The Initiate Fraysong ♑ (Young GHB) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
carnagecarnival) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-05-08 05:18 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thecapitol2015-05-08 05:18 pm
Tell me anything you want to tell me, I have nothing to say
Who| Initiate and OPEN
What| The Traitor returns as a new servant.
Where| Around the Tribute Tower
When| Forward dated: around the 20th/22nd of May and onward.
WARNINGS| Avoxing/Avoxes, references to the conditioning process (torture, drugs, stripped personhood), references to Avox mistreatment and purchasing.
Corridors
It feels to have been long. He knew tortures. One of the first tasks assigned to him on enlistment back when he was six sweeps was to preform one. Several. More than he'd counted. No mercy or you'll be put in their place. Keep going past their breaking point. Keep going past yours. Let the screams become a symphony and will guide you through the fray of war. They're a traitor to the Empire and they have earned the price they pay. You can feel their fear, so bring it to life...
He knew that things could always go worse, no matter how bad it seemed. He knew, but it wasn't long before that knowing was scrubbed out from his thinkpan in the settling haze, pushed further and further back with the rest of him. All along his pan that wire mesh has dragged and dragged and he is so far beyond not wanting to feel it that he simply doesn't any more. Drugs, pain, orders, drugs. Has he been gone a week? A month? Sweeps? He doesn't have it in him to know or begin to guess. Time doesn't have much meaning but for getting tasks done in a timely manner.
He can't remember what went first, his will, his paint, his tongue, or his tokens. He is only aware of the fact that they are once again gone. He doesn't miss them. The attention they would bring is unbearable to think about. He wishes they would saw off his horns again so they wouldn't obtrude so much as they do. Let them break off all his claws, grind down his teeth, tear off his fins, do whatever they had to to make him slip further into the shadows. He was good at that as a Troll on Alternia, but it's harder here where the world is bright and the people are alien.
Still, he does his best. He doesn't project an aura so much as he creates an inverse of one. Do not look at me, I am not here. He walks the corridors this way, not a sound from him, not even from his steps. He blends with the wall, dodging past the bodies of others, and not once does the thought occur that he's finally returned to this place.
Commons
He was turned into a villain. He'd always been, but now the title Initiate Fraysong was everywhere, muttered in hushed whispers full of venom, and jubilant shouts at a rebel downfall. A variation of the latter took place here with cheers to follow. The drinks clanked together with a pleasant 'ding' and the sure slosh of spilling alcohol followed.
So caught in the celebration were they, they didn't expect his appearing to clean it up. More spilled before his kneeling place and he paused his cleaning for just a moment to get that new spot. He heard the laughs. He failed to react to them.
If he had it in him to care, he would've guessed by now that this would not only be a commonplace event, but one sure to be topped with worse things. When he's finally done his duty there, he makes his way back to returning the materials to their place, only to spot a magazine featuring his name and picture. The magazines are all scattered and will surely need re-arranging and so he bends to fix them into a proper pile. He hesitates on the one with his face, however. He lifts it up and goes to turn it face down, so that the non-person is hidden. He's not sure which wins out, the conditioning or himself, but sure enough he's turning it back so it's facing proper.
The only sign to show he's noticed the presence of another is the tiniest flick of those goat-like ears.
The Training Center
The Initiate used to paint here. This is not the case now, but since his first arrival to this place many have taken up making murals upon these walls. The place is constantly stained with color. This should be a beautiful thing, but he's far too distant for the revelation.
He's brought his cart, not full of paint but of cleaning supplies. It is time to strip this all down to the very last trace.
Avox Quarters
There is no company like the last he was Avoxed. Cecil is gone, Starkiller, Justin-- all people he'd known and could have comfortably associated with. Well, maybe not Justin alone, but if Cecil was there... There's no more Holly, one of the few other faces he might have recognized. She's long dead now. Many more lost in the explosions in the foodcourt that arena, but he never knew them. Only one Avox here can make him glance up; a woman with red hair and a face that looks like it was meant to be stern. It's as empty as the others, as his own, which should be just fine but the wrongness of it speaks to him still. He avoids her and so avoids the feeling.
The other Avoxes recognize him however. It's not camaraderie. That would require something more, something beyond what they were capable of like this, but it's the closest thing. It's the lack of panic that comes with association as is never so among actual people. This is the one place where he can breathe something close to easy.
Sleeping however remains a struggle. He's gotten used to the lack of sopor. He can keep from roaring awake with his daymares. He can sleep on all manner of uncomfortable thing and be fine. What he doesn't know how to do is sleep like a human.
He's pulled the cot out from it's locker just as he's seen the others do. He has the pillow and thin blanket retrieved from the part atop. But now he stares at it. He can't fit upon this, there's no certain way. He thinks he slept some time through the conditioning process but he can't remember how. He should sleep like the others, simply rest his head upon the pillow and throw the sheet over him. He doesn't. Instead, he balls up the blanket and shoves it with the pillow, making as much of a pile as he can upon that cot. He curls up upon it, small as he can make himself and closes his eyes.
Only to have his horns bumped and tapped mere moments later.
Other - (Pick a place to find him!)
When the night falls and the Tributes head off to sleep, sometimes he is called out then to clean the kitchens for the coming morn. He’s been called onto cooking duty, but not near as much as some of the other Avoxes. He’ll be sent out to deliver the orders on occasion though, usually for tower staff or Tributes who merely want it waiting and ready on their return, as opposed to being given to them directly. He’s called often to clean up messes left behind. Through this he sees what was almost home for a little while there. Through this he falls into a numbing rhythm that buries his attachment to it all deeper and deeper.
He’s high prolific, generally confined to the tower. Just as well; there weren’t many right now wanting to risk his purchase just yet. The few that tended to be looking less for service and more for a venting of aggressions. It was harder to obey buyers like that when they were looking for anything that could be considered wrong. The fear of disobedience was greater than anything they could inflict. Or so it felt.
He’s heard whispers of being put among the Avoxes working beneath the city, hidden from view and light, but even he knows that won’t be until the hysteria, anger, and celebration in the Capitol dies down, if ever. He doesn't have the capacity for wanting either which way, but if he had, he's not sure what he'd prefer.
[Feel free to PM or plurk me to discuss any other options.]
What| The Traitor returns as a new servant.
Where| Around the Tribute Tower
When| Forward dated: around the 20th/22nd of May and onward.
WARNINGS| Avoxing/Avoxes, references to the conditioning process (torture, drugs, stripped personhood), references to Avox mistreatment and purchasing.
Corridors
It feels to have been long. He knew tortures. One of the first tasks assigned to him on enlistment back when he was six sweeps was to preform one. Several. More than he'd counted. No mercy or you'll be put in their place. Keep going past their breaking point. Keep going past yours. Let the screams become a symphony and will guide you through the fray of war. They're a traitor to the Empire and they have earned the price they pay. You can feel their fear, so bring it to life...
He knew that things could always go worse, no matter how bad it seemed. He knew, but it wasn't long before that knowing was scrubbed out from his thinkpan in the settling haze, pushed further and further back with the rest of him. All along his pan that wire mesh has dragged and dragged and he is so far beyond not wanting to feel it that he simply doesn't any more. Drugs, pain, orders, drugs. Has he been gone a week? A month? Sweeps? He doesn't have it in him to know or begin to guess. Time doesn't have much meaning but for getting tasks done in a timely manner.
He can't remember what went first, his will, his paint, his tongue, or his tokens. He is only aware of the fact that they are once again gone. He doesn't miss them. The attention they would bring is unbearable to think about. He wishes they would saw off his horns again so they wouldn't obtrude so much as they do. Let them break off all his claws, grind down his teeth, tear off his fins, do whatever they had to to make him slip further into the shadows. He was good at that as a Troll on Alternia, but it's harder here where the world is bright and the people are alien.
Still, he does his best. He doesn't project an aura so much as he creates an inverse of one. Do not look at me, I am not here. He walks the corridors this way, not a sound from him, not even from his steps. He blends with the wall, dodging past the bodies of others, and not once does the thought occur that he's finally returned to this place.
Commons
He was turned into a villain. He'd always been, but now the title Initiate Fraysong was everywhere, muttered in hushed whispers full of venom, and jubilant shouts at a rebel downfall. A variation of the latter took place here with cheers to follow. The drinks clanked together with a pleasant 'ding' and the sure slosh of spilling alcohol followed.
So caught in the celebration were they, they didn't expect his appearing to clean it up. More spilled before his kneeling place and he paused his cleaning for just a moment to get that new spot. He heard the laughs. He failed to react to them.
If he had it in him to care, he would've guessed by now that this would not only be a commonplace event, but one sure to be topped with worse things. When he's finally done his duty there, he makes his way back to returning the materials to their place, only to spot a magazine featuring his name and picture. The magazines are all scattered and will surely need re-arranging and so he bends to fix them into a proper pile. He hesitates on the one with his face, however. He lifts it up and goes to turn it face down, so that the non-person is hidden. He's not sure which wins out, the conditioning or himself, but sure enough he's turning it back so it's facing proper.
The only sign to show he's noticed the presence of another is the tiniest flick of those goat-like ears.
The Training Center
The Initiate used to paint here. This is not the case now, but since his first arrival to this place many have taken up making murals upon these walls. The place is constantly stained with color. This should be a beautiful thing, but he's far too distant for the revelation.
He's brought his cart, not full of paint but of cleaning supplies. It is time to strip this all down to the very last trace.
Avox Quarters
There is no company like the last he was Avoxed. Cecil is gone, Starkiller, Justin-- all people he'd known and could have comfortably associated with. Well, maybe not Justin alone, but if Cecil was there... There's no more Holly, one of the few other faces he might have recognized. She's long dead now. Many more lost in the explosions in the foodcourt that arena, but he never knew them. Only one Avox here can make him glance up; a woman with red hair and a face that looks like it was meant to be stern. It's as empty as the others, as his own, which should be just fine but the wrongness of it speaks to him still. He avoids her and so avoids the feeling.
The other Avoxes recognize him however. It's not camaraderie. That would require something more, something beyond what they were capable of like this, but it's the closest thing. It's the lack of panic that comes with association as is never so among actual people. This is the one place where he can breathe something close to easy.
Sleeping however remains a struggle. He's gotten used to the lack of sopor. He can keep from roaring awake with his daymares. He can sleep on all manner of uncomfortable thing and be fine. What he doesn't know how to do is sleep like a human.
He's pulled the cot out from it's locker just as he's seen the others do. He has the pillow and thin blanket retrieved from the part atop. But now he stares at it. He can't fit upon this, there's no certain way. He thinks he slept some time through the conditioning process but he can't remember how. He should sleep like the others, simply rest his head upon the pillow and throw the sheet over him. He doesn't. Instead, he balls up the blanket and shoves it with the pillow, making as much of a pile as he can upon that cot. He curls up upon it, small as he can make himself and closes his eyes.
Only to have his horns bumped and tapped mere moments later.
Other - (Pick a place to find him!)
When the night falls and the Tributes head off to sleep, sometimes he is called out then to clean the kitchens for the coming morn. He’s been called onto cooking duty, but not near as much as some of the other Avoxes. He’ll be sent out to deliver the orders on occasion though, usually for tower staff or Tributes who merely want it waiting and ready on their return, as opposed to being given to them directly. He’s called often to clean up messes left behind. Through this he sees what was almost home for a little while there. Through this he falls into a numbing rhythm that buries his attachment to it all deeper and deeper.
He’s high prolific, generally confined to the tower. Just as well; there weren’t many right now wanting to risk his purchase just yet. The few that tended to be looking less for service and more for a venting of aggressions. It was harder to obey buyers like that when they were looking for anything that could be considered wrong. The fear of disobedience was greater than anything they could inflict. Or so it felt.
He’s heard whispers of being put among the Avoxes working beneath the city, hidden from view and light, but even he knows that won’t be until the hysteria, anger, and celebration in the Capitol dies down, if ever. He doesn't have the capacity for wanting either which way, but if he had, he's not sure what he'd prefer.
[Feel free to PM or plurk me to discuss any other options.]
Commons
He eyes every passing Capitolite who looks as though they might even potentially be a media representative, repeating his rehearsed story in his head. He had no idea the Initiate was lying to him and the rest of Panem. He's angry that he was deceived. He's saddened that someone who could have had a good future would throw it away for something so foolish. Of course he wouldn't have supported rule under an Alternia-style government controlled by a highblood, haven't you read his biography?
For a moment he thinks he's finally started cracking up and seeing things when he spots horns -- those horns -- out of the corner of his eye, but a furtive glance sideways tells him no. Those horns are real and so is the body attached to them. Signless's mouth goes very dry. The urge to run to the Initiate, to hold him, to try and find some sign that he's still there is so strong. He can't, he knows, especially not where so many are watching. He can't let on that any of the love he may have had for this troll is still within him, because that will lead to questions, and questions will lead to him getting his tongue cut and his head shaved and then they'd be a perfect pair, wouldn't they?
Instead he settles for stiffly rising from his seat, approaching the magazine rack as though he's interested in browsing the latest gossip. It's only the incessant sideways flick of his eyes that shows what he's really after.
no subject
Their position right now is a dangerous one. If there was one person in the entirety of the world right now how could pull him out, it would Kankri Vantas, his brother best. But what would that do? It would damn the Signless, set him up as being on an Avox's side. And for himself, reconditioning.
But he misses him. He misses his brother so bad. He misses everyone horribly when he's mustered the ability, but it's different with Signless, with a moirail, someone who can unwind all the twisted bits, smooth over the hurts, quiet the noise and the fear and everything. It's a need and it's the one thing the other avoxes can't relate to.
It's not just his side either. Being a moirail is a duty and devotion. He's failing that. And Avox cannot afford failure. He follows his brother's silent direction, moving over to the rack as well, taking the time to carefully neat each and every little thing he can for as long as he can.
no subject
He does anyway. It feels deeply wrong to see Fraysong muted and restrained when he was usually so full of sound and energy. He sternly reminds himself to keep his face blank and free of any signs of distress, because he isn't yet sure he can spin that distress as 'distress over seeing a hated enemy of the state' instead of 'distress at seeing a loved one tongueless and subjugated'.
"You missed one," he says finally, pushing a magazine out of alignment and not even being terribly sneaky about it. He's hoping it will read as a taunt to anyone watching rather than an excuse to stay near what's left of his moirail for a little while longer. "Fix it."
That's it. No whispered reassurances, no pleas for a sign of overt recognition, nothing that might get them both in trouble. He knows on instinct that the safest thing for now is to play along. That's the only sure way to keep the both of them alive.
no subject
Signless has never been on the side where this was easier for him to do. It's why, just as distant as the previous thought, he feels proud of him. It's not the pride of Signless doing something as hurts him, of power. It's his making safe of his ownself.
It's his doing that while still being clever and willing enough to find ways to let him close.
He's only a little surprised, and it doesn't show. He moves, extra slow, to fix it as commanded. He cannot disobey the command, but he can read into it what he knows is there. There's nothing that says performing a more exacting service to the master's desires is illicit.
He lines up straight again. His hand lingers there, as close to the Signless's as he can allow it. I still pity you, I miss you, I'm sorry.
no subject
I'll be fine, he tries to communicate without words. I'll wait for you.
He knows he shouldn't linger long, though -- even that is suspect.
"Better," he says with as little emotion as he can manage, and steps back. He's well-aware that one doesn't say 'goodbye' to an Avox and yet he lingers, not wanting to leave yet when he isn't sure the next time he'll get a chance to be this close.
no subject
Signless's hand pulls away and he feels the absence like a hole in the heart. His eyes follow every second of it's parting until he can't no more.
His eyes on the magazines, he reads over their blurbs. With of the Reagan brothers will Porrim claim for her own? and Best ten restaurants this summer as well as don't play it safe, exhilarate with these wardrobe tips. He straightens each magazine, fingers lingering over one word at a time.
"brothers."
"Best."
"safe."
He said his goodbye over a month ago. He wishes that were enough. He hopes this is now.