the question of happiness is not trite but perhaps not the right question i was happy as a surgeon. i loved pulling bullets out of brains and sectioning out frontal lobes so toddlers stopped having seizures and stacking surgical patents i loved the or. i loved my job. i loved my car and my condo and my steinway
i devoted my life to widening a keyhole now i have a million open doors
I was . . . content, maybe, is the word, in my human life. In my lab, in my wealth, with my paintings and my shop and my status. I had a statue, did you know? A large one. They called me the woman who gave Columbia her wings. If you had asked me as a teenager, I would have told you that was all I wanted.
But. It's more interesting this way. Not always good. But interesting. You see the other path. The what-if. And you get to choose what you want to do.
I watched Booker DeWitt die a thousand times. And each time, I went back and I fixed his pathway, so he walked down the line I wished him to.
Then tell me what you mean when you ask me if it was right. You remember them, seeing it happen over and over, changing as you see fit-- can you not tell if it's right or not?
nothing changed until the very last time. and there was a threat nothing would ever change. unusual circumstances even insofar as time travel is concerned tho
what was it abt the girl that necessitated all that work
She was his child. She had been torn from him when she was an infant; there was no future without her in which he was not a wreck, half a step away from poverty and death.
[ there's no real hesitation anymore because it seems insipid to try and keep that information private in this place, where doms and subs are sleeping in the same beds, monitored for togetherness at mealtimes. the only reason stephen hasn't often been seen in his company at the camp is because his and his dominant's privileges let him check in on others more freely.
regardless, the jig is up. if it was ever a jig to begin with. ]
Oh, and she has a thousand thoughts on that, a hundred different remarks, snide and cold and spiteful and worried in turn. She'd known that the two of them must have been contracted to someone, but she'd never had the chance to ask, not either man. There are emotions that are surging up in her, ranging from amused to frantic, worried to relieved.
But what she finally types is:]
I'm shocked I haven't run into you at his apartment. I've commandeered his shower for my own.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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i realize it isn't the same as being a doctor, but surely you must have done something decent with that position.
or do you just spend all your time tying up strange women?
[that's actually a joke, or at least a tease.]
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the question of happiness is
not trite but perhaps not the right question
i was happy as a surgeon. i loved pulling bullets out of brains and sectioning out frontal lobes so toddlers stopped having seizures and stacking surgical patents
i loved the or. i loved my job. i loved my car and my condo and my steinway
i devoted my life to widening a keyhole
now i have a million open doors
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I understand a bit better, I think.
I was . . . content, maybe, is the word, in my human life. In my lab, in my wealth, with my paintings and my shop and my status. I had a statue, did you know? A large one. They called me the woman who gave Columbia her wings. If you had asked me as a teenager, I would have told you that was all I wanted.
But. It's more interesting this way. Not always good. But interesting. You see the other path. The what-if. And you get to choose what you want to do.
I watched Booker DeWitt die a thousand times. And each time, I went back and I fixed his pathway, so he walked down the line I wished him to.
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the fun thing about time loops is i can't tell just by hearing about them
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Do you not remember your time loops?
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[ #yikes ]
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what was it abt the girl that necessitated all that work
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She was his child. She had been torn from him when she was an infant; there was no future without her in which he was not a wreck, half a step away from poverty and death.
I owed it to both of them to fix things.
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Perhaps someday I'll tell you the full story.
Why are you typing so poorly?
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[ he's dependent on voice to text normally, but— ]
perfunctory courtesy to suite mate
[ of course, subs are all bunked in with their dominants. ]
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Who?
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regardless, the jig is up. if it was ever a jig to begin with. ]
akande ogundimu
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Oh, and she has a thousand thoughts on that, a hundred different remarks, snide and cold and spiteful and worried in turn. She'd known that the two of them must have been contracted to someone, but she'd never had the chance to ask, not either man. There are emotions that are surging up in her, ranging from amused to frantic, worried to relieved.
But what she finally types is:]
I'm shocked I haven't run into you at his apartment. I've commandeered his shower for my own.
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1/2
I wonder if you count.
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tawdry or otherwise
[ in fairness to stephen he does keep his sex life compartmentalized. he's private and hasn't really been the kind to kiss and tell. ]
he reminded me of a friend from home
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In what way?
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But I'm aware of what you mean. It's a little stunning to think there might be more of his personality type in the mulitverse. He's a force of effort.
[. . .]
Dinah. That's my Submissive.
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theyre not really alike, but nostalgia is a hell of a thing.
we havent met.
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It rather cemented the relationship.
[Admitting that takes a lot more courage than it seems.]
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