Title: Rorschach Part 1 of 2
Author: Wendy Darling (spookykeen86@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, they own everything. Ba-dum-dum.
Rating: PG-13 for language and mature themes.
Warnings: Creepy, ominous genetic testing facility. Weird psychology. Mild AU, in the fact that it's in that "after Endless Waltz, all the pilots still live/hang out together" mentality. Just pretend they all have an apartment in some unnamed metropolis on Earth. Duo POV.
Pairings: Um, itsy bitsy 3+2 if you look at it through the Yaoi-Colored Glasses that I got for Hannukah. But it's all harmless, really. Then again, if the thought of two people of the same gender getting all cozy together bugs you, read no further. Otherwise, enjoy!
Feedback: Welcomed via reviews or e-mail, thank you.
Thanks to Dr. H for his patience. Thanks to Descartes for making me a dualist. Super special thanks to Sassy Little Scorpio for her friendship, thoughtfulness, and kicking me back into fanfiction. Now give me the Alice! ;)
*****
In the old days, you would look at ink blots on pieces of paper, and then they'd tell you if you were crazy or not.
Nowadays, they just prick you in the arm, and look at all your bits and pieces under a scanning electron microscope, they test your fluids for balances and imbalances, look at your genes for recessive alleles indicating a past or present history of familial mental illnesses.
Nowadays, they don't even have to tell you you're crazy to your face.
They sent me a letter. The return address was some local biomedical lab, and it didn't hit me at first why they would send me anything. I looked over the documents, there were a few of them. A formal letter, telling me exactly what I was most likely to have, the prevalent symptoms, and how they found the relevant screwed up genes, tracing it back to a maternal great-grandfather of mine. They said I should consider this as a factor in any: (and I'm quoting it verbatim here,) "...decisions involving natural or in vitro child birth, as well as sperm donations..." It also went on to say that my blood donation (which started the whole thing, as I will elaborate later) cannot be used to treat those in need, because my disorder is still not yet fully understood; they request my permission to keep it for labwork and experimentation. They wanted to examine the oxygenation of the blood, and the hormone levels. And they wanted permission to perform "simple protein multiplication for lab studies," as if I didn't know what that was.
I may not be the foremost expert on genetic engineering, but I read the damn news.
They basically put in a legal form asking me to sign over the rights to patent my genetic code. See, if I don't sign, then every time they want to clone one of my proteins, they have to pay me a fee of my determination. But if I sign their little form, then they are free to profit from whatever medicinal or educational values my proteins have.
That's first on my "to be burned" pile that has been accumulating among other junk mail.
They also included a brief history chronicling the first time my disorder was recognized in modern psychiatric medicine, and the treatment options.
And a prescription for tranquilizers.
The most ridiculous thing about the whole situation was, they wanted me to go in for more tests. All of their evidence was purely genetic, I was a predisposed case. Apparently, either I was born crazy, or more likely then the average joe to go crazy if put under the right circumstances. They needed me to meet with a specialist for forty-five minutes in order to know if I was crazy yet. But I should probably start the drug therapy now, just in case. They'd renew it once I had my psychiatric evaluation and agree to be hospitalized for a minimum of 5 days. And then I should seek outside therapy, which I'd have to pay for out of my own pocket, of course, as well as the drugs.
So I'm crazy, but only on paper. Wonderful.
*****
"It's bullshit, is what it is." I said, laying back in my chair, throwing my entire mental health on the table.
"So you don't have this, disorder, so to speak. The only evidence they are presenting you with is that your genes match those of people in the past who has had delusional psychotic episodes." Wufei hits it right on the mark, as always.
"Exaaactly." I clear my throat, for some reason I choked a little when I spoke. "It's bullshit." I said, trying to reinforce that, more for myself, then the others.
"I don't think you're delusional, Duo, that's the one where you think invisible people are after you, right?" Quatre asked as he looked over my diagnoses.
"I think that's schizophrenia, Quatre." Heero says, peering over his shoulder.
"No, Heero, that's paranoia." I corrected.
"But the people aren't invisible when you're paranoid, you usually identify them as an actual thing. Like a conspiracy government or aliens or alligators in sewers." Wufei added.
"So what's delusional? Is it like hallucinations?" Quatre asked them.
"I think illusions are simpler than hallucinations. Hallucinations are more... sensual."
"Mmph!" Quatre stifled a laugh with both hands, and Wufei gave him a crooked eyebrow.
"What?!" Heero gets worked up far too easily. "Illusions are only seen, hallucinations can be experience by all 5 senses! Therefore they are more sensual. Now stop laughing damn it!" Heero glared at Quatre, who couldn't help laughing at it. Wufei ignored him and shook his head.
"It's just the way you said it-" Quatre tried to explain, "You put that emphasis on sensssual." he exaggerated.
Heero looked away and frowned, meaning he was embarrassed.
"Delusion does not mean he will hallucinate Quatre. Delusion is a lack of a grip on reality."
"Like when you hallucinate!" Heero protested.
"Del-usions are not the same as ill-usions Yuy."
"I'm just saying he could have delusional hallucinogenic episodes, Chang."
"He doesn't have to hallucinate Yuy! You two sound like you want him to hallucinate!"
"Hey!" Quatre protests. "I never said I wanted him to hallucinate, I was just wondering what they meant by delusional!"
"Well it's rude, Winner."
"Stuff it Chang."
"You stuff it mister 'delusional hallucinogenic etcetera' Freud would certainly be proud."
"I'm sure Freud would also have something to say about somebody's compulsive katana cleaning regimen."
"Now there's no need to get personal Heero. Wufei you shouldn't have said that either, the last time I checked, neither of you hold any degree in psychology."
"Oh you would say that Winner. Why do you care if he's hallucinating or not?"
"Y'know what guys?" I chimed in before Quatre and Heero could get worked up, and figure out what Wufei was insinuating. "I think I'm hallucinating right now. I'm seeing and hearing the people I consider my best friends, discussing and arguing about exactly how fucked up in the head I am, right in front of me. I must be crazy, because I know they'd never do anything like that."
That shut them up, for all of three seconds. Quatre was about to go on an "I'm-sorry" tirade, Wufei on a "Improper diagnosis are an injustice" rant, and Heero was probably going to give me a apologetic "Hn" (he's been hanging around Quatre lately), when someone else spoke up.
Trowa, who had remained silent throughout all of this, tapped his index finger against the table under my nose. Being that he was the only one still sitting down (everyone else had jumped up when I walked into the room declaring my insanity, in full-on self-deprecating sarcasm.) I brought my eyes to his.
"You're not crazy Duo." he said simply.
"I know." I said, dropping my head to look at my fidgeting hands.
"You don't believe me." Trowa forced my gaze again, this time with a hand on my shoulder.
"You read it." I said, unintentional venom in my voice, handing the papers to him. He shoved them back in my hands and stormed off, telling me he'd find me later.
*****
You don't really get to do anything when you turn 17. In the old days, the older you got, the more things you got to have the privilege of doing.
You could vote and change the world.
You could legally purchase "adult" things; like alcohol and cigarettes and porn, and change how you see a Saturday night.
As times changed, these laws grew more lax, some of Earth's countries not having a limit on them in the first place. Not to mention the fact that I grew up on the L2 "Laws? I laugh at your stinking laws!" colony.
But one thing remained a standard, that was just for your own damn good. Once you were at least the age of 17, and weighed more then 110 pounds, your body was mature enough to handle donating blood.
You could save somebody's life.
So maybe I'm a little jaded on the whole growing up experience, shitty childhood notwithstanding. There was no goal in my sights, I had nothing to look forward to in growing up, except maybe my bones cracking everytime I sit up. I learned about the whole blood-donating thing when I was 14. I'd been waiting three years to get the chance to do something that big for someone.
They took a hemoglobin sample, a skin and hair sample, for legal reasons, there are a lot of sickos out there who want to infect people. I wasn't worried, since Heero had cleared all of our names after the war. Our background checks were spotless. They took a pint of my blood, and I even got to learn that I was a type O. And that's good, because that means I'm a universal donorÑanybody can have my blood. And I got a cookie and a sticker and a pat on the shoulder for being such a "good sport".
But before all that, I filled out questionnaires and signed a form allowing them to test for anything that might be a blood-related illness, and contact me afterwards. There was also a little checkbox asking if they could do a genetic work-up.
Which I checked.
Excuse me while I go pound my head on a table for a while.
*****
"Hey."
I looked up at Trowa, standing in front of me, a small plastic bag hanging from his hands. It looked like the kind you get with movie rentals, totally nondescript, so you can rent anything from hardcore pornography to kiddy cartoons.
"You found me. Now you hide and I'll count." I said with a forced smile. I was still kind in some strange kind of shellshock over the mail.
"Make room, I have something for you." he said, walking towards the television to pop a disc in the drive. He sat next to me on the couch with the remote. "I saw this a while ago, but it seemed kind of stupid. But I think you should see it." He turned on the screen, as the opening title came up.
Rorschach: Test Yourself!
"What?!" I blurted out in disbelief.
Trowa navigated the menus, skipping the introductory notes, and moving along to the actual test. "It's a home Rorschach test. It'll be fun."
"You mean, we're going to look at the ink blots?"
"No, they don't really use those anymore, wait, let me show you-" he said, skipping back to the main menu, and selecting "History" under a submenu.
A voice came up, explaining the origin of the Rorschachs. And how the ink blots were eventually phased out of most psychological testing. They were replaced at first with basic computerized animations, of differing shapes and sizes. Later they added color changes and randomized movements. They did the same job as ink blots, only they added another dimension to psychoanalysis. The tests retain the name of Rorschach for nostalgia's sake, they are correctly known as "Dr. Spitz's Spatial Graphical Analysis" in the psychological community, after their developer. However, the name Rorschach prevails in popular knowledge.
What results is a black background, with colors and shapes moving against it, creating the illusion that we are being pulled through the center of the black space. When in actuality, all movement is stationary. The "tunneling" effect is an optical illusion. But by creating a situation in which the subject feels as if they are moving, the mind is more likely to think in linear terminology.
In short, we think whatever image we see, causes the next to appear. Thus the Rorschach, is a growing, changing being. Much more complex and involved then plain inkblots.
And my take on it? It's just a bunch of swirling colors that look like things if you squint. But I watched it anyway, it was rather calming. The colors were mesmerizing, and you really do feel like you're moving.
It's a trip.
"So what do you see?" Trowa asked me after a while.
"Lotsa things." I reply.
"Like what?"
"Like, shapes, and, I dunno, lightning bolts." he laughed.
"Duo, I know you see more than that."
"Just, stuff..."
"Oh." He turned to the screen. "I see the ocean."
I turned my head to look at him, soft little understatement of a smile on his face. "Yeah?"
"See those little spots, bobbing up and down."
"They look like the ocean? Like waves?"
"It's like the ocean, from inside. They look like fish, swimming in a school."
"But they're just little circles-" I protested.
"But they move like fish, and the darkness is like water, so I see them as fish. Do you see it?"
I did, I saw the motion of them, up and down, I could picture it, the streaming colors formed bodies, I saw a tail sweeping up and down..
"Dolphins."
"Mmm?"
I smiled. "I see dolphins Trowa. Bottlenoses, like I saw in a book once. They would swim right up to you." As soon as I came to this conclusion, the picture swirled into a cloud of color and the animation changed.
"And those are stars." Trowa began, and I picked it up from there.
"They're hanging lamps, no, candles, all in different places. Now they're falling in sheets, like rain. Now the cloud is changing, it's a heartbeat, there's a lub and a dub, do you see?"
"Yes."
"And that's a book," I continued, the words pouring out almost as fast as my mind could recognize the shapes. "With a little box on the cover, a photo album, and it's being closed, and that's corridor with striped columns holding the ceiling up. And now there's a man in the corridor with a spear and there's a spinning dial in the background which is opening up another door, and, and-"
"And?" Trowa prompted me.
I felt a sick little feeling in my mouth. My face probably flushed with the realization that not only was I madly rambling, but I was madly rambling in front of Trowa. In front of the only person who still believed I was sane.
"Duo, go on."
"Trowa, I can't." I choked back the bile that had risen with my upset. "Remember, in the opening? It said, the more fantastic the images, the more random, that it means you have less and less of a grip on reality." I tucked my feet under myself and tried to ball myself up as best I could. Trowa simply reached over and plucked my head up out of my almost-fetal position.
"Reality doesn't matter. It's all subjective anyway. I lend you my Descartes." he said as he gave me a full smile.
*****
End Part 1
Author's Note: Hi. All of this, (or at least 82%) is Bad FanFiction Science. I hold no degree in psychology whatsoever (I hold no degree, but hopefully that will change come 2005), so all of this is from my limited knowledge of psychoanalysis, and my greater knowledge of genetic determination and testing. Remember, this is mildly canon fic, in that I've retained the fact that it's in the far far FAR future. Most of it is speculation on my part, but I do think genetics will become commodity, there have already been cases where people have had to fight scientist for the right to patent proteins found in their bodies, and the corresponding genes that produce them. Do I think the Rorschach test will advance as well? I don't know, it's all make-believe. Do I know much about Rorschach testing? Hell no. I know it's an introspective analytic tool, that can reveal insight into one's subconscious, and how strong you hold on to reality and fantasy. I don't think I'm completely wrong, but maybe a little off here and there. If it's that big of a problem, feel free to contact me and yell at me about it.
Bad FanFiction Science is what allows characters in fanfiction to change personalities, bodies, genders, species, hair/eye colors, etc. It's also what makes boys have babies. In less extreme cases, such as this story, it's used to make futuristic ailments, medications, and scientific breakthroughs that may or may not reflect developments in the current scientific community. In other words, it allows authors to save their own asses.