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phormthevixdjinn[The following entry was written before any of the other Transgressions fiction had been started in earnest. This scene represents a 'What If' future for the storyline, sometime in the not-too-distant future. It is not necessarily canonical, but it is important. It was not recorded here previously because it did not reflect a definitive endpoint for the series, and muddying those waters felt like a bad idea.]
[Nevertheless the themes and emotions explored in this entry feel incredibly relevant again, not only to the author personally, but also for the world generally - particularly for queer communities. As such the entry is preserved here. However, please keep in mind that this is only one of many possible directions in which the story may head. Thank you.]
It wasn't supposed to be like this, she told herself.
Some disheveled and eroding motel room. It always was, these days. Cracked walls and grungy bathrooms. But at least it served their purposes.
She took a drag on her cigarette, leaning back in the chair, sneakers on the table in front of her. Her eyes stayed fixed on the door. So did her shotgun.
She kept the barrel aimed steadily, gripped in her crimson-wrapped hand. Her silken Kumpur were frayed at this point, but they still did their job. Same as the rest of her.
A heavy exhale of smoke lingered long enough to reveal rods of amber light, evidence of the sun, sickly and orange, setting behind the cracked blinds.
It'd be dark soon.
She was still and silent out of necessity - listening. Watch was always her duty. Watch was always what she assigned to herself. Her tired jacket and well-worn pants told stories of her duties, each one spoken in the language of stains and tears. Her shirt, which loudly proclaimed "Transgress", was where she showed her fashion.
Idly, she wished she was in the bar again. Operations such as these were so much easier there. Community felt possible there. It was safe. It was home.
It was the only place that had ever felt like home...
She had expected that they'd kick down her door. That goons in gasmasks would bludgeon the bouncer and storm in with guns drawn. She expected that the dark shadow would stroll through the chaos and confront her on a busy Saturday night.
She expected a last stand. Even in defeat, she had thought she'd have one last shining, brilliant moment of defiance. She kept her guns under the bar with anticipation of the day, always expecting it to be a final necessity.
But...
Instead they just raised the rent so high she had no choice.
Later she realize that the city had a thousand and one ways to force them out, even beyond that. The city had tools to smother them all economically, it turned out, and that was so much more acceptable.
It hit them all so hard. Their community was scattered, and with it, so was their strength. Each connection frayed that much more, each friend and confidant displaced from their sisters. A community broken apart. They were driven from each other's support, directly into a society that had a million "reasonable" excuses for hate. A million reasons why their poverty and pain were their own fault. Where their existence was something they had to /debate/.
She cradled the shotgun in her grasp, keeping it leveled at the door of the motel room as she sucked slow on burning ash.
It hurt, when they forced her community to fracture. The wound still throbbed in her chest.
But, she still had a responsibility. And she told herself she still had a future.
In the back room behind her, she could hear the work going on. The scared new girl, no idea who she was. She was confused, lost in plain sight. Hidden even from herself. Just like they all had been for so long. She had asked for help, through the back channels. Even if the community was fragmented and scattered, it still had ears. They still offered help to those they could. So they were there tonight to give it to her. Show her that she wasn't alone.
They'd give all they could to help. But the one thing they couldn't give her...
Time. Time was what had been stolen from them all. So many other things had been as well, of course. But the theft of time... That left wounds that could never heal. That's why, despite the dangers, they still helped anyone they could, whenever they could. Why they always showed people who they could be, rather than who they were expected to be.
It was an act of defiance, claiming back what time one still had ahead of them.
She sighed as she breathed out another cloud of smoke, eyes still on the door.
It all felt so wrong, doing it in secret, hidden away and quiet. There was supposed to be celebration, goddamnit. There was supposed to be a welcoming sea of delighted faces, a bright community, and brilliant joy. Euphoria and laughter, safe and vibrant.
There was supposed to be solidarity in rejection! A rejection that they all turned on its head, a kind of irreverent reclamation that rendered society's judgement irrelevant - turning it to their strength. Embracing their unjust rejection as identity, an identity they could forge into a gleaming weapon to defend and define themselves.
But now, in this moment, there was none of that. Just another layer of hiding, of implicit shame, that they couldn't escape.
This new girl, where would she even go?
They'd tell her that she wasn't alone, that there were others like her. They would show her what she could be, what she actually was. They would tell her that there was strength in reclamation, that if society would call her a monster, then there were monsters who would love and cherish her.
They would tell her all this, and then leave.
They couldn't bring her in. They had no bar anymore. No commune. No space to call their own.
She cursed herself as she stamped out the last of her wilting cigarette. It wasn't supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be helping bring them all together, strengthening them all, she told herself...
Instead, here she sat. Keeping watch in a filthy motel, while a scared and confused girl became aware of her truth for the first time amid the roaches and mildew.
Poor girl. She was about to embark on a difficult journey. A painful one. A dangerous one. But such was their lot, it seemed. To be in such pain. Maybe it would be better if they just never....
She relaxed her grip on the shotgun momentarily with a sigh.
No.
It was still better this way. Better to earn that pain in struggle for your own truth. The alternative was a pain that wasn't yours. A pain that killed joy, and color, and light. You could get numb to that pain, you could ignore it. You could even deny it. But you'd never be alive that way.
That's why she did this still. Why she was there in that motel. Not on the dance floor. Not behind the bar, mixing drinks. Not celebrating with her sisters. No, instead, she was sitting here with a shotgun ready to destroy anyone who'd interrupt. Anyone who'd stick their nose where it didn't belong. Anyone looking to steal more time.
Even if it was tattered and frayed, Vect still had purpose.
And she still had dreams.
[Nevertheless the themes and emotions explored in this entry feel incredibly relevant again, not only to the author personally, but also for the world generally - particularly for queer communities. As such the entry is preserved here. However, please keep in mind that this is only one of many possible directions in which the story may head. Thank you.]
It wasn't supposed to be like this, she told herself.
Some disheveled and eroding motel room. It always was, these days. Cracked walls and grungy bathrooms. But at least it served their purposes.
She took a drag on her cigarette, leaning back in the chair, sneakers on the table in front of her. Her eyes stayed fixed on the door. So did her shotgun.
She kept the barrel aimed steadily, gripped in her crimson-wrapped hand. Her silken Kumpur were frayed at this point, but they still did their job. Same as the rest of her.
A heavy exhale of smoke lingered long enough to reveal rods of amber light, evidence of the sun, sickly and orange, setting behind the cracked blinds.
It'd be dark soon.
She was still and silent out of necessity - listening. Watch was always her duty. Watch was always what she assigned to herself. Her tired jacket and well-worn pants told stories of her duties, each one spoken in the language of stains and tears. Her shirt, which loudly proclaimed "Transgress", was where she showed her fashion.
Idly, she wished she was in the bar again. Operations such as these were so much easier there. Community felt possible there. It was safe. It was home.
It was the only place that had ever felt like home...
She had expected that they'd kick down her door. That goons in gasmasks would bludgeon the bouncer and storm in with guns drawn. She expected that the dark shadow would stroll through the chaos and confront her on a busy Saturday night.
She expected a last stand. Even in defeat, she had thought she'd have one last shining, brilliant moment of defiance. She kept her guns under the bar with anticipation of the day, always expecting it to be a final necessity.
But...
Instead they just raised the rent so high she had no choice.
Later she realize that the city had a thousand and one ways to force them out, even beyond that. The city had tools to smother them all economically, it turned out, and that was so much more acceptable.
It hit them all so hard. Their community was scattered, and with it, so was their strength. Each connection frayed that much more, each friend and confidant displaced from their sisters. A community broken apart. They were driven from each other's support, directly into a society that had a million "reasonable" excuses for hate. A million reasons why their poverty and pain were their own fault. Where their existence was something they had to /debate/.
She cradled the shotgun in her grasp, keeping it leveled at the door of the motel room as she sucked slow on burning ash.
It hurt, when they forced her community to fracture. The wound still throbbed in her chest.
But, she still had a responsibility. And she told herself she still had a future.
In the back room behind her, she could hear the work going on. The scared new girl, no idea who she was. She was confused, lost in plain sight. Hidden even from herself. Just like they all had been for so long. She had asked for help, through the back channels. Even if the community was fragmented and scattered, it still had ears. They still offered help to those they could. So they were there tonight to give it to her. Show her that she wasn't alone.
They'd give all they could to help. But the one thing they couldn't give her...
Time. Time was what had been stolen from them all. So many other things had been as well, of course. But the theft of time... That left wounds that could never heal. That's why, despite the dangers, they still helped anyone they could, whenever they could. Why they always showed people who they could be, rather than who they were expected to be.
It was an act of defiance, claiming back what time one still had ahead of them.
She sighed as she breathed out another cloud of smoke, eyes still on the door.
It all felt so wrong, doing it in secret, hidden away and quiet. There was supposed to be celebration, goddamnit. There was supposed to be a welcoming sea of delighted faces, a bright community, and brilliant joy. Euphoria and laughter, safe and vibrant.
There was supposed to be solidarity in rejection! A rejection that they all turned on its head, a kind of irreverent reclamation that rendered society's judgement irrelevant - turning it to their strength. Embracing their unjust rejection as identity, an identity they could forge into a gleaming weapon to defend and define themselves.
But now, in this moment, there was none of that. Just another layer of hiding, of implicit shame, that they couldn't escape.
This new girl, where would she even go?
They'd tell her that she wasn't alone, that there were others like her. They would show her what she could be, what she actually was. They would tell her that there was strength in reclamation, that if society would call her a monster, then there were monsters who would love and cherish her.
They would tell her all this, and then leave.
They couldn't bring her in. They had no bar anymore. No commune. No space to call their own.
She cursed herself as she stamped out the last of her wilting cigarette. It wasn't supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be helping bring them all together, strengthening them all, she told herself...
Instead, here she sat. Keeping watch in a filthy motel, while a scared and confused girl became aware of her truth for the first time amid the roaches and mildew.
Poor girl. She was about to embark on a difficult journey. A painful one. A dangerous one. But such was their lot, it seemed. To be in such pain. Maybe it would be better if they just never....
She relaxed her grip on the shotgun momentarily with a sigh.
No.
It was still better this way. Better to earn that pain in struggle for your own truth. The alternative was a pain that wasn't yours. A pain that killed joy, and color, and light. You could get numb to that pain, you could ignore it. You could even deny it. But you'd never be alive that way.
That's why she did this still. Why she was there in that motel. Not on the dance floor. Not behind the bar, mixing drinks. Not celebrating with her sisters. No, instead, she was sitting here with a shotgun ready to destroy anyone who'd interrupt. Anyone who'd stick their nose where it didn't belong. Anyone looking to steal more time.
Even if it was tattered and frayed, Vect still had purpose.
And she still had dreams.