I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Unconquerable Soul

He had gotten it not long after running off to be an independent, grown up adult no longer living in the abusive, dysfunctional crapfest of the Bates Family Horror Show: Arizona Edition.

It had seemed noble and uplifting.

Tough and hardcore and everything he was going to change himself into being now that he was finally freaking free.

Then again, he had been very stoned.

And listening to poetry.

He had nearly cried when the girl had, in her otherworldly, lilting voice, read it from a leatherbound book she had proudly proclaimed to be "the written word of my stubbornly defiant soul".

She had been blasted too.

And they had just had sex.

So he might have been a little vulnerable at the moment.

But still, as he had listened to the words he could almost see floating through the dusty air above the mattress on the floor of her one room apartment, Dylan had felt his heart swell, literally swell . . .

I'm going to die. But that's okay because I got to hear this first before I do.

. . . and everything threaten to spill out of his pores.

He had actually drifted off into a haze before any of that could physically occur in the way it did mentally.

But he still had remembered the feeling when he had awoken.

Asked her for the book.

"Be careful with it. It's my steampunk soul on forsaken paper."

Did you smoke more while I was sleeping?

And copied down the words.

The ones that really got to him anyway.

My head is bloody but unbowed.

I am the master of my fate.

I am the captain of my soul.

Then, because he was worried he would lose the paper, he left and cruised on his bike until he found a tattoo shop.

It took several sessions.

All the money he had scraped together for rent that month.

And a lot of pain.

Tattoos don't hurt. My ass.

But eventually it was complete.

There were wings. Fancy scrollwork to be filled in at a later date.

But the meat of it was there.

Invictus.

Yeah.

That's me.

As it turned out, it wasn't.

Not yet.

It had depressed him that he was still the same messed up, dysfunctional, loser little freak he had always been.

And so he had stopped looking at it after a while.

Stopped trying to remember how it had felt to really desperately care that deeply about becoming somebody better.

And just gone on with his life as it was.

But, in some blind way, Dylan kept working at it.

Until eventually, with the help of people that crossed his path . . .

"I'm Ethan."

. . . both bad . . .

". . . kill your boss."

. . . and good . . .

"Thank you for what you've done for my daughter."

. . . Dylan Massett could finally say he was becoming . . .

". . . proud of you, Dylan."

. . . the person he had always wanted to be.

Okay, confession time.

I was researching Max Theriot's left shoulder tattoo in hopes it was something I could use in my storytelling.

I thought it said 'Invictus' and discovered this poem of the same name by William Ernest Henley. It's amazing and powerful and something I definitely could use. Look it up.

As it turns out, the tattoo is something completely different and even more personal which I don't feel is my place to reveal. It's out there on the Internet and it's just as beautiful.

So I went back to the Invictus thing and here we are.

Thanks to Lana Brown, Mystery Guest, and WordWeaver81 for kindly reviewing and being so in tune with Dylan's journey.