Unfortunately, 'Jack himself being the weird shit that needs dealt with' is an issue that has cropped up more than he's really willing to admit to right now. Down that way, there be dragons. Down that way is a long history of blood, of guilt, and of hurting more people than his mind is typically willing to let him remember. But outside of that deep, dark place he doesn't think about, he's a surprisingly gentle guy with more empathy than he even tends to realize, or let himself express.
What he saw just now, what he felt... It was fucked up. He's been tortured before — lost a finger to it, even — but it doesn't hold a candle to that.
"I-" he starts uncertainly, utterly failing to find words. He's a writer. He can be eloquent, and poetic, and he can express himself clearly and deeply in retrospect. After the fact, sitting down with a keyboard, documenting out the insanity he'd experienced, he can absolutely find all the words in the world. In the moment? Historically fucking awful, bad at conversations with strangers, bad with words, bad at coming up with things on the spot. Utterly humiliating garbage at lying, disadvantage and -5 on his deception checks. "I- I- um."
So, here's the other thing he's learned the hard way: after one too many slips of outright blurting the contents of those stolen memories to the people they belong to, he's come to the genius realization that people don't generally like it when their private moments are shoved into other people's brains like TikTok videos. Something about the existential dread of being known, maybe, or the fundamental right to privacy.
A complete stranger slash prisoner of war with a metal arm and a fist full of two fucking knives is probably not a person he wants to accidentally piss off.
So if he can't lie, and he can't tell the truth, what the hell is he supposed to say?
"I mean- it's totally fine brain stuff. I'm not- crazy, or anything, it's not like- delusional psychotic murder brain stuff. Obviously. It's totally normal- well, it's not normal, there's no such thing as normal brain stuff, unless you- have a normal brain, I guess, in which case it isn't really stuff anymore, is it? It's just brain. Everybody has brain, because without brain- dead. But- sometimes my brain- does. Stuff. So. That's all. Don't worry about it. Is this a bad note to end on if I want to ask for my knife back?"
no subject
What he saw just now, what he felt... It was fucked up. He's been tortured before — lost a finger to it, even — but it doesn't hold a candle to that.
"I-" he starts uncertainly, utterly failing to find words. He's a writer. He can be eloquent, and poetic, and he can express himself clearly and deeply in retrospect. After the fact, sitting down with a keyboard, documenting out the insanity he'd experienced, he can absolutely find all the words in the world. In the moment? Historically fucking awful, bad at conversations with strangers, bad with words, bad at coming up with things on the spot. Utterly humiliating garbage at lying, disadvantage and -5 on his deception checks. "I- I- um."
So, here's the other thing he's learned the hard way: after one too many slips of outright blurting the contents of those stolen memories to the people they belong to, he's come to the genius realization that people don't generally like it when their private moments are shoved into other people's brains like TikTok videos. Something about the existential dread of being known, maybe, or the fundamental right to privacy.
A complete stranger slash prisoner of war with a metal arm and a fist full of two fucking knives is probably not a person he wants to accidentally piss off.
So if he can't lie, and he can't tell the truth, what the hell is he supposed to say?
"I HAVE STUFF."
Ah, fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck sticks mcfucking fuckballs.
He hates himself so, so much sometimes.
Quick, Jack — try to salvage it. "Brain stuff."
Not better. That is not even remotely better.
"I mean- it's totally fine brain stuff. I'm not- crazy, or anything, it's not like- delusional psychotic murder brain stuff. Obviously. It's totally normal- well, it's not normal, there's no such thing as normal brain stuff, unless you- have a normal brain, I guess, in which case it isn't really stuff anymore, is it? It's just brain. Everybody has brain, because without brain- dead. But- sometimes my brain- does. Stuff. So. That's all. Don't worry about it. Is this a bad note to end on if I want to ask for my knife back?"