Liberty or Possessions Chapter 12 The Greater Good
Liberty or Possessions Chapter 12
The Greater Good
Chapter 12 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQkhvl3MnQY
Warnings: Hints of: Drug Use
There was never actually consciousness for Oliver. He had gone from the blackness of solid unconsciousness, the butt of an assault riffle knocking him out cold, to an inky submergence under something else. If he had ever woken up, ever actually came around to awareness, he could not remember it. Instead he grasped at nothing, attempting in futile to pull himself back toward light.
He was sure his body hurt, though he could not actually feel it. Any sense of self seemed fractured, disjointed. Oliver knew who he was, in a sense anyway. He remembered his name, but past there things grew fuzzy. He thought he could remember waking up in a strange place, but then, as soon as that thought surfaced, he thought that he had always been there. When that thought came to mind, he thought that it did not really mattered anyway. There was no need to worry about such things something coaxed him. That something that spoke slowly, quietly, to him, Oliver realized labouredly, was the blackness itself. There was no point worrying about things like identity, or worrying about where one was and where one was supposed to be. There was no point in worrying at all, really, because that was all over. He was assimilated, part of the whole, and that was all he would ever need ever again.
It was easy, really, to accept the blackness' proposal. He would not have to worry ever again and that seemed like a good way to be. He had no need to fight any more against anything, and that would be a relief. Fighting, though, was a phrase that stuck in Oliver's mind for a while. He had been fighting, had he not? He had been fighting over something, or for something, but he could not remember what that was. He could not remember much of anything at all because it was so easy not to, and the blackness did not want him to. It did not matter, not really, about what happened before. All that mattered was what would happen from there on out. It was comforting and not at all frightening.
Words occasionally came through the thick black, sounds that were foreign and distant. They were words that slipped into him almost subliminally, and Oliver did not mind that at all. They told him to "Breathe slowly", to "Relax and just breathe," and that sounded like a wonderful thing to remind him to do. He felt like breathing in the blackness was the greatest idea in the universe and so he did, deep and methodically. Each time he felt better, or at least he assumed he felt better. Oliver's body was still very far off, more of a concept than anything concrete. He wondered if he even actually had a body, if he had just imagined ever having one. However, there was no point in thinking that way because the blackness had become his body and it was far more comfortable than any real body would have been. Real bodies got hurt, got weak, got old. The blackness never had any of those limitations, and that seemed like a good way to be. That seemed like the best thing ever, actually, and if Oliver had a body he would smile over that thought.
"You will be everything we need," A voice came again, and Oliver thought it sounded familiar, though faint and distant through the blackness. It seemed to be a voice that should instill emotion in Oliver, more than likely a bad one, but the blackness did not let him dwell on it for long. It reminded him how wanted he was, how good he was, and the elation Oliver felt over that was far better than being mad over something that he could not actually place. So Oliver did not dwell on it, did not mull the words over and concentrate on how they were said or what they actually meant when combined with tone and context. He took them as something to be excited over and stuck with that, peace through the blackness. He was someone that someone needed, and it was good to be needed.
It did not matter how long Oliver was in the blackness, how often he lost track of how he felt or how he perceived. Nothing actually mattered as he was kept warm and safe inside the blackness, but eventually something began to ruin it.
Oliver did not notice right away, or at least he had not thought he had, when the blackness seemed to grow a bit lighter. There was no pinprick of light, no bright beam in the otherwise thick blackness, but there was a slight change in shade. Slowly the blackness became greyer, more hostile the blackness informed him. It was not supposed to brighten, it was not supposed to be anything but the thick pitch black, and with the warning came Oliver's nervousness. The blackness wanted him to be aware, be alert, and be scared, and so Oliver was. There was supposed to be no light, no violent, deceitful light in his safe darkness, but it was there, attempting to get at Oliver. He would have fought, would have recoiled from it and turned back to where there was only safety, but he had no body. He had no body and the grey wanted him to know that that was not okay.
Doubt came to Oliver like a tidal wave, crashing over him violently and without mercy. He should have a body; he should have a corporeal form that felt things like pain, weariness, and energy. He should have something for his consciousness to live in, something that felt the sun on its skin, but he did not. Or, maybe he did, but it was too far away. Maybe, the grey prompted, it was on the other side of the blackness.
Doubt was not comfortable. Doubt came with a burden that Oliver did not want and he tried, he tried very hard, to get back to the blackness, but it was no longer there. The grey had surrounded him, pulled him under, and though Oliver fought, there would be no escape.
The grey knew what the black had been telling him, knew the words that were slipping through, and it filled in the rest. The black had omitted things, had hidden things, and the grey, the bit of light, wanted Oliver to know what those things were. The words it let through held more burdens, but they were not the kind that Oliver wished to ignore. They were words such as "Coercion” and "Submission", words that held weight. The blackness surged back for just a second, just a small window of time that held no real meaning to Oliver. It buried the words again, but the grey brought them back, and Oliver understood. The blackness had been hiding things, the evil that came with the peace, but the grey showed him it all at once. Yes, he could very well be contented with the blackness, submitted and assimilated, but he was not one to do that. Oliver was one to fight for what was right, not just roll over and be content with false freedom. Oliver stopped breathing.
Slowly the blackness parted more, grey light forcing its way in to fill the gaps. It wanted him to know something, Oliver sensed. It wanted him to know the truth that even the blackness did not know. It would be their secret, the kind that could never be shared with anyone.
Oliver's eyes opened, or, at least, he thought they had. He was still unsure of the concept of a body, was still unsure if he had one or not, but it seemed like something he would do if he had had one. He would open his eyes and look around. Slowly images revealed themselves to him, pictures that took shape, though not perfectly. There were colors, but they were muted by the grey. It was not the grey's fault, though, he was told. It could only do so much, could only let Oliver see in a certain way, and it would not be crisp and clear. It told him it was like looking through fog, but Oliver could not place what fog was, or if he had ever looked through it. It was not important, the grey told him. What was important was what he saw, regardless of how imperfect it was.
Imperfect, Oliver thought, was a strange word to use, because regardless of the low visibility quality, the image instilled a sense of perfection on him. It was not a merry scene, what he watched, but it still seemed perfect.
There was a woman and three men in the room, all close to Oliver and yet fluttering behind the fog the grey had told him about. Oliver knew they were familiar, people that warmed him to see, but for a while he could not place who they were. It was something that the blackness did not want him to remember and so he did not, until the grey banished the blackness fully.
The woman, Oliver realized, was his mother. The older man, Oliver realized, was his father. The youngest man, Oliver realized, was his brother. And the man that was neither old nor young was…
Mikkel, Oliver thought, pausing for a moment on him. That was Mikkel, someone that he knew. It was someone that he did know, but there was something wrong with him. Something that was not quite right.
No, the grey told him. It was the Mikkel where everything was right. It was the Mikkel who would wear his hats, wear his glasses, cater to Oliver's whims and laugh with him every chance he got. It was the Mikkel that was one of his best friends in the whole world, and yet right then, as Oliver saw him, he looked sad.
Mikkel does not ever look sad Oliver tried to reason. Mikkel never looked sad before, at least. However Oliver was highly unsure of which Mikkel he meant. He had not even remembered there were two Mikkels until he had thought about it, but neither of them, he remembered, ever looked sad.
He looks sad because of you, the grey told him, and Oliver did not understand. There were two Mikkels, one that fought, and one that laughed. There was one that would kill for what he believed in, and there was one that would die for what he believed in. Neither of them ever looked sad, especially because of him.
The fighting Mikkel would look annoyed; would look mad; would look murderous because of Oliver. The other Mikkel (the real Mikkel, his mind demanded) would look happy, would smile widely and say something funny because of Oliver. Neither of them would ever look sad because of him, and yet this Mikkel did, and Oliver did not understand.
He looks sad because you have left him, the grey supplied, and Oliver did not understand. He had never left, never on purpose anyway. He had always been in contact with Mikkel when he left, or Mikkel had left him, depending on which Mikkel it was that he saw through eyes he was pretty sure he still did not have. There was no reason to look sad when Mikkel could just call him or, otherwise, come and rescue him.
Rescue, Oliver thought, was an awfully strange choice of word. He did not need to be rescued, he reasoned. He was fine where he was, safe where he was. He had the black and the grey and had no ability to be hurt, but something did hurt. Oliver had no idea what it was for a long time as he watched the four people the grey showed him.
Slowly came words, but it was not words that were spoken by the grey or by the black. They were words from outside of them, words that Oliver thought he could hear if he had had ears. They were words that came from his mother, his father, his brother, and his Mikkel.
They were whispers, barely able to be heard, but they were told to him by the grey that had wanted to see four of the most important people in his life sad. He did not trust the grey, did not even like the grey, but he listened regardless. He listened and slowly understood what hurt.
Words such as car, drunk, and hit came to him, words with tones that betrayed sadness more than any facial features could express. Oliver could not understand what information was being relayed between the four, but it had them all worked up. It had them all sad, and what hurt was Oliver's heart.
It ached, more than a heart had any right to, to see them sad. He did not even let himself think for a second that he had no body because it hurt so terribly to watch his loved ones grieve. He wanted to use that body, wanted to reach out and touch them, tell them that he was there, that he would be okay. He wanted to tell his mother, who wanted so terribly to cry, that one day, hopefully one day soon, he would wake up and hug her tight. He wanted to tell his brother that he could not get rid of him that easily. He wanted to tell his father that they would hang out again soon. However, more than anything, he wanted to tell Mikkel that they would laugh together again. He wanted to tell Mikkel that he would not have to find someone else to sit next to on bus rides and flights because he would be back with him soon. He wanted to tell them all that they should not be sad and he would be back as soon as he finished what he had to do, but though he knew he had a body, it would not respond to his commands.
I want them to know, Oliver informed the grey, and the grey understood, but it was not to be. Oliver had things to do, things to see, before he could tell them. He had much to accomplish and not much time to do it, and though Oliver had no idea what it was he was supposed to do, he accepted the grey's charge. The grey had not deceived him, had not held him under and only told him what he wanted to hear. The grey was forthright and honest, and Oliver knew that though the black promised him safety and security, peace and no more pain, the grey had promised him a way back to his loved ones. Oliver would take all of the pain in the universe upon himself just to see them smile again, and he would. The grey told him he would with just a little more time.
Now, the grey told him, it was time to wake up. It was time to fight.
Playlist by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://8tracks.com/masterpenguin/liberty-of-possession
Chapter 12 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQkhvl3MnQY
Master Post: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/16531.html
Chapter 13 The Great Destroyer: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/19738.html
The Greater Good
Chapter 12 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQkhvl3MnQY
Warnings: Hints of: Drug Use
There was never actually consciousness for Oliver. He had gone from the blackness of solid unconsciousness, the butt of an assault riffle knocking him out cold, to an inky submergence under something else. If he had ever woken up, ever actually came around to awareness, he could not remember it. Instead he grasped at nothing, attempting in futile to pull himself back toward light.
He was sure his body hurt, though he could not actually feel it. Any sense of self seemed fractured, disjointed. Oliver knew who he was, in a sense anyway. He remembered his name, but past there things grew fuzzy. He thought he could remember waking up in a strange place, but then, as soon as that thought surfaced, he thought that he had always been there. When that thought came to mind, he thought that it did not really mattered anyway. There was no need to worry about such things something coaxed him. That something that spoke slowly, quietly, to him, Oliver realized labouredly, was the blackness itself. There was no point worrying about things like identity, or worrying about where one was and where one was supposed to be. There was no point in worrying at all, really, because that was all over. He was assimilated, part of the whole, and that was all he would ever need ever again.
It was easy, really, to accept the blackness' proposal. He would not have to worry ever again and that seemed like a good way to be. He had no need to fight any more against anything, and that would be a relief. Fighting, though, was a phrase that stuck in Oliver's mind for a while. He had been fighting, had he not? He had been fighting over something, or for something, but he could not remember what that was. He could not remember much of anything at all because it was so easy not to, and the blackness did not want him to. It did not matter, not really, about what happened before. All that mattered was what would happen from there on out. It was comforting and not at all frightening.
Words occasionally came through the thick black, sounds that were foreign and distant. They were words that slipped into him almost subliminally, and Oliver did not mind that at all. They told him to "Breathe slowly", to "Relax and just breathe," and that sounded like a wonderful thing to remind him to do. He felt like breathing in the blackness was the greatest idea in the universe and so he did, deep and methodically. Each time he felt better, or at least he assumed he felt better. Oliver's body was still very far off, more of a concept than anything concrete. He wondered if he even actually had a body, if he had just imagined ever having one. However, there was no point in thinking that way because the blackness had become his body and it was far more comfortable than any real body would have been. Real bodies got hurt, got weak, got old. The blackness never had any of those limitations, and that seemed like a good way to be. That seemed like the best thing ever, actually, and if Oliver had a body he would smile over that thought.
"You will be everything we need," A voice came again, and Oliver thought it sounded familiar, though faint and distant through the blackness. It seemed to be a voice that should instill emotion in Oliver, more than likely a bad one, but the blackness did not let him dwell on it for long. It reminded him how wanted he was, how good he was, and the elation Oliver felt over that was far better than being mad over something that he could not actually place. So Oliver did not dwell on it, did not mull the words over and concentrate on how they were said or what they actually meant when combined with tone and context. He took them as something to be excited over and stuck with that, peace through the blackness. He was someone that someone needed, and it was good to be needed.
It did not matter how long Oliver was in the blackness, how often he lost track of how he felt or how he perceived. Nothing actually mattered as he was kept warm and safe inside the blackness, but eventually something began to ruin it.
Oliver did not notice right away, or at least he had not thought he had, when the blackness seemed to grow a bit lighter. There was no pinprick of light, no bright beam in the otherwise thick blackness, but there was a slight change in shade. Slowly the blackness became greyer, more hostile the blackness informed him. It was not supposed to brighten, it was not supposed to be anything but the thick pitch black, and with the warning came Oliver's nervousness. The blackness wanted him to be aware, be alert, and be scared, and so Oliver was. There was supposed to be no light, no violent, deceitful light in his safe darkness, but it was there, attempting to get at Oliver. He would have fought, would have recoiled from it and turned back to where there was only safety, but he had no body. He had no body and the grey wanted him to know that that was not okay.
Doubt came to Oliver like a tidal wave, crashing over him violently and without mercy. He should have a body; he should have a corporeal form that felt things like pain, weariness, and energy. He should have something for his consciousness to live in, something that felt the sun on its skin, but he did not. Or, maybe he did, but it was too far away. Maybe, the grey prompted, it was on the other side of the blackness.
Doubt was not comfortable. Doubt came with a burden that Oliver did not want and he tried, he tried very hard, to get back to the blackness, but it was no longer there. The grey had surrounded him, pulled him under, and though Oliver fought, there would be no escape.
The grey knew what the black had been telling him, knew the words that were slipping through, and it filled in the rest. The black had omitted things, had hidden things, and the grey, the bit of light, wanted Oliver to know what those things were. The words it let through held more burdens, but they were not the kind that Oliver wished to ignore. They were words such as "Coercion” and "Submission", words that held weight. The blackness surged back for just a second, just a small window of time that held no real meaning to Oliver. It buried the words again, but the grey brought them back, and Oliver understood. The blackness had been hiding things, the evil that came with the peace, but the grey showed him it all at once. Yes, he could very well be contented with the blackness, submitted and assimilated, but he was not one to do that. Oliver was one to fight for what was right, not just roll over and be content with false freedom. Oliver stopped breathing.
Slowly the blackness parted more, grey light forcing its way in to fill the gaps. It wanted him to know something, Oliver sensed. It wanted him to know the truth that even the blackness did not know. It would be their secret, the kind that could never be shared with anyone.
Oliver's eyes opened, or, at least, he thought they had. He was still unsure of the concept of a body, was still unsure if he had one or not, but it seemed like something he would do if he had had one. He would open his eyes and look around. Slowly images revealed themselves to him, pictures that took shape, though not perfectly. There were colors, but they were muted by the grey. It was not the grey's fault, though, he was told. It could only do so much, could only let Oliver see in a certain way, and it would not be crisp and clear. It told him it was like looking through fog, but Oliver could not place what fog was, or if he had ever looked through it. It was not important, the grey told him. What was important was what he saw, regardless of how imperfect it was.
Imperfect, Oliver thought, was a strange word to use, because regardless of the low visibility quality, the image instilled a sense of perfection on him. It was not a merry scene, what he watched, but it still seemed perfect.
There was a woman and three men in the room, all close to Oliver and yet fluttering behind the fog the grey had told him about. Oliver knew they were familiar, people that warmed him to see, but for a while he could not place who they were. It was something that the blackness did not want him to remember and so he did not, until the grey banished the blackness fully.
The woman, Oliver realized, was his mother. The older man, Oliver realized, was his father. The youngest man, Oliver realized, was his brother. And the man that was neither old nor young was…
Mikkel, Oliver thought, pausing for a moment on him. That was Mikkel, someone that he knew. It was someone that he did know, but there was something wrong with him. Something that was not quite right.
No, the grey told him. It was the Mikkel where everything was right. It was the Mikkel who would wear his hats, wear his glasses, cater to Oliver's whims and laugh with him every chance he got. It was the Mikkel that was one of his best friends in the whole world, and yet right then, as Oliver saw him, he looked sad.
Mikkel does not ever look sad Oliver tried to reason. Mikkel never looked sad before, at least. However Oliver was highly unsure of which Mikkel he meant. He had not even remembered there were two Mikkels until he had thought about it, but neither of them, he remembered, ever looked sad.
He looks sad because of you, the grey told him, and Oliver did not understand. There were two Mikkels, one that fought, and one that laughed. There was one that would kill for what he believed in, and there was one that would die for what he believed in. Neither of them ever looked sad, especially because of him.
The fighting Mikkel would look annoyed; would look mad; would look murderous because of Oliver. The other Mikkel (the real Mikkel, his mind demanded) would look happy, would smile widely and say something funny because of Oliver. Neither of them would ever look sad because of him, and yet this Mikkel did, and Oliver did not understand.
He looks sad because you have left him, the grey supplied, and Oliver did not understand. He had never left, never on purpose anyway. He had always been in contact with Mikkel when he left, or Mikkel had left him, depending on which Mikkel it was that he saw through eyes he was pretty sure he still did not have. There was no reason to look sad when Mikkel could just call him or, otherwise, come and rescue him.
Rescue, Oliver thought, was an awfully strange choice of word. He did not need to be rescued, he reasoned. He was fine where he was, safe where he was. He had the black and the grey and had no ability to be hurt, but something did hurt. Oliver had no idea what it was for a long time as he watched the four people the grey showed him.
Slowly came words, but it was not words that were spoken by the grey or by the black. They were words from outside of them, words that Oliver thought he could hear if he had had ears. They were words that came from his mother, his father, his brother, and his Mikkel.
They were whispers, barely able to be heard, but they were told to him by the grey that had wanted to see four of the most important people in his life sad. He did not trust the grey, did not even like the grey, but he listened regardless. He listened and slowly understood what hurt.
Words such as car, drunk, and hit came to him, words with tones that betrayed sadness more than any facial features could express. Oliver could not understand what information was being relayed between the four, but it had them all worked up. It had them all sad, and what hurt was Oliver's heart.
It ached, more than a heart had any right to, to see them sad. He did not even let himself think for a second that he had no body because it hurt so terribly to watch his loved ones grieve. He wanted to use that body, wanted to reach out and touch them, tell them that he was there, that he would be okay. He wanted to tell his mother, who wanted so terribly to cry, that one day, hopefully one day soon, he would wake up and hug her tight. He wanted to tell his brother that he could not get rid of him that easily. He wanted to tell his father that they would hang out again soon. However, more than anything, he wanted to tell Mikkel that they would laugh together again. He wanted to tell Mikkel that he would not have to find someone else to sit next to on bus rides and flights because he would be back with him soon. He wanted to tell them all that they should not be sad and he would be back as soon as he finished what he had to do, but though he knew he had a body, it would not respond to his commands.
I want them to know, Oliver informed the grey, and the grey understood, but it was not to be. Oliver had things to do, things to see, before he could tell them. He had much to accomplish and not much time to do it, and though Oliver had no idea what it was he was supposed to do, he accepted the grey's charge. The grey had not deceived him, had not held him under and only told him what he wanted to hear. The grey was forthright and honest, and Oliver knew that though the black promised him safety and security, peace and no more pain, the grey had promised him a way back to his loved ones. Oliver would take all of the pain in the universe upon himself just to see them smile again, and he would. The grey told him he would with just a little more time.
Now, the grey told him, it was time to wake up. It was time to fight.
Playlist by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://8tracks.com/masterpenguin/liberty-of-possession
Chapter 12 Song by the Amazing MasterPenguin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQkhvl3MnQY
Master Post: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/16531.html
Chapter 13 The Great Destroyer: http://z4rf3.livejournal.com/19738.html