goneawayworld | So, let's talk about your self-esteem.

"So," Dr. Fust says, looking at Price, Saturday and Loken, "I want to start this by identifying what your largest concerns are regarding your colleagues. Do you all feel like this is a safe space and if not, why not? Is there anyone in particular making you feel alienated?"

If Saturday did, she certainly wouldn't say so. Her face is a smoothly pleasant, attentive mask as she answers.

"Nope. No problems here."

Who even would answer that question? is the thought that comes unbidden. It's a hell of a thing to ask people before you even get a rapport going.

Loken scowls at the question, but nods to Saturday. He might not trust the aliens, but this seems like an attempt to see dissent, not an attempt at helping them mentally.

Loken tries to hide his disappointment at the ruse by maintaining his scowl.

"My colleagues have been exemplary."

It pains Loken to lie so much right next to Price, of all people, but in this case showing cracks that Jorgmund could exploit would probably be worse.

Price doesn't like being mistreated. In fact, he hates it, but the freelancers 'have their own reasons' so they are allowed to beat him up, apparently, and everyone else is allowed to attack him and insult him in whatever way they please because...Why, exactly? He's been mostly trying to help, the only times he was rude was when he lasered Loken and when he said he went dumpster diving for agents - which was, you know, the literal truth - after they decided to dogpile him when he praised their abilities.
Ah, also the thing about mocking Dan's grief, but that doesn't count because they were no witnesses. Stupid Dan.

"I agree. Our colleagues' behaviour has been impeccable."

It's not like the staff will try to help if he complains about what others do to him. They'll tell him that he is the problem like everyone else does.

Huh. What if he pretends to be naive and to 'open up'? What will they come up with to exploit him in this situation? It could be fascinating. There are so many threads that this can follow, and who knows what will impact the agents and the new hires at large. Perhaps he'll get to catch a glimpse of what Jorgmund is up to, perhaps they'll just kill him and spare him from an extended stay in the third prison in a row he has been forced into. He might even have the chance to come up with some clever counterattack if they try to get rid of him, guess there's only one way to find out. Either way, it could be fun.

"In regards to feelings of alienation, I am aware that it was mostly me causing problems to others and it is completely understandable if they don't want to interact with me."

He pouts softly, his face looks tiny and round like one of a child.

"So I am currently focusing on my chores and trying not to step on anyone's toes in order to offer at least some usefulness."

Dr. Fust makes a little "hmm" noise and writes something down in her notebook for each of them. It seems she has a paper file for all three, although nothing is visible from here.

"So, between the three of you, one of you has already volunteered for the role of scapegoat. Saturday, Loken - do you think Price has anything to apologize for, here?" She sits back, tapping her pen against her notebook. "Actually. Are you all familiar with the social dynamics of scapegoat, victim and hero?"

Saturday had raised her eyebrows despite herself at Price's uh - whatever the hell he was doing. She'll admit she hasn't paid a lot of attention to the group of color-coded super space marines from one of the half-dozen or so endless-war realities knocking around the place. She thinks Price is with them. Definitely is from one of more militant homeworlds, assuming she hasn't mixed him up with someone else. But she's never run into the guy before, or heard boo about him, really.

"Uh, nope," she lies on the subject off social roles, volunteering no further information. "Dunno anything about you, dude," she says to Price directly. "If you got a rep back home, no one's said shit to me."

Loken is relieved he can answer this honestly. Therapy isn't really a thing in the Imperium of man, at least not for the genehanced shock troops like himself. They get chaplains, instead, and they are mostly there for more rote guidance than psychologically complex issues.

"I am not aware of this dynamic, I would be grateful if you could explain it."

"They are some of the roles we can encounter in a dysfunctional family."

He answers to both Dr Fust and Loken.

"However, this...Family being so large might blur some definitions. Like Saturday said, she doesn't know anything about me, and I don't know anything about her either. This is the first time we interact. Whether you assign us one of these roles or we do it ourselves - or, more likely, you have us assign them to each other, it won't necessarily mean much in this particular session."

That was fun! Should he say what he wants to say next? Absolutely not. So he's gonna say it anyway, because whenever he sees a threat he has the primordial impulse to poke it with a stick. If he dies he dies, fuck it, he's done. Yes, he can be a little bit reckless every now and then, he learned from the best. Sometimes fear takes over and he acts submissive, it happens very often given that that is what the freelancers and the Director himself know him as. This is not one of those days, though.

"Unless this meeting aims to obtain feedback on your 'parenting' and rearrange the roles in a more pleasant way while actively keeping the family dysfunctional."

He's merely spitting venom to make it harder for everyone, but he does have a point. He's worked for Project Freelancer, he knows damn well how to perpetuate a dysfunctional dynamic. Hell, look at Saturday and Loken try to be cautious and under the radar, if it hasn't worked for him why would they have the right to try and get away with it? He's been so nice except for a couple of occasions and he was repaid in a less than ideal way. If Fust says he's the scapegoat, he might as well remind everyone how right she is.

Edited 2021-06-23 13:56 (UTC)

That's undoubtedly one of the purposes of this meeting, but that doesn't show in Dr. Fust's body language or tone. "This meeting is to assess how some of our most vulnerable hires are responding to the traumatic loss of a beloved superior."

She tilts her head at Price, then looks to the others. "Mr. Price is somewhat correct, but he's wrong in believing the scapegoat-victim-hero dynamic is limited to a family unit. It actually appears frequently in workplaces, particularly in workplaces that have just undergone an emotional shift, such as losing a colleague. The idea is that we consciously or subconsciously act out the roles that are most comfortable to us along this triad. The victim is the person who's unfairly suffering; the scapegoat is causing that suffering; the hero is the one who steps in to rescue the victim. Now, it seems at least one person in this room believes Mr. Price to be the scapegoat, and I imagine Mr. Loken sees himself as the hero. Which leaves you as the victim in this triad, Saturday. Are you feeling unfairly punished lately?"

Saturday takes perhaps a second too long to respond. There are so many possible ways she could, and so few of them would be remotely helpful.

What is the woman's game? Does she think she's good enough to take three people with no reason to hate each other and make them? Is she that good? The peppy blonde, Saturday's seen in action enough to clock, but this one... is Price in on it? Saturday considers Loken's possible culpability, briefly, and decides against it. And she doesn't know Price well enough to guess.

That's of courses assuming this is some kind of elaborate, well-thought-out play, and not a half-assed attempted to shut the barn door now that they've noticed the horses of rebellion stampeding. Jorgmund is brutal more than clever, but they're not stupid. If she sent up flags during the last run... hmm.

All this thought happens in a moment. The corner of Saturday's mouth pulls back in a bland grin that almost touches her eyes.

"Why d'you ask?"

Let's play passive-aggressive stonewall of bullshit. See where that gets us.

Loken finds it hard to deny he was playing the hero when he did punch the recently-deceased Planker directly in his face after one too many nasty punishments being inflicted on some of the less physically adept new hires. He lets Saturday guide things, his own lack of guile not an advantage here. He is direct in his confrontations, and is now visibly swallowing disappointment he doesn't get a chance to talk about his actual problems.

Price had kind of hoped that the others would be unlocked by now. He understands why they don't want to speak, and it's alright, but putting a wall makes it so much clearer that there is something to hide. Still, as much as he likes to poke the threat with a stick, he doesn't necessarily want to be difficult. He just genuinely thinks it's all he can be.
He lowers his head. This session is going to be painful, and not the entertaining kind of painful.

"Well, I should hope that you notice that everything you've said so far as been a conversation-ender. Lots of no's, no follow-up. That defensive posture usually comes from someone who's feeling threatened."

Dr. Fust looks at all three of them in turn. "I think we can all agree that this is a safe room for discussion, doesn't everyone agree?"

"Safe, huh? What makes a place safe, exactly?" Saturday asks, cheerfully, politely interested. "Like I said, I never even met Price. Seems t'me we three got assigned at random an - hell, do we even have files for you t'read?"

The possibility of somehow talking her way into seeing them is a bright spot in what's otherwise shaping up to be a very boring afternoon. Stonewalling builds character, but it's no fun.

Dr. Fust has a large paper file on her lap when she meets with Robbie. She fiddles her pen as he enters, and doesn't bother with formalities. "So, you were identified as someone particularly sensitive to grief. Do you have any idea why that could be?"

No preamble at all. That’s weird, really, because everything Jorgmund is usually glossed over with at least a faint veneer of ‘normalcy’, presumably so their employees can sleep at night.

But she’s a therapist and wouldn’t be able to pull the wool over her own eyes, so what’s the point?

“No clue,” Robbie says as he drops himself into a chair without an invitation. Oh, he could theorize why loss can hit him hard, but the question was why he was identified as someone susceptible. “I guess it’s something in that file.”

"Ah, well, as much as I think there's nothing in here that would upset you, we have a policy against showing patients their own files. Some people get very particular about how they're received. Some people like to argue with the impressions they've made."

She gives a nod to him taking the chair; clearly, she's happy he's settling in, at least for the moment.

"Are you taking the grief particularly hard?"

“That’s okay. I’ve seen enough tv to know doctors don’t show you your file.” Robbie’s not sure if that’s true here, but he tries to be agreeable with most staff and isn’t interested in getting actual treatment from Jorgmund. “Arguing with your counsellor doesn’t sound healthy or productive.”

Yup. That’s him. Mr. Healthy and Productive.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t say we were very close, but you get used to seeing people, you know?” This whole show of calling him in for grief counselling is worrying, because Robbie can’t figure out what they’re playing at. He wants to say the right thing and strike a balance between appropriate grief and not getting a follow up session. He just has no idea how to swing that, so he’s choosing words with a bit more care than normal. He’s more muted and less jokey when he speaks, but that’s all to the good, right? The man died - this wouldn’t be the time to joke. “One day, they’re gone, and you’re suddenly aware of how much you were used to seeing them. Training sessions will be different.”

He’s hoping for less psychotic, personally. “The people who worked with him for years must be so upset.”

"Training sessions will be different. I don't want to introduce more uncertainty into your life, but we aren't sure yet if Mr. Lubitsch is equipped to handle the entire daily regimen. We may need to bring in someone new." Dr. Fust jots down a note.

"You've been here about a year, Robbie. Would you say that that's made you upset?"

“I hope that’s a note about me and not about Mr. Lubitsch. I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble.”

There’s never a lot of time to answer questions in a therapy session. Drag your feet with a response, and it can look like something is a Thing. She has to know he’s here against his will. Saying he’s not upset just makes him a liar. “I miss my family and friends. I know that it’s just a year and there are worse things, but I still miss them.”

He doesn’t look at her when he says it, looking around the room at anything else. “A year’s a long time.”

"Missing important people is a very natural response. The important thing is that you're able to continue missing them without crossing over into grieving them as if they'll never return." Dr. Fust sets her pen down. "Would you bring them here, if you could?"

"Absolutely not." It's firm, but not harsh. In fact, Robbie's smiling widely. "Maybe a few of them would be okay here, but I come from fancy Whole-Foods-McMansion stock. My mom would hate the decor, she'd hate that she couldn't remodel, she'd hate that the Rig didn't have a theater company, and she'd probably almost get killed by a giant caterpillar because I know she'd tie herself to one of those giant redwoods that aren't even endangered here."

This is safe territory. He's not saying anything really bad about anyone, and he can make jokes. Yes. "I love her, but she's not really cut out for hard work and bunk beds."

"It sounds like you're very different from your mother." Dr. Fust adjusts her glasses. "Where do you think you got your more...tenacious streak from, if not from her?"

“Um… I kind of just said my mom would tie herself to a giant redwood tree?” While he doesn’t always agree with his parents, and they want nothing to do with him, Robbie will still defend them to the end. “She’s tenacious. So is my dad. They’re just tenacious in a different way.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m still rebelling against suburbia. I’m not too old for that, right? Do you guys even have burbs?”

Dr. Lillian's pocket-sized dog is chewing on the corner of what appears to be Merton's medical file when he comes and joins her in the private session office. She throws a sparkly wave at Merton as he enters.

"Hello, Merton! I thought we could start with how Planker's loss reminded you of your restrictive father?"

Edited 2021-06-20 07:01 (UTC)

Merton had a whole little speech worked out to try and get out of this. About how he was sorry to hear the man had died, but the lack of torture sessions dressed up as training, and not being yelled at or degraded every day until he stress cried or had a panic attack was actually raising his productivity. Strange but true. So he would be fine, thank you.

But he'd barely peeked his head in the door when she hit him with that, and he immediately lets out a nervous laugh. Closing the door behind him, he went for leaning against it as opposed to sitting. Looking like a cornered animal, who might try and make a break for it if she looked away from him for too long.

"Wha-what makes you think my father's restrictive?" He couldn't help glancing at what he assumed was his medical file. The dog chewing on it, felt oddly appropriate.

"Is this is about how I called Planker 'Dad' that one time? Because that was totally just a joke." A "joke" that came in the middle of one of his panic attacks, and that nobody laughed at. Except maybe Planker.

Edited (Fixing phone mistakes) 2021-06-20 14:03 (UTC)

"You should sit down," Dr. Lillian says. "I may be a doctor, but this is a room without hierarchies. We're all equal here."

She gestures to a very fluffy, very pink chair. And she dodges his counter-question.

"Oh, would you say he wasn't restrictive, then? What was he like?"

Huffing a shaky laugh at the suggestion that there were no hierarchies in this room, he looked down at the ground, drumming his fingers on the door. Making no move to get in the chair, he had to bite back the impulse to point out that one person in this room had an internal shock collar while the other probably had a trigger for it.

Instead he nodes passively.

"Yeah...Well, last time I had to see a counselor he tried to turn me into a Stepford Student. Strapped me to a chair" he gestures to the fluffy pink nightmare, as if that was the offending chair comeback to haunt him, "and attempted to stab a neural implant into the base of my skull. So...for that reason, I think sitting in the chair would really harsh my vibes in this particular environment." Despite his morbidly humorous tone and attempt to mime being stabbed in the back of his neck, it's not a joke, and the anxiety behind the humor is sincere.

It's not exactly surprising that she dodged his question. But it sure isn't comforting.

Shrugging uncomfortably, another nervous laugh gets past him before he can swallow it.

"I-I don't know. Dad like? Who really knows their father, right? Men of action and few words."

Dr. Lillian holds up her hands and puts the pen down to show that she's unarmed. "No neural implanter here. Promise. I understand that you're carrying a lot of trauma into this room, but you can leave that particular bag at the door."

She begins to write on her notepad again. The dog tries to chew the end of her pen.

"You get to know people through actions, don't you think? How about this, Merton. Since you knew your father through action and, as you said, 'few words', let's focus on your reactions. I want you to take a few breaths, then envision your strongest memory of your father, and tell me what stories your body is carrying with you. What sensations you feel, how you're breathing, how your center of balance is." She smiles. "I know we're encultured not to talk about bodies very much, but it isn't embarrassing. This is a judgment-free space. So I'll start us off with an honest example. Sometimes when I think of third grade, I fart."

She gestures for him to sit again. "Whatever your strongest memory of your father is."

"I-I wasn't trying to imply-...I mean the Nano-chains were clearly the more economical choice already." Nervous humor quickly turns into dawning horror as he registers what just tumbled out of his mouth and he briefly cringes back against the door.

"T-That wasn't- I didn't mean-...I-I'll just sit down, now." Hoping that forfeiting his spot against the door might be enough to get him out of a shock, he cautiously peels himself off of it, moving to sit as he nervously rambles along the way. "Do my reaction exercise. That's a new one for me. Yay, therapy. Always so relaxing."

Sitting like someone who's used to making himself small, knees held tight together even as one bounces nervously, hands knit together in his lap, he keeps his eyes on the floor as he tries to come up with a memory. It's not the strongest one, but it is more recent. Something on the more pleasant spectrum. His parents coming home after the party Tommy convinced him to throw and being shockingly okay with it. Especially after he and Tommy set to cleaning everything themselves, while his parents got to use the hot tub Tommy had insisted on renting. Sure it wasn't exactly a memory of just his father. But it was safe.

"Um...okay, so...breathing's normal, heart's racing but I don't think that has to do with the memory. Balance is fine. No flatulence, heh." Giving an awkward shrug, his hands set to fidgeting nervously, already sure this wasn't going to be what she wanted to hear. "I don't really know what else to say."

Celeste writes furiously, not just about what Merton's reporting but about the way he holds himself, about the time it takes him to settle on a memory and start talking again.

"Go deeper into the memory. Can you tell me what physiological sensations you felt then? Compared to now?"

How did she have that much to write down? Or anything to write down, it's not like he gave her anything, right?

Merton shakes his head at the request, hands breaking apart from each other so he could nervously drum his fingers on his knees.

"I don't really know how to go deeper into it, or even know what that's supposed to entail, really. I know I felt better then than I do now. Not that it's a hard bar to hop over. Heart sure wasn't racing so fast."

"Heart racing," Dr. Lillian underlines, then clearly underlines. "Fingers drumming."

She lets Merton sit in awkward silence after his next sentiment for a few seconds.

"You know, Mr. Merton. Can I be honest? This is a space for honesty, and that goes both ways, so I'll be honest here, just about my own frame of mind, my feelings and emotions as the other half of this professional but intimate relationship. I feel hurt that you're hiding things from me."

"Hiding?" Alarmed, he sits up a little straiter in his chair, his fingers briefly stop moving enough to dig into his knees, like he's half expecting a shock to come with that accusation. When it doesn't, his posture relaxes with an exasperated sigh, trading panic for genuine confusion.

Swallowing, he tries to carefully pick his words, hands dislodging from his knees to busily put emphasis to them.

"Not to add to those hurt feelings or step on your toes Ma'am, but I just didn't really understand your instructions. Not that they're bad instructions! It's just not really what I'm used to. I'm not trying to obfuscate. I guess, I just don't understand what you want from me or what you want me to get out of this grief counseling."

Dr. Lillian is stroking a small chihuahua that appears to be dyed pink. She grins when Leia comes in and takes her seat.

"Hi, Leia. Do you prefer to be addressed as Princess? I personally struggle to use that tern for another human for fear of it being alienating, but I want to be resonant to your comfort levels."

Why she'd even been tasked to be here was a mystery, she'd barely had anything to do with the man who was dead now. From what she could tell she was hardly sorry for that fact, but she wouldn't complicate her life further by outright defying a simple request. Request, well it had been a thinly veiled order that was what had made her chafe at it in the first place.

Leia took her seat, stiff and rigid, hands folded in lap, back straight. She eyed the doctor and her pet with equal measures of esteem. "Leia will be fine, thank you."

Dr. Lillian seems completely unperturbed by Leia's lack of enthusiasm.

"A pleasure, Leia. So, I'm sure that, as someone who's experienced quite a lot of death in your life, Sergeant Planker's sudden demise probably touched on some pretty deep psychic wounds. Before we really get into this, I want to make sure that you're comfortable. Are you carrying any of this stress and trauma in your body? Aches, pains, disturbed sleep?"

Leia stiffened, given her already straight posture she looked rigid enough to hold up a table. Her hands folded together more tightly, knuckles turning white in her grip.

"I'm perfectly fine, though I appreciate your concern. I' really not sure why I was even asked to come here. I'm sure there were others closed to the Sergeant than myself in greater need." She glanced at the door assuming the perfunctory conversation would be ending soon and she'd be released from this charade.

"Deflection," Dr. Lillian says, as if talking to herself as she writes a note on her notepad. "Leia, I can't let you leave the session before your time is up. That wouldn't be doing my due diligence as a counselor. But if you'd prefer that we explore grief through soundwaves or aromatic massage instead of talk therapy, we can do that. Whatever allows you to access your core most easily."

Her jaw dropped to make a snide comment back just like she would have to Han, but this wasn't Han and the banter wouldn't resolve things for her.

"Stars, no." Leia looked affronted at the suggestion of aromatic massage whatever that was or the use of soundwaves in therapy. She'd been tortured well enough already by the Empire, she had no need of someone else messing with her mind.

"I suppose I haven't been sleeping soundly but that's been an ongoing situation for some time prior to coming here. It's not really recent." Would that mollify the good doctor?

If it was intended to sate Dr. Lillian's curiosity, it unfortunately stokes it instead.

"Oh? Tell me about that. You know, if we don't get enough sleep, our subconscious can't process our deeper stressors."

"It's... complicated." She wanted o say it was nothing but the woman had already proven she would not allow that sort of evasion.

"I come from a galaxy in the middle of a civil war, it's not uncommon for people to be under stress from it." She allowed with a shrug.

"And have you been directly exposed to the traumas of war?"

"It wasn't just me, everyone was. Whole planets, entire species eradicated their plan is control or genocide."

"That didn't really answer my question, did it? That just made it about everyone else's pain. It's alright, Leia. This is a place where we can recognize your struggle without taking away from anyone else."

"Yes." Fine, if that's what the woman wanted she could give a dispassionate account of her encounters with 'the traumas of war.'

"Shall I start with my capture, my torture or the destruction of my home planet while I was forced to watch?"

Smiling blandly: "which one speaks to you more?"

So, let's talk about your self-esteem.

Dr. Fust | Saturday/Price/Loken

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Re: Dr. Fust | Saturday/Price/Loken

Re: Dr. Fust | Saturday/Price/Loken

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Robbie | Dr. Fust

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Merton | Dr. Lillian

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Leia | Dr. Lillian

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