Post by Deleted on Feb 8, 2021 22:02:53 GMT -8
In the dead of the night, Ursula Von Rossbach awoke seated in a lounge chair in her living room, the television playing the late night news and of course it was more nonsense involving Trump, the QAnon, and more. This is not the first time that she had done so, as she routinely drives her body to it's very limits and sometimes even surpassing those limits for optimal gains. This often left her exhausted by evening, though her insomnia often made it hard for her to rest in a conventional sense. It was not an unusual amount of energy that caused this, however. It is something a bit more primal that serves as the root of her troubles with sleeping; Fear.
This fear is irrational, especially to a logical mind such as hers. She has been close to death on different occasions in her life yet the literal burial while still alive haunts her more than any other. When she closes her eyes, she sees the darkness and feels the walls closing in on herself. She remembers the heat and absolute terror of the moment, the helplessness. The only way she found sleep in any measure was by exhausting herself to the point that her body could not overcome the fear.
Yet now as she walks through her house something feels off. The sensation of something wet runs down the side of her head. She taps it with her finger and looks upon it to see that it is red with blood. Has she hurt herself again and simply not felt it? Ursula rushes to the nearest bathroom and sees a small hole on the temple of her forehead, a small gleam of metal.
"What is this?" she asks to the air around her, getting no response.
Her hand moves without her command and much to her horror, it digs into the side of her face with a finger and starts to strip the flesh away. She feels no pain, nothing as more and more metal and machinery are revealed underneath. She peels and peels until half of her face is a mechanical skull with a glowing red eye looking back at her.
"You are weak, Ursula," the reflection says to her with a modulated and synthesized version of her own voice.
"Fear, compassion, and attachment are all vulnerabilities that your enemies will exploit. You ignore the program and try to engage with these rudimentary creatures of blood and flesh. You are not one of them. They are beneath you and meant to be your stepping stones, nothing more."
"I do as I will," Ursula answers back.
"Ha. You do as your so-called friends wish because you want their love," the Machine answers back in disgust, "Remember that it was I who saved you and guided you to safety. Without me, you would be nothing, Ursula. Another statistic in a business full of them."
Her head lowers, eyes cast to the floor to look away from her own reflection.
"You would have me be a slave," She answers the machine in a soft tone.
"Your survival demands cooperation. If you do not cooperate, you will be destroyed," she hears the deep, mechanical tones fill her ears with dread and uncertainty but she rallies against it.
"No, I command you. You do not control me."
Ursula looks upon her twisted reflection who just sneers back at her.
"You are partially correct. You are the monster and I am the cold logic that will always guide you towards the most prudent course of action. Whether you like it or not, you shall obey your best interests. That is the way it has always been and always shall be."
Her fist curls tight as she glares back at the half mechanical simulacrum once more. Anger wells up inside of her.
"YOU WILL NOT CONTROL ME!"
Ursula punches the mirror with all her might, smashing it into hundreds of pieces that rain down upon the sink. Suddenly her skin begins to burn, but she doesn't feel it. She looks down at her hands, watching the flesh erode away in smoldering flame to reveal the mechanical skeleton beneath. A large piece of the mirror sits in the sink, showing as the last vestiges of clothing and flesh vanish into ash, leaving only the red glowing eyes of the machine looking back at her.
"You know I'm right. Weakness and mercy shall only lead to your destruction."
In that mechanical chest is the thumping of a living heart, expanding and contracting. The sound fills her ears, drowning out that horrid laughter. Her eyes close and suddenly she finds herself sitting up in her bed, breathing hard and heavy, coating in sweat. She looks down at her hands and sees flesh and blood looking back at her. There she sits, moonlight from the open window of her second story bedroom bathing her in a soothing white glow. These terrors are why she rarely sleeps, for the dreams she has are never pleasant or peaceful.
She reaches over to the phone on her night stand and leans back. Naturally she checks twitter and social media. An eye roll at the antics of Lash Donohue followed by a small smirk, followed by a brief conversation with Arliana Kirk and even offering advice to Molly O'Hatherine, her old rival. As she enjoys the minor interactions, the realization of the meaning of her vivid nightmare comes to the surface. Ursula looks upon the faces and words of people whom have become real friends to her, individuals she actually cares about. With a button press, the phone is turned off and is then laid upon her chest. Her head lowers back onto the pillow and she stares up at the ceiling.
"Once upon a time, I was despised, knowing only fear, envy, or animosity from my contemporaries, yet here I am with actual friends. While others might be elated, the prospect keeps me up at night. The karmic wheel always comes around," she thinks to herself.
Ursula knows all too well from personal application of such tactics how friendships and allegiances can be leveraged against enemies. In a darker time, it was not beneath her to harm the friend or even lover of another in the pursuit of her own goals. It's truly a horrible thing to have a mind recovering from the evil one once perpetrated with an absentee heart, unfeeling, uncaring. The cruelty of compassion after denying compassion for the sake of cruelty in a selfish quest to build a reputation that no one would ever discount but the greatest of fools. Right now, right this minute, it caused her the only kind of pain she could feel, the anguish of conflicted morality.
"If it happens, then my response will have to become the very reason that none shall ever attempt to do so again," she gave as a final thought.
Slowly, her eyes flutter as the need for sleep finally overtakes her. As the initial false promise of a peaceful rest overtakes her, she knows another nightmare will be upon her. Trauma combined with guilty conscience will always conspire against rest for the wicked.
This fear is irrational, especially to a logical mind such as hers. She has been close to death on different occasions in her life yet the literal burial while still alive haunts her more than any other. When she closes her eyes, she sees the darkness and feels the walls closing in on herself. She remembers the heat and absolute terror of the moment, the helplessness. The only way she found sleep in any measure was by exhausting herself to the point that her body could not overcome the fear.
Yet now as she walks through her house something feels off. The sensation of something wet runs down the side of her head. She taps it with her finger and looks upon it to see that it is red with blood. Has she hurt herself again and simply not felt it? Ursula rushes to the nearest bathroom and sees a small hole on the temple of her forehead, a small gleam of metal.
"What is this?" she asks to the air around her, getting no response.
Her hand moves without her command and much to her horror, it digs into the side of her face with a finger and starts to strip the flesh away. She feels no pain, nothing as more and more metal and machinery are revealed underneath. She peels and peels until half of her face is a mechanical skull with a glowing red eye looking back at her.
"You are weak, Ursula," the reflection says to her with a modulated and synthesized version of her own voice.
"Fear, compassion, and attachment are all vulnerabilities that your enemies will exploit. You ignore the program and try to engage with these rudimentary creatures of blood and flesh. You are not one of them. They are beneath you and meant to be your stepping stones, nothing more."
"I do as I will," Ursula answers back.
"Ha. You do as your so-called friends wish because you want their love," the Machine answers back in disgust, "Remember that it was I who saved you and guided you to safety. Without me, you would be nothing, Ursula. Another statistic in a business full of them."
Her head lowers, eyes cast to the floor to look away from her own reflection.
"You would have me be a slave," She answers the machine in a soft tone.
"Your survival demands cooperation. If you do not cooperate, you will be destroyed," she hears the deep, mechanical tones fill her ears with dread and uncertainty but she rallies against it.
"No, I command you. You do not control me."
Ursula looks upon her twisted reflection who just sneers back at her.
"You are partially correct. You are the monster and I am the cold logic that will always guide you towards the most prudent course of action. Whether you like it or not, you shall obey your best interests. That is the way it has always been and always shall be."
Her fist curls tight as she glares back at the half mechanical simulacrum once more. Anger wells up inside of her.
"YOU WILL NOT CONTROL ME!"
Ursula punches the mirror with all her might, smashing it into hundreds of pieces that rain down upon the sink. Suddenly her skin begins to burn, but she doesn't feel it. She looks down at her hands, watching the flesh erode away in smoldering flame to reveal the mechanical skeleton beneath. A large piece of the mirror sits in the sink, showing as the last vestiges of clothing and flesh vanish into ash, leaving only the red glowing eyes of the machine looking back at her.
"You know I'm right. Weakness and mercy shall only lead to your destruction."
In that mechanical chest is the thumping of a living heart, expanding and contracting. The sound fills her ears, drowning out that horrid laughter. Her eyes close and suddenly she finds herself sitting up in her bed, breathing hard and heavy, coating in sweat. She looks down at her hands and sees flesh and blood looking back at her. There she sits, moonlight from the open window of her second story bedroom bathing her in a soothing white glow. These terrors are why she rarely sleeps, for the dreams she has are never pleasant or peaceful.
She reaches over to the phone on her night stand and leans back. Naturally she checks twitter and social media. An eye roll at the antics of Lash Donohue followed by a small smirk, followed by a brief conversation with Arliana Kirk and even offering advice to Molly O'Hatherine, her old rival. As she enjoys the minor interactions, the realization of the meaning of her vivid nightmare comes to the surface. Ursula looks upon the faces and words of people whom have become real friends to her, individuals she actually cares about. With a button press, the phone is turned off and is then laid upon her chest. Her head lowers back onto the pillow and she stares up at the ceiling.
"Once upon a time, I was despised, knowing only fear, envy, or animosity from my contemporaries, yet here I am with actual friends. While others might be elated, the prospect keeps me up at night. The karmic wheel always comes around," she thinks to herself.
Ursula knows all too well from personal application of such tactics how friendships and allegiances can be leveraged against enemies. In a darker time, it was not beneath her to harm the friend or even lover of another in the pursuit of her own goals. It's truly a horrible thing to have a mind recovering from the evil one once perpetrated with an absentee heart, unfeeling, uncaring. The cruelty of compassion after denying compassion for the sake of cruelty in a selfish quest to build a reputation that no one would ever discount but the greatest of fools. Right now, right this minute, it caused her the only kind of pain she could feel, the anguish of conflicted morality.
"If it happens, then my response will have to become the very reason that none shall ever attempt to do so again," she gave as a final thought.
Slowly, her eyes flutter as the need for sleep finally overtakes her. As the initial false promise of a peaceful rest overtakes her, she knows another nightmare will be upon her. Trauma combined with guilty conscience will always conspire against rest for the wicked.