Post by anna on Mar 21, 2021 19:49:47 GMT -5
The society we were raised in could never prepare us for the world we inhabit, the world we're to inherit, or the world we create.
It could not for it was built long ago and far away in a time that is extinct. Created for beings that are dead for experiences that are either obsolete or on life support. Each individual must realise this on their own. Many never do. And out of those that do, many are at a loss to let go completely of those ancient ways. Thus they cling on even as it kills them from the inside. You can learn a lot from the past. You can see the flaws with understanding. You can shift. You can grow. But it's very much pointless to live there.
Still no matter if you wake up or stay blind, we carry the effects of living in such situations. They scar us up, most times internally, occasionally externally. They build our thought processes, our habits, our sense of self. In the most messed up of ways, we are molded by shadows of the past. Of times long gone by.
The robes.
There are a lot of clothes in our closet. We have a lot of everything, prepared for every situation. Winter coats and summer sensations and the random odds and ends. A spacesuit for hostile atmospheres is properly sheltered in its case while the matching helmet is haphazardly on the floor, a result of tiresome labor or playful nonchalantness. We have some of his suits that he doesn't wear anymore but still smells of his magic. We have our own that are...suitable but they don't give us quite the same thrill. We have accessories and all the other bric-a-brac. Yet the oddity is always the robes. Crimson stitched with gold, they would be a statement piece on Earth. When taken care of, they can be miraculous and regal looking. They can be the envy of every egotist, flamboyant singer, and oddball.
The War Kings and the like would crow about how the stitching was the written names of the first Neotechnologists, our "grand" founding fathers and the Great Houses that rose from the sands. That the color stands for the solidarity of our Homeworld against the threat of the Enemy. But anybody who didn't sip the flavor aid and knew the history knew the truth. That those names etched in our mind and psyche couldn't save us from our fate even as they rose from the dead. And the shade was merely yet another result of presumed superiority.
They are the uniform of oppressors sold via emotions to the oppressed so that they could build an army. The oldbloods needed the newbloods to be their cannon fodder. So in a bid even humans can understand, they beat the drum of what you may call patriotism. And for many, the sell job worked.
Loyalty for the Homeworld. Everything for the Homeworld.
________
Loyalty for Jacky.
Everything for Jacky.
Oh god, the brain is drained. The tip toe through the gravestones can only do so much.
The vessel reaches for him and he responds pleasantly.
Vibration and light.
Magic.
________
Do you know why we wear these robes, Cartier?
Both back then as well as now because it's important. Back then when we got them, we had no choice in the matter. It was the job we were born for, after all. Note that word! Born. While the specimens on this mudball planet divide and demean people via pigmentation of the skin and the circumstances of birth, being born at all on the Homeworld was usually grounds for being inferior. We'll spare you most of the history lessons and the political ramblings because honestly, we would go on all fucking day. The short version is those that were wombed were usually the poor primatives who farmed and hunted for the whole planet while the loomed were...well, Time Lords. The upper crust. The echelon. And that's the way it was for millennia.
...until the War.
Despite their "best and brightest" being out in the front lines the first go around, it didn't work in their favor. The old rules had to be broken. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on the day), some were willing to do so. Much deliberation and a whole damned thievery of the poorest and most useless specimens of the "lesser species" later, a new breed was born.
When one is the byproduct of a clear rule break in a rather stagnant culture, there tends to be... resistance. The loomed hated us because we were wombed and the wombed hated us because we were a product of the Time Lords. The number one rule on their side was "never trust a Timey". And in the end, that's what we ended up being. We were forced into the culture and the culture was forced to deal with us because, for better or worse, we were supposed to help them win the war. We were supposed to fight for them. To die for them.
Joke's on those cunts.
________
We remember that day.
We could've saved them. Or rather, we could've killed ourselves trying. Isn't that what they wanted? Isn't that what we were living for? And oh, how they wouldn't let us forget it! We are breathing air because of them! We should be thankful to sacrifice our life for this!
We never asked for this!
We never asked to be born!
We never asked for anything but the barest modicum of respect. But okay, you worthless cretins. If that's the game you want to play, we'll play the same. You all should be thankful our Wave even bothered to show up. You all should be kissing our ass because you didn't get killed by the Enemy. You should be praising us that the instrument that destroyed you all was one of your own.
A failed model of transportation made from a long forgotten material piloted from a third rate soldier in a pointless war.
Saving you from something worse.
________
We're on this little rant and ramble because unlike so many in our profession, we actually make the attempt to see you, Cartier. Not as you were in the past. People with more fucks to give would bash on about SILK and Thot Chocolate until the cows come home. No. We try to see you as you've become. We see you wearing masks and weighing hearts, becoming the goddesses and priestesses of yesteryear. Or at least pretending to be. You seemlessly link metaphorical past with blunt and brutal present. So you should know the importance of a simple garment and the symbols it represents. After all, you've made yourself the symbols.
Do you know why we wear these robes now?
It's certainly not out of pride. You must have seen the state of these things as we head into battle. The ends are charred, the ceremonial stitching's eroding. Hell, even the high and pompous headpiece is cracked to shit. When we put them on, we do not feel the call of whatever ancestry we have. We do not feel the utter mindmelting humidity of Gallifrey when the fabric slips across our skin. Nothing here binds us to that.
We wear the robes as a mockery. We wear them as a giant middle finger. We wear them in order to reinvent them.
The best part about obsolete things is that if one has the know-how or even just the damn gumption, they can be resurrected into something stranger. Different. Beautiful. You use the past to amplify your present. We strip the past and mold it into a new future. We wear the uniform of the oppressors and show its deformity to the lights! Yet ironically, it is when we take off the rags that we fulfill the role they once possessed.
This isn't personal.
Not much is.
It is simply the pride of champions that brings us to the forefront. Dominance established through combat. And if we didn't give you what you wanted, if we didn't make the anticipation of your wait worthwhile, that would be the greatest shame. So forgive us if we don't play nice. Forgive us if we perform a few dirty tricks.
Forgive us for the new scars we'll give you.
Because for all you try to show, you are just as short sighted as the rest. You'll see the cracks and burns and unraveling of us without even giving a single thought to the glory in front of you. You'll never understand why such a shambling mess can still stand against wave after wave of absolute dog shit and still fucking rise above everything you've done so far. It's so simple.
We're used to this.
We're used to defying odds. We're used to rebounding. We're used to breaking to reconstruct.
And the sad part is that so many aren't willing to figure it out for themselves.
It could not for it was built long ago and far away in a time that is extinct. Created for beings that are dead for experiences that are either obsolete or on life support. Each individual must realise this on their own. Many never do. And out of those that do, many are at a loss to let go completely of those ancient ways. Thus they cling on even as it kills them from the inside. You can learn a lot from the past. You can see the flaws with understanding. You can shift. You can grow. But it's very much pointless to live there.
Still no matter if you wake up or stay blind, we carry the effects of living in such situations. They scar us up, most times internally, occasionally externally. They build our thought processes, our habits, our sense of self. In the most messed up of ways, we are molded by shadows of the past. Of times long gone by.
The robes.
There are a lot of clothes in our closet. We have a lot of everything, prepared for every situation. Winter coats and summer sensations and the random odds and ends. A spacesuit for hostile atmospheres is properly sheltered in its case while the matching helmet is haphazardly on the floor, a result of tiresome labor or playful nonchalantness. We have some of his suits that he doesn't wear anymore but still smells of his magic. We have our own that are...suitable but they don't give us quite the same thrill. We have accessories and all the other bric-a-brac. Yet the oddity is always the robes. Crimson stitched with gold, they would be a statement piece on Earth. When taken care of, they can be miraculous and regal looking. They can be the envy of every egotist, flamboyant singer, and oddball.
The War Kings and the like would crow about how the stitching was the written names of the first Neotechnologists, our "grand" founding fathers and the Great Houses that rose from the sands. That the color stands for the solidarity of our Homeworld against the threat of the Enemy. But anybody who didn't sip the flavor aid and knew the history knew the truth. That those names etched in our mind and psyche couldn't save us from our fate even as they rose from the dead. And the shade was merely yet another result of presumed superiority.
They are the uniform of oppressors sold via emotions to the oppressed so that they could build an army. The oldbloods needed the newbloods to be their cannon fodder. So in a bid even humans can understand, they beat the drum of what you may call patriotism. And for many, the sell job worked.
Loyalty for the Homeworld. Everything for the Homeworld.
________
Loyalty for Jacky.
Everything for Jacky.
Oh god, the brain is drained. The tip toe through the gravestones can only do so much.
The vessel reaches for him and he responds pleasantly.
Vibration and light.
Magic.
________
Do you know why we wear these robes, Cartier?
Both back then as well as now because it's important. Back then when we got them, we had no choice in the matter. It was the job we were born for, after all. Note that word! Born. While the specimens on this mudball planet divide and demean people via pigmentation of the skin and the circumstances of birth, being born at all on the Homeworld was usually grounds for being inferior. We'll spare you most of the history lessons and the political ramblings because honestly, we would go on all fucking day. The short version is those that were wombed were usually the poor primatives who farmed and hunted for the whole planet while the loomed were...well, Time Lords. The upper crust. The echelon. And that's the way it was for millennia.
...until the War.
Despite their "best and brightest" being out in the front lines the first go around, it didn't work in their favor. The old rules had to be broken. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on the day), some were willing to do so. Much deliberation and a whole damned thievery of the poorest and most useless specimens of the "lesser species" later, a new breed was born.
When one is the byproduct of a clear rule break in a rather stagnant culture, there tends to be... resistance. The loomed hated us because we were wombed and the wombed hated us because we were a product of the Time Lords. The number one rule on their side was "never trust a Timey". And in the end, that's what we ended up being. We were forced into the culture and the culture was forced to deal with us because, for better or worse, we were supposed to help them win the war. We were supposed to fight for them. To die for them.
Joke's on those cunts.
________
We remember that day.
We could've saved them. Or rather, we could've killed ourselves trying. Isn't that what they wanted? Isn't that what we were living for? And oh, how they wouldn't let us forget it! We are breathing air because of them! We should be thankful to sacrifice our life for this!
We never asked for this!
We never asked to be born!
We never asked for anything but the barest modicum of respect. But okay, you worthless cretins. If that's the game you want to play, we'll play the same. You all should be thankful our Wave even bothered to show up. You all should be kissing our ass because you didn't get killed by the Enemy. You should be praising us that the instrument that destroyed you all was one of your own.
A failed model of transportation made from a long forgotten material piloted from a third rate soldier in a pointless war.
Saving you from something worse.
________
We're on this little rant and ramble because unlike so many in our profession, we actually make the attempt to see you, Cartier. Not as you were in the past. People with more fucks to give would bash on about SILK and Thot Chocolate until the cows come home. No. We try to see you as you've become. We see you wearing masks and weighing hearts, becoming the goddesses and priestesses of yesteryear. Or at least pretending to be. You seemlessly link metaphorical past with blunt and brutal present. So you should know the importance of a simple garment and the symbols it represents. After all, you've made yourself the symbols.
Do you know why we wear these robes now?
It's certainly not out of pride. You must have seen the state of these things as we head into battle. The ends are charred, the ceremonial stitching's eroding. Hell, even the high and pompous headpiece is cracked to shit. When we put them on, we do not feel the call of whatever ancestry we have. We do not feel the utter mindmelting humidity of Gallifrey when the fabric slips across our skin. Nothing here binds us to that.
We wear the robes as a mockery. We wear them as a giant middle finger. We wear them in order to reinvent them.
The best part about obsolete things is that if one has the know-how or even just the damn gumption, they can be resurrected into something stranger. Different. Beautiful. You use the past to amplify your present. We strip the past and mold it into a new future. We wear the uniform of the oppressors and show its deformity to the lights! Yet ironically, it is when we take off the rags that we fulfill the role they once possessed.
This isn't personal.
Not much is.
It is simply the pride of champions that brings us to the forefront. Dominance established through combat. And if we didn't give you what you wanted, if we didn't make the anticipation of your wait worthwhile, that would be the greatest shame. So forgive us if we don't play nice. Forgive us if we perform a few dirty tricks.
Forgive us for the new scars we'll give you.
Because for all you try to show, you are just as short sighted as the rest. You'll see the cracks and burns and unraveling of us without even giving a single thought to the glory in front of you. You'll never understand why such a shambling mess can still stand against wave after wave of absolute dog shit and still fucking rise above everything you've done so far. It's so simple.
We're used to this.
We're used to defying odds. We're used to rebounding. We're used to breaking to reconstruct.
And the sad part is that so many aren't willing to figure it out for themselves.