you got a way with words

[pillowmania]

Who| Katurian and OPEN
What| One of the Capitol's torturers is chilling around the city.
Where| The Capitol streets
When| Week Six
Warnings/Notes| Possible mentions of: ptsd, child abuse, torture.

In the back of his mind, Katurian heard chainsaws.

(Vroom vroom vROom.)

It was ticklish, almost, like a feather on his scalp or a lover whispering into his ear. (Katurian never had lovers, but he knew how to write stories about them, stories of exhilaration and control and, yes, chainsaws.) It was too cacophonous to be pleasant, too uneven to be soothing. The sound stood somewhere between an imagining and a hallucination. It was unusual. Normally he only heard screams.

In public, Katurian had taken to dark hoods and opaque goggles. It did not conceal his identity, not entirely, but it made him feel more protected, more invisible. The chainsaws growled in his mind as he completed his errands, traveling from store to store, street to street.

At the end of the day, he always found himself outside the same place. The radio station. He was a wandering ghost and this, perhaps, this was his grave. His salvation.

This was the only place where the chainsaws sounded like music.

Comments

[void_whereprohibited]

Cecil was humming as he left the station for the day. He was a little surprised, upon putting his shoulder to the tinted-glass door, to see how long the shadows had gotten since he'd arrived; he'd not meant to stay so long, but then again, he never meant to stay so long, and it always happened anyway. Time just... flew, when you really, really loved what you did! His mind was still full of the day, too-- the script he'd started editing that morning, the Victor interview he'd scheduled for next week, and perhaps that was why he was nearly close enough to brush shoulders with Katurian before he noticed him.

He did not exactly mean to pause; he was not looking for anyone, not expecting anyone. But sometimes that happened - you registered something in the corner of your eye that registered in the corner of your mind, and you paused-- just in case you were about to miss something important.

It wasn't quite correct to say that that person in front of the station in a dark hood and opaque goggles was familiar. He had a shield up against familiarity, one Cecil would have been more than content to allow him to stand behind otherwise. But there was something about him that made Cecil's steps slow briefly as he passed, and his head turn to look at him a second time, and his eyes to stay on him a second or two too long.

He stopped humming, because one could not hum and smile at the same time. "Good evening!" he said, bright and my-workday-sure-was-great friendly. "Can I, uh... help you find something?"

[pillowmania]

Katurian had never been good at making friends. Even before the Capitol -- even when he was just a boy -- he stood alone. In the classroom, he sneered at the other children's (inferior) paintings and ate lunch by himself. At the slaughterhouse, he muttered insults under his breath and hid his face from prying eyes. His parents had actively discouraged friends because he was better than that, because he was better than them, and like most of their lessons, this one stuck around like a bur caught under his skin.

Social awkwardness born from elitism. It was one more reason why he related to Penny.

But Katurian had been drawn to Cecil, not like a moth to a flame, but like his fingers to a pen. The connection he felt with this other man was immediate and undeniable. He dreamed of conversations, of dinners, of the end to loneliness. Every day, he found himself waiting outside this man's place of work. Every day, he cringed away into the darkness before he emerged.

Until today.

It was an accident. He had been lost in thought (his grave, his salvation) when Cecil opened the door and stepped outside.

"I --"

When in doubt, speak.

"I'm quite all right," he stumbled, stuttered, "-- quite, quite all right, and I didn't mean to disturb you -- or at least I hope I didn't disturb you, standing outside like this, but we've met before and, um, my name is Katurian. Katurian Katurian. That's one first name and one last name."

He offered his hand, thankful that his black glove hid his sweaty palms. His back was pressed against the wall behind him.

[void_whereprohibited]

Recognition dawned. Cecil's grin lost all trace of polite distance, turned wide and familiar and delighted. "Katurian Katurian," he intoned, and took the offered hand for an enthusiastic handshake. "Now there's a face I wasn't expecting to see today!" As though there were nothing strange about finding someone he barely knew waiting alone outside his workplace; as though this could not be anything but a chance meeting.

"But really, that's just how it is, isn't it?" he went on, dropping the hand in his. "We never seem to see the things we don't expect to! We assume, as we walk half-blind through our own lives, that we will find only what we are looking for." The gravity imparted by this statement was brief - replaced swiftly with the former grin. "But I certainly wasn't looking for you, and yet-- here you are."

He didn't appear disturbed by Katurian's presence at all. He'd carried his good mood out of the office and into this conversation without faltering, and now that he knew to whom he was speaking, he felt a little silly, not having recognized his acquaintance before. The man had made such an impression at the watch party, too-- so few people appreciated the Games the way Katurian Katurian, to judge by his words, had appeared to.

"...Speaking of you being here-- uh-- what are you doing here?" There was no suspicion in it, just genuine curiosity - the station was by no means out of the way (just at the edges of the City Circle, away from the worst of the traffic and a terribly convenient commute!), but neither was it any kind of gathering place-- there was, so far as Cecil knew, very little nearby worth waiting for.

[pillowmania]

We assume, as we walk half-blind through our own lives, that we will find only what we are looking for.

This was what Katurian liked about Cecil. That melody. That whimsy. In many ways, talking with Cecil reminded Katurian of reading a book. There was a plot, oh yes, the plot was the most important part, but there were also delightful little asides, these insights into the human condition. At the sound of Cecil's words, Katurian felt bursts of energy dancing underneath his fingertips. He felt waves emanating from his chest.

He did not smile. He simply stood there, like a traveler lost in the stars.

"I was looking for you."

And then he smiled, bright and genuine. He buried his hands in his pockets.

"You have quite the radio show, I have to say. It's very good."

[void_whereprohibited]

"--Oh! You listen?" His grin widened, pleasantly surprised, terribly flattered. This was not something people usually sought him out to say. But that was the nature of radio - to facilitate the movement of his voice through the air to the ears of other people, not to bring their voices, their thoughts, back to him. People, on the whole, did not look for him.

It made him feel even more warmly disposed toward Katurian Katurian, who was the kind of person who did not listen passively. The best kind of listener. "Well-- thank you!" he said. "Most of the feedback I get comes from station management, and, you know, they're not quite as interested in what I'm doing well." He rolled his eyes, good-naturedly-- Bosses, right?

He paused; cast a glance at his watch, and then briefly over his shoulder at the evening-lit street around them. Not looking for anything in particular, but giving the conversation a moment to lose its direction. Like pausing for breath in a broadcast. "...Hey, listen," he said. "I've been in that office for the last seven hours, and I am just starving. I was thinking, maybe I'd head into the Circle and grab something to eat on the way home! And, if you're not doing anything in particular-- I certainly wouldn't mind the company."

[pillowmania]

Katurian was aware that this might be one of those life-changing moments. This could be a make or a break. A sink or a swim.

"Yes," he said too quickly, his letters slurring on top of each other. He gripped the inside of his pockets with his fingers. "Yes, that sounds great."

But of course, Katurian was not a maker or a swimmer. He sunk, often deliberately, and his thin fingers took more things apart than he ever put together. He ducked his head towards Cecil, miming closeness without daring to touch him. Management didn't understand; that was right. They had no appreciation for the artists drowning at the bottom.

Katurian had never dined with someone other than Penny.

[void_whereprohibited]

"Great!" Cecil said, almost too loudly, like nothing could possibly be better. "I know just the place. It's right around the corner. I probably go there at least once a week - it's just so convenient!"

He started walking long before he finished talking, and let that be the invitation to follow him. His pace was quick-- not hurried, but energetic. The workday never left him exhausted, not since he'd gotten into radio. All the time spent planning and writing and interviewing and broadcasting, it only made him want to talk more - and to run right into someone who wanted to listen! Why, it was like the workday didn't have to end!

The walk wasn't long at the pace Cecil set. Ten minutes and he was holding open the door of Pain a la Panem, which was small, brightly-lit, and full of the smell of fresh bread. There was a counter at the front for the purpose of taking orders, and booths and tables spread around diner-style. It was clear why it was a favorite quick after-work place. Cecil took only a brief glance at the menu on the table as he slid into a corner booth, pushing it instead toward Katurian - the emphasis was on sandwiches, each one named for a District or a particularly renowned Victor, with themed fillings.

"Pretty neat, right? I used to go here even before I had my own show," Cecil said, propping his chin on his hand and looking around with nostalgic fondness, as though that had been decades ago and not two months. "Back when I just did fill-ins for more renowned broadcasters. In fact, I used to get lunch here for Tiberius Filmore! He was especially fond of the District Seven--" He pointed at it on the menu-- "--but I've always been partial to the Eleven. The raisins complement the avocado just perfectly."

[savedbyasong]

Shion had been wandering around the shops mostly aimlessly. His escort tried to make him go out into the city at least once a day and he found it easier to avoid the screens here. He couldn't really avoid them purposefully so at least if he was busy it gave him an excuse.

Of course they were everywhere, and even outside you were never far from the sound of them. He saw the figure in the hood and glasses and went to move out of their way. He found it was easier just to work around Capitolites than expect them to see you. Unless they wanted to see you, and then Shion usually wished they hadn't.

Which was perhaps unfair, because there were people he had met who had been nice, kind even. But their complete lack of concern for the atrocities their city was committing was enough for him to fear them.

[pillowmania]

It was not unlike the last time they met. Katurian, shrouded in dark clothes and ghost-like mystery. Shion, bright and out of place like a single speck of white-out in a pool of ink. But there were also key differences. Katurian was sober and his mind burst with the nervous energy (and humanity) the drugs wouldn't allow him to keep.

Most importantly, Penny was not here. Calling her a ball and chain would be an understatement. She was the monster under his bed that would grab his feet if he let his toes touch the ground.

"Shion," he said, hushed. He didn't make the decision to speak -- he simply did.

He also made the decision to grab Shion's shoulders and back him into the nearest wall.

[savedbyasong]

Shion blinked as he realised the hooded figure had spoken his name. The voice registered, having a memory like Shion's helped sometimes, when people hid themselves.

The first time they had met Shion had thought he was nice, the second time not so much and he was friends with Penny, Penny terrified Shion. Even more so now after their meeting in the park.

Shion had met many people since Rat had saved him but Penny was the first to so openly enjoy cruelty.

He didn't really have that much time to react before he was grabbed and the wall was behind him. Panic flooded him along with shame, because he should be better at this by now. Rat had tried to teach him. He had been in three Arenas now. Yet he still could get grabbed so easily.

If Rat had been near he would have been disappointed. "Katurian?"

[pillowmania]

He released Shion's shoulders, realizing too late that his actions could be perceived as threatening. Touch had always been an important sense for Katurian. Touch was how he soothed Michal during the night terrors, how he brought him back to reality during the tantrums. Touch was how he taught him how to ride a bike, how to use a fork.

He removed his goggles with trembling hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, like the words had been torn from his lips. He stepped backwards, giving Shion space. "I didn't mean-- I didn't mean to startle you. I've been looking for you, is all. I wanted to see you."

It was all so clandestine, the way this was playing out. Katurian realized he was still whispering.

[savedbyasong]

Touch was important to Shion too, it was what brought him to calmness, whenever his mind ran away from him. Stopped him from panicking and reminded him where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. But it could also hurt, hurt and scare him and sometimes it did both, like when Rat held daggers to his throat and Shion feared for his life and yet felt safe all at the same time.

He mostly didn't try to understand it. He forced his features under control, a smile touching his lips because he had to smile even when he didn't want to. That was the difference he though, between being free and not being free.

"It's okay, it's nice to see you as well, I haven't seen you in a long while."

[pillowmania]

"I'm not an entirely social person," he said, finally bringing his voice to its proper volume. "So, um, I mean, that's not wholly unexpected, you not seeing me for a long while."

Not an entirely social person. It was an understatement, but at the very least, it wasn't a lie. Katurian spent the time he wasn't at work holed up in his apartment writing, writing, writing, and when his eyes caught the sunlight, he would wince backwards like a vampire. Still, it was only half the answer -- he had been avoiding Shion, that boy who didn't know art but wanted to learn about it, that boy he let down when he lead Penny to him like a bloodhound to a fox.

He forced his own smile. It was the mechanical, practiced small-talk kind.

"How are you?"

He fought a grimace. What an idiotic fucking question.

[paidinbeer]

Orc had seen himself on the recordings of the arena, and he imagined that he probably looked as much a zombie now as he had when he was actually dead.

With craggy backs under his beady eyes he had taken to walking around the Capitol looking for the mysterious woman he sough. Surely she had to be somewhere right? He would just keep walking block to block with her picture till someone could tell him where to find her.

In a long coat and hat he was hardly inconspicuous but it made him feel better not to walk around shirtless as his stylists so often suggested.

So wrapped up in his thoughts he almost bowled over Katurian as his eyes were so focused on finding the dark haired woman.

[pillowmania]

Katurian could see him approaching, could feel him approaching as the boulders connected with the concrete. The impact of stone against stone vibrated in his knees. It brought his jaws closer together.

Run.

It was an immediate instinct, one drowned out only by societal norms -- after all, what sort of madman ran in public? -- and so he remained in the rock boy's path. He squeaked as he ducked away from the collision, his hood slipping from his head.

[paidinbeer]

"Huh?"

Orc turned slowly to address the person he'd almost knocked over. He meant to apologize but the face he saw floored him. It was one of two faces burned into his memory.

"You..." He reached for Katurian to grab at his top hoping to keep him from running away.

[pillowmania]

Outside of the torture chamber, Katurian was a mouse of a man, trembling and driven by fear. Prey -- not a predator. When Orc grabbed his shirt, he immediately tried to jerk away, a fly caught in a trap.

"Y-You," he said, bracing for the pain, bracing for the darkness. He latched onto Orc's hand. "Y-You don't want to do this."

[paidinbeer]

"Yes I do." Orc grumbled dragging Katurian closer till they were eye to beady eye.

"I want to find Penny. She needs to fix me again." He growled with a look of desperation and hope in his gaze.

[pillowmania]

"This is fucking assault," he said. He let the fear drive him, let it bubble up inside his stomach like a living being. He clamped his hands into fists. "I hope you know that."

But then the fear ebbed, if just for a moment, and he heard Orc's words. He saw the desperation, the hope in his eyes. He was still just a child. Wasn't he? What was Katurian doing when he was only fifteen? Reeling from the death of his parents, collecting tesserae like they were war rations. Growing up too quickly.

Orc was growing up too quickly, too.

He inhaled. Exhaled. When he spoke again, it was quieter, more tender.

"Please let me go, Charles. This is not how people have conversations."

[carnagecarnival]

After nearly breaking a TV screen, watching many of his most important few still wander in the arenas, watching them cut away, leaving him without all knowing what's happening to them to show replay off his fall. It weren't even like to be any kind of a good way to die. It'd been stupid. He wanted to see the others.

Of course, one couldn't very well do that with a broken viewing screen. So, with all his might he had pushed himself up, onto his feet, and he walked away. He wonders if his Moirail would be impressed with his ability to not destroy thing. More likely, he'd snort and laugh at him, before delivering a calming shoosh.

So he wanders the Capitol streets, breathing in the night air, looking up for stars, and looking around at those around. He catches sight of a figure, dressed dark with goggles on him. Not an unusually thing all in all, but unusual in a place like Capitol, where everything was stupid seadweller-esque extravagance. Frowning, he tails after the fucker, watching to see where he goes. It takes him a minute, but sure enough, he recognizes him.

"SO IT'S YOU THEN," He says from some ways behind.

[pillowmania]

So it's him.

Katurain doesn't realize it immediately. The first thing he realizes is that this voice is coming from behind him, and his flight-or-fight response sparks and expands like a fire. He wheels around, his sharp black boots clip clipping on the ground like a horse's hooves. Then he realizes.

So it's him.

"You startled me," he says (as though it needs to be said). "You're the one from the roof."

[carnagecarnival]

He snorts and bows low, legs cross and arms spread out. All joking, humourous, dramatics. There's a grin on his face.

"Tis' motherfucking I, from the roof," He announces, chuckling. More seriously, he introduces himself for real, "THE INITIATE, FRAYSONG. Initiate should all make at to do. AND YOU, YOU ARE ALL LIKE TO BE HE WHAT ALL GOT HIS PLEASINGS FROM THE POESY. All motherfucking down with they way of word."

Perhaps he shall get a name from this one at last. One does make all to hope.

"YOUR KIND DON'T TEND ALL TO DRESS AS SUCH," He points out. "No. YOU ALL SEEM AT FOR EXTRAVAGANCE ALL THE MORE. But you, all made to hide, almost got at to make on thinking a mysterious motherfucker was being up to something."

[pillowmania]

(Ring around the rosie, pockets full of posy.)

"Poesy," he repeats, attempting to regain his bearings and banish those soft pink flowers from his head. Poesy is another way of saying poetry. He knows this in the way he knows most things: vaguely and with limited confidence. "Y-Yes, I believe -- I believe that's me. With the words. I'm a writer."

A writer. It is identity he clings to even when he spends his days speckled with someone else's blood.

"I'm not like the others," he says. He fights a smile, taking those words as a compliment. (Not like these superficial pricks.) "And I would think you'd understand that. I would think you're not like the others either."

[carnagecarnival]

He laughs. He gives a hum all motherfucking pleased.

"PERHAPS YOU'D BE RIGHT. perhaps a motherfucker has got all the fuck on mark. ON MY WORLD, THEY SAY MY BLOOD IS LIKENED TO THE NOBILITY. But I have naught but worked all for my worth. NOT BUT WORKED TO GET ALL WHERE I WAS AND FUCKING FRANKLY, THOSE WHAT DIDN'T WEREN'T WORTH FUCK. I detested their lot. I LOATHE THE LIKES OF ALL OF THEY WHO THINK THEIR SHIT BETTER. I suppose at I ought to thank Capitol for I ain't never got to hear another goddamn glub of them again," He says wryly. It is cruel to play with people this way, he knows. It is no kind thing and, truly, after the events of the arena he shouldn't. But after the events of the arena, it's exactly why he wants to. He can be himself for a few hours and it ain't got to mean a thing. This fucker don't care. It don't matter. He sighs, shaking his head, though still grinning.

"THE ONLY DOWN OF IT BE THAT I MAY NEVER AGAIN PAINT WITH THEY NEITHER. I do so miss the work of their color. LIKE THE JEWELS THEY SO LOVE. My dear muse be of art even more so than word. SO MANY THING WHAT CANNOT ALL BE SAID WITH EITHER AND SO MUCH MORE IN BOTH." He tilts his head.

"BUT HARDLY, HIS BEING OUT AIN'T ALL LIKE TO BE OF NO MEANING. It ain't all like to be of no purpose. WHAT INTERESTS BE OF YOU, WANDERING THIS FINE-ASS VENUE OF HERE? Perhaps seeking muse of your own?"

[pillowmania]

Speaking with the Initiate (Fraysong, he said) is always like muddling through a riddle. Katurian loves it for its complexity, its prosody, its elegance. His father loved speaking in riddles, and although Katurian hates that man (that monster), he still feels an almost primal appreciation for the words. Katurian is, after all, the man 'with the words.'

He wonders if this painting the Initiate mentioned actually involved paint.

(Of course this creature didn't mean paint, of course he meant blood, this fellow is a crook and a criminal. A murderer. A bleeding zebra is black and white and red all over.)

"I never pull things from real life," he says, managing an anxious, crooked smile. He takes a single step backwards. "I mean, no offense to these people, but they don't deserve any stories. I always say a muse is a muse as long as it has the potential for growth, and none of these people are interested in growth. You know what I mean?"