful sense. But it's flawed in that it isn't supportable by testing, and that it's circular."
Heather stares at Mike for a few fast-world seconds before shrugging, "In my parents' world, people would try to convince me of their existence, and I would get attached, and then they would cease to exist because they never existed to begin with. They were illusions. But this seems to me to be a preparation for the larger set of worlds that I would see. The White Prison and the Xavier's Institute, they're larger worlds. But they aren't real. Nothing is real."
"If nothing were real," Mike says gently, "Then there would be no benefit in seeking meaning because it would also not be real, but you already know that to be untrue. Illusions… your Parents' world… were they mutants as well? What happened to them?"
"I exist, and the meaning exists within my own mind. My mind has defined the parameters that I operate by, and is the causal mechanisms by which I experience those parameters," says Heather, furrowing her brow. "Meaning is one of the few things that I have that I feel assured is real aside from my subjective experience." She shakes her head and then answers Mike's other question, "My parents. Cheryl Brown, codename: Upgrade. Dan Brown, codename: Mindbender. Mutants. In prison."
"Mindbender. Right. So they spent a great deal of time preventing you from having an accurate or even tangible connection to objective reality. Does the concept of objective reality even make sense to you?" Mike's begun to wonder, though, whether there IS something innate to being a mutant that would lead one to NEED an asylum. Then again he began wondering that when Magneto did that EMP thing that almost destroyed Mike back in the spring.
"It means the rules of the current setting. It means whatever is testable, and therefore possible to consider in our goal retrieval," says Heather, nodding her head. It's not the real definition, but it's about as close as someone with bizarre delusions is going to get. "But it was not them who prevented me from believing myself a piece in the settings, it was me, ultimately. Because I am the causal mechanism. I used to think my mother was really real, but… I'm not so sure anymore."
"They wanted you to be a piece in the settings, I think. They wanted you to be a tool. I don't think I would like your parents very much at all. They seem to lack what should be the prerequisites… unselfish love for their child being one of those." Wow, that's pretty judgmental, for a Mike. He tries to be more forgiving or at least understanding.
"But we know that I eventually become capable of time travel, a different self, but still a person I will be and therefore real, and why wouldn't I prevent my parents from allowing me to be a piece? Because it is an important part of the mindscape, a part that forms some certain part of myself. To become me, I have to have been the me that I was, so I've been locked into it. The world is in my mind, and yet, it is not as pliable for me now as it will be," says Heather, moving her fingers through her hair again, trying to pull the knots free.
"That person you met is not part of the current timeline. There's no guarantee that you'll learn time travel, now. It's decoupled." Not that this instance of Mike really understands temporal mechanics the way that Ghost does, since there's ten years and considerable study between them, but he does know the basics that his no-longer-future explained to him. "We're freed from that destiny. For instance, I don't have to become what he is. And probably cannot."
"And yet, parts of my past are also her past. We are different, but we are the same. She could climb down that timeline into common history and climb back up into this one," says Heather, nodding her head slowly. "Our causal realities are still linked. Actions I took had an effect on her, and ones she took had an effect on me." She closes her eyes, trying to remember something. "I journalled… everything I remembered. I know how I learned to do time travel. I know that I can, but I'm simply not powerful enough yet. Maybe I won't ever be, and I'll fade. And then I will be a failed instance of myself, a reality that has no fruition."
Mike answers that with a bland reply: "Or maybe you'll be the one that succeeded. Really, why would it be failure to NOT time travel? That's HER, and … of course the rest of what I know about HER is not available because I archived and deleted it from my accessible memory to minimize timeline pollution. Anyway, you may be her temporal twin but you're still your own person. Sometimes, Heather, your valuations are off the wall."
"If I don't become powerful enough, it is because I die too young," says Heather, shrugging, "Which I consider to be a very big failure on my part. I know that she is more successful than that, this other version of me. Not the villain, but the one behind the villain, pulling the strings. I know what it is to be a piece, and it was preparation for being that certain person, but I know there was a self who… was simply amazing, despite the hardship." She frowns, "My valuations are what they are. If you think they are off the wall, it's irrelevant. I'm not crazy. And I'm not stupid."
"You can be wrong though." Mike shrugs, in slow motion most likely. "I won't accept your notion that I'm only something that exists for you to benefit from in your own advance. That's a masturbatory reality, and it's shallow at best. Meanwhile, I need to get another bottle of wine. Alcohol is already a somewhat inefficient fuel, and having to filter it from a great deal of water and particulate is not helping my systems."
"You can accept or disagree with whatever you want. It's my reality, it has bearing on me but ultimately, it's not something I have need to change," says Heather, wandering over to pick up her skeleton, "My reality is richer than you seem to think, and I am glad that you are a part of it." And with that, she zips off, adequately rested for the rest of her journey.
