hey, you're pinkman. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
magnets) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
holdmypoodle2013-10-20 10:48 pm
magnets) wrote in holdmypoodle2013-10-20 10:48 pm
it's morphin time
It's not even game day, they're so far from seeing a game day yet. The training, the schooling, Jesus, he never expected there to be so much to learn. But he'd never been more set on anything in his life, some kind of ingrained thing after everything went fuck-faced and south. It's times like these, times like back in compounds and chains, when he thinks about his mom, just turn your life around, and driving off in that goddamn car --
Jesse was a cagey, slight bit of a thing at best, maybe not the tops of his classes - particularly the fighting portions - but what he lacked in schooling, he made up for with determination, some sick kind of need to help further, to set his record straight, get some of that red out of his ledger. He's already spent long enough trying the alternative, lasted about three months on the south Cali wall before he decided it wasn't enough.
That was a year ago. he was now when he was suited up and flexing his fingers nervously next to him. The simulations were one thing, and Lord knew he'd done more than well at those, naerly perfect record. He thought fast on his feet, rudimentary. It was probably the only reason he was standing here right now, picking at the casing around him, brittle and under-laden with kevlar.
The thing is that there's nobody else in the world he'd think of doing this with.
Jesse trusted Finch inherently. Something about them, they'd clicked right off the bat, neighbors in the same hall of the station; they hit it off and it didn't take them long to realize they weren't going to find a better choice than this. That doesn't mean he hasn't heard his fair share of warnings about the drift, reasonable worry from Pentecost and all, but he was being lent the chance. He hadn't told Finch yet. He supposed he was going to find out in about ten minutes.
"You shouldn't worry so much, man," he joshes in Finch's direction, nudging him in the arm. In actuality, it's Jesse that's a bit pale right now, nervous, keeps fidgeting with his gloves and subtly pinching at his nose. "Gonna give yourself an ulcer." He cracks a well-natured grin.
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Each flash sets Jesse on edge, though, just the little bits he catches. There isn't much he can do other than settle down on the couch next to Pinkman and make sure the place is as calm as he can possibly make it. Just keep concentrating on this, on the way he used to make him feel, the only place he could ever sleep deeply in the whole city.
"You gotta let me in the rest of the way," Finch says, eyes on Pinkman. Outside of the memory, he's got his eyes closed too, but his breathing's steady, at least. "You gotta let me in, or this ain't gonna work, Jess, c'mon. S'alright. It's gonna be fine."
Whatever it is, Jesse can handle it. Pinkman just needs to trust him.
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It's funny, the more he tries not to think about it, the further it crawls into the forefront of his mind. Flashes, just flashes, of a body crumpling to the ground, Jesse screaming through the gag in his mouth, a couple of hands yanking him back inside the car seat hard as he tries to press his face against the window. A hand in his hair, trying to be soothing, but each touch is like a shudder down his spine.
But that's not it; the blue cascades and Jesse's spitting blood onto the ground. "I don't have--" he says with half of his face to pulp, and that's when a blonde man is lifting a pair of pliers out of a bag on the floor - cement, ten foot tall walls, a caged top over the thing as Jesse scrambles backwards into a corner. "I can't--" Overhead, an older man watches, smoking idly at a cigarette.
"Take his teeth and he won't be able to tell us jack shit," he warns, and the blonde shakes his head, he's not stupid.
"It's not for his teeth," he replies with a shrug, as if he's discussing his choice of dinner rather than snapping the needle-nose pliers open and closed and approaching the dirty, bleeding, bruised and broken Jesse in the corner. His shirt's hanging loose at the collar, torn, burns at his collarbones. Jesse starts holding up his hands in warning, no no no, he keeps saying, and there's this ache that enters the bridge between him and Finch like he's not sure how much longer he can hold onto this.
"Do what you gotta," says the man up top, flicks the cigarette butt down into the cage before he leaves. His own trash can, holds the worst of their garbage. The blonde grasps for one of Jesse's conveniently extended wrists and Jesse swings his other arm wide. So does the jaeger, narrowly missing a slam into the wall of its port. One of Jesse's fingernails is ripped right out of its bed and Jesse screams.
There's something distant in the corner of his mind, the actuality, someone's shouting about a RABIT and Jesse already knows he's failed, inside and out. The jaeger's hand curls into a fist, another nail gets torn right out of its place as he's calmly asked what else he knows, I'm real sorry, just gotta be thorough, you know?
Outside, inside the cockpit, Jesse's hands start to claw at his helmet as if he might pull it off while it's still strapped on.
It's all right. It's going to be fine. It's just a memory. His breath picks up, hyperventilating as the blonde grasps for his pinky finger and snaps it sharply back. Jesse's chasing it, lost in it.
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It's just a memory but Jesse feels it like it's his own, feels every bit of misery and fright and base animal instinct that Pinkman's cycling through, flinches away from the sharp yank of the pliers, and okay, no, he can't - he has to -- he doesn't know what, but he's going to fix it somehow. In the cockpit, Jesse's almost even trying to get himself out of the restraints to comfort his partner, but it's not easy and it's only half hearted anyway. No, he's trying from inside the memory. It's alright, give him a second.
Finch can't punch the blonde kid, as much as he'd like - he can't get that involved, he can't actually change the stuff that's going on because it's a memory. But he can press forward, drop down next to Pinkman and get his hands on him. That's what's real, here. He holds at Pinkman's arm tightly.
"Hey," Jesse says sharply. No, no, just let him try, don't disconnect them yet. The arm that Jesse's controlling twitches with the effort. "Pinkman. Jesse, come on, look. Look at me, it ain't real. I know it feels that way but you gotta look at me. M'right here, yeah? I weren't here when this happened, that's different, right? S'not real."
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"Get up."
Tears cut through the blood and grime on Jesse's face, even out of the eye that's nearly swollen shut. It's then that Todd reaches down to grasp one of the chains holding Jesse in place - this one's attached to a choke chain, that Todd jerks sharply to get Jesse up and on his knees. "Get up." Jesse's words are caught in a strangled sound; the crying instantly stops.
Todd shakes his head and crouches down in front of him again, where Jesse's hands and feet are bound with chains and cuffs. "You been real patient, I appreciate that," Todd's telling him, calm as anything. "You just gotta tell us anything -- "
"I don't -- know anything, I don't -- "
Jesse gets another yank on the chain for cutting Todd off, and it's longer this time, tight, and his eyes roll over to see Finch by his side for the first time. His eyes flicker, and register that he's there.
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Jesse moves, tries to position himself so he's in front of Todd, make sure that Pinkman's looking at him and not his tormentor. He extends his hands, expression open, and he's trying to bring his own quiet, relaxing memories back, trying to let the feelings seep back in. It's hard because this memory is strong, right in front of them, loud and angry, but he tries.
"That's right, c'mon. Look, it's me," Jesse says, firmly but soothing as he can. "This ain't happening right now. S'a memory. He can't hurt you again, yeah? He ain't around, he can't hurt you anymore. Stay with me. Keep your eyes on me, y'wanna grab my hand? We can go, right now."
Anything to get him away from this Todd motherfucker.
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Jesse falls onto all fours with a sharp and ragged inhale, his nails curling against the ground, which hurts with so many of them missing from their beds but it's instinctive, it's terrified. He's scared to invoke Todd's sadistic side, do something against the rules and get himself worse than he has now. But Todd stands tall and steps forward, through Finch - he's just a memory, just a memory - and it's that one flaw in the system that has Jesse suddenly and desperately grasping his hand onto Finch's hand.
In an instant, they've flicked over again, blue edging at the sides of his vision as the drift bleeds through to another location, another memory, maybe.
It's a church.
Tall, vaulted ceilings, beautiful stained glass lying against the walls, rows of pews and a stage at the front, empty, with a podium and a few instruments set up on the platform. Christian rock music or some shit. Jesse's sitting very quietly on one of the pews, his arms folded on the wood in front of him. His fingers are bandaged, a bleed over from the last memory, as well as the purpling bruise around his neck, but they're out of that cage. Out of Todd's grasp. Sort of. He still seems to be grasping onto some of it in his mind, judging by the wounds.
He sits there quietly, staring up at the giant cross at the front of the room. He doesn't say a word.