In the various computer logs, journal entries, and random scribblings I've been able to recover, there have always been dozens of mismatched lives to sort through of Dia's. A renegade here, an angel there. A djinn, a priestess, a shadow. On the surface, they always seemed.. discordant. As deliberately varying as a person could think to get.
But, you see, I have this pet theory.
One that my Overseers would throw a shitfit over if they ever came across these logs.
My job is to chronicle, transcribe.
Keep the artifacts, and the memories, safe.
I'm beginning to believe..
These aren't different people, after all.
Sure, the hair color, the jobs, the titles. They change.
At the core of it, though.. there are common threads.
Ones you wouldn't catch unless you spent all day, every day hunched over a desk staring at the shit.
The most obvious of which is, there are always secrets. Ones that could bring down more than their fair share of lives, families, and peaceful times.
Each life begins after a horrific event.
A gunfight, though somehow the Día in question managed to escape without picking up one herself.
The death of a loved one.
A heartbreak, typically a betrayal.
A faction change.
A truth being told.
A life in danger, not her own.
Sometimes, even boredom. Though, the more I read, the more her 'boredom' echoes in my head like loneliness, sadness, depression. Bitterness. A book a life, closed, so that she didn't have to look too closely at how she wound up alone again.
Didn't have to look in the mirror and see the same face staring back at her.
When I first started this job, if someone would have told me I'd be considering a berserker, a rogue, a healer, a shadow, and a diplomatic envoy could all be the same person, I'd have laughed you out of the building.
The first, the kindest girl you could ever meet. Sweet, quiet, bookish. The kind of girl that found herself in the worst of ways, constantly, because of that ridiculously big heart of hers.
The last, a bitter, jaded battle axe of a woman, with an acidic tongue and a sharp mind. The kind of person you wouldn't fathom falling asleep near without intensive research, study, and a handful of bribes. Blackmail, if you had the balls for it.
Varying levels of sanity, wealth, material possessions, friends, allies, enemies in the lives in between. So much so that idea of the same person being as equally comfortable in squalor as in decadence seems.. impossible. Unfathomable.
But.. what if.. they're all just stories about the same person, told out of order? And if so.. what are the stories that have been left untold? What brought an innocent young woman to deal with the darkest depths of humanity? What events are we ignorant of that managed to blacken the purest of souls?
I don't know, not yet. Not enough to tell in one singular place. I'm not sure I even have enough time left to this shift to transcribe the bits i HAVE managed to glean.
I did say I had a pet theory.
I wouldn't announce it in such a way if I didn't have some sort of foundation to build off of.
So, settle down for a minute, and try to pay attention.
I could get in a lot of shit for sharing this.
Before I begin, please keep in mind that I am only human. Any errors, missteps, or white lies I tell to protect my ass that become obvious, well, you'll just have to handwave them and power on.
There is always a man, that disappears into the night as if he never existed.
There are always families that look to her for protection, guidance. Money. Sometimes even drugs.
Someone always wants her dead, or out of the way, or kept quiet to protect their interests.
Her eyes change colors, but always seem to settle back on blue. Her favorite color, if my hunch is correct.
There is a child. Often, that dies.
One that survives, though her fate remains untold.
A sacrifice, of some kind, to protect another.
Friends she deliberately keeps at arm's length, even though it kills her to watch their lives go on without her. A belief, that they are better off. Without her.
Employment, that changes, though she always works with her hands.
Lovers she takes in the interim, of the mysterious Hanged Man's absence. Every one, she loves fiercely, and would do anything for. Until the day one of them loves too much, or changes more than the other can stand. Then, a blow out. Silence. A disappearance.
Educated, though how much varies.
Forgiveness, understanding. Until there isn't.
A thousand yard stare that spooks anyone that sees it.
Below, I have cut and copied and pasted fragments from a hundred different entries, that I believe are about the same man. The Hanged Man.
The man she always mourns, despite his being alive.
-He never was a beautiful man, though I thought he was breathtaking. His face too sharp, his eyes too cold. His stance too rigid, his body too scared.
I never cared. I thought he was perfect.
-That bastard only makes sense in hindsight!
-Would it kill him to explain himself just a LITTLE more?
-His hands were rough, calloused. Hard. Like he had never gone a day in his life without toiling it away.
-His laughter was cruel, like the subject of his mirth was always the butt of some joke only he understood. Took me years to realize he was normally laughing at himself.
-He hated to be late, to the point of unchecked rage if one of his plots caused him to be so. Of course, he was usually the only one that knew his schedule. Made keeping him happy very hard, for a long time.
-He perpetually smelled of weed, and carried some form of illegal substance wherever he went. He was always self medicating the pain away, though it was very rare he would admit it.
-When he smiled, it was like a cold winter's morning. Beautiful, cold, brisk. You never knew how long it would last, but in that moment.. I never wanted it to end.
-Our fights were atrocious. Small wonder the cops were never called. To the point of suspicion. We would get so loud there was no way the sound of our yelling didn't carry two streets over.
-He never hit me. Not in the way you hear about in Lifetime movies. Though, oh did he hurt me. My heart. His prized possession, but you wouldn't know it. He was especially proud to have me by his side. Smug, gloating little fuck.
-When he held me, it was like time stood still. No one, nothing else mattered. Oddly gentle, careful. Like you might hold a baby bird in your hands. Like you held something fragile, and were terrified it might break.
-He never did tell me much of his past. Most of it, I had to glean from various "funny stories" he would tell. Implications, too long silences followed by a change in subject.
-He loathed talking about himself. He would always tell me, if you have to tell people who you are, then chances are you're wrong. Or lying.
-He was happiest when he was left alone to do his 'business.' Too many questions would lead to Stony silence, or unkind jokes, or his outright leaving.
-He loved to laugh. Any joke he came across, he would tell. The worse the content, the shock value, the better. He liked to surprise people into a laugh
He said it was so he knew the laughter was genuine.
-Sometimes, he would take me with him when he ran. 'Kidnap' me, jokingly (or not), for a week or two at a time. Carefully, cautiously bring me around his employers. His friends, what few he trusted.
-Oh, how he loved his technology.
-Being away from him was the easiest and hardest decision of my life, no matter how many times I had to make it. Or he did.
-"You have to go home now, Jack. It isn't safe here."
-He didn't believe me the first time I loved him, or the second time, or the third. By the time he finally said it back, five months in, I had forgotten he knew what the word meant.
-"I don't know what possessed you to fall in love with a piece of shit like me. Karma can't be real."
-We lived together once, long ago. When I was running from my past, and he was hiding from his presence. We damn near hated each other by the time I had to leave, but looking back.. it was the second happiest time in my life.
-The peace, when we had it, was addictive.
-Once I met him, every man or woman I cared for seemed to have a countdown that would float over their heads. Ticking down until I lost them.
Including him.
But, you see, I have this pet theory.
One that my Overseers would throw a shitfit over if they ever came across these logs.
My job is to chronicle, transcribe.
Keep the artifacts, and the memories, safe.
I'm beginning to believe..
These aren't different people, after all.
Sure, the hair color, the jobs, the titles. They change.
At the core of it, though.. there are common threads.
Ones you wouldn't catch unless you spent all day, every day hunched over a desk staring at the shit.
The most obvious of which is, there are always secrets. Ones that could bring down more than their fair share of lives, families, and peaceful times.
Each life begins after a horrific event.
A gunfight, though somehow the Día in question managed to escape without picking up one herself.
The death of a loved one.
A heartbreak, typically a betrayal.
A faction change.
A truth being told.
A life in danger, not her own.
Sometimes, even boredom. Though, the more I read, the more her 'boredom' echoes in my head like loneliness, sadness, depression. Bitterness. A book a life, closed, so that she didn't have to look too closely at how she wound up alone again.
Didn't have to look in the mirror and see the same face staring back at her.
When I first started this job, if someone would have told me I'd be considering a berserker, a rogue, a healer, a shadow, and a diplomatic envoy could all be the same person, I'd have laughed you out of the building.
The first, the kindest girl you could ever meet. Sweet, quiet, bookish. The kind of girl that found herself in the worst of ways, constantly, because of that ridiculously big heart of hers.
The last, a bitter, jaded battle axe of a woman, with an acidic tongue and a sharp mind. The kind of person you wouldn't fathom falling asleep near without intensive research, study, and a handful of bribes. Blackmail, if you had the balls for it.
Varying levels of sanity, wealth, material possessions, friends, allies, enemies in the lives in between. So much so that idea of the same person being as equally comfortable in squalor as in decadence seems.. impossible. Unfathomable.
But.. what if.. they're all just stories about the same person, told out of order? And if so.. what are the stories that have been left untold? What brought an innocent young woman to deal with the darkest depths of humanity? What events are we ignorant of that managed to blacken the purest of souls?
I don't know, not yet. Not enough to tell in one singular place. I'm not sure I even have enough time left to this shift to transcribe the bits i HAVE managed to glean.
I did say I had a pet theory.
I wouldn't announce it in such a way if I didn't have some sort of foundation to build off of.
So, settle down for a minute, and try to pay attention.
I could get in a lot of shit for sharing this.
Before I begin, please keep in mind that I am only human. Any errors, missteps, or white lies I tell to protect my ass that become obvious, well, you'll just have to handwave them and power on.
There is always a man, that disappears into the night as if he never existed.
There are always families that look to her for protection, guidance. Money. Sometimes even drugs.
Someone always wants her dead, or out of the way, or kept quiet to protect their interests.
Her eyes change colors, but always seem to settle back on blue. Her favorite color, if my hunch is correct.
There is a child. Often, that dies.
One that survives, though her fate remains untold.
A sacrifice, of some kind, to protect another.
Friends she deliberately keeps at arm's length, even though it kills her to watch their lives go on without her. A belief, that they are better off. Without her.
Employment, that changes, though she always works with her hands.
Lovers she takes in the interim, of the mysterious Hanged Man's absence. Every one, she loves fiercely, and would do anything for. Until the day one of them loves too much, or changes more than the other can stand. Then, a blow out. Silence. A disappearance.
Educated, though how much varies.
Forgiveness, understanding. Until there isn't.
A thousand yard stare that spooks anyone that sees it.
Below, I have cut and copied and pasted fragments from a hundred different entries, that I believe are about the same man. The Hanged Man.
The man she always mourns, despite his being alive.
-He never was a beautiful man, though I thought he was breathtaking. His face too sharp, his eyes too cold. His stance too rigid, his body too scared.
I never cared. I thought he was perfect.
-That bastard only makes sense in hindsight!
-Would it kill him to explain himself just a LITTLE more?
-His hands were rough, calloused. Hard. Like he had never gone a day in his life without toiling it away.
-His laughter was cruel, like the subject of his mirth was always the butt of some joke only he understood. Took me years to realize he was normally laughing at himself.
-He hated to be late, to the point of unchecked rage if one of his plots caused him to be so. Of course, he was usually the only one that knew his schedule. Made keeping him happy very hard, for a long time.
-He perpetually smelled of weed, and carried some form of illegal substance wherever he went. He was always self medicating the pain away, though it was very rare he would admit it.
-When he smiled, it was like a cold winter's morning. Beautiful, cold, brisk. You never knew how long it would last, but in that moment.. I never wanted it to end.
-Our fights were atrocious. Small wonder the cops were never called. To the point of suspicion. We would get so loud there was no way the sound of our yelling didn't carry two streets over.
-He never hit me. Not in the way you hear about in Lifetime movies. Though, oh did he hurt me. My heart. His prized possession, but you wouldn't know it. He was especially proud to have me by his side. Smug, gloating little fuck.
-When he held me, it was like time stood still. No one, nothing else mattered. Oddly gentle, careful. Like you might hold a baby bird in your hands. Like you held something fragile, and were terrified it might break.
-He never did tell me much of his past. Most of it, I had to glean from various "funny stories" he would tell. Implications, too long silences followed by a change in subject.
-He loathed talking about himself. He would always tell me, if you have to tell people who you are, then chances are you're wrong. Or lying.
-He was happiest when he was left alone to do his 'business.' Too many questions would lead to Stony silence, or unkind jokes, or his outright leaving.
-He loved to laugh. Any joke he came across, he would tell. The worse the content, the shock value, the better. He liked to surprise people into a laugh
He said it was so he knew the laughter was genuine.
-Sometimes, he would take me with him when he ran. 'Kidnap' me, jokingly (or not), for a week or two at a time. Carefully, cautiously bring me around his employers. His friends, what few he trusted.
-Oh, how he loved his technology.
-Being away from him was the easiest and hardest decision of my life, no matter how many times I had to make it. Or he did.
-"You have to go home now, Jack. It isn't safe here."
-He didn't believe me the first time I loved him, or the second time, or the third. By the time he finally said it back, five months in, I had forgotten he knew what the word meant.
-"I don't know what possessed you to fall in love with a piece of shit like me. Karma can't be real."
-We lived together once, long ago. When I was running from my past, and he was hiding from his presence. We damn near hated each other by the time I had to leave, but looking back.. it was the second happiest time in my life.
-The peace, when we had it, was addictive.
-Once I met him, every man or woman I cared for seemed to have a countdown that would float over their heads. Ticking down until I lost them.
Including him.
