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Haleem bint al-Attar

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Haleem ibn Assud bint al-Attar

3Spc., Medical detachment, 112th Morita




General Information:

Height: 5'9''

Weight: 120lb

Hair colour: Brunette

Eye colour: Hazel

Skin colour: White

Physique: Average


R -- --

Arryn Falco


Arryn Falco. First of all, it’s a pretty name. Arryn just flows off the tongue nicely with a light sound, ending with a with something definite which is always nice. Falco is like the last name of some superhero, which I think she is, so is fitting. The obvious parallel being a falcon, but I haven’t ever associated her name with that; she doesn’t remind me of a falcon per say. Her face is just about the most beautiful I have ever seen, the structure being perfect, her skin well shaded and blended together all perfect to be exactly moderate in the end, being a great example of the golden mean. There’s something about her scars that get me too, and it’s not because they tell a story, but because it’s like fate but them there. The two nicks off her left brow are in perfect spacing from each other relative to the distance between the closest nick to the centre of her face being her right one, and the distance between each eyebrow. The scar running across her face is one I would inflict upon myself if I wanted to be perfect, and it is almost as if it separates her upper and lower halves perfectly. If I was a sculptor, sculpt I would. If I was a painter, so too would I do that, but since none of these are available all I can do is admire, which I do, spending a large portion of my mind examining her closely as we speak, which can lead to a few certain pauses in my sentences. I want to ask Baker to draw a picture of her. Upon first inspection, she was special, I knew that. The way she spoke to me seemed so informal yet beautifully dead, and from that point I knew she had been through a lot, if not prior made obvious by her rank, it would seem many above her lack the experience she keeps. She’s muscular in the centre of her body, but elegant in her arms. This isn’t what most would call beautiful, but I would say otherwise, as it all goes back to her median. I mentioned beautifully dead earlier, and that’s important. I once saw a dying boy lying on the ground the first time I dropped, and his face is something I will never forget. Astoundingly pretty, and the reason for this was the death leaving his expression as he wheezed on the floor, a drop of blood leaving the corner of his mouth as he gave his parting breath to part his face as Falco’s scar does. I’m not sure how long I stared, but it must have been quite some time. When I speak to Falco, I can feel the death coming from her lips, and it’s beautiful. She seems dead inside, but she isn’t. I’m certain she’s still fighting. When I talked to her about fear of death, and why she hadn’t ended it, she gave me a sigh that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. She’s one not to lie very often, but I think she probably lied when she said she doesn’t ever get sad. She’s still alive, and I know it. She won’t be for long though, and it’s an odd feeling. I suppose most would try to convince her against it, but I am aware I would have no effect on her decision. I have just accepted this, unlike Baker would. I can’t help but feel relieved, because I know what’s coming, which is a pleasure not afforded to most when their mentors die. I think about it a lot. Suicide is rather romantic an idea, auk pa’z ovd p dhua av nv, p ohcl kljpklk aopz uvd. p dhua mbss jvuayvs vcly tf vdu mhal. aovbno p ohcl hjjlwalk oly bwjvtpun klhao, pa zapss mllsz sprl pa’z uva ylhs. p ruvd pa’z ylhs, huk p kvu’a dhua pa av ohwwlu. zol pz h nlt. ovd jvbsk p svzl oly? p kvu’a dhua av svzl oly. p kvu’a dhua oly av nv. p kvu’a dhua oly av slhcl tl, iba zol tbza, huk p ruvd aoha. dolu pa ohwwluz, p kvu’a ruvd doha p dpss kv. p ruvd vul aopun, huk aoha’z hivba pa. p dpss zahyl ha oly jvywzl buaps aolf kyhn tl hdhf myvt pa. p dpss puzpza p wylwhyl oly ivkf mvy h mbulyhs, iljhbzl p dhua av zll pa hss. p dvu’a il hisl av dolu p’t spcpun, iljhbzl zol zlltz sprl wbylsf h jvuclyzhapvuhs ilpun mvy aovzl zol kvlz uva svcl, huk zol kvlz uva svcl tl, uvy dpss zol lcly. p kvu’a buklyzahuk svcl, iba p tpnoa svcl oly. pa’z uva h zlebhs aopun, uvy h yvthuapj vul, iba p ylhssf jhyl hivba oly. p dhua av ruvd lclyfaopun zol ruvdz, huk p dhua av slhyu lclyfaopun p jhu myvt oly, uva vusf hivba tlkpjhs wyhjapjlz, iba hivba oly spml. oly spml ohz illu zbjo h zavyf, huk pa thrlz tl ylhspgl aoha p ohcl ohk uv spml hz svun hz p ohcl spclk. p dhua av spcl aoyvbno oly. p ruvd doha zol’z nvpun aoyvbno, huk zol jhsslk tl h mypluk, iba p kvu’a aopur zol’z avsk tl lclyfaopun. p ruvd zol ohzu’a. p dhua av ruvd tvyl hivba ilsspj aoyvbno oly, dov dhz oly svcl. zv jsvzl av zvtlaopun, iba h qvi nva pu aol dhf. p jhu ulcly il sprl mhsjv, iljhbzl hyyfu mhsjv pzu’a h obthu, zol pz zvtlaopun tbjo, tbjo tvyl aoha p ht buhisl av jshzzpmf, huk uvaopun sprl oly lepzaz. ilsspj zlltz sprl aol wlymlja obthu, huk aovbno lclyf obthu ohz aolpy mhbsaz, p dhua av il aoha wlyzvu pu aol zavyplz. p wyvihisf jhu ulcly il sprl aoha aovbno, uva av mhsjv. p’t vclyaopurpun pa ypnoa uvd. p’cl illu zv ivylk tf luapyl spml hss p’cl lcly kvul pz vcly aopur aopunz, iba uv thaaly ovd tbjo p aopur hivba mhsjv, p jhu’a aopur luvbno. pa’z avv tbjo mvy tf tpuk av jvtwyloluk, huk p ohal aoha mllspun. dolu p aopur hivba mhsjv, p aopur pu jpyjslz. vcly huk vcly hnhpu, hyvbuk huk hyvbuk. p qbza jhu’a nla zbpjpkl myvt tf tpuk, oly zbpjpkl, iljhbzl pa’z aol aopun p mlhy aol tvza uvd, huk mlhy pz dolyl hss aol whaodhfz pu tf olhk slhk. p dhua av alss oly zv ihk uva av kv pa, iba p qbza jhu’a iypun tfzlsm av. pa thrlz tl mlls sprl p’t dlhr, iba p ruvd pa’z aol zthya aopun av kv. p ohcl h ylshapclsf opno px, huk p cpld tfzlsm hz ilpun zthya, iba ilpun zthya pz vclyyhalk. p dpzo p kpku’a ohcl aolzl mlhyz huk wyljhbapvuz vm oly. lzzluaphssf, p kvu’a dhua oly av kpl, iba pa’z ohwwlupun. fvb jhu’a nla hss fvb dhua pu spml, huk aopz dpss il h johsslunl p’ss qbza ullk av klhs dpao p zbwwvzl. p aopur dolu zol kplz, p dvu’a il h npys huftvyl, thfil p’ss il h dvthu. p kvu’a ruvd dof p dypal hss aopz, iba p nblzz pa qbza olswz tl nla zvtl aopunz vmm tf tpuk lclu pm pa thrlz tl jyf h spaasl ipa, pa olswz. p aopur pa tpnoa il iljhbzl zol’z lclyfaopun p dpzo p dhz, huk fla lclyfaopun p kvu’a buklyzahuk pu aol dvysk. hss vm aopz hmaly ohcpun ruvdu oly mvy thfil h tvuao? zol’z aol mpyza wlyzvu p’cl tla pu tf spml, zv tf tpuk ohz illu ybuupun dpsk. p’t nshk pa’z oly, iba nvk pz aopz h johsslunl. pm fvb’yl ylhkpun aopz hmaly p kpl wlyohwz, mhsjv dpss il nvul. mhsjv, pm fvb’yl ylhkpun aopz zvtlovd bw pu olhclu, vy thfil p kplk ilmvyl fvb nva aol johujl, p nblzz fvb’cl illu tf spml yljluasf. p vusf dpzo p ruld dov fvb dlyl. 


zol'z illu kpzahujpun olyzlsm myvt tl yljluasf. p't h zwljphspza uvd zv p nblzz pa pzu'a clyf mhy vmm uvd. p't uva zbyl aolyl'z tbjo lszl zol jhylz av npcl tl, dopjo pz mpul iljhbzl p'cl hsylhkf hzrlk mvy zv tbjo. dl kvu'a ylhssf ahsr aoha vmalu, vy ylhssf ha hss, qbza whzz lhjo vaoly vjjhzpvuhssf iba p jhu'a svvr puav oly lflz. aol whpu ylhssf nlaz tl dolu dl'yl hyvbuk lhjo vaoly. pa'z nva av il huf khf uvd, huk pa'z kypcpun tl thk. zovbsk p haaltwa av wba h zavw av aopz? p mlls sprl pm p kpk zol dvbsk kpzahujl olyzlsm mbyaoly huk thfil zol dvbsk svvr kvdu bwvu tl. p kvu'a dhua oly shza aovbnoaz vm tl av il zvby vulz pu dopjo zol'z zbyl vm pa; p't h jvdhyk. mhsjv bzlk av jhss tl hahyp, huk uvd uvivkf kvlz. p mlls sprl p'cl svza aol vusf mypluk p ohcl iljhbzl lclyfvul lszl pz mhrl hyvbuk olyl. zohssvd, kpzahua. pa jhu'a il tl, uv, pa jhu'a il. aolyl hyl wsluaf vm wlvwsl dov ylhssf kv zllt av dhua av jhyl, iba kv aolf? aolf zwlhr clyf mvuksf vm tl, thrl hjabhs pujsbzpcl qvrlz vm tl - aol afwl dpao dopjo lclyfvul shbnoz, iba p ulcly kv. p jhu'a pthnpul h zpabhapvu dpaovba oly pu dopjo p npcl tvyl aohu h zthss pualyuhs jobjrsl jfupjhssf. p't lnvapzapjhs hivba tf tlkpjhs wyvdlzz, huk p't avv hmyhpk av alss oly aoha. aolyl pz h sva p zapss ullk av slhyu, iba p jhu'a iypun tfzlsm av hktpaapun p kpku'a xbpal nyhzw zvtlaopun. zol tpnoa aopur p't zabwpk vy zvtlaopun. p tpzz ihrly. p kvu'a lclu ruvd dolyl zol dlua vmm av, iba tl, oly, huk mhsjv dlyl xbpal aol aypv. p mlsa hjabhssf h ipa. . . jvtmvyahisl dpao aolt. p'cl ulcly jhsslk oly if oly mpyza uhtl, hyyfu. zol'z ulcly lclu avsk tl oly mpyza uhtl, iba vm jvbyzl p kvu'a ruvd vm pa. oly shza uhtl pz clyf mpyza uhtl-f, zv p zbwwvzl p jhu qbza bzl aoha huk il ohwwf. p't jlyahpu aoha'z doha ilsspj bzlk av jhss oly. p'ss ulcly il hz nvvk hz oly, uva h ylwshjltlua. p't qbza zvtl shza ipa vm mbu mvy oly av ohcl ilmvyl pa hss jvtlz kvdu, iba p mlls sprl zol kvlz jhyl. zol jhylz luvbno av slhcl tl ilopuk mvy aol qvbyulf zol'z ahrpun hsvul uvd. zol dhz hsvul lclu dpao tl, p ruvd pa. jvtwslalsf hsvul. qbza sprl tl.


hihukvulk. aoha'z doha p't jlyahpu ohz ohwwlulk. zol kvlzu'a thrl hu haaltwa av zwlhr dpao tl huf tvyl, ahrlz aopunz p zhf aol dyvun dhf, npclz ihk hkcpjl, huk slma tl pu aol nbaaly. p nblzz p dhz qbza zvtl zvya vm wshf-aopun mvy oly pu aol luk. dlss, tvyl zv h mhpslk lewlyptlua. dhz zol ayfpun av lunpully tl puav h uld ilsspj? aoha'z ovd pa zlltz av tl. zol thkl tf jyf huk kpku'a zllt av jhyl dolu zol ilyhalk tf, zhfpun ovd zol dhz dyvun hivba tl, huk aoha p't qbza sprl oly. p ruvd doha zol aopurz vm olyzlsm, huk aoha pzu'a doha zol dhuaz. p mlls sprl p zovbsk ohal oly, iba p kvu'a. zol'z npclu tl lclyf ylhzvu av, jslhysf, huk zol kvlzu'a zllt av jhyl hivba tl ha hss. hss p olhy pz ilsspj, ilsspj aopz huk ilsspj aoha. aoha'z hss zol jhylz hivba, huk zpujl p jhu'a il ilsspj, p jhu'a il doha zol dhuaz. p kvu'a buklyzahuk doha zol tlhu dolu zol zhpk p yltpuklk oly vm aoha dvthu, iba vicpvbzsf zol dhz ispuklk if mhszl ovwl. h obthu jhu vusf il zv nvvk, huk myvt oly zavyplz uvivkf jhu il hz nvvk hz ilsspj. zol'z nvpun av tvcl vu av zvtlvul lszl, npcl aolt aol zhtl zwpls, nla aolt puclzalk, huk slhcl aolt pu aol kpya dolu oly klsbzpvuhs mhuahzf mhpsz oly. pa zvbukz sprl p ohal oly, huk aoha tpnoa il aybl. p jhu'a iypun tfzlsm av zhfpun aoha aovbno. dpss zol lclu rpss olyzlsm? dhz aoha qbza h spl av nla tl tvyl puclzalk pu oly, huk av jhyl hivba oly? p aopur aoha'z busprlsf, huk tvyl wyvihisl pz zolly puzhupaf. zol pz puzhul, p ohcl uv kvbia hivba pa. zol'z puzhul. p't mpsslk dpao yhnl, iba pa'z zv jvumbzpun iljhbzl p jhu'a iypun tfzlsm av sla pa vba avdhykz oly. zol dhz mbjrlk, mbjrlk ohyk if spml. hss zol dhuaz pz oly dvysk hnhpu. zol ulcly lclu nva av zhf zol svclk oly, aoha klpaf. pa'z vusf mhpy. pz pa aovbno? pa pzu'a mhpy av tl. zol'z ybpulk tf spml. rpss fvbyzlsm. p ohal fvb. p svcl fvb. dof tbza spml il zv jvumbzpun? p ulcly zpnulk bw mvy aopz, pu mhja p zpnulk bw mvy aol vwwvzpal. tf tpuk ohz puzalhk illu alzalk pu dhfz p jvbsk ulcly pthnpul. tf spml ohz illu ahrlu if zvtl npys dov'z zabjr pu oly kylhtz vm aol whza. svcl zol'z svza. kpk pa lcly vjjby av oly aoha vul tpnoa ohcl svclk oly avv? hmaly? jhyl zol mvy aol vulz dov zol aylhkz hss vcly? uv, vm jvbyzl uva. p dhua av alss oly. p ylhssf dhua av alss oly ovd p mlls, huk p ohcl, iba p aopur zol'z mvynvaalu. uva vu hjjpklua, uva if tpzahrl, iba vu wbywvzl. p svcl oly. mhsjv, p svcl fvb. p'cl ulcly mlsa zv buylxbpalk pu tf spml, uva lclu if tf whyluaz. dof pz aopz alhypun tl hwhya? p ovulzasf jhuuva aopur zayhpnoa huftvyl, p jhu'a lclu kv tf qvi wyvwlysf. p zapss svcl fvb mhsjv, huk fvb zapss svcl tl. fvb svcl tl qbza luvbno av sla tl nv, p ruvd aoha. fvb ruvd fvb dvu'a il hyvbuk mvy avv tbjo svunly, iba dvu'a fvb? fvb zovbsk ohcl illu klhk aol khf p hjjlwalk aol yhur vm zwljphspza, aoha dhz vba wyvtpzl. p't zabjr dhpapun uvd, huk pa'z thrpun tl thk. zv nv, kv pa mhsjv. pm uva mvy fvbyzlsm, mvy aol vaolyz' spclz fvb'yl hivba av ybpu huk rpjr kvdu hz fvb kpk tpul. isvd fvby iyhpuz vba, tf svcl.

Amelia Baker


Amelia Baker. Certainly an English name. She looks English too, in heritage, so it’s fitting. Amelia is a perplexity to me in how I think it sounds and how I visualize it in my head, but it’s in general too soft yet too hard at the same time, so I suppose it isn’t the best given name. Baker is a good name, and though it’s bland it’s definite and it’s got punch, which I like. I wish she would cut her hair a bit shorter; I think that would be more fitting to her face, though her hair is of a nice colour and is quite wavy. Her face is a bit small on her head, which is “cute”. Her lips don’t match her face very well; it almost seems as if she inflated them herself somehow because of how out of place they look. I see in her structure a lot of potential, but she seems to obsess over her self-image – physically at least –, so she ruins it herself, but nothing I can’t see past. Her personality reflects what she’s done to her face I believe. She cares a lot of what people think of herself although she might not seem like it at the first glance because of her presumed carelessness. She is childish, and in some cases immature, but not when it would be a bad thing. I think it’s really amusing at times, and frankly very nice to be around. She’s easy to be around, but I wouldn’t call her easy company because sometimes I feel as if I can’t get very deep with her or she might just become uninterested. I’m most likely daft for thinking like this, but I do. In any case, she is enjoyable company. I want to get to know her better some time, maybe learn what her life is like. At this point I can ask anyone that question and come back with a satisfactory story for my own enjoyment. It seems like everyone’s life has been more interesting than mine, which is depressing to say the least. I’m certain my whole eighteen years on this planet have been wasted through and through, and I’ve only started living a few months ago. She and Falco have been living their whole lives, but I’m just starting out, so I feel like I’ll need some help from them. She’s got everything I haven’t, hope and ignorance. Maybe if she sticks around and I do too, we can stick together and she can fill my voids as we both learn from Falco.


I don't even know what we had between us, maybe it was something she gave everyone, but it's so much more than what I can get now. Where did she go, I have not the slightest idea, but I want her back, badly. She was so sweet, and now she must have been transferred or killed. I'm to scared to look at the memorial and see if I could find her on there, so I just keep it inside. I actually snuggled with this girl during an RnR and we just slept there on the shore, but I was awake for most of it, looking at her. I can admit it now, she kept me grounded, and now she's gone. Please come back, I really need you right now.

Valerie Faust


I can't help but suspect it isn't her real name, or at least the one given to her. Faust is too German. It's like a name someone made up to sound cool. Overall, it doesn't feel good to say. Not a fan of her name. Her face is like that of a doll's, and the scar she has on her face doesn't really add nor subtract to that. Her arms are so skinny, it's like she's a model. I suppose her body is traditionally perfect, as well as her face, pretty cute, but to me it's bland and quite boring. I could see why so many people like her based off this simple fact. I think she doesn't really understand this. She seems like she was raised as a princess perhaps, and isn't at all tough. She rubs the blazing hot MG on her forearms as to look like she means something or is worth anything, and she certainly is worth something-- as a mindless drone, more or less. It's difficult to hold a real conversation with her, because she's simply too normal. I suppose one could say she's the perfect soldier, at least in the eyes of our officers and NCO's. I can't say I disagree that she is in fact a good soldier, because she does what she's told to do with no question even if it isn't efficient. I suppose sometimes I wish I had that luxury of ignorance and in some cases flat out stupidity, but in the end I'm glad I'm the useless sod I am. As far as the relationship between us, she will always see me as bitter, and I wish I didn't need to be, but I can't avoid it. Can't push through it either, because I'm weak. We could never be friends because we're too different and she lives in some sort of fantasy land where medical supplies are free and everything is a game.


My opinion on Faust has changed. She frustrates me, of course, because she isn’t truthful to me. I talk to her and she doesn’t exactly lie, but she can’t be telling me the real full answers to my questions, they’re just far too simple. She seems to take the death of her brother like it was nothing in casual conversation, and I know that can’t be true. I know she feels a lot more than she shows, but at least she isn’t lying directly as some other people do. She agrees I’m bitchy, yet more confirmation. I’m still not convinced myself that I am, but I say that I am, so I suppose I’m lying to her then. Lying was never too much of a big deal to me when it’s like that though, but I guess I’m still a hypocrite. I don’t think she cares about me at all, just talking to me because there isn’t anything better to do, especially during the RnR. She talked about Dahlstrom and Bellic like they were cowards, which I know isn’t true. It gets me upset, almost like they were my friends, even though I never met them. I can tell she isn’t a fan of Falco when she speaks about her from her tone, which makes me exceedingly angry. I know Falco wouldn’t care, but I do. Overall, she’s alright, just another person around though, probably wouldn’t ever get close to me, and I’m not sure I even want that. I don’t want to be friends with anyone but one person, and when they’re gone I’ll do without.


Why do I trust this woman? Oh wait, I know why. It's because I've got nothing to lose. It's the beginning of the end and this is what I've resorted to. Just someone to talk to. I don't care who it is, she was the first one who was around. I got a few things off my chest, but nothing near the truth. I don't know if I should continue though. I should just put up a fake wall between us, say everything is fine and continue living with this pain in my chest that will only end up killing me when my love is broken and dead. Until then I live in constant pain, and it's only for my confusion. I want to scream, but that's not befitting of Haleem is it? I'm pretty sure I'm not Haleem, and certainly not "Atari". Reading my old entries, I feel like that person has not been lost, but killed; butchered. Haleem was someone with confidence, love, principles, and a future. I wish I could be Haleem. To those looking on, it certainly might look to be that way, but to me I'm someone else. I don't even know who. My own identity confuses me, and I have no lens through which to view the world as a result of this. Faust mostly knows Haleem, and partly knows me. Just a small amount, a tiny little parcel, but well enough to know there's more than meets the eye. She's the second person to figure out what my sexuality is, due to some brazen quoting of T.E. Lawrence, and I'm quite ashamed. She seemed surprised, and I didn't look but I'm sure if I did I would find some disgust in there. I was born to be abused. Been abused my whole life, and now I can't live without it. Some irresponsible tempering with my brain from some girl stuck in her dreams trying to make me someone else and then leaving me in the dirt when it didn't work out certainly hasn't helped. She said some things to me, and I could tell it wasn't a joke, but I was aroused. I could feel it, and though it didn't show I was certainly turned on by her. That's not love, it's sick. Why do I feel these things? I almost told her how she made me felt but I fear she would have awkwardly side-stepped me and we wouldn't have ever spoken again. That can't happen, I've told her too much. She knows who I am and therefore I'm not safe. I wish I'd kept my mouth shut but I failed. Now she's worried about me when she's got well enough to worry about on her own. Me. Some ugly, self-harming, arrogant (somehow), liar. When I end up dead I'll just be another name on her list. I don't want her to think she failed me, because that's not on her. I know how I'll end up, I know it. Maybe she's some sort of reason to live again. I don't know. Being depressed isn't all that bad, I've been depressed since I was eleven, but this is a new, foreign hell I need to get through. For her, maybe. It pains me to know she's lying to me just as much as I am though, because there's always more to the story. I've opened up to one person, and they used me until they decided I wasn't the right stuff then shut me out in the middle of a procedure, leaving me functionless. She also embodies my darkest desires. She's strong, handsome, and facetious. I want to have sex with this woman. There's no beating around the bush to be done, it's just a fact. I can't speak to her without thinking about this, especially after she teased me in such a cruel way. It disgusts me, how could I be so shallow and primal? How could she lead me on though? I never asked for it, I was obviously uncomfortable, but then the moment in which I was least prepared to defend myself she struck, hitting me where it actually hurts. I've been full of sexual tension for the so many months I've lost track now, and it only gets worse and worse. You're told it goes away after a while, or at least that's what Muslim women tell you when they teach you the book, but this isn't true for me. I've tried to masturbate often, to alleviate myself, but I just can't, I've spent hours, but nothing. I don't think she understands what she's done to me, but now I can't think of anything else when looking at her. They are bad thoughts, and I hate them. I hate myself for thinking them. I hate my mind. I wish I could get a new mind. Maybe a frontal lobotomy would fix me. I view myself in a completely metaphysical manner, and I don't even view my body as my own. That's why I don't take care of myself. Just some faulty, clumsy tool for my brain to operate with a long nose and no positive sexual indicators. She can't find me attractive, and people care more about the body than they do the mind usually. I've a virtually flat chest, a long nose, a tiny mouth, pudgy cheeks, and boring, brown eyes. I feel like I'm living in a shell of a human being, and my mind is so preoccupied with self-fabricated paradoxes and obstacles that it can't possibly fill such a thing. I look like a pale ghost, and it's only been getting worse. I wish I could exchange bodies with someone, even a man for that matter. She makes me so insecure; it's painful to be around her. I wish she would just leave me alone now and never speak nor think of me again. I'm just some nobody destined to fail by none other than the big man in charge.

Annie Brewer


Annie Brewer, sounds like a child's name. Doesn't feel right to say, so I call her "Lieutenant", though I feel like even that isn't quite appropriate. She is the sole embodiment of the cause and the effects of everything wrong with the medical detachment. She, like her staff of course, is lazy. She doesn't train new Recruits and doesn't train anything else either. I wanted to test her on something that was quite simple, see if she knew what CPP was. Obviously in relation to a third degree burn, it means combat pill pack, but cerebral perfusion pressure is also by the same abbreviation, though a very different meaning. She went on to explain what cerebral perfusion pressure was, though she explained it completely wrong. She went from the top up, as if reading through an encyclopedia and clicking through the definitions until there were no more, but she didn't know what any of it mean. She didn't tell me how to gauge it, and when I asked her to, she explained it in a way even more diluted. She doesn't fulfill the duties of a Lieutenant at all, and certainly doesn't know what is expected of them. She might be good at remembering letters and numbers, but when asked what they mean she fakes it to make it. That's how she got her rank, I assume. In this military, everything is dysfunctional. I would say she slipped through the cracks if it wasn't a chasm. I almost feel bad for her, but then I remember she keeps at this for the rank and the power, though she knows she can't handle it. If she doesn't know it, she is quite stupid, but I suspect she is not so much so. She will never promote me because I am a a mentee of a far greater medic, who she is scared of because she actually knows what she is doing. On a personal level, I can't say much, but that she would do this and destroy such a thing people before her have worked so hard on, I can only imagine what she is like. I might make Lance Corporal before I make Second Specialist, but at the moment I don't see either happening because the bar was set so low by this medical detachment, anything of minimum requirement is too much for the regular infantry and the sloth medical staff. She needs to shape up or get out, and at this point I don't see either happening, so she is the death of my life, as this detachment is my life. I have had to train multiple fellow Third Specialists on things so basic it amazes me. I once had to teach a Second Specialist how to remove a bullet and suture a wound as they were performing that very operation on me, Schade. I feel bad for Schade, as she was flung into the position she wasn't ready for because she was easily broken does not attempt to do her job as it's meant to be. I don't see Schade around because I suspect she is so ashamed of her inadequacy, the fault of Brewer. I don't know what I am to do, but I certainly will not be allowed to advance in this place, I take it. I might just transfer because of this, but to do that would be to transfer away from Baker and Falco. 


Resigned. I'm very happy about this.


Upon further reflection, I'm not so sure she was as bad as I may have thought. This requires more thinking though, and I don't have much time for that.


How can I miss this woman? Maybe it's rather that I miss the way things used to be, perhaps. There's always going to be another incompetent medical Lead.

Jessica Read


I'm almost certain it's an English name, but she doesn't sound English at all, more Scandinavian but in an other-worldly manner. I suppose it doesn't take a genius to deduct her being a colonial. It's a nice name, though rather plain. Sometimes something doesn't need too much flash to be beautiful though. She's very pretty, but in a way that isn't as over-the-top such as so many others around this vessel. She's pretty, not gorgeous, not perfect, but pretty. She's just pretty. That's what I would like to be, nothing too much as to where you stand out in a normal crowd. I feel watched all the time because of my nose, or my whole face in general. I'm sure she doesn't get that, just feels like a normal person. That's the unattainable for me, so I shouldn't dwell on it because I will always be insecure. She. . . looks up to me in a certain way that I don't understand. It isn't just because I'm a higher rank than her, but maybe she respects me? I couldn't imagine such a thing, so it might just be a coincidence. Why does she look up to me? I don't know what I'm doing. I'm so terrible I'm surprised I've made it this far without being kicked and somehow court martialed. I recently blew a stealth operation entirely with my stupidity, but I don't think anyone noticed. I don't want her to follow me, so maybe that's why I'm mean to her sometimes. She should just go and follow some deadbeat medic like Williams. I haven't been able to have a real conversation with her yet, because she looks up to me and I am some sort of mentor to her. . . like Falco was to me. Falco is a good medic though, and I am not. It all happened so fast, and now all the sudden I'm expected to be some sort of wizard in medicine, but I'm below average in reality, at least that's what I keep telling myself. She's like four years older than me too, but I guess my ugly face doesn't give her the sense of my youth that is so obvious to me and that is the true reality. I feel like I care about her too. I can't imagine her dying, and it always makes me nervous to see her out on a drop. I get panic attacks late at night over all this, and I think of Baker, Falco, and her. It's all connected in the most queer and ridiculous way, but it certainly is. She could teach me quite a bit about how to be a decent human being, and I feel like I can't teach her anything. Why me? I keep asking myself this question. I just want her to go away, and I wish I could tell her to, but I just can't. Something holds me back and it's driving me positively mad. She thinks she's nervous, but that's not true at all. She's just bad at hiding this, unlike me, a master. I'm a good liar, but she's true and it all shows. She's capable of intelligent conversation, and I wish I could converse with her as a result of this knowledge, so badly. I haven't spoken to anyone in so many months bar words that don't mean anything. I know how terribly formatted this entry is, but confronting this makes me want to cry. I'm not ready for her, and I'm nowhere near worth it. Just let me be alone, completely alone. Maybe then I can rot away without anyone noticing. 

Dave Foster


This has me more upset than I should be, being a medic and all. I've seen a lot of people die. Mostly stupid people doing stupid things though. That's how this is so different, this man wasn't stupid at all. He was special, in a way. I know that could be said about everyone, especially in the 112th, but I feel like he was actually different. So innocent. On a tram slowly drifting over a sea of rot, he was shot dead. Out of all the people in the tram, it was him and him only who actually died. During the start of the mission, I hugged him for warmth, and he thanked me. Didn't call me a name, didn't try to brush it off because he was too cool, he really meant it. I put a blanket around him and sat next to the fire for a few moments, and it was really special for me. I don't know why, I've certainly taken care of many people in that way, but this was just so extraordinary for some unknown reason. His face, something about it was very moderate, and humble. He wore glasses which didn't quite fit right with his structure, sometimes a bit slanted from what I saw, thin lips that didn't quite match the rest of his face. We started talking, I went out on a limb and told a joke. I think he liked it, or at least I hope he did. I'm at a loss for words. Maybe he liked me, just a little bit. I honestly started to feel a little something, between us. It's unfair to put thoughts in his head after it's been blown all across the interior of a building on some far-off moon of Jupiter, but, maybe? I deal with so many crazy people, and for just one second, I thought I could have had a friend. Maybe a little bit more. God knows that's what I need right now. Just some sweet guy, who's smart and happy and could keep me grounded. I was going to talk to him, right after we came out of there. I never do that. After the debrief, you weren't there. I had a second look, just to see if maybe it was the other Foster or something. You always seemed to be there after a drop, and I caught myself casting a curious glance every now and again. I just hid myself in the storage room, staring at the wall in front of me as the clock ticked on, and on, and on. I just sat there, and I cried a little bit. Why does it always have to be the good ones? Here I was,thinking I cared of nobody in the world but three people, Read, Falco, and Faust, even though I never knew them. I never knew you either, but I feel like I was closer than all the other fakers on the ship. This happens every time I let a little love escape my heart. I know I'm way below you, and I was, and I always will be, but maybe you would have given me a chance? I would have settled for even being a friend, just someone to talk to about things. Why couldn't it have been me? I'm a loser, I hate myself because I'm sick and twisted in my mind. You were pure. Oh God, I wish I could have only gotten to know you a bit more. Asked you to be my friend, maybe. You were so innocent. Times like this make me skeptical of my atheism. There must be a hell, something so evil to take you away just when I thought I could have something worth living for. That being said, there must be some force of good in the world to have created such a thing perfect as you. Every time I let down my guard, I am beaten down. Dave, can you hear me? Maybe you were some kind of angel, and now you're back up home. Such notions are silly though, and I realize it. God is a concept truly of the human mind, and as a result I am my own god. I created you, or at least what I saw you to be. What type of cruel god am I? Why must I make myself suffer like this? Maybe it's because deep down inside, I'm asking for it. Not only asking for it by forcing myself into such a weak position as to fall for some photographer boy at first touch, but my twisted mind. A perfect storm of bad luck has fallen upon me. I am the beast I worship, you were a figment of my imagination, and I only put you there to teach myself a lesson. But why? Why am I killing myself so slowly, and why did I love you for just long enough to break my heart again?



Entry No.1


       I remember distinctly sitting on a wooden bench in the station, my legs pressed together and my upper body leaned forth at an angle, only stopped from collapsing onto my lap by my crossed arms. At the time I wasn't wearing anything on my head, nothing to cover or protect me from the world as I'd been so used to. It was an intoxicating freedom, as was my apprehension. I had done something wrong, and was going to have to pay the price for it.


       A man opened the door to my left, and I looked at him. He was a young man, one with a pretty, young face adorned with an out of place moustache covering his upper lip, quite well trimmed and neatly tended to. He wore a pair of leather boots, striped pants, a shirt, a tie, and a brimmed cap. The leather of his boots had a shining luster, and I caught myself staring down at them before looking back up to the man's face, anxious and waiting.


       Without a word, he motioned me to stand, which I did with little hesitation, bringing me closer to him but still looking up. He didn't look all too much older than me at the time, but his eyes were grey and without much reflection, light seeming to be trapped in his gaze, never to escape again to another's in order to convey a specific emotion. I remember the silence, nothing but the clock ticking on the wall as he looked me over.


       He rose his right hand rather ceremoniously and brought it down on my cheek with a great amount of force, and especially coming from a rather muscular hand, it caused me to flinch and sent my face recoiling a foot closer to the floor. Silence. I slowly retook my position in front of him, looking back up now with what I presume would have been a red cheek. He paused for a moment, staring me down again.


       I heard the clock ticking down across the room past eleven PM, and the man reached for a black, lacquered baton on his hip. I don't suppose it was standard issue. Quite a glorious piece, he took a firm grip of my right shoulder and held me in place as he sent it flying to the left side of my head, and I let out a short yelp as it made contact with my skull, resounding a woody thump. Being held, I didn't move much, and quickly clamped my jaw shut after letting out that noise. It was late, and my vocalizations could be heard almost certainly across the building. 


       It was an interesting feeling as we stared at each other in those moments. My head was throbbing, and I could feel my cheeks be consumed by a certain delicate warmth which was foreign to me at the time.


       I slightly cowered, leaning backwards to lengthen the uncomfortable distance between us, and as a response he pushed me back onto the bench, my spine hitting the concrete wall abruptly. There wouldn't be much time between this and his next move, slamming his instrument into my left arm. I saw it coming, gritting my teeth and letting out a whimper before instinctively taking hold of where I was hit with my right hand. 


       He next sent a blow which left me unable to write properly for months, leading to further issues. I was knocked down onto my right side, letting a long exhale exit my lips as I pulled away my hand to stare at my now broken fingers in shock. I left my jaw open as I whimpered upon an attempt to move them. 


       The man capitalized on my shock, sending forth two subsequent blows to my open flank, breaking a rib. My mouth stuttered in the closed air whilst I heaved, then gritting my teeth once more and soldiering through the pain. I didn't make much of a sound. He stopped for a moment, as if teasing his completion, only to begin once more with three more strikes to my left thigh and one to my forearm, to which my body convulsed. 


       I heard the man breathing heavily, as if he was panting, though surely he was not tired. He extended his unoccupied left hand and gripped with it my side under my arm, violently pulling me forwards off the bench onto the ground. I didn't put up much of a resistance, and instead elected to go with whatever he pushed upon me, thinking this would lesser my punishment.


       Immediately, he began me to kick me with his leather boots, steel toed but rubber soled. He aimed for my face, ending up hitting my forehead which left a bloodied mark, the tips sharp enough to tear my skin and cause blood to begin to run down the side of my face. He aimed another at my face, rearing back in order to achieve full power, this blow landing at the point which joined my cheek to my nose, leaving it slightly crooked as most force was transferred into my nose. Blood now flowed from that place too.


       He next aimed for my torso, kicking my abdomen multiple times. The pain began to blur my vision and memory, so I don't quite remember how many times he hit me. A keeled forwards, and as if choking on my own screams vomited on the floor in front of me, barely missing his boots. I felt sick to the core, but that wasn't the only emotion that was running through my mind. Something new kept disrupting my thought and I couldn't understand what it was. Fear? Shame? I had felt such things before. It was a warm feeling, a delicious one. 


       I didn't have enough sense to look up to the man, because my mind was foggy and dysfunctional at that time, but I assume the vomit was enough to signal him he had given me enough. He reached down and grabbed the collar of my shirt, pulling me up and popping a button off in the process before he would shove me against the wall to the right of the bench. I barely was able to keep myself standing, pressing my body against the cold concrete as he opened the door from which he entered before and had a short conversation with another man in the same uniform but of an older age and rotund shape.


       He walked into the room, gripping my bicep and leading me into the main section of the building, taking me out. I saw the other man stare at me with the same blank, handsome face as I was escorted away. The Officer leading me from the building chuckled about something, and whispered a single word into my ear that I couldn't quite decipher, then pushing me out the door into the cold night. I walked a small ways towards the street, stumbling about before I could regain my composure


       After a short while, I felt the pain in full, adrenaline having left my system, and as I walked along the streets, uncovered, bruised, and bleeding for all to see, I kept thinking of that young man's face, and what happened. It was all very surreal, and I was still lightheaded. The feeling was still there, down in my chest, that warm feeling that I didn't at all understand. It was so confusing to me. 


       People stared at me, but I didn't care. I usually would have, but not that night. I was called a few names, but I didn't listen. By the time I got back to my home though, the situation only worsened.


       This experience perplexed me for about a year.

Entry No.2


What am I doing here? Deep down inside, maybe it's my beast telling me this, I hope someone finds these entries. They're a plea for help, hidden deep in the files of my PDA, carried around with me at all times. Maybe it's just he beast seeing how far I've gone, too far for her comfort. I'm nearing the edge now, and she wants me to steer back towards the path of happiness, only far enough to take me from the brink of the cliff face but not far enough for to experience any sort of happiness. She wants me to suffer. Maybe I should prove her wrong. Maybe I could take a few seconds to do that, and in that time I would be smiling, because I will know I have won. Maybe those ten seconds of happiness will be worth the emptiness that will incur after it's all said and done? This is a game, it always has been, always will be: me versus the little monster inside my chest telling me to keep going through it all. It might not sound like it, but I know she's evil incarnate. Sometimes she's nice to me, and she tells me nice things, how smart I am, how talented I am, "You'll be the best medic the 112th has ever seen". At that point, it doesn't fool even me, for I know that is a complete lie. Nonetheless she is a good persuader, and she has on multiple occasions guided me from complete ruin. The worst type of enemy, she is. One that will pretend to be your friend, and not to back-stab you at a certain point, a quick and painless endeavour, but rather a slow and painful death will they give you, all the while reaping what little humanity is left in your body for their own amusement. I actually find it funny, how this is all in my head. I could easily turn things around, make friends, live a good life, but I simply do not. I haven't the slightest clue as to why this is though, which is rather frustrating. I will win against her. I need to, just got to stop the pain. 


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3 hours ago, saiphun987 said:


Me neither; I have no idea what it means.

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Just now, StevieJr said:

How about James Chevosky, he's likable

Too normal for her to have a real opinion on him in particular, but I could probably write something more general that could sorta pertain. 

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Just now, Fitz said:

Too normal for her to have a real opinion on him in particular, but I could probably write something more general that could sorta pertain. 

Go for it, I know they had a long convo once.

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