Dipper still had a thing about being grabbed that hadn't gone away, even after the telepaths had fixed up his brain. Aven had said that it wasn't leftover brainwashing.
It was just trauma, plain and simple.
That was why even after the telepathic sessions had stopped, Dr. Ry'kerr had scheduled a loooong string of appointments pretty much for the foreseeable future. Dipper wasn't sure what they were really supposed to accomplish -- all she ever did was ask him questions and give him art supplies to draw with -- but he'd been obediently going in secret, afraid that turning them down would mean he'd be kicked off the team.
He thought it was stupid, because it was pretty obvious why he twigged out whenever someone grabbed at him. He'd had to fight for his life during "training" with the yellows and the only reason he'd survived was because he'd dug down deep and found just enough viciousness to escape thrashing claws and strangling tentacles and too many teeth. He'd clawed and bit and kicked and punched and slapped his way to survival.
"Get away from me! Get away!"
In the half-light from out in the hall, he couldn't really see that it was his sister. All he caught was a glint of light off of braces -- which could easily be mistaken for a glint of light off razor sharp teeth. So, with his own expression nearly feral, he shoved and flailed and struggled to get away, rolling and ultimately falling off the bed because his legs were tangled in the blankets. Then he kept rolling, dragging himself under his hovering bed. He pressed himself back against the wall, his hand held to his chest, threaded into the cloth of his t-shirt.
He was hyperventilating and couldn't seem to get his breathing to slow down.
no subject
It was just trauma, plain and simple.
That was why even after the telepathic sessions had stopped, Dr. Ry'kerr had scheduled a loooong string of appointments pretty much for the foreseeable future. Dipper wasn't sure what they were really supposed to accomplish -- all she ever did was ask him questions and give him art supplies to draw with -- but he'd been obediently going in secret, afraid that turning them down would mean he'd be kicked off the team.
He thought it was stupid, because it was pretty obvious why he twigged out whenever someone grabbed at him. He'd had to fight for his life during "training" with the yellows and the only reason he'd survived was because he'd dug down deep and found just enough viciousness to escape thrashing claws and strangling tentacles and too many teeth. He'd clawed and bit and kicked and punched and slapped his way to survival.
"Get away from me! Get away!"
In the half-light from out in the hall, he couldn't really see that it was his sister. All he caught was a glint of light off of braces -- which could easily be mistaken for a glint of light off razor sharp teeth. So, with his own expression nearly feral, he shoved and flailed and struggled to get away, rolling and ultimately falling off the bed because his legs were tangled in the blankets. Then he kept rolling, dragging himself under his hovering bed. He pressed himself back against the wall, his hand held to his chest, threaded into the cloth of his t-shirt.
He was hyperventilating and couldn't seem to get his breathing to slow down.