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The Dark City prompt ficlet, Wishes Were Fishes. WARNINGS for discussion of the movie, and in particular the complete lack of consent possible in the setting (the fic was pre-movie Daniel, so):
Wishes Were Fishes - Annotated Version
[Again, a prompt fic. The title is from a version of the proverb 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride'. The one I remember was 'If wishes were fishes', and it seemed to fit Daniel better, given the themes of water surrounding him in the movie. If wishes were fishes, swimming wouldn't be the only way to be free]
[Um. People need to watch this movie. It's incredible. It's also full of so many creeping horrors that I don't even know what to do with it, sometimes. The erosion of will at the hands of uncaring puppeteers. The ending of the movie is ... cathartic, oh yes.]
In one sense, Daniel has never had a kiss, first or otherwise.
Or at least, none that he remembers. Maybe once, in whatever existed before the City, before the Strangers, before the gaping wounds in his memory that he himself is responsible for. Maybe, somewhere beyond that, there was some lost intimacy he no longer remembers. [... That always did strike at me. That everyone else, they were robbed without their knowing it, for all that doesn't actually make it better. But Daniel was forced to take his own memories. He knew exactly what he was losing, and pulled the trigger himself.]
But not here. Not since then. He has always been remote, removed, at the bidding of other masters. The only touches he has known have been theirs, violent, impersonal, and never once were those touches kisses.
There was, at least, that much mercy. [... The Strangers are really, REALLY creepy, but I think most of the creepiness comes from the fact that, despite the forms they wear, they really have no understanding of what it means to be human. They're trying, that's the whole point, but they are one thing, a hivemind. There's no such thing as the concept of intimacy, to them, physical or otherwise. No such thing as the concept of privacy, either. Until they started taking human form, and starting adapting, I think, without fully realising it. So, I don't think it ever occurred to them to use other threats on Daniel. Why bother, when violence worked just fine? I honestly don't think it would have occurred to them. Violation doesn't seem to be a concept they had, until again, their experiment started to affect them all unknowing]
He could, he supposes, have written one for himself. He could have made the shape of himself in someone's memory, tasted kisses at one remove. Not here, not for himself, but in the phantoms of someone's manufactured memories, so that they might have smiled had they passed him on the street.
[... Daniel had power. Not for himself, never for himself, but he had a whole city in the palm of his hand. All those people, whose memories he literally wrote for them. And I'm sure the bulk of what he did was on direct orders, but the reason the Strangers needed him at all was because they hadn't the understanding to add the subtle things to make the memories seem real. Which means all those tiny things, those little quirks of people's past lives ... those came from Daniel. The first kiss. The first time the person they think is their husband made them laugh. What violence felt like, the first time it was pointed at them. That's from Daniel. That is ... That is a scary amount of power, in the hands of an utterly helpless man. Daniel is fascinating. The line he walked. Victim and perpetrator, traitor and saviour, teacher and destroyer. *smiles faintly* He is a wonderful character]
He never had. He had never been able ... never been able to bring himself to. Every violation he had enacted on the people trapped above him, the people walking in endless circles of the rat maze of this city, every wound he had carved into them with them all unknowing. He hadn't been able to bring himself to enact another, for purely selfish reasons, for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold demands of his captors, but only his own foolish loneliness. It would have been past excuse, a using just for him. He ... had not been able to bear the thought.
[I think he tried for morality. As much as he could, to tell himself he was trying in the dark moments. To tell himself he hadn't surrendered to them completely. That he had the capacity still to care for other people, and that wasn't theirs, would never be theirs. The only person in the city who understood completely the horrors that surronded them. He tried, I think]
But in a way ... in another sense entirely, perhaps he had them anyway. Perhaps he has had a hundred kisses. A thousand. Drawn from his imagination and theirs in the shaping of a memory, orchestrated in flesh and blood by the insidious whisper of his prompting. A young woman, kissing a different man each night for a month, each time thinking it her first and only. Two old men who had never known each other, who had traded kisses for forty years only in false memory, lying down together at his remote prompting. [... There is actually no such thing as consent, in this city. It's an actual impossibility, because of the way the Strangers have structured things. No-one knows who they are, or who anyone else is, from one midnight to the next. The person next to them may never have existed as they know them. They're all lying, all being lied to. In some ways, every act of intimacy ever performed during the experiment was an act of rape, though none of the participants knew it. The audience does, though]
Perhaps, in that sense, every first kiss this city has allowed has been his. Perhaps, in that way, he has had a thousand kisses.
It's a thought that drives him straight to the poolhouse, to the water and the drowning and the silence beneath the surface, some respite, some refuge. Not enough. Wiping hands and soap across his mouth, not ever enough. Perhaps it can't be. Perhaps it shouldn't be.
[None of the participants knew. Except Daniel. And he was forced as much as they were, but he knows. He knows exactly what he's done, what he's forced them to do in turn. How the flying fuck do you come back from that? I mean that honestly. Daniel is the only person there fully and excruciatingly aware that they've all been living in an extended concentration camp, their lives literally subject to another's whim, all their choices compromised. He was tortured physically and mentally, forced to torture other people (not that they knew it, his victims, but again, he does). John was running confused, but he had the capacity to fight back from the first moment he knew the threat (chicken and egg, mind, he only knew the threat because he had the capacity to fight back). Daniel always knew. And I have no idea a) how the hell he's as halfway sane as he is, and b) what the hell he's supposed to do now]
But sometimes ... sometimes, he wishes it could. Foolish wishes, like the touch of lips on his that are not painted in false memory. Desires that are nothing, inconsequential, against the things he knows he must do, the things he knows he must endure, for something so much more valuable again. Something so dear, so dangerously bought, that none of this can matter against it. He knows that. [And ... despite all of that, despite everything, the second he was offered an opportunity, Daniel fought. The only way he could, and using the most tainted tools in existence, but he fought. He turned around and bit the hand that broke him. Daniel is ... such a fascinating study. The ends and the means, the horror and triumph of survival. *smiles crookedly* I will freely admit, he was my favourite character (though Bumstead, I did love Bumstead). The sheer complexity and horror of his position, and what he tried to do from it. Daniel is the villain and the victim, the hero and traitor, all at once. He's my favourite, and that's why. *shrugs sheepishly*]
Even knowing, even understanding ... sometimes he wishes regardless. [... The ending is really, really cathartic. Seriously. All the horror and pain and confusion, the moment John stands up and does something unequivocal, something irreversible that no lie can take back, that's the moment you cheer. You have to. Heh.]
[Seriously. This movie is one of my favourites, it truly is. It's a horror-show, but a horror-show that ends in hope, and the triumph of the human spirit in spite of breaking. I ... I do love that, you know?]
[Finis]
[Again, a prompt fic. The title is from a version of the proverb 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride'. The one I remember was 'If wishes were fishes', and it seemed to fit Daniel better, given the themes of water surrounding him in the movie. If wishes were fishes, swimming wouldn't be the only way to be free]
[Um. People need to watch this movie. It's incredible. It's also full of so many creeping horrors that I don't even know what to do with it, sometimes. The erosion of will at the hands of uncaring puppeteers. The ending of the movie is ... cathartic, oh yes.]
In one sense, Daniel has never had a kiss, first or otherwise.
Or at least, none that he remembers. Maybe once, in whatever existed before the City, before the Strangers, before the gaping wounds in his memory that he himself is responsible for. Maybe, somewhere beyond that, there was some lost intimacy he no longer remembers. [... That always did strike at me. That everyone else, they were robbed without their knowing it, for all that doesn't actually make it better. But Daniel was forced to take his own memories. He knew exactly what he was losing, and pulled the trigger himself.]
But not here. Not since then. He has always been remote, removed, at the bidding of other masters. The only touches he has known have been theirs, violent, impersonal, and never once were those touches kisses.
There was, at least, that much mercy. [... The Strangers are really, REALLY creepy, but I think most of the creepiness comes from the fact that, despite the forms they wear, they really have no understanding of what it means to be human. They're trying, that's the whole point, but they are one thing, a hivemind. There's no such thing as the concept of intimacy, to them, physical or otherwise. No such thing as the concept of privacy, either. Until they started taking human form, and starting adapting, I think, without fully realising it. So, I don't think it ever occurred to them to use other threats on Daniel. Why bother, when violence worked just fine? I honestly don't think it would have occurred to them. Violation doesn't seem to be a concept they had, until again, their experiment started to affect them all unknowing]
He could, he supposes, have written one for himself. He could have made the shape of himself in someone's memory, tasted kisses at one remove. Not here, not for himself, but in the phantoms of someone's manufactured memories, so that they might have smiled had they passed him on the street.
[... Daniel had power. Not for himself, never for himself, but he had a whole city in the palm of his hand. All those people, whose memories he literally wrote for them. And I'm sure the bulk of what he did was on direct orders, but the reason the Strangers needed him at all was because they hadn't the understanding to add the subtle things to make the memories seem real. Which means all those tiny things, those little quirks of people's past lives ... those came from Daniel. The first kiss. The first time the person they think is their husband made them laugh. What violence felt like, the first time it was pointed at them. That's from Daniel. That is ... That is a scary amount of power, in the hands of an utterly helpless man. Daniel is fascinating. The line he walked. Victim and perpetrator, traitor and saviour, teacher and destroyer. *smiles faintly* He is a wonderful character]
He never had. He had never been able ... never been able to bring himself to. Every violation he had enacted on the people trapped above him, the people walking in endless circles of the rat maze of this city, every wound he had carved into them with them all unknowing. He hadn't been able to bring himself to enact another, for purely selfish reasons, for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold demands of his captors, but only his own foolish loneliness. It would have been past excuse, a using just for him. He ... had not been able to bear the thought.
[I think he tried for morality. As much as he could, to tell himself he was trying in the dark moments. To tell himself he hadn't surrendered to them completely. That he had the capacity still to care for other people, and that wasn't theirs, would never be theirs. The only person in the city who understood completely the horrors that surronded them. He tried, I think]
But in a way ... in another sense entirely, perhaps he had them anyway. Perhaps he has had a hundred kisses. A thousand. Drawn from his imagination and theirs in the shaping of a memory, orchestrated in flesh and blood by the insidious whisper of his prompting. A young woman, kissing a different man each night for a month, each time thinking it her first and only. Two old men who had never known each other, who had traded kisses for forty years only in false memory, lying down together at his remote prompting. [... There is actually no such thing as consent, in this city. It's an actual impossibility, because of the way the Strangers have structured things. No-one knows who they are, or who anyone else is, from one midnight to the next. The person next to them may never have existed as they know them. They're all lying, all being lied to. In some ways, every act of intimacy ever performed during the experiment was an act of rape, though none of the participants knew it. The audience does, though]
Perhaps, in that sense, every first kiss this city has allowed has been his. Perhaps, in that way, he has had a thousand kisses.
It's a thought that drives him straight to the poolhouse, to the water and the drowning and the silence beneath the surface, some respite, some refuge. Not enough. Wiping hands and soap across his mouth, not ever enough. Perhaps it can't be. Perhaps it shouldn't be.
[None of the participants knew. Except Daniel. And he was forced as much as they were, but he knows. He knows exactly what he's done, what he's forced them to do in turn. How the flying fuck do you come back from that? I mean that honestly. Daniel is the only person there fully and excruciatingly aware that they've all been living in an extended concentration camp, their lives literally subject to another's whim, all their choices compromised. He was tortured physically and mentally, forced to torture other people (not that they knew it, his victims, but again, he does). John was running confused, but he had the capacity to fight back from the first moment he knew the threat (chicken and egg, mind, he only knew the threat because he had the capacity to fight back). Daniel always knew. And I have no idea a) how the hell he's as halfway sane as he is, and b) what the hell he's supposed to do now]
But sometimes ... sometimes, he wishes it could. Foolish wishes, like the touch of lips on his that are not painted in false memory. Desires that are nothing, inconsequential, against the things he knows he must do, the things he knows he must endure, for something so much more valuable again. Something so dear, so dangerously bought, that none of this can matter against it. He knows that. [And ... despite all of that, despite everything, the second he was offered an opportunity, Daniel fought. The only way he could, and using the most tainted tools in existence, but he fought. He turned around and bit the hand that broke him. Daniel is ... such a fascinating study. The ends and the means, the horror and triumph of survival. *smiles crookedly* I will freely admit, he was my favourite character (though Bumstead, I did love Bumstead). The sheer complexity and horror of his position, and what he tried to do from it. Daniel is the villain and the victim, the hero and traitor, all at once. He's my favourite, and that's why. *shrugs sheepishly*]
Even knowing, even understanding ... sometimes he wishes regardless. [... The ending is really, really cathartic. Seriously. All the horror and pain and confusion, the moment John stands up and does something unequivocal, something irreversible that no lie can take back, that's the moment you cheer. You have to. Heh.]
[Seriously. This movie is one of my favourites, it truly is. It's a horror-show, but a horror-show that ends in hope, and the triumph of the human spirit in spite of breaking. I ... I do love that, you know?]
[Finis]
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