maskormenacelogs | closed / our hopes & expectations

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closed / our hopes & expectations

WHO: Darlene and Elliot.
WHERE: Nonah.
WHEN: Early Jan.
WHAT: Turtles and revelations.
WARNINGS: General content warnings include familial abuse history and past drug use that might be referenced, vulgar language and possible slurs, mental illness stuff, and massive spoilers for Mr Robot.

Aldersons aren't about that conditional gift-giving life, so it's well after Christmas when he does actually buy Darlene a turtle. It's half thanks for the dog, half appreciation of her presence here, and a third mathematically incorrect half an apology for trolling her into a modeling gig. Because turtles aren't self-sustaining he also shells out for a tank and shit, breaks into her house in order to install it so that she can wake up to an exciting "anonymous" gift—

And blacks the fuck out.

So what Darlene is actually going to wake up or come home to is her dad, sitting in her living room smoking a cigarette, the state of the ashtray and haze in the air saying this isn't his first. Her dad and not her dad; Edward Alderson was a little browbeaten and tried hard and maybe he had a temper sometimes but he was never actively malicious, so the devious smirk that twists his goblin features is probably new. The confidence and charisma of a cult leader.

"I figured maybe it was time for us to have a conversation," he says casually, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

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Everyone has a secret identity. And everyone has a tragic backstory, an origin story, a reason why they are what they are, who they are, doing what they are doing at any given time on any given day. People are not much different than machines running programs, if you really think about it. A series of executed commands, and functions, susceptible to holes. Make those pieces work for you or someone will find your exploit and make you work for them. That is the function of society, of the powers that be, the suits: find the exploits, run the show. And everyone has a kryptonite, something that can seriously, seriously fuck them up. Your own little daemons, rooted deep.

All this is to say that when Darlene walks in the door and finds her dead father sitting on the couch, she stops right where she is. The door bumps shut behind her. And Darlene closes her hand tight around the two keys on her HELLO FROM HEROPA key chain.

This should not be unexpected. You can prep and prep and prep for the day that you'll be walking down the street only to come face-to-face with someone you know. Elliot found Darlene first, picked up the trail she'd left for him. Darlene found Tyrell first, by complete and total chance. But now, at this late hour, in a room hazy with cigarette smoke, Darlene is totally fucking bugging out, totally BSoDing, totally going to throw up; her cheeks have that right under the eyes buzzing feeling and her knees are shot with water and she cannot fucking breathe, she is thinking of daytime court TV, Madam Executioner, Elliot, a long strand of dirty sand, bumper cars, Coney fucking Island, a shitty old jacket, Elliot, a house a car a sidewalk a song a gate a dirty linoleum floor a puckered scar and

Fuck is her eventual conclusion.

She slumps back against the door. The room smells like an ashtray.

She doesn't say anything. With her keys still tight in her hand, she doesn't say anything. Rebooting. Come the fuck on. What the fuck is this. Who the fuck.

"Here's the thing."

(Wasn't it always like this with Darlene? Elliot was kiddo and buddy, lil man, and Darlene was just Darlene, just nothing, a cute bundle of nothing interesting. Helicopter and ballet lessons and cheap afterthought dolls and back to Elliot again, who got pizza and movies and electronics and passion projects and — a bond between father and son is more important, that's all. Darlene had their mom.)

(Ha.)

"I am growing rapidly tired of there being very little follow-through on our plans. Don't get me wrong, you've been doing a great job, real nice work, but where are our results?"

Does Mr Robot know that he is Mr Robot? At the very least he knows he isn't Elliot, concerned and distracted, buzzing with idiot notions of heroism and normalcy as though either of those things are achievable, let alone simultaneously. Anyway, he isn't wearing Elliot's hoodie, but he's not wearing the homeless guy jacket and scarf, either. This isn't a television show, he isn't going to have a costume made just to stay on brand.

He stubs out a cigarette, reaches immediately for the crumpled packet to light another. Snaps his fingers a couple of times. "Hey. Hello? Earth to Darlene? Cut the crap, you had all the information you needed to figure this out."

Her focus clicks back in when he snaps his fingers. Him. This-- fucking trick, it's a trick or a play or something, to unnerve her, they pulled the photo and recreated Edward Alderson, who she barely remembers, small things, kissing her doll on the forehead, the sound of his voice when she pressed her ear to his back, the weight of his hand, maybe, but maybe she made that up, and always his face, because she has looked and looked at it. Back when it hurt and now, when it hurts less.

And this, she knows, is not him. Her father. There is something off, something tight in the corners of his eyes, or maybe that's what she wants. Give herself distance. Who the hell is doing this to her, and with a swell of anger, she throws her phone at him.

Her aim is only so-so. No fun games of catch, not even for Elliot. That wasn't the Alderson thing. But she's cutting the crap, at least.

"Who the fuck are you," with real anger and teeth. "And what should I have been figuring out," but she's smart, okay, she's been doing a great job, and a path toward true understanding starts to light up. It's goddamn impossible, but so is a thing using the face of her dead father to lecture her and light up on a fantasy knight's couch in some other dimension or whatever; comparatively, her suspicions are probably going to be pretty mundane.

The phone throw has genuine emotion but doesn't even get a flinch from him; he does raise an open palm, chin tilting down like okay, okay, enough already. His other hand isn't empty enough to flare open properly where it holds the cigarette.

Then his hand slaps the table like a gunshot. "Figure! It! Out!" he shouts back. "Figure out — just who you've been taking orders from for the last — however long it's been." His sense of time gets a little blurry even without the bonus three months. Probably because he has to sleep through so much lately. Even taking his chances where he can get them, every time he has control things have changed, moved on. It was easier when he had Elliot helping him work towards a common goal, but that happens less often now even without active movement against him.

A short sigh through his nose, dissatisfied. Then he looks at her, waiting, like an expectant math teacher waits for the kid at the board to solve for x, not looking particularly hopeful that it will actually happen. "I'll give you a hint: I'm not Edward."

Deep conditioning: Darlene, even in the grip of her anger, flinches back when not-Edward Alderson shouts at her. He's not the daemon but it doesn't matter, it's all there in the wayback machine of her stupid brain. And then she's pissed about that, too; digs down deep beneath that squirm of fear and grips tight at how pissed she is that she can still be made to react like that.

"Yeah," she snaps back, "I goddamn know you're not. Thank you."

She's still by the front door. Knees less shot with jelly. Stomach less twisted. Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Figure it out and wipe that stupid look off his face; even if he's not her father it's hard to move past how it makes her feel but fuck that, burn that part right out.

Figure it out. A stupid mouse running scared, and in the center of the maze is a thing you don't want to look at. The Minotaur that is the fucked up secret. A blank look in Elliot's eyes.

"You're him." The graveyard in Jersey. A long garbled string of text messages, blipping in on her phone. The mask, and the jacket, and Halloween, the way Elliot's eyes looked in that mask, the way she laughed and then she didn't laugh, and all that weird wrong feeling that she ignored, things were okay, things were never good but they were at least okay, and Elliot wasn't there, 5/9, the End of the World, but Elliot hates parties, Elliot-- "Him. His-- God, this is fucked up," and her voice rises in angry hysteria at the end. Hands still shaky. Breath still tight in her chest. Fuck, she thinks, and then, fuck, again.

Edited (edits hours later for tiny important things I'M SORRY ) 2017-01-25 05:38 (UTC)

"Hey, don't blame me," he says, hands spread, leaning back in his chair now he thinks she's get it. "You think I actually want to be walking around looking like this? I'm still Elliot, even if he doesn't think so."

Actually, he's a little touchy about it. Elliot is a part of him, damn it. The weak part. The one that couldn't hack the truth, in any sense of the word. He made that kid, just to keep everything on the downlow, nice and separate, and what does he get for it? Their dad's goddamn face.

And he can't even change back. Not if he wants to keep control. That is making certain things verrrry inconvenient. And that's why he needs Darlene. "You ready to take a seat?"

On one hand, absolutely fucking no. A smart and logical reaction to this situation--your dead dad who is some messed up manifestation or version of your messed up brother thanks to the messed up world that you have found yourself in, or something--is not to do what he says. Take a seat? How about screw off, buddy, how about she gets the hell out of Dodge and does not look back.

But because Darlene hates weakness, she tightens her jaw. And because she has been, apparently, getting orders from someone (and that does not make any sense because she has talked to Elliot, but the texts here were always encrypted, and she thought it was just a weird security thing but the divisiveness of the messages, shittalking the dog, that is not Elliot), she doubles down on that tight feeling. Keep it together, girlfriend. And because she is, under all of that, thinking about Elliot (worried about Elliot)--and because if she is supposed to believe this, then leaving means she is leaving Elliot--Darlene pushes away from the door.

She wants to go get her phone off the floor. Like she can call for help, maybe get a doctor (lol), or like maybe texting Elliot will make this make sense. If Elliot's phone rings in this asshole's pocket, what does that mean? Getting her phone would put her way too close to whatever this thing really is. (I'm still Elliot, no fucking way.) So she steps around the couch instead and then sits, on the very edge of the cushion.

"Give me a cigarette." Flat. Her heart is still beating really fucking hard; she can feel it in the tips of her fingers. "Where is he?"

Elliot. There's no fucking way, she thinks, again. Forces herself to look this Edward Alderson monster look-a-like in the face anyways and thinks, no fucking way.

They're Elliot's cigarettes, too, but that's probably not surprising: he'd always smoked their dad's brand, not their mom's, chasing that lingering scent memory in each stubbed out butt. Not that he smokes a lot; chainsmoking is Mr Robot's thing. There's only two left in the crumpled packet he holds out to Darlene.

"He's me," he says impatiently, annoyed that she isn't just getting it. "I'm him. It was easier when I stayed looking like him. This whole outfit..." Gesturing to his body. "Not innocuous."

Mr Robot holds out a hand, takes the pack back, their fingers brushing. Solid. Real. He fishes out the last cigarette.

"Normally I'd start out with the proof, but the moment I turn back, I'm gone. And we're not done talking. So you'll just have to trust me." He hehs to himself like he knows how ridiculous that is.

The brush of contact should feel more like something. Maybe a burn, quick heat and then singe. It doesn't feel like that at all. It feels normal. Really normal. Maybe that's worse. Darlene sits back with the cigarette clutched between her fingers, too hard, like she's thinking about snapping it off. Still staring.

Then she puts it in her mouth and shifts to dig her lighter out of her pocket. Her fingers are shaking a little and she tries to pretend that they aren't. And all the while she's trying to make sense of the insensible. She's watching this guy put the last cigarette in his mouth with a practiced ease that doesn't resemble Elliot in the slightest.

When she clicks her lighter, that's when Darlene decides to be over it. Accept it. Whatever is happening. She takes a drag; she exhales. One arm crossed over her stomach, hand clutched at her side. Hunched over. Other hand holding the cigarette between her fingers, still a little too hard. She gestures with it, trailing smoke. Go ahead.

"Fine." Not. "Start talking."

"Elliot wanted to change the world. Just like you. But he didn't have the stomach for what that really meant." A long drag on the cigarette, exhaling smoke to billow slowly out into someone else's house, all those toxic chemicals lingering for days. "You do." He says it like it's a compliment.

"I represent the inconvenient truths of the world that Elliot refuses to acknowledge. Thus, I assume, the face. I'm not putting that on to mock you Darlene — in fact, I want us to be friends."

He doesn't smile when he says this, but there's something warm in his tone. Something paternal.

"Now, you're going to need to keep secrets from me — from both of us." Because he knows he can't outplay Elliot, and vice versa. "But ultimately I think we want the same thing."

"To change the world."

That's the same thing, the thing they have in common. Elliot wants to drop a rock in the middle of the still complacent pool of humanity, but he doesn't want that rock strapped with dynamite. I am him, says the face of Edward Alderson, he is me, we are all to-whatever-the-fuck-gether. A hallucination that Darlene knows is real.

Or maybe she wants it to be. Some deep something in her is responding to that tone in his voice. A kind of approval. These are some freaking daddy issues, all right, but she is going with it all for now.

"And I want to get the hell out of here," she adds with renewed crispness, as she takes another drag on her cigarette. Far more casual than she feels. "What kind of secrets. I'm guessing this." She uses her cigarette to illustrate again, a jab toward him with the end, a trace down. This. You. This screwed up illusion.

"We all want to get out of here, sweetheart," he says dismissively, immediately: "That's not gonna happen."

She's done enough chatting and hacking, he knows she's come to the same conclusion by now. People go home at random, nobody knows how or why, not even the shady-ass government or whoever owns the Porter.

They're stuck in this lsd trip of a place and they just have to live with it. When they go home they probably won't even remember anything anyway, which makes this world a fucking Vegas road trip.

"This," he agrees. "Plans. The reasoning behind certain aquaintanceships. I have a couple of codes I can use to communicate, encryptions only I will recognize — real world only, I don't put anything of importance on the network." Which probably explains the mad ramblings he texts her sometimes.

The total truth of a gutpunch, Darlene shakes that off. It smarts, briefly, as right as she knows he is. Like maybe she was holding onto some small shard of-- what? Hope? Bullshit. He's right, and here's where she fully commits to being pissed off about it. If this were a Vegas road trip, it would end in some full on destruction.

That's the part she likes. The part she doesn't like is, this is Elliot. Somehow. But it isn't. Those messed up texts, she was thinking all along, that they were from him. And they are, were, sort of. That weird hard chiseled look Elliot gets sometimes, that's this face, which is, in turn, superimposed over their father's face, all fanatical in the eyes. Crazy. Guess it's official. I'm crazy. Elliot's doofy smile. They were changing the world. Elliot was. How long has it been like this? This is shit scary, but just like how Darlene is going to look face on at the fucked up truth of this place, she is going to look this face on, too.

"Okay, I can respect. Business as usual." fsociety usual, with a new fun twist. "So we plan. You and me. However the hell that works. And it's all super secret. Only when does Elliot, actual Elliot, get in on it?"

Mr Robot doesn't seem particularly stung by this question, or even really surprised. He shakes his head, spreads his hands out in front of him as if to shape some invisible quality in the air. "Elliot is key to all of this. There is so, so much he can do that I can't. If you and I are going to be prophets of this new order, then he is God, absent and judgemental and ineffable. But still essential."

Is he answering her question? He's probably not answering her question. She's being so brace, though, and she deserves — at the very least she deserves the answer she wants to hear. If not the truth. He leans in, voice dropping.

"Listen. Listen. When we have tangible results, when shit is really happening, that's when Elliot finds out. Too much all at once and he'll put us both back in prison again. He scares too easy for all the necessary set-up."

He's not wrong. She doesn't lean in, signal some level of okay that she is with this. But she doesn't lean away, either. Because he's not wrong, about Elliot. That he scares easy, that there is this whole milk-of-human-kindness angle to him, sometimes, all of that's right. And good, maybe. Frustrating as fuck. But good, and Good, capital G. Elliot is closer to a vigilante than Darlene. Hacktivism for good. Black hat hacking that's more like gray hat. And the times there's not that kind angle, the times where Darlene's own destructive fuck 'em all urges have harmonized with Elliot's hard-eyed anarchism: that was this guy, right?

And Darlene wants to help Elliot. Maybe that's the wrong word. Darlene wants Elliot to be okay, whatever version of okay he can find; he deserves that. She wants to protect him. Is it good, to play nice with this cordoned off piece of him, or whatever this is? Is it going to make Elliot okay?

Probably not. Who the fuck knows. She isn't a psych doctor, she isn't a therapist, and none of those rules even apply anyways, they're in some otherworld version of their world anyways or they're chilling on a slab with neurons firing wildly in their heads or they're hallucinating all of this shit and, in this moment: this guy is right. Elliot's part will come at the end. Business as fucking usual.

She stays where she is, still except for when she raises her hand to take another drag of her cigarette. Exhales. "The night of 5/9. You're the reason he didn't show, right? You're the reason he ran the whole hack without us. He wanted that too, same as the rest of us." Just like that, you're gonna save the world. "So what happened there? Was that him scaring too easy?"

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closed / our hopes & expectations

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