[Doctor Yuki Haragitanai]

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This next email response came from someone very unexpected; it was Solomon Moon, one of the more 'troubled' students that she's had to deal with, aside from Nikolas. She recalled that their first, and last meeting ended on a very sour note. It wasn't that she intended it to be that way, but there was definitely an air of tension between the two of them on their differences in regards to his medication that he was taking. Long term painkillers were no joke, and dependence on them created volatile scenarios. Regardless, Doctor Haragitanai set aside her personal feelings for this. She was a physician for one, and a Professor as well. The well-being of her students and patients were her priority, but she wasn't going to let herself become a pushover for them either as a medical professional.
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The infirmary was rather empty at the current time. Doctor Haragitanai tried to work out private times for each counselling session, though walk-ins were inevitable. Most of the time it was something trivial like getting an ice pack or an upset stomach while others seemed like they needed the rest. After the student's response to her email, Doctor Haragitanai immediately scheduled the nearest available slot for the student. As soon as she did, Doctor Haragitanai gathered the essentials: The Scroll tablet, the electronic copy of the student's medical records, and a stylus to be used for hastily written notes. Doctor Haragitanai detailed in the email response that the student could simply announce their arrival and take a seat on the worn bean-bag chair that was visible from an opening between the cloth dividers.
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She awaited to hear the familiar, heavy footsteps of Solomon walk through her infirmary. He was one of the later students that would be meeting, as it was sent in the evening. Luckily there was nobody scheduled for that time so she slotted him nicely in the later afternoon meetings where the sun was just starting to set a golden yellow over the skies. The indistinct chatter of students outside reached the windows, but were muffled out by the glass separating them.
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As soon as Solomon decided to exchange pleasantries or simply sat down on the bean-bag chair that she would beckon him to, she got right to work. "Good evening, Mister Moon. I hope you've been doing well since our last visit. I apologize if it had ended with a less than satisfactory outcome, but today I understood that you wished to attend counseling. Hopefully we can discuss how you are feeling and what is on your mind. So let's start with that, if that is okay with you?" She asked, ready to jot down notes about whatever was bothering him. She wore her usual outfit: White blouse, black tights and knee-length skirt with her black heels and white lab coat with her identification card hanging off a lanyard.

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Additional Notes

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[Solomon Moon]

Solomon

He had been dreading this appointment all day. One would have thought that Sol had been forced into attending the counselling instead of volenteering for it, especially since even in his own mind it struck as less of a necesarry inconvenience and more of a perilous and punitive procedure. Before winter break he wouldn't have consented to share more than two complete thoughts in sequence with another living person.

To open up like that, was to make oneself exposed, vulnerable, and that was something the one eyed hunter couldn't tolerate. He'd been hurt a lot in his life, and where things hadn't scarred over to the point of being completely insensate, he'd become hard to the point of being near to impenetrable. Without the tragedies of the Rochdale incident or the Assault on the Academy to put things in perspective, it was highly likely that Sol would have gone another year without openning up to anyone.

It was highly likely that he would have ended up like Qui'li.

Sol had not been present for either events, but he just had to look into the traumatized faces of his classmates and to look around and see the ruined and burned out buildings of Haven to know them. He'd been around enough suffering in his ife to recognize the signs, and had seen enough ruined settlements to know the evil that must have taken place. It had effected him strangely. Strange because it affected him at all.

He'd been sad, and not just his typical melancholy, but genuinely, poignantly sad. He'd broken down in front of Holly, and had such a rush of emotions escape from him that it was frightening. There had seemed for a period to be no end to the grief.
Then there were the nightmares. Sol had been a victim of reoccurring nightmares since his father died, since before even, but recently they had become much worse. When he'd first come to Haven he was reliant on painkillers to help him sleep, and that had worked for a while. Then the supply had run low, and Sol had been forced to chose between a restful sleep and the chronic pain of his implants and old injuries. Even then he'd been getting by, averaging about four hours a night, some nights getting as much as six and others as little as none. Since he'd come back from winter break, things had grown much worse. Now he was driven out of bed by figments of his past up to four nights a week. More than once he'd woken up in the hollow of a tree on the campus quad without any memory of how he came there.
At first he'd thought it was just the visit back home that had stirred up old memories, but it had not started until after he'd come back from Atlas. He'd been sleeping as well as he usually did until he returned to what he was increasingly considering his home, and found it in ruins.

It wasn't just something he could ignore anymore. With Qui'li going rogue, the entire school was on high alert for emotionally compromised students, and Sol knew that if anyone ever discovered his somnabulism, his lack of sleep, or his reliance on prescription strength medications to function normally, then he would be finished. To say nothing of his increasing emotional instability and his temper, which were also growing worse.

He was wearing his school uniform when he entered the infirmary. The entire room looked as if it had been deliberately laid out to be as nonthreatening as possible. IT made sense. Dr. Haragatani as well was garbed in quiet and neat clothing, and presenting her characteristic air of patient indifference. Perhaps that was just Sol. He had a tendency to interpret any authority figure's attitude towards him as indifference.

He glanced skeptically at the bean-bag chair, openly distrustful of something that looked intentionally designed to be as non-functional as possible. Wouldn't a couch or just a chair have been more appropriate?

Begrudgingly he sat in the thing that could only charitably be called a chair and faced towards Dr. Haragatani. He grew to dislike it even more, because it forced him to look up at the doctor and gave the distinct impression of her being superior, he also couldn't seem to get comfortable. Sol wanted to sit up straight, as he'd been trained since an early age to do, but no matter how he moved the bag would shift around and he would return to a lazy sprawl. Eventually, owing in part to Haragatani's impatience to begin, which she signaled by talking as he fought the foolish contraption, Sol relented in his effort to maintain some dignity and allowed the stupid thing to haphazardly cradle his form.

Sol grunted, a low growling sound. What was on his mind? What was he feeling? Where to even start?

"I haven't been sleeping well..." He began, though only continuing because it didn't feel like enough, and not saying what he really meant "I've been having horrific nightmares that make me actively fear falling asleep," because it would have made him sound like a bloody child, "My dreams... Are of a disturbing character. I go to sleep and I either wake up screaming, or sweating, or in a place that is not my bedroom... It used to only be a few times a week, but they are getting worse and more frequent."

There. He had admitted it. Though the perfectly vacant deadpan with which he said so may not have suggested it, it may have been one of the hardest things he'd ever done to admit out loud that having reoccurring nightmares every night for more than the last twelve months was abnormal. It may have been one of the hardest things he'd ever done to work up the courage to come and ask for help.

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1097 words

notes

Velvet of WW

[Doctor Yuki Haragitanai]

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Doctor Haragitanai gazed at Solomon as he spoke. He was well-dressed per usual, always neat and crisp. It gave off a very professional, almost militaristic vibe, though she vaguely aware of his background. As he struggled to get comfortable in the bean-bag chair, Doctor Haragitanai cleared her throat. "If it makes you feel more comfortable, I have an armchair or a stool you can use." She offered as she placed her hands on her legs. It wasn't that much of a big deal to her, personally, but the fact that his squirming seemed like he was more obsessed with the chair than their meeting. Well, either way, she would stand up slowly and slide an ordinary stool, much like the one that she was sitting on, over to Solomon to use to sit... Or use it as a footstool. She didn't really care. Her blouse tightened against her chest as she took a deep breath and tried to readjust her own posture. Sitting all day in a stool wasn't fun, and with the sun starting to set over them, it was easy to get drowsy. Perhaps she should take a nap afterwards or something-
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'Nightmares... Patient unable to sleep, frequent awakenings... Possibly affecting daytime functions?' Doctor Haragitanai began to note this in a Scroll as he continued to speak. 'Frequent awakenings supplemented with sweating, indicative of nightmares having physiological effect on the body... In addition, patient has also reported awakening in places that aren't his own bed. Potential sleepwalking incidents are indicated.' Doctor Haragitanai scribbled down the notes, looking up at Solomon occasionally as he spoke about his problems. Nightmares, huh? Those weren't easy thing to handle. Then again, mental health wasn't exactly something that was well-touched on until recently, moreso now with the Rochdale incident.
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Once she had finished her notes, Doctor Haragitanai looked up at Solomon and nodded. "I see, it must have been very difficult to handle this by yourself until now. Sleep is an essential part of everyone's life. Without it, we lose the capacity to perform to our highest degree, and our judgement becomes clouded. As Huntsmen and Huntresses, our judgement is our most valuable asset." Doctor Haragitanai reaffirmed Solomon by placing a hand on his shoulder and gave a light pat before receding back to her normal position. Physical touch was one means of reassuring someone, though the effect varied from person to person. She wouldn't really react if he recoiled from her attempt to touch him- she'd just simple continue. Sympathy is an important aspect of a physician, and even the smallest acts could be noted by the patient. "It's not easy to be able to talk about something like this. Many people often think this is a problem that will go away through simply ignoring it, and the topic of mental health is still stigmatized by many, unfortunately. You are very brave for being willing to share something like this with me. So, let's see if what we discuss today can help ease your mind."
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Doctor Haragitanai clicked the stylus against the glass and looked at Solomon. "It may not come as a surprise to you, but among the various causes of recurrent nightmares are usually due to stress and anxiety, triggers of past trauma, or a combination of the two. Often you're left with a irregular sleep schedule, vivid nightmares, and an increased amount of stress due to lack of sleep. It's a vicious cycle, but something that can be managed, thankfully."
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One method of containing nightmares for many is actually talking about them, and then 'rewriting' them to a desirable outcome. While it is not the most immediately effective, being able to face the theoretical 'demons' that haunt people will normally lead to some improvements. With improvements comes a continual cascade of things, such as better sleep, less stress and anxiety, which further leads to better sleep. "Mister Moon, if you don't mind, I'd like to hear about these dreams of yours. If you can recall what they are, and then focus on how you could change it, perhaps it might become less recurrent. Of course, that's not the only thing you can do, but that's among the first of many things you can do. Of course, you don't need to share them if you don't want to."
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Doctor Haragitanai paused briefly as she flipped to a new page. She was ready to jot down the notes of the nightmare if he allowed it, or if not, she would just have it ready to include anything else he would like to share. "It doesn't have to be about your dreams either, you can also talk about patterns you've noticed before sleeping or after waking up, perhaps anything you notice that makes your nightmares lessen or worsen, or maybe what you've already tried to manage them?" A counseling session was a conversation. However, when one doesn't know where to start, it's good to facilitate conversation with open-ended questions. It's easy to say 'yes' or 'no' but by phrasing them in such a way that allows the other to express themselves, there is more that could be gained as a result.
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Word Count: 873

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Additional Notes: It'll be okay.

[attr="class","dangercredits"]cyan of pixel perfect

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[Solomon Moon]

Solomon

Sol grunted a dismissal at the offer of a different seat. He'd already fought the stupid bag of beads to a stand still, and it would just harm his dignity even more to find somewhere else to sit. Besides, the "chair", if it could be called such a thing, wasn't explicitly uncomfortable. It was soft and supportive. It just didn't allow for Sol to position himself in a manner that he would prefer, more specifically upright. It felt more like a bed than a seat, and for whatever reason, Sol disliked beds, or couches, or anything designed for comfort for that matter. Comfort was something he'd never had much of growing up, and even though it had never been said so definitively, it was the overall attitude of those that raised him that comfort made people soft, and weak, that people like Sol should do without comfort.

By this point, if he hadn't admitted defeat, he'd at least come to a cease fire with the bean-bag. He would permit it to do as it would, and would recline upon it, but he wouldn't like it, dammit.

Sol tried not to stare at Haragatani as she took her notes. Similar to their first encounter, Sol chose a point on one of the walls across from them and stared at that instead. It wasn't that he was trying to ignore her, and it wasn't to be disrespectful. Quite the opposite in fact. Sol was paying Haragatani the highest level of respect in the only way he knew how, by "toeing the line".

During training, prior to his deployment at the head of his family's forces, Sol had been trained and treated exactly the same as any other raw recruit, Atlas style. That had meant "toeing the line", a turn of phrase taken from a practice in which green recruits were lined up in front of their cots, with the toes of their boots touching a line of red tape run down the length of the barracks. Said recruits were then subject to inspection from an officer, on rare occasions an Lt, but most often a sergeant or corporal. Toeing the line meant standing at perfect unflinching attention like a statue, while the sarge went over every tiny detail of one's uniform, cot, and footlocker. If the sarge found anything even a fraction of a degree out of place, such as a collar pin at the wrong angle, a poorly aligned crease, a microscopic defect in the fold of one's blanket where it tucked under the mattress, or by the dead, a scuff on one's boots, it would mean harsh discipline. Being the Lord Commander's son hadn't granted any special immunity to the ritual. In many cases Sol had it far worse than his fellow cadets. Being the son of the highest ranking member of the PMC made him a target for any officer who was less than thrilled with command, and since the Drill Sergeants were encouraged to mercilessly berate the cadets, to harden them to the pressures of battle, to break down any hint of individuality and allow them to function as a unit, it wasn't just permitted that the officers take their frustrations out on him, it was actively incentivised.

Part of toeing the line meant standing utterly immobile and enduring abuse without flinching. It meant staring straight ahead, because looking at the sarge while he was tearing a strip out of you was a good way to wind up in the "front-leaning rest position", or push-ups in common. Defiance happened all the time, but that quickly resulted in "team building exercises", or group punishment in common, and while it was one thing for the sarge to hate you, that was his job after all, it was something entirely different to be hated by the couple dozen cadets you shared a barracks with, who might have a few things to say once the sarge was out of the hall. Sol still remembered his first week of boot-camp when he'd spat on the sarge, who had made some quip about the Celestial Legion admitting cyclopses now, only to have himself excluded from the hour of sprints the rest of the cadets were subjected to as a result. After the sarge left that afternoon, Sol had been beaten nearly unconscious by his comrades, and when the sarge showed up the next day, to find Sol so bruised that he could barely stand at attention, not only had Sol not spit on him, but the sarge hadn't said a damn thing. He'd just smiled and went right on to chewing out the boy on Sol's right. Sol would likely remember that for the rest of his natural life.

He certainly remembered it now. The routine of being called into the office of a commanding officer, and the etiquette of the exchange was written upon his very bones by now. Sol simply didn't know how else to act when in the company of an authority figure. So he treated Haragatani exactly as he would the Drill Sergeant. In his mind they had the same job after all, to tear him apart, to break him down, to uncover every little failure, to remake him into something that wasn't a useless piece of shit.

He listened closely to her, still wired to respond on the instant to any instruction he might be given, half expecting at any moment for the gentle, slightly detached voice to transform into a full throated bellow mere inches from his ear. She explained how sleep was essential to health, and though his face showed no sign, in his mind "NO SHIT" flashed in blinking neon letters. As if he needed to be told that going long periods without a good sleep would have a poor outcome. He only wanted to kill everyone around him sometimes. He only felt like he would willingly drink drain-cleaner if it had a decent chance of giving him a few hours of uninterrupted rest. Yep, judgement seemed completely unaffected, no problems there.

It did surprise him that nightmares were a result of trauma. It also surprised him that the sky was blue and blood was red. Who would have thought? Only fifty percent of his nightmares were just point for point recreations of some of the most scarring experiences in his life. Shucks, he'd never thought the two might be related.

Sol's face was still as blank as a slab of granite, he hadn't even bothered to blink as the doctor spoke. He didn't even seem to notice when she touched him, as if she were touching a stone

It finally came for his turn to talk again, and Sol only hesitate for the moment it took to forcibly extract all the sarcasm from his mind and give the doctor only exactly what she had asked for. It was not easy to pick from the library of night terrors that assaulted him every night. Some people had one or two reoccurring nightmares. Sol had almost a dozen showing up in his head on a nightly basis like old friends popping by for a visit. Some of those nightmares specifically involved old friends even. How was he supposed to pick just one? Many of them were just reliving actual events in his horror-show of a life, like the night his father had died, like the first time he...

"I'm on a troop transport." He said abruptly, his golden eye looking past the far wall and into the distance, "I've stowed away. I'm not supposed to be there. I'm scared. I'm young. No one notices. The other boys are scared and young too. We can hear explosions outside over the roar of the engine. The ground must be uneven, because we are shaking against our restraints. The boy beside me throws up into his helmet. He put it on too early, and the face shield fills with his sick. Some of the other boys laugh, but they don't seem to really think it's funny... They just need to laugh, because if they don't, they'll start screaming, or they'll be sick too. The Lt pulls the boy's helmet off his head, and shouts at him... Then the transport stops. The Lt yells at us to go, and we start pulling off our seatbelts, and we grab our weapons and put on out helmets. I don't want to do it, but I'm scared, and my body moves by itself. It's like someone else is moving my hands. Then we are running down the ramp at the back of the APC. We're running into hell. The air stinks like burnt fire dust. The air is full of dirt. I can hear men yelling and screaming. I can hear gunfire all around. There is fire from one edge of the horizon to the other, its like the whole world is on fire. Shells screaming overhead. The APC next to ours takes a shell. It explodes. The boys inside the APC, I never saw what happened to them. A piece of the exploded APC's treads, as big as my fist, hits the Lt in the side. His aura shatters. He's dead before he hits the floor.
I run. I need to get away from the burning transport. The APC we were on is driving away. I can't go back, so I follow the other boys, I'm running towards the objective. The enemy is dug in on the side of a hill. There's a few bunkers and a big building in the center. Explosions all around, I don't know who is shooting at who. I keep running. I don't want to, but I'm sacred, and its like someone else is controlling my body.
Somehow I make it to the nearest bunker. I don't know where the soldiers I was on the APC with have gone. I drop down into the trench that surrounds the hill and run to the bunker's door. I don't know how I didn't get hit, I must have been a sitting duck. I put my hand on the door, and it blasts inwards like it got kicked by a giant, and I run inside. But there's someone else in there. He's not much older than me. He's scared. He has blue eyes and he's holding a rifle with a bayonet. He has pointy ears on top of his head. Like a cat... or a fox? His uniform is different than mine. He yells something, I don't know what it was, and he starts shooting at me. One of the rounds hits my aura. It hurts. I don't know what to do, so a lunge at him with my sword. He shoots at me again, and tries to stab me with the bayonet, but I'm faster than him. I unsheathe my sword and I cut. Just like I've practiced."

Sol took a deep shuddering breath as his eye started to glisten. Only then did he realize that his voice had become hoarse, and his stony expression had broken, pain peaking through the cracks.

"I don't want to do it, but I'm scared, and it's like someone else is making me do it..." He had to force the words out, like they were wrapped in barbed wire, like each one was cutting up his insides, "My posture is wrong, and my foot slips, but I got him. I cut him across the stomach as I stumbled into him. He doesn't have any aura. He's just a scared kid with a gun. I topple into him, we both go down. He's dying. His guts got tangled around me when we fell, they are wrapped around my hands. He's bleeding a lot. He tries to say something to me, but I don't speak his language. I try to push his guts back in, but it's no good. They keep falling back out. He has blue eyes. He looks scared. I tell him I'm sorry, but he's already dead..."

Sol felt cold all over. He bowed his head as a single tear fell down his cheek and he stared at the floor.

"They found me later... The boys from my transport. I don't know how long it had been, but they told me we won..." He whispered, seemingly unaware that he'd switched from present to past tense, "My father was outside. He'd come after the fight. He saw me being carried out. I was hit, the boy must have got me, but I couldn't feel it. My father didn't say anything. He just looked sad."

@tag

1097 words

notes

Velvet of WW

[Doctor Yuki Haragitanai]

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To say that Doctor Haragitanai didn't have a read on Solomon Moon would be an understatement. His face was stone blank, much like a lot of other bored students that walk through her door. Feh. Why did this Academy have to enroll so many people who had the expressiveness of a tree stump? Scratch that, at least tree stumps had something that could be read. His lack of reaction to her speaking made Doctor Haragitanai unsure of whether or not he was actually listening or simply blanking into space. Frankly, she wasn't even sure if he wanted to be here, but so long as he was, she would oblige and do what she was meant to do, and that was to listen and offer the best advice that she could.
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When he began to speak again, Doctor Haragitanai gazed at him and was prepared to take notes. Perhaps these recurrent nightmares had a connection to something. A common denominator that could be pinpointed? Perhaps a theme that linked to a certain behavior that he's exhibiting now.
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Except what she got was... A lot more than she bargained for.
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The vivid imagery of his deployment into the battlefield. The encounter with the faunus, the visceral description of goring the lad and trying to stuff his entrails back into him before he slowly passed. It was as if she could envision herself there alongside him, experiencing the battle herself. It reminded her of her own experiences on the battlefield as well. As the sudden onset of his stony expressions breaking down, Doctor Haragitanai slid one of her prepared boxes of tissues towards him. In addition, she held out a cold water bottle for him to clear his throat, touching his cheek to bring him back to the present.
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"Mister Moon... Before we continue, I would like you to take a deep breath. Close your eyes, inhale through your nose, and exhale through your mouth. You are probably feeling a lot of emotions regarding your experience. Anger, guilt, and probably fear. These are probably the three biggest ones. However, more than that, I want remind you right now that what had happened is in the past now, and the circumstances that lead you to that moment was not your fault."
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Doctor Haragitanai paused for a brief moment to give himself time to think and for her to move onto the next page for any additional notes to be taken. "I... Was also in a similar situation as you when I was deployed as an active Huntress. Of course, I wasn't on the front-lines as infantry. I was assigned to the medic corps that was in charge of pulling out the wounded and healing those that we saved." The Doctor grimaced as she recalled the unpleasant images in her mind pop up. The various bodies that sometimes came with unidentifiable features, the pungent smell of burnt corpses lying in ditches, or the visceral sound of people around her screaming for help as they tried to crawl away without legs.
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"In times like these, it's always important to prioritize not only your physical health, but your mental health as well, else you end up going mad." Doctor Haragitanai's fingers twitched to reach for her carton of cigarettes that rested in her white lab coat. "You're a very brave person for being willing to open up to me, Mister Moon. I'm glad you did so. I won't lie, it'll be a difficult road for you to be able to successfully manage your trauma, if at all. However, I will do my upmost to reduce them so that you can at least get a good night's sleep."
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Tapping the pen on the transparent glass, Doctor Haragitanai looked from the screen towards Solomon. "Can you tell me what you have tried already? It'll be pointless if I suggest something that you've already tried and ended up unsuccessful. I can give you advice based on what you have already tried." While she was sure that he's done most of everything short of taking prescription medications, it was best to exhaust every route before depending on pills. Sure, they were effective and an easy way to get the job done in the shortest manner, but she had her reservations about freely prescribing medicine to people, especially pain medication or those with nasty adverse effects. In addition, her last encounter with Solomon reminded her of the number of pain management medications he was already taking, which would no doubt have interactions with the possible medications she would be prescribing him now.
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What an impasse she was at.
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Word Count: 776

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Additional Notes: What have you tried already?

[attr="class","dangercredits"]cyan of pixel perfect

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[Solomon Moon]

Solomon

SOl felt gutted, literally. He felt as if someone had reached into his guts, grabbed a handful of his insides, twisted and then torn as much out at once as was possible. He hadn't told anyone, not the men who had carried him back after that nightmarish affair, not his therapist, not his own father, a single syllable of what he'd just told Dr. Haragitanai. Sol had buried that experience so deep, and had built so many layers of himself around it, that it had to tear him apart just to escape. It was a kind of pain Sol couldn't remember having experienced before, and he thought he knew them all by this point. It had literally hurt to dig up that story and tell it to someone, let alone a near total stranger, but what hurt more was what he gained in return. It was something Sol could have predicted nearly to the letter.

"It wasn't your fault." "Anyone would have done the same." "You did what you had to."

Sol had heard it all before, mostly from his therapist, but also from people like Holly. He understood what compelled people to give those empty platitudes. It was kindness, or awkwardness in the face of something painful. It was borne of a desire to lessen, or to mend the wounds of the past. It was an attempt to give sense, and order the the senseless and chaotic. Sure. Sol understood why people did it... But he still fucking hated it. He'd had so much of the sweet sympathies of strangers that it made him sick.

When she touched his cheek, he didn't flinch, a weeping statue made of stone, but when Dr. Haragitanai tried to absolve him of the pain, the guilt, the regret that he felt, it was too much. He could ignore her daring to touch him, but her forgiveness was a bridge too far. Sol's head snapped up like it was spring loaded, to look at the doctor, a blank expression cast across his tear streaked facade, livid golden eye, bloodshot and fixed like the sights of a gun upon her. She'd been sitting on his left, so Dr. Haragitanai would not have seen what the other side of Sol's face had been doing while he spoke, but she would see it now.

The dead flesh was gripped in a gut-churning nerveless spasm. The slack skin that surrounded the vacant socket of his right eye was twitching feverishly, freakishly, like a handful of maggots in a thin plastic bag. For a long horrible moment it seemed like he was looking at her, not with bloodshot swollen tearful left side of his face, but the empty dead and completely insane right side. It was as if all the expression that he'd meticulously swept off the left side of his face had pool in a crawling lunatic chaos on the right side. He remained like that, the piercing emptiness of the patch in place of an eye boring into her as she spoke, all the while the flesh around it writhed like madness given form.

When Dr. Haragitanai finished speaking, Sol swallowed, but even still, he seemed like a completely different being as the line of one's gaze drifted from the left side to the right. When he spoke, it was like some machine, an engine, or a weapon of war, making words by accident and coincidence, rather than a product of a living soul.

"Do you forgive me?" It asked, hollow as an empty casket, cold as a tomb, dangerous as the night, "By what right do you presume to forgive me?"

"Not my fault?" He said, as he reached out with his right hand and snatched a tissue from the box, still offered in her hand, "Whose fault do you suppose it was then?"

"Fault belongs to the living, Doctor." Something strange, something dangerous and alien had entered his voice.

"Forgiveness belongs to that boy, bleeding to death in a concrete tomb with his guts hanging out, his final words, his final act on this earth, just noise falling on deaf ears." The thing that was no longer Solomon Moon said, as it smeared away the traces of tears on it's cheek with the aid of a hand that was no more human, "Forgiveness belongs to the Lieutenant whose insides were blasted out by shrapnel."

His voice was rising steadily, but still empty even as it gained strength.

"Forgiveness," the word seemed to be uglier, more hateful every time he said it, "belongs to those boys who died still strapped to a machine of war, not enough left of them even to send home."

He crushed the tissue in his fist and dropped it on the floor between them.

"Forgiveness, Doctor, belongs to the dead," He snarled, the first hint of emotion entering his voice for a while now, and it was something dreadful, something hateful, something angry, something that seemed like it should take form in the air around him and blacken the sky, "Forgiveness is not yours to give."

Then like his head was mounted on gears, a turret on top of a gunship, right side of his face still squirming, his head swiveled back to face the perpendicular wall. There was no trace of emotion left on the intact side of his face, the side presented to the doctor in profile. Only then, the mask set firmly back in place, did he answer her actual question.

"I used prescription painkillers to help me sleep." He said, as if it were not any more remarkable than saying that the sky was up and the earth was down, "When you declined to prescribe me more, I started consuming large quantities of alcohol. Then I got in a fight while intoxicated, and set fire to my favorite bar, and was beaten unconscious, twice. Now I just go without sleep for as long as I can. When I am so exhausted that I doubt reality, then I risk to sleep."

@tag

1097 words

notes

Velvet of WW

[Doctor Yuki Haragitanai]

[nospaces]

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Doctor Haragitanai leered her eyes when his face snapped up to look at him. This was an... Unexpected response. Actually, she shouldn't be that terribly surprised given her current experience with him. Though she felt the atmosphere between them change significantly as the dark-haired lad in front of him seemed much more... Apprehensive, now. She felt something staring at her. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it was certainly there, gazing, anticipating. What came out of his mouth next definitely surprised Doctor Haragitanai, and she continued to gaze at it.
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Though she had a sense that she was speaking to something... Something else. Was it multiple personality disorder? There were documented cases of patients developing a secondary persona, an additional characteristic unknowingly independent of their current self. It's usually an unconscious motive, but few individuals are aware of their 'other side.' It's not unheard of that they would have so much as twenty personalities, but those were extreme cases. Disassociative disorders were a result of trauma, or at least as a defense mechanism against unpleasant memories. That would definitely make sense, given the extreme circumstances of it. Now the question was, what exactly should she call this alternate personality, assuming her hunch was correct?
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Thinking back on this person's records and from what she knew, Doctor Haragitanai began to form a response to the questions. Even if she was wrong about her theory, it seemed as if she wasn't talking to 'Solomon' right now, but rather something else, and she would treat it that way.
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"Forgiveness? No." Doctor Haragitanai started as she leaned forward in response to his initial question. "I wasn't involved in your situation, therefore it would be incredibly disrespectful to the memory of the boy to do so in his place. In addition, I have never, ever said the words 'I forgive you,' One-Eyed Dragon, don't go making wild assumptions now." The menacing aura that she felt emit from the body of Solomon Moon was met with her own as she refused to step down from this accumulation of hate and spite. "I am not here to give you a lecture on finding a reason to justify your actions. You already committed them. The boy will never come back, and you can't undo everything you've done until now. We both know that." Doctor Haragitanai made sure to keep herself in check to avoid going too far over the line, but given that she could reason that she was counselling Solomon and not the Dragon, she felt a little more leeway.
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"You seem very bent on the word 'forgiveness.' Perhaps that might be something you're seeking? Perhaps a way to validate yourself for what you did then. Either way, the only thing you can seek forgiveness from is not the boy, not the ones that you couldn't save, but yourself." Doctor Haragitanai was about to add a comment about taking the first step to forgiving oneself in order to achieve inner peace, but she felt like that would seem a bit unnecessary.
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Suddenly, his head swiveled back to face the wall, and Doctor Haragitanai leaned back a bit in surprise. That was a first for her, and she quickly scribble down the note of a possible split personality disorder in the profile as she looked back up. Emotionless, once again. Taking in the information, she nodded slowly and wrote the notes. "I see. It sounds like you've been through a lot since our last encounter, Mister Moon. While I am still reserved on whether or not to initiate opioid therapy, I can suggest alternative medication that may help you with sleep while avoiding the potential dependency adverse effects. Before we get to that, though, what is your nightly routine? What do you do before you attempt to sleep?"

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Word Count: 645

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Additional Notes

[attr="class","dangercredits"]cyan of pixel perfect

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[Solomon Moon]

Solomon

SOl stony visage was motionless, at least as far as the doctor could tell, whatever was taking place beyond her point of view was appropriately obscure. If he had so much as heard anything that she had said as he was gripped with that peculiar and disturbing affectation, he gave not a single indication of it. In fact, he seemed to not even realize that any exchange had taken place, and just as before was placidly staring a hole in the far wall, with only the slight dampness and trembling of his golden eye to suggest that he was doing anything more than simply sitting quietly oblivious to his surroundings.

Asking what his nightly routine was happily for Sol, a very easy question to answer, and though he remained quiet only long enough to choose his words with the care he attempted whenever speaking to a figure of authority, he did not hesitate the way he had when describing his dream. His routine was nearly the same every night. It was said that armies marched on their stomachs, but it was also true that a well organized force ran on routine. When Sol had been in service, prior to the chaos of that last campaign, everything had been scheduled down to the minute, every activity, every duty, all preordained upon a routine of self care that was hammered into recruits from day one.

Sol's own nightly routine had been the same since he first came to Haven, with very little variation even under extreme circumstances, and with the exception of nights when he went out into Haven to get blackout drunk. Most nights the disturbances of his routine came after he tried to go to bed, but the few hours leading up to that point often passed like clockwork.

"Following the end of classes I train or exercise." he began. His training usually consisted of body-weight exercises, with a focus on rehab for his right side. Weapons and combat training usually took place during the day, leaving this time for more general fitness. He also trained cardio three mornings a week, but Haragitanai wasn't asking about that.

"At 1830 hours I eat dinner." Dinner usually consisted of chicken and vegetables, some salt, some pepper, with soy sauce, or occasionally something from the school cafeteria if Sol was feeling like a treat, which was rare.

"At 1900 hours I clean and press my uniform for the next day, including polishing of my boots." Sol had this down to military efficiency. It probably would surprise a great many people that he was responsible for the maintenance of his own clothing, given his privileged upbringing.

"At 1930 Hours I clean and organize my room." This usually didn't take long, but Sol had it blocked off for the full half hour in case one of his other chores took longer than expected.

"At 2000 Hours I dismantle and clean my arm and sword." This often took time from the blocks on either side to accomplish in a timely fashion. Strangely in Sol's mind this was a leisure activity more than anything and why it occupied a slot so late in the evening. He enjoyed the act of taking apart and cleaning every individual piece of Whisper and its sheath. The same to a lesser extent could be said of his arm, which he left for second so that he could have two hands for working on his sword.

"2030-2100 is free time, depending on how long it takes to reassemble my weapons. I usually walk the Quad. Smoke a cigar. Read. Check the Class-Red Group chat. Listen to music." This was the slot that saw the most variation from night to night, being that it was not dedicated to a specific activity, and was dictate mostly by his mood at that moment. One detail that was excluded was that on occasions when he did leave his quarters, Sol left his arm in his room during these periods, and instead wore a simple civilian grade prosthetic, so that he would not accidentally dirty the Roar. The cigar held a place of honor in this ritual, as Sol did not actually enjoy cigars that much, and always worried that they might lead to respiratory illnesses that might impact his combat effectiveness, but the smell reminded him of his father. As far as what music he listenned to, that too varied from one night to another. Sol was fond of guitars and Atlesian metal groups, but would also partake of Valanese traditional wind and string instrumentals or even Mistrallan Opera. Though he did not say it, this was also the period during which he checked up on company affairs of the Celestial Legion, reading reports and inquiries from his acting generals.

"2100 Hours, I shower, perform my ablutions, and then retire to bed at 2130." There wasn't much to be said about this, as it was probably the most mundane and routine activity Sol undertook on a given day. First he would shave, using a straight razor and cream applied by brush. Then he would clean his teeth with military issue charcoal toothpaste. Then he would shower, washing his hair on alternate nights, and conditioning every other time. Then he would carefully clean out and rub ointment into the vacant socket of his right eye, which always seemed to accumulate grime no matter how inactive a day he'd had. It was worth mentioning he did all of these without using his prosthesis, determined to be able to complete the tasks without assistance, sure to always end the night on a humbling note as he battled the limitations of basic self care with only one hand. Perhaps what was more surprising was that he undertook each without the assistance of a mirror, even shaving, which was a risky activity when you weren't doing it one handed and by touch alone. Actually Sol hated mirrors, and could not stand the sight of himself, especially when performing tasks like shaving or showering that required the removal of his eye-patch. The closest that the one eyed dragon owned to a mirror was his sword, and even that he'd deliberately blackened until only a shadow could be seen in it's surface.

@tag

1097 words

notes

Velvet of WW