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razeTitle: Snippet: Raze
Fandom: Original (Raze)
Prompt: Your Ability Is A Disability Here
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild mentions of gore, injury, zombies.
Summary: The trauma isn't winning.
"So obviously, when Reed and I were born, it was pretty apparent what we were, but like - when did you find out you were a necromancer?" Riley asked, stirring her coffee.
"I feel like this is one of those questions like, when did you realize you were gay? I mean, you were born that way, right, and you were gay before you knew the word "gay," but there was that moment when you realized it," I replied, pushing the eggs around my plate with my fork. "I don't really remember things from when I was very young sharply; I don't think anyone does. I have little fragments of memories of things like... oh, for example, I have this one really vivid memory of being a toddler, and all of these worms were dried out on the sidewalk a few days after a storm, and when I approached them, they'd start moving. But they were so dried up they'd start cracking apart when they moved."
"Wow, that young?" She seemed surprised.
"Well, I think the first time my folks didn't just write off strange happenings with the dead to coincidence, and the first time I willfully reanimated something, was when I was in preschool." The eggs were a little rubbery; I had regrets, and extended my fork towards Reed. She sniffed a few times then looked away. "Anyway, yeah, in preschool we had a class pet - a little teddy bear hamster. I don't remember its name. I'm not sure how it died, but I remember one of the other kids telling the teacher that it wouldn't wake up, and sure enough it was just laying there with its little face all snarled up in a death grimace and its red eyes wide open and... well, you get the picture.
"Dead things... feel different, to me. I don't feel any connection to the living." I paused. "Okay, that was horrible phrasing. I mean, obviously..." I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "But what I mean is, with the living, it's not a completed circuit. It isn't something I can extend myself to." My forehead wrinkled. "Does that make sense?"
"You've told me in the past that you're connected to the dead very similarly to how Reed and I are connected. So I think so, yeah." She took a sip of her coffee and hissed in pain, setting it back down on the table looking betrayed.
"Okay. Anyway, the teacher tried to play it off like the hamster was sleeping, and slipped it into a tissue box telling everyone the hamster needed a lot of rest. But I knew it was - well, I don't honestly know that I fully understood the concept of death, most three year olds don't, but I knew it was different now. And I was sad, because I knew it felt different the same way roadkilled armadillos felt different. So I tried to wake it up by shaking the cage, and the teacher yelled at me and put the cage up on a shelf. But I couldn't stop thinking, I wanted it to move. I wanted it to come out and run on its wheel again. And lo and behold, I felt something, like this little spark, and the hamster came staggering out of the tissue box, all stiff and dead eyed, and started this absolutely grotesque, clumsy run in its wheel.
"And I think on some level I knew that I was the one who did it, and I got scared and tried to disconnect, because I could... I could almost feel what it was doing. I covered my eyes so I couldn't see it, but I could still hear the wheel spinning." I frowned. "It was about that time that the teacher, who knew just as much as I did that the hamster was dead, investigated, and I guess she couldn't trust her eyes, because she reached into the cage..." I half-laughed, rubbing the back of my neck. "I, ah. Well, that was the first time I created a necroanimated vore, apparently, because it latched on to her finger and didn't let go. She started shaking her hand and screaming, and it just kept gnawing. Eventually the inevitable happened and it tore loose a chunk of her finger, and since she was shaking it, the thing went flying across the room, hit a wall, broke its jaw and popped one of its eyes half out on impact."
Riley had inched forward in the booth, utterly focused on the story. I continued, "But of course, I was still, unwittingly, keeping it animated, so now this dead, mangled hamster was just dragging itself across the classroom towards this crowd of screaming children, and everyone was running except for me, because I knew somehow that I was causing it, so I stood there shouting "stop" to no avail - until the teacher ran over and stomped the poor little zombie into oblivion. I'm pretty sure it was probably still twitching until I was out of range."
"God, Carlos, that's... horrific, honestly," she said. "I mean, that had to be traumatic."
I smiled feebly. "Not nearly as traumatic as what happened after the teacher put two and two together and called the police. Definitely not as traumatic as the forced genetic testing or my parents not being able to make up their minds on if they wanted to fight or cry more. And certainly not as traumatic as going to live with my grandfather." I raised my hands and wiggled my tattooed fingers. "It's funny, things have changed so much in the past twenty-someodd years. When I was a kid, this was a disability - a major, life-altering disability. And while I'm not saying it's a cakewalk, look at my job. Look at everything I've been able to do because of it. And - look." I smiled, chin propped on my palm. "If I wasn't a necromancer, I wouldn't have met you. So I think, if we're looking at the scoreboard, the trauma isn't winning."
Fandom: Original (Raze)
Prompt: Your Ability Is A Disability Here
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild mentions of gore, injury, zombies.
Summary: The trauma isn't winning.
"So obviously, when Reed and I were born, it was pretty apparent what we were, but like - when did you find out you were a necromancer?" Riley asked, stirring her coffee.
"I feel like this is one of those questions like, when did you realize you were gay? I mean, you were born that way, right, and you were gay before you knew the word "gay," but there was that moment when you realized it," I replied, pushing the eggs around my plate with my fork. "I don't really remember things from when I was very young sharply; I don't think anyone does. I have little fragments of memories of things like... oh, for example, I have this one really vivid memory of being a toddler, and all of these worms were dried out on the sidewalk a few days after a storm, and when I approached them, they'd start moving. But they were so dried up they'd start cracking apart when they moved."
"Wow, that young?" She seemed surprised.
"Well, I think the first time my folks didn't just write off strange happenings with the dead to coincidence, and the first time I willfully reanimated something, was when I was in preschool." The eggs were a little rubbery; I had regrets, and extended my fork towards Reed. She sniffed a few times then looked away. "Anyway, yeah, in preschool we had a class pet - a little teddy bear hamster. I don't remember its name. I'm not sure how it died, but I remember one of the other kids telling the teacher that it wouldn't wake up, and sure enough it was just laying there with its little face all snarled up in a death grimace and its red eyes wide open and... well, you get the picture.
"Dead things... feel different, to me. I don't feel any connection to the living." I paused. "Okay, that was horrible phrasing. I mean, obviously..." I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "But what I mean is, with the living, it's not a completed circuit. It isn't something I can extend myself to." My forehead wrinkled. "Does that make sense?"
"You've told me in the past that you're connected to the dead very similarly to how Reed and I are connected. So I think so, yeah." She took a sip of her coffee and hissed in pain, setting it back down on the table looking betrayed.
"Okay. Anyway, the teacher tried to play it off like the hamster was sleeping, and slipped it into a tissue box telling everyone the hamster needed a lot of rest. But I knew it was - well, I don't honestly know that I fully understood the concept of death, most three year olds don't, but I knew it was different now. And I was sad, because I knew it felt different the same way roadkilled armadillos felt different. So I tried to wake it up by shaking the cage, and the teacher yelled at me and put the cage up on a shelf. But I couldn't stop thinking, I wanted it to move. I wanted it to come out and run on its wheel again. And lo and behold, I felt something, like this little spark, and the hamster came staggering out of the tissue box, all stiff and dead eyed, and started this absolutely grotesque, clumsy run in its wheel.
"And I think on some level I knew that I was the one who did it, and I got scared and tried to disconnect, because I could... I could almost feel what it was doing. I covered my eyes so I couldn't see it, but I could still hear the wheel spinning." I frowned. "It was about that time that the teacher, who knew just as much as I did that the hamster was dead, investigated, and I guess she couldn't trust her eyes, because she reached into the cage..." I half-laughed, rubbing the back of my neck. "I, ah. Well, that was the first time I created a necroanimated vore, apparently, because it latched on to her finger and didn't let go. She started shaking her hand and screaming, and it just kept gnawing. Eventually the inevitable happened and it tore loose a chunk of her finger, and since she was shaking it, the thing went flying across the room, hit a wall, broke its jaw and popped one of its eyes half out on impact."
Riley had inched forward in the booth, utterly focused on the story. I continued, "But of course, I was still, unwittingly, keeping it animated, so now this dead, mangled hamster was just dragging itself across the classroom towards this crowd of screaming children, and everyone was running except for me, because I knew somehow that I was causing it, so I stood there shouting "stop" to no avail - until the teacher ran over and stomped the poor little zombie into oblivion. I'm pretty sure it was probably still twitching until I was out of range."
"God, Carlos, that's... horrific, honestly," she said. "I mean, that had to be traumatic."
I smiled feebly. "Not nearly as traumatic as what happened after the teacher put two and two together and called the police. Definitely not as traumatic as the forced genetic testing or my parents not being able to make up their minds on if they wanted to fight or cry more. And certainly not as traumatic as going to live with my grandfather." I raised my hands and wiggled my tattooed fingers. "It's funny, things have changed so much in the past twenty-someodd years. When I was a kid, this was a disability - a major, life-altering disability. And while I'm not saying it's a cakewalk, look at my job. Look at everything I've been able to do because of it. And - look." I smiled, chin propped on my palm. "If I wasn't a necromancer, I wouldn't have met you. So I think, if we're looking at the scoreboard, the trauma isn't winning."
