The rotting Pinnochio.

[shambler]

Who|| R and OTA
What|| R’s been given a Capitol “Cure” for his zombification, in preparation for the next Arena. There are side effects and growing pains involved. It’s also everything he wanted. He’ll be looking for handholding on the returning bodily functions or just general hand-holding. Advice, also. Give him all the good and not-so-good advice. He’s riding high on an overall good mood despite the side effects.
Where|| Around Tribute Tower. In cafes and alleys if he’s getting sick. The closer to the Arena, the more he’ll look and act like a normal human.
When|| Between now and the next Arena. It's catch all post.
Warnings| Zombie references, also descriptions of bodily functions


By now he’s definitely seeing results from the Cure. R’s sure it’s got a specific, science-y name, but in his head he’s been calling it The Cure: short, no frills, elegant in its simplicity.

It means his body is playing catch-up. Trying to relearn basic functions. The nausea isn’t that bad at first. R’s had it before when he tried to eat anything that couldn’t talk back: deer, dog, wolf. Canned peaches. Beer. You ate one, you basically ate all of them. He’ll end up puking it up anyway. It’s the other stuff that he’s struggling with. He’s already ruined several shirts with the excessive drooling. The rash that’s popped up red as fresh blood on his arm has spread (he thinks it itches. Like, a lot). The pus it oozes is clearer by the day. The black poison that used to be his body fluids flushes out. And he’s already figured out that his bladder seems to be working – funny, that. He thought his sense of taste would’ve come first.

R can be found wandering around the immediate Tribute Tower area. Sometimes he’ll wrangle the first Living person he sees, ask them to for advice. Other times he’ll simple stagger into them, two seconds away from drooling or needing a fast escort to the nearest bathroom. The lucky ones will sit R down, try to teach him the basics of hand-eye dexterity, reading. Writing. Appreciating the finer things in life.

The muzzle, though, stays on. It’ll stay on even right before the Arena, when he’s nearly indistinguishable from a real Living, breathing boy.

Comments

sometime before the District trips!

[iflipmyhair]

It had been a week or so after Johanna had arrived in the Capitol. That was how Homura recalled it, or would later. She'd been getting a hot tea at a cafe that she'd found off the beaten track, when she heard the rather undignified sound of retching. At first, she intended to walk by. Then she saw who it was doing the vomiting - or rather, the what.

That boy, the zombie. After a moment, Homura found herself staring. He looked...well, not significantly less dead but. Definitely less dead. She couldn't help but be slightly curious, all things considered. After a moment, she walked towards him, not really intimidated by the fact that he was a zombie. Even if a few of the passerby looked concerned at the fact she was going towards one of the resident maneaters.

"What did you do."

[shambler]

The weird thing is R's puke is covered in black sludge.

What he ate wasn't even remotely close to that color. He guesses maybe it's the infection, the rot or whatever, leeching itself out of his body and it's a good sign. All he knows is the novelty's started to wear off and he thinks he might be recovering his sense of taste. Groaning, R wobbles forward. Brace himself against the wall, throw up his hand and arm and balance it just so - screw it. Too much work. R slouches against the wall with his entire body, resting his weight on his head and shoulders as he glances at the other Tribute.

He should probably feel embarrassed he's been caught throwing up.

"Side...e-ffect," R groans. Careful, Homura. This zombie's leaking body fluids. Might want to keep a careful distance away. "Can't...hold food...down."

[iflipmyhair]

If Homura was disgusted, she didn't show it. Instead, she turned and left, flipping her hair.

Several moments later, she returned with a roll of paper towels.

"Here." She held them out. "This should help."

[shambler]

R groaned again, taking them as he choked back the urge to throw up not just whatever he ate, but his guts while he was at it. "Th-thanks."

He got in a few dry heaves before he straightened, looking down at the roll of towels, then back at Homura. For awhile he wondered what to do with them. Was this like the bathroom? It'd kind of just...come back.

Maybe he needed more help on this.

[iflipmyhair]

Yes, it was clear after a moment this was the case.

"Do you plan on wiping yourself off with them?"

[pepsi_cola]

Victory thinks she's losing her mind. The upcoming District banquets are enough work for two Stylists, and with some of her style team out sick with the flu, Victory's barely had time to sleep, much less destress. Nights of staying up and embroidering, sewing and glue-gunning have stamped a certain ashy pallor into her features, weaved an undeniable greasiness into her hair that even a braided updo can't hide.

She goes out to drink at her favorite dive (her preference dictated by the fact that the bartender tends to work shirtless and the ease of making 'tap that' puns) as soon as she gets an opportunity. A window has opened up between her finishing what work she has and waiting for a shipment of sequins to come in, and she feels as if this excursion is practically an escape. She's riding high on the idea of a few hours to relax and then rest when she gets a text message that the sequins aren't in the right color, and she'll have to use them anyway.

She drops her head to the table and rests in in her arms, sighing heavily.

Unfair. All of it's unfair. It's like they're just setting her up to fail so they can laugh at her. Getting asked to leave the restaurant because they don't allow smoking is the final straw; all her attempts to convince them that it's a water vapor cigarette fall on deaf ears, and as such she has to go out into the back alley to pout and pretend she's ashing. She's near the point of tears when R approaches, stopped only by the handful of other citizens stepping out to smoke or make out.

Victory doesn't really notice R coming up, her nose filled with the perfume that fills her e-cigarette, but she does notice when he lurches forward and drools brownish gunk onto the fancy white cardigan she has slung over her shoulder. Brackish oil splatters over the white feathers and sequins.

"Oh my God!" Victory's shriek is enough to clear the alley of people who hadn't already politely excused themselves from the stench of a dead boy coming back to life. "Do you have any idea how much that cardigan cost?"

[shambler]

R hadn't come out here just so he could drool all over some nice lady's cardigan. Drool or vomit this time? R's not even sure on the distinction at this point and he doesn't think the cardigan cares either way: it goes from delicate ivory-white to crap-splattered, just like that.

He rears back at the shriek. "S....Sorry!"

He might be half-Dead, but his hearing's always been pretty good - it'd have to be - and it's almost as piercing as Guy's scream. Are his ear-drums bleeding? They're bleeding, aren't they? His corpse has been fast and loose with the body fluids lately - he wouldn't be surprised if a scream got his ears to start leaking while they were at it.

R stares at Victory, trying to figure out what to do. The polite thing to do would be to help clean up the cardigan as best he can, explain it was an accident, that he's ill but it's a good ill. He's not so sure the cardigan can be saved in the first pace. It stinks of decay, like a fresh body out in the humidity. Stooping, he tries to use his sleeve to mop up the worst of the drool from the cardigan. It's an exercise in futility.

[pepsi_cola]

"You're just smearing it!" Victory flails her hands in front of her in some bizarre combination of trying to smack R away and trying to waft away the smell of whatever it is he horked up on her. "That's cashmere! Oh..."

There really isn't any point in salvaging this day, is there? Victory lets loose a gale-force sigh and surrenders her ability to be happy to the powers that be, all of which, she's sure, are conspiring against her. She dramatically wipes her forehead with her wrist and slumps back against the wall, starting to wail. Her mouth crumples into a sideways hourglass shape and her throat makes little jerky motions with each tearless sob.

"It's fine. I don't even care anymore." She blinks at R with eyes suspiciously bereft of wetness, lids weighted down by false lashes the size of cockroaches. "This is just, this is absolutely the cherry on top of such a stressful week. I might as well just die here in the smoke and vomit."

She takes a long, long drag from her electric cigarette, then turns it off and tucks it behind her ear before burying her face in her hands.

[shambler]

Between the flailing and the general hysterics, R doesn't stand a chance: he doesn't stop, groan, and think shouldn't her eyes be wet?

What he does do is freeze in place and forget that he was supposed to be working on the gaping-like-a-zombie thing. It's like a force of nature, a whirlwind with huge eyelashes and a pearly throat that glitters so much he thinks if he bit into it, he'd probably get more makeup than flesh.

"It's...okay," R starts to reach out and pat her on the shoulder, thinks better of it as a wracking sob jerks her shoulder away (almost on purpose, he'd think, if he was more observant). "Dry...clean. Not...worth...dying over."

He drops his hand to his side as he trails over, his mouth thinned into a line that glistens with black spittle. So far the worst of it's over because apparently he drooled it all over the poor lady's cashmere sweater. Somehow he doubts that would help the situation here if he used that as reassurance. The way her body curls in on itself seems to tug at some forgotten instinct of his that he's not sure if it's because it's almost fetal or it's because she's a girl and he has a weak spot for chivalry or what.

R reaches into his pocket, then. This hadn't really worked with Eponine and he doesn't expect the lady to appreciate zombie cooties on the credit card, but it's the only thing he can do right now: try to foot the dry cleaning bill. His hand wobbles out toward her hands, looking almost disconnected from the rest of his body.

"Really...sorry," R adds.

before district trips!

[savedbyasong]

Shion is vaguely aware of what is going on with R, though he hasn't seen him in a few days, at least not enough to study him and determine his well being. Their escort keeps talking about 'exciting developments' though, Shion is beginning to get worried for his friend.

He is worried about the district tours as well, and the anonymous warning on the network. He had wondered about the districts for a long time, and was half excited about what district four would be like, but also half fearful about conditions there and the kind of reaction the tributes would face.

He saw R, looking very different than he usually did, though he was drooling and didn't look too well at all. It was in a different way than usual, as if he were taken by an illness rather than just dead...

"Are you alright?"

Re: before district trips!

[shambler]

Today is drooling like it's going out of style, apparently. He woke up, surprised he actually feel asleep, to find his bed soaked in places with drool and stinking of decay. Fun times. It's probably another sign he's coming back to life when he can sniff it and his nose crinkles at the stench, offended.

R looks up from where he'd been trying to (mostly) aim the drool into a potted plant by the door of District 4's suite. A little of it dribbles down his chin as he jerks up in time to see Shion. Oh, yeah. He hadn't told him The News just yet. R hurries over, dripping black drool all over the carpet and it's expensive shag as he smiles.

"Better than...alright," R beams. Shion gets hit with a faceful of blackened teeth. "Notice...difference?"

R tries to show off his slightly-better posture, the rash that's spread from his elbow down the back of his head. Check it out.

[savedbyasong]

Shion blinked at him, he noticed a lot of differences. That rash looked nasty and the drool didn't look healthy either. But... he blinked as he realised, they were fluids. A sign of a working body, and Shion might have not completely understood everything about R yet but a working body, at least in the scientific way, was not something that R had.

He reached out to touch his arm, studying the rash to check for infection, not that he didn't trust the scientists or doctors or whoever had done this.

At least he trusted them to get it right, he didn't trust their motives at all but... this was what R had wanted. What Shion had tried to discover and failed, instead learning a truth so terrifying that he hadn't actually shared it with anyone yet.

"Congratulations." He contorted his face into a cheerful smile. Because even though he was worried, worried about what this meant and why they had done this, why now? It was still what R wanted, it was a good thing. Even if it probably came with a price.

"It's amazing! How did they do it? Do you know?"

[shambler]

Something about the smile seemed a little...forced. R wasn't sure why. Maybe the Cure wasn't was glamorous was expected? There was, uh, there was a lot of body fluids involved, more than he would've guessed.

R reached into his pocket at Shion's question. His movements were still uncoordinated, shaky, his fingers fumbling with his pockets before he fished out the little pill bottle and its laundry list of side effects. Like pretty much everything in the Capitol, even the bottle was pretty, glistening in the light with some sort of opal finish.

"Gave...me this," R held it out in his palm, letting Shion inspect it. "And...a...appointments."

Not that he remembered much of those. White rooms, bright lights? Anyway, the point was he was wondering if Shion maybe got a word or two in. Maybe convinced some Capitol Gamemakers to have a change of heart?

Even his mouth was starting to feel better, when it wasn't busy drooling or vomiting. Syllables became easier and easier, the pauses shorter, less drawn out by staring. Oblivious to what Shion's learned, R kept smiling. A trail of tar-like drool edged out the corner of his mouth.

[whoseesbynight]

It's been a while since Nepeta has last seen R, and so she almost misses that it's him. Fortunately, the muzzle is enough to remind her of the last time they met, and she's never really minded being stopped for advice.

"Is efurrything alright?"

[shambler]

Oh hey, it's the troll girl. As R's met a grand total of one female troll, she's definitely hard to miss. That grey shade they used to share is a little comforting on an instinctive level. Grey used to mean "friend" or "someone who won't shoot you".

R turns from where he's been leaning up against a pillar, scratching madly at his arm. The rash he'd shown Wyatt has spread down from his elbow to his hand. It's very existence shows the Cure is working. R holds it up to show Nepeta. "Ad...justing. Look."

R grins behind the muzzle, proud.

[whoseesbynight]

Fortunately, Nepeta is used to seeing all sort of strange things and so she doesn't recoil at the sight of the rash on R's arm. When you hunt for your supper, a little rash is far from the worst thing you see. On the other hand, she doesn't know what it means. She hasn't even really figured out that R is undead, thanks to generally not paying a whole lot of attention to what other people happen to get up to elsewhere and not thinking to ask about what someone is or isn't. It's rude! Or at least, ruder than she wants to be most of the time.

"Adjusting to what?"

She can tell he's proud to be adjusting to whatever it is, but the details are something she can't even guess at.

[shambler]

In his head, the rash is like a badge. Something's actually happening to his body instead of waiting for it to fall apart (or not).

"Cure. Not...this," R waved a hand at his corpse. Wait, she's a troll and he's assuming she might not be as versed in all things human. Better explain a little bit more. "Be...pink. This...working...?"

R touched his chest right over his heart, then flopped his hands in Nepeta's direction as if that would fill in the gaps. He was assuming she had to know what a heart was, even if fleshy pink might not be her color.

[thatwasme]

There's a moment where a person evaluates their sanity as they look up and catch sight of someone wearing a muzzle over their face. It's the Capitol, Barbara realized, but even in the Capitol there were certain fashions that tended not to take. Ones the prohibited ease of the more hedonistic pleasures in public were more likely to make that list. A muzzle would be one of them.

In private, she's certain they're probably unnervingly present.

It takes longer to recognize who she's seeing as one of the Tributes gracing the last handful of Arenas. Turnover rates and a change as far as mandatory viewings meant everyone involved, with Arenas having up to ninety Tributes, was incredibly difficult for anyone not an avid fan.

Barbara wasn't. What she was stayed at surprised, suffering through her own deer in the headlights moment before shaking her head and offering R a smile. "Hey, uh..." You don't look so hot? "Where're you heading, big guy?"

[shambler]

Today his sense of balance is awesome. He can walk in a straight line, he barely bumps into walls and his shoes are only whispering against the floor into stead of shuffle-dragging.

Too bad the skin of his arm seems like it's trying to slough off. She can find him hunched over with the sleeve of his shirt rolled up around his elbow. The District 4 beach blue, meant to be calming, doesn't exactly bring out the flush in his cheeks - it makes him look even paler. He's picking away at a flap of skin when Barbara speaks up behind him, the zombie turning. There's a flash of blonde hair - he's partial to blondes, it seems - and a smile that doesn't look forced with too many perfect, overly-white teeth as the usual Capitol citizens. It's a nice smile.

"Thirsty," R faces her. That chunk of skin is hanging there by a thread, oozing blood that's a dark, dark red, too slow for a human and too red for a zombie. "New...to it. Where to...get water...?"

After what happened with Victory, R's careful to stay out of drooling/puking range of Barbara's clothes. Or her hair.

[thatwasme]

She finds it difficult to look away from the mess on his arm. It's unnerving, that dark red, old blood, new blood, some unsettling mix inbetween. "Thirsty," she repeats, parroting out of surprise more than a lack of understanding. "Right, well, around here, that can be pretty easy. Any of the Avox can bring us something, and I think there's still a water fountain over near the elevators --"

She trails off, looking around the room for any sign of someone (or someones) used to fading into the background. She catches sight of someone, pantomiming something being drunk and rubbing her throat. Barbara isn't sure if it made sense. It doesn't seem to matter, when the other moves almost immediately away. Hopefully they wouldn't return with vodka.

"What happened to your arm? It's not looking so good. Skin's not supposed to do that," she says, adding a mental note, Or at least it shouldn't be doing that without you being in serious pain. Coming to terms with exactly how alien different Tributes were since the 75th Quell began is an ongoing process of discovery for Barbara.

Maybe the vodka wouldn't be so bad, for me. "Here, someone's getting us water. Sit down and let me take a look at that?"

[shambler]

R would say it's looking more than good, it's looking fantastic. Not the scraps of flesh or the chunks of hair he's noticed in the shower drain, but the rest of it, what it means in the end. Change is coming for once. He can feel his heart stuttering every now and then, struggling to beat.

He sits down, holding out his arm for the woman (girl?). She looks younger than his Escort and it's much easier to read her face without it being caked with makeup, glitter and the long fake lashes that could stab someone. It's...friendly. R's not the best judge of people but he knows he wants to like her and that seems good enough to him. The skin flap jiggles as he rests his arm on his knee. It's still oozing an appetizing combo of puss and deep red blood, the layer underneath a vivid pink.

"Maybe...scab. Hope...so," R actually sounds jazzed at the idea of his very first scab. He peers across his muzzle at the woman, deciding to follow up with an introduction. "I'm...R. They said...side effects," he adds.

He's not dying, basically. If he's not worried, she shouldn't be either, right?

After the Trips

[president_evil]

As the opening of the arena closed in, Wesker's time become ever more precious. He denoted a great deal of it to sponsors, cherry picking those he'd determined to be of most use (the easiest to sway, the fattest wallets), and to planning, to making the utmost of the funds he received.

He made a note to pass through the betting stations once a day, making notes of the odds. The slim, pocket-notebook never far from his sight and an elegant silver pen appearing from the inside pocket of his handsome sport-coat.

Gabriel had jumped today, his previous performances apparently making up for his long absence, but the newest name on his list - Max Guevara - was by far the most interesting, sitting pretty at the top of the board despite the drop in score.

He'd never met the Victor himself, but he'd seen the footage, and that was enough to tell him what he needed to know.

Silently, at table decidedly removed from the bustle of the betting counters, he plotted, pen scratching quietly.

Re: After the Trips

[shambler]

R was looking better than ever. His eyes still had that flat look of a zombie, with a faint blue undertone as if his real color was starting to bleed back, and hand-eye coordination was still shaky, but overall: he was doing awesome. Drooling fits were far in between and the worst of the...other body function attacks seemed to be behind him, thanks to Howard babysitting during the last coupe of weeks

It took awhile to find Wesker. He'd brought up talking about the Cure with Wesker to Shion but he also wanted it to come from his own mouth. So here he was. Trying to track down a Victor who seemed to navigate the Living world with an ease that he was still a little envious about.

He found him at once of the places R generally didn't bother with, the zombie pushing past betting counters bustling because the next Arena was getting closer and closer. Compared to the Capitol citizens around him, Wesker was a startling splash of black, all sharp lines, his hair slicked back with the same glasses on before. He was leaned back, one leg hooked elegantly over the other as he wrote.

R approached, even more aware of his returning flesh-tone and the missing hunch in his shoulders. "Hi," he said from the other side of the table. "Mind if...I join...you?"

[president_evil]

The pen paused and Wesker looked up, surprised not by the interruption - there was one or two brave citizens who attempted an approach - but by the one committing it.

"R," he purred, the bottomless lenses of his glasses fixed on the not-quite-so infected's face. "I was wondering when you'd come to see me."

His head tipped, eyes moving behind the dark glass, taking in R's new stance - sturdy and strong - the lack of pallor. The eyes, more focused. Brighter. Attentive.

Dim, yes, but unarguably alive.

"Rumor told you had something new to share."

A cure.

[shambler]

R waffled between regular old embarrassment because he hasn't really...seen Wesker in awhile and the urge to share. He settled on a weird mixture of both as he grabbed the back of the chair with his new dexterity, pulled it back, and sat down. For once it looked like it was on purpose instead of a dead body slumping into the seat.

He nodded, folding his hands on the table top. "Yeah. They said I should...take it every day. After last...Arena." He shrugged. Guess he hadn't impressed anyone or they were getting tired of the same zombie routine. "Thought you'd...want to see."

(Un)living proof things could change. Reaching into his pocket, R pulled out the glass bottle with the medication and set it on the table in between them, almost shyly. It wasn't the whole Cure - there were the appointments, the injections, chunks of time he couldn't remember - but it was more than enough to show. Maybe Wesker take a look, see if it'd work for his own T-virus problem back home?