DJAtomika

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

Aight, it's cool. :D

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

Y'know what we should have

A Discord server maybe

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

As the lights dimmed and David took in Dr McCoy's words, his hands unconsciously drifted to his messenger bag and the camera within. His job...no, his life was contained within that camera. Every high, every low and every in-between. Photography. Writing. Telling stories. That was his life, his dream and his passion. What made him happy, sad, disgusted and amazed with humanity all at the same time. David traced the outline of the camera in his bag and sighed. How many stories out there were untold because journalists like him weren't hard at work, documenting everything that could be recorded into human history?

In the brief moment that the lights dimmed, David caught a whiff of the candles he saw illuminated in the dark. The smell was...strange, but oddly familiar. He searched his mind for memories of a similar scent and came to realise that it smelled similar to the incense he'd once bought in a market he'd taken pictures of in India, but the smell was off, not quite the same. As to why the good doctor was using scented candles in this icebreaking session was beyond him, but he kept quiet about the whole deal. Maybe it was to help them relax even more?

Speaking of the room, David took another moment to scan around him, just taking in the faces and expressions of the people seated in the room, their faces lit by the candles at their feet. He was very, very tempted to pull out his camera and take pictures of the room, just because the expressions of thought and wonder of the various individuals at their happiest memories...it evoked that same sense of wonder in him. However, unlike the times when he'd felt pure, unadulterated awe and wonder, this felt different. He saw Dr McCoy light the last few of the candles and disappear out of the room before he could raise a hand to get his attention and wondered why would the good doctor do something like that? Now that sense of wonder was replaced by a low, creeping dread, the same feeling he had whenever he was going to experience a bout of paranoia.

He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, remembering the words of his previous shrink.

Take a few deep breaths, long and slow, and calm down. Remember why you're here. Keep calm, just follow the exercise Dr McCoy set you. Relax.

David closed his eyes and imagined that picture of a water park, him at the top of a long, long water slide. As he let go of the handle above the lip of the slide, he pictured his descent into the cold, running water in the center of the giant hard plastic tube, the waves drifting over his bare chest as he released himself to the water's flow. Within the slide, plastered to the walls, were the best pictures he'd ever taken in his career; a picture of a troop of Japanese macaques bathing in a hot spring during the middle of winter, a herd of elephants on the African savannah. A clash between protesters and riot police in Berlin. The sight of a lone child staring into his camera lens, wrapped in a cloak, his blue eyes seeming to pierce his very being. All those and more decorated the sides of the imaginary slide as he kept going through his memories and right near the middle, that's where he found his source of happiness: his camera, a simple DSLR wrapped in a waterproof bag that hung on the side of the slide. David grabbed onto it and held it tightly in his arms, even as he knew that the end of the slide loomed near. More and more photos appeared in his vision until it seemed like the slide was made of all the photographs he'd ever taken in his life.

And then, the splash. The cold pool engulfing him at the end of the water slide.

Then something he didn't expect to hear: a loud, metallic clanging noise, as if someone was rummaging through drawers and tables looking for something. That startled him out of his almost trance-like state. He opened his eyes again and looked around the room, slowly slipping a hand into his messenger bag to retrieve his camera.

"Uh..."

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

I like it! Thanks much!

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

@Poet I wouldn't mind, sure!

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

it's h a p p e n i n g

I am excite

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

@Ashgan How old is Trisha anyway? XD

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

Shit shit shit shit shit. Running late.

David ran up the steps and frantically typed in the four-digit code to the office building. God dammit, first therapy session with a new shrink and he was late. What a good first impression he'd set, right? As he burst through the door and up the flights of stairs to Dr McCoy's office, he made sure his messenger bag (with camera and voice recorder still inside) was secured tightly to his back and wasn't bouncing around and hitting any walls. The rain had come at the least opportune time; catching him without an umbrella or a convenient mode of transport other than the irregular city buses that ran through the area. His jacket was soaked, so were his shoes and his jeans, but thankfully not his inner polo shirt, tank top or his bag, which was waterproof just for this sort of day.

His footsteps echoed loud in the relative silence of the stairwell. Earlier he'd seen someone else enter the building before him, but since he was still on the bus at the time, he knew he couldn't catch up. That being said, he also didn't want to be late. Thankfully the doctor's office wasn't too high up and as he approached the door, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn, crumpled napkin from the diner he'd had dinner at. David wiped his face and hair (mostly) dry with the square of paper before crumpling it and stuffing it back into his pocket. Then, making sure his bag was still there and his clothes were all straight and mostly dry, he pushed open the door.

He was immediately hit by the middle of a conversation. The older man in the white lab coat was clearly Dr McCoy, and the ring of individuals he was a part of were obviously his patients. That group therapy thing the letter had talked about, thought David, these must be the rest of the people that got roped in. With a sheepish smile and a wave, Sawyer shuffled his way past those seated near the door and found himself an empty space next to the man he'd heard identified as 'Mister Dreymund'. He sighed as his butt hit the chair, relaxing a little as he placed his bag on his lap and tried to cool himself off from the run upstairs.

"Sorry doc, bus ran late. Got caught in the downpour outside."

David took stock of the room he was in and the people within. A fairly well-stocked office, the man right next to him was a Mr Dreymund. Didn't look too bad, but from the way his clothes were also rather damp, he figured this was the man he'd seen enter the building right before he did. The others were varying in age; two women, one older lady who looked like she'd been through hell and back with the way her stare cut right through him, the other a young specimen who clearly wasn't pleased with what was going on and the whole therapy session she was in. Another larger, muscled fellow who had introduced himself as Joe and had been involved in cartel business, sat next to Dr McCoy. And last but not least was a man all too familiar to him.

John Dorman-Smith. Wow. Good to know even the rich and powerful still need to see a shrink every now and then.

He'd reported on the man's company before; a sparkling jewel amidst the churning sea of import-export companies that had earned the old man a lot of money. In his youth, he was reputedly a trader who ran on risk and always got what he came for. David wondered briefly what on earth a man of his stature was doing in a downtown shrink's office. Then he let his mind relax so he could listen to whatever else transpired in the room.

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

The Journalist

_{D A V I D S A W Y E R}

"I've seen things."

"Things that you wouldn't believe. Things that no one would ever believe. But the stories are true. Journalism is all about reporting the truth, no matter how fucked up it is."

A weary sigh. The drag of a cigarette and a long, slow exhale.

"When you've been behind the lens of a camera as long as I have, covered the stories I've written, you'll start seeing things too. Weird things. Horrible things. Man twisted into the very essence of evil. Places and things turned on their heads, the very environment turned into a grotesque display of the very savage core of evil."

The soft tap of a cigarette on the rim of an ash tray, the falling ashes gathering in a pile underneath the smoldering tip.

"And...sometimes you find things that keep you awake at night. The stories that linger long after they've been buried by the press. The ones that had...unusual circumstances."

Another drag on the cigarette and the soft crumpling of paper as it was ground into the ash tray.

"You want to hear a story? I'll tell you a story. I was overseas, in Africa, covering a story about piracy. Mogadishu, Somalia. I was alone but I had locals who'd been paid very, very generously to bring me around town to show me the good side of the city that was rebuilding after a disastrous civil war. It was just me, my camera and about a week's worth of time to document how well the city was doing. And it was doing pretty well, all said and done. Up until, one day before the flight back, our convoy was touring the outskirts of the city when it got hit by an extremist group ambush. I had to defend myself in all the chaos and... I had to kill a child. A ten year old with an assault rifle leveled straight at me. I had no choice. With all the chaos, he was right in front of me and my life was in danger. I... I grabbed a rock and smacked him in the head with it as hard as I could. He dropped right to the floor and, in a haze of defensive anger, I got up and bashed his head in. His skull popped like a watermelon, blood poured out all over the dirt."

"I... I've told no one except you this. By the time the dust settled, no one realised what had happened. It was assumed that an explosion knocked a piece of debris into his head that killed him. I flew back to the States with blood on my hands. A secret I've not told anyone until today."

---

"I've been an investigative journalist and part-time photographer for well over thirty years. Covered my fair share of everything, from the mundane to the extreme. Everything from the state spelling bee championships to the most gruesome murders. I've taken assignments from my bosses to go overseas, covering wars, famines, police in Africa fighting back against poachers, the culture of the Yakuza in Japan... I've taken millions of pictures, written thousands of words, published articles about how shit our world is for a variety of news agencies, licensed and independent. My camera has been my best friend through all this, capturing what my eyes see and the emotions I've felt over the many years I've worked at this job."

"Lately, however, the recent case that I told you about that...impacted my life? I left my job because of it. Done a fair bit of soul-searching, trying to get over it. Nothing helped, not until I told myself I needed help. Went to see a local shrink, who told me that the years I spent on the job had given me a major form of PTSD, and that the story I'd just returned from was the biggest tipping point. My personality was acting in defense of all these negative emotions, walling off all feeling and making me numb. Emotionless. A blank. The only triggers were the things I'd seen and witnessed during my stories. The blood, the gore, the noise. It all puts me on edge. When I get nervous and paranoid, the feeling doesn't go away. I get afraid of things. Opening doors, checking the mail, even eating. Sometimes it lasts for a few minutes, other times it goes on for days. I can't stand it."

"I guess...that's why I was referred to this new shrink. My old one recommended me to this one, even wrote a referral letter. Said that there was not much he could do now that my...state of mental health was deteriorating. First session for this new shrink is some sort of...group therapy session, like Alcoholics Anonymous."

"I...one of the things that my old shrink told me to do was to keep a diary. Written or otherwise. This is my diary. One, single voice recorder. This is my first entry. My name is David Sawyer. I'm an investigative journalist. And I'm going crazy. Kinda. I guess."

---

• Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - "Loud noises startle me, triggers the stress and breakdowns. Stuff like exhaust backfires, firecrackers, even doors slamming. It puts me in a state of general unease and paranoia."
• Nightmares - "Not a night goes by when I don't dream about what I did and what I've seen. It haunts my being, exhausts me, tires me out, waiting until I make a decision to end it all."
• Paranoia - "It comes after I get startled by any really loud noises. I get paranoid about doing things like eating, drinking, even sleeping, for fear of something untoward happening to me."
• Shellshock - "I've spent the last three decades and then some covering some of the most gruesome news stories I've ever seen. At this point, for all the blood and guts I've seen, I'm numb to it. And I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a curse, because I don't even feel for things any more. I...I've lost control of my feelings."
• Smoker - "Yeah, the stress I've felt is only alleviated by my cigarettes. Before I started, I didn't even smoke. Now I'm up to almost a pack a day. Doesn't help my lung capacity."

---

• Perceptive - "Thirty years behind a lens has honed my eye to a very good degree, I have to admit."
• Tough - "And those thirty years gave me an edge against others. I have more stamina than most people my age; run farther, walk faster, stuff like that."
• Well-Traveled - "Show me a picture of a place and I can probably identify it if I give it enough thought."

---

• Fortitude: 4
• Willpower: 2
• Passion: 4
• Perception: 8
• Violence: 5
• Soul: 2

𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝

The Journalist

_{D A V I D S A W Y E R}

"I've seen things."

"Things that you wouldn't believe. Things that no one would ever believe. But the stories are true. Journalism is all about reporting the truth, no matter how fucked up it is."

A weary sigh. The drag of a cigarette and a long, slow exhale.

"When you've been behind the lens of a camera as long as I have, covered the stories I've written, you'll start seeing things too. Weird things. Horrible things. Man twisted into the very essence of evil. Places and things turned on their heads, the very environment turned into a grotesque display of the very savage core of evil."

The soft tap of a cigarette on the rim of an ash tray, the falling ashes gathering in a pile underneath the smoldering tip.

"And...sometimes you find things that keep you awake at night. The stories that linger long after they've been buried by the press. The ones that had...unusual circumstances."

Another drag on the cigarette and the soft crumpling of paper as it was ground into the ash tray.

"You want to hear a story? I'll tell you a story. I was overseas, in Africa, covering a story about piracy. Mogadishu, Somalia. I was alone but I had locals who'd been paid very, very generously to bring me around town to show me the good side of the city that was rebuilding after a disastrous civil war. It was just me, my camera and about a week's worth of time to document how well the city was doing. And it was doing pretty well, all said and done. Up until, one day before the flight back, our convoy was touring the outskirts of the city when it got hit by an extremist group ambush. I had to defend myself in all the chaos and... I had to kill a child. A ten year old with an assault rifle leveled straight at me. I had no choice. With all the chaos, he was right in front of me and my life was in danger. I... I grabbed a rock and smacked him in the head with it as hard as I could. He dropped right to the floor and, in a haze of defensive anger, I got up and bashed his head in. His skull popped like a watermelon, blood poured out all over the dirt."

"I... I've told no one except you this. By the time the dust settled, no one realised what had happened. It was assumed that an explosion knocked a piece of debris into his head that killed him. I flew back to the States with blood on my hands. A secret I've not told anyone until today."

---

"I've been an investigative journalist and part-time photographer for well over thirty years. Covered my fair share of everything, from the mundane to the extreme. Everything from the state spelling bee championships to the most gruesome murders. I've taken assignments from my bosses to go overseas, covering wars, famines, police in Africa fighting back against poachers, the culture of the Yakuza in Japan... I've taken millions of pictures, written thousands of words, published articles about how shit our world is for a variety of news agencies, licensed and independent. My camera has been my best friend through all this, capturing what my eyes see and the emotions I've felt over the many years I've worked at this job."

"Lately, however, the recent case that I told you about that...impacted my life? I left my job because of it. Done a fair bit of soul-searching, trying to get over it. Nothing helped, not until I told myself I needed help. Went to see a local shrink, who told me that the years I spent on the job had given me a major form of PTSD, and that the story I'd just returned from was the biggest tipping point. My personality was acting in defense of all these negative emotions, walling off all feeling and making me numb. Emotionless. A blank. The only triggers were the things I'd seen and witnessed during my stories. The blood, the gore, the noise. It all puts me on edge. When I get nervous and paranoid, the feeling doesn't go away. I get afraid of things. Opening doors, checking the mail, even eating. Sometimes it lasts for a few minutes, other times it goes on for days. I can't stand it."

"I guess...that's why I was referred to this new shrink. My old one recommended me to this one, even wrote a referral letter. Said that there was not much he could do now that my...state of mental health was deteriorating. First session for this new shrink is some sort of...group therapy session, like Alcoholics Anonymous."

"I...one of the things that my old shrink told me to do was to keep a diary. Written or otherwise. This is my diary. One, single voice recorder. This is my first entry. My name is David Sawyer. I'm an investigative journalist. And I'm going crazy. Kinda. I guess."

---

• Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - "Loud noises startle me, triggers the stress and breakdowns. Stuff like exhaust backfires, firecrackers, even doors slamming. It puts me in a state of general unease and paranoia."
• Nightmares - "Not a night goes by when I don't dream about what I did and what I've seen. It haunts my being, exhausts me, tires me out, waiting until I make a decision to end it all."
• Paranoia - "It comes after I get startled by any really loud noises. I get paranoid about doing things like eating, drinking, even sleeping, for fear of something untoward happening to me."
• Shellshock - "I've spent the last three decades and then some covering some of the most gruesome news stories I've ever seen. At this point, for all the blood and guts I've seen, I'm numb to it. And I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a curse, because I don't even feel for things any more. I...I've lost control of my feelings."
• Smoker - "Yeah, the stress I've felt is only alleviated by my cigarettes. Before I started, I didn't even smoke. Now I'm up to almost a pack a day. Doesn't help my lung capacity."

---

• Perceptive - "Thirty years behind a lens has honed my eye to a very good degree, I have to admit."
• Tough - "And those thirty years gave me an edge against others. I have more stamina than most people my age; run farther, walk faster, stuff like that."
• Well-Traveled - "Show me a picture of a place and I can probably identify it if I give it enough thought.

---

• Fortitude: 4
• Willpower: 2
• Passion: 4
• Perception: 8
• Violence: 5
• Soul: 2