thecapitol | (no subject)

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Who|| R and [Semi-Open] – PM me if you want to bump into him so I can write a prompt.
What|| R wakes up to realize he’s a zombie all over again and the Cure, in fact, wasn’t a cure after all. He’ll be in a funk. Mostly he’ll be blocking traffic (cue finding him in the District 4 shower, creepy-staring, or else where). Basically R needs cheering up, pep-talks, even the awkward ones telling him he’s better off as a zombie.
Where|| Around the Tribute Tower and Training Center. Also District 4’s suite.
When|| After reviving in the Capitol from Howard mercy-killing him and before the next Arena. Basically a catch-all.
Warnings| Zombie references, depressed zombies.

Prompts in the comments for each character. Heads up I may be slow posting, so a post per day or every other day (so backtag central?).

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R wakes up dead.

Wesker had been right - running around in a Living, breathing body hadn't been everything he hoped it was. It'd been better, worse. Hurt, even now. R wants anything but to be stuck where he is now in a body that's gray, muzzled and stumbling and above all, slowly decomposing. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel anything at all compared to his stint in the Arena.

What he knows for sure is it’s claustrophobic. R was almost glad when his Escort took pity on him after Day ??? of groaning and staring at a wall and generally feeling sorry for himself. She pushes him to District One’s floor, even rides the elevator with him to make sure he doesn’t wander off which, to be fair, has happened before. She’s cooing and aahing about something he’s not sure about, although he catches phrases like that was so sweet (and tragic) what he did for you and it takes him a moment to realize she’s going on about Howard. R’s not sure he agrees.

He wanted to live. Even in a body that was probably on its way out and he wanted to grab every last second out of it.

R hasn’t worked up to being upset with Howard. Not yet. Zombies are slow burns even at the best of times, assuming they even remember what yesterday was like. R stands there wobbling behind his Escort as she touches her hair, seems to find it “acceptable” and gives the door a brisk 1-2-3 knock. She stands even straighter, as if trying to show R how it’s done.

After his talk with Howard, R leaves with his head feeling even more foggy than usual. It’s even more noticeable now that he’s had a taste of Living is like.

He bumps into Orc not long later – he thinks it’s only a few hours later, but it could be easily days. Zombie time-telling is shaky, at best, and when he rounds the corner and nearly breaks his nose against Orc’s massive chest, he has to wonder how long he’s been shuffling around these halls. Hard to tell when you’re in a slump, literally and figuratively. Shuffling back until the craggy rocks resolve into a torso, then a body, R slowly cranes his head up.

“Orc,” he grunts. “Talk?”

He wants to talk, even if Orc isn’t the most talkative person he’s ever met and R’s too talkative for a proper zombie. Talking to Howard’s left him…unfulfilled, empty.

R gets some lurking in while he can: it’s not his favorite activity as a zombie, but when you’re a walking corpse, there’s not a lot of other options out there, hobby wise. Usually there’s just “groan” and “bump into things” and right now those just remind him of what he’s lost. He’d had pink fingers and toes, red blood that ran into of oozed, hair that didn’t have the consistency of straw. He hadn’t worried about body parts falling off. Lurking, at least, doesn’t feel bad. If he turns of the lights and closes the shower curtain around him, ignoring the dusting of teal sparkles, R can almost pretend he’s not trapped in his own rotting corpse. Again.

He loses time in there, staring at nothing in particular, letting his mind drift like debris on muddy waves.

R’s still in there when Hawkeye decides now’s a good time to use the shower, the zombie hunched over only inches away from the curtain.

The reruns of R’s past Arenas are bloody and far, far too full of a groaning dead-boy eating people, with a mask of blood and gore and Dead-silver eyes: compared to the young man Hans met in the museum, he looks a mess. But there’s something behind that slack face that says he’s hungry for more than the next screaming Tribute and reviewing the less…bloody parts of the Arena, instances where he gets along with the other Tributes. Displays that same naïve willingness to please.

Hans can catch R riding the elevator, trying to get used to the idea that he’s the same corpse he’s always been. When the doors open, his head lolls up to stare at Hans and for a moment there’s just that blank lack of recognition, R’s half-decomposed brain trying to put two and two together. He stares first at that forehead, fantasizes about what’s beneath it, and then his eyes travel downward. The sideburns seem familiar, R focusing on those. Name. He knows there’s a name that goes with those. It’s a good name, short but regal. He’d been impressed.

R’s mouth works fishlike behind the muzzle, which has a silver/obsidian squid theme going on today to match his eyes, according to his Escort. “Hggh….Hans..?” That’s the name. He thinks. R’s hand flutters up in a ghost of a wave, unsure.

Ellie has some sort of zombie-radar, because she finds R wedged between some planters where he was convinced no one could find him. The fact those planters groan every now and then probably has something to do with it. When he hears her voice, he turns (nearly gets stuck) and faces her, his head dropping down and down until his chin touches his chest. The muzzle glints at her as he moves, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Not…guh-good time…Ellie,” R mumbles, miserable.

It’s been a few days – weeks, maybe? – for R to get used to un-life. It’s not a welcome adjustment. It’s one thing to go into the Arena a corpse, spend a few weeks rotting, and come back a slightly-fresher corpse. It’s another thing entirely to be living and breathing and able to move and speak like everyone else…then have that taken away. He’s chafed against his rotting status before, at the airport. It feels downright claustrophobic now, R spending most of his time in his room, shuffling into dark corners or drooling quietly into the trash can.

There was a time he didn’t have to worry about that. When he could open his mouth and out came words, full sentences.

He’s still dripping into the trash can when there’s a knock on his door, too loud to be his Escort. She’s mastered the feminine knock, R’s head lolling to the side as he grunts something at the door. It might be “come in”, but it mostly sounds like an unhappy moan.

Maybe he needs to get this off his chest. Talk to someone he knows.

Maximus isn’t the first person he would’ve thought of; he’s not even sure if they’re friends but he’d killed Tributes just to keep him from starving and he’d tried – with varying success – to wean him off flesh. It’s a valuable perspective on things. And like zombies, Maximus was a creature of habit: he gravitated to certain places, like the Training Center. If he wasn’t there, R could wait. At least was the one plus of being a corpse. You could literally wait days and not miss much. It’s both convenient and depressing.

He shuffles up to Maximus while he’s in the middle of stabbing a dummy. “T…talk…Max-imus?”

Please say yes, please say yes.

Edited 2014-03-20 08:30 (UTC)

He spends the night in the Training Center. It’s a break from the pressure of Stylists trying to make sure he doesn’t drop body parts where someone could slip on them and those tsk’s and hmm’s of his Escort, who thinks he should get over it because he’s probably been a zombie longer than he’s been a human. “At least you get another chance at the next Arena!” she sighs dramatically, as if that’s supposed to make him feel better. It doesn’t. R mostly feels miserable when he can feel anything at all.

He stands there blocking one of the training dummies, staring at where the skull would be if it was human when he picks up a strange smell. His head bobs up as he sniffs noisily behind the muzzle, a brief moment of curiosity stabbing through the general funk he’s been feeling for the past…days? Weeks? Does it even matter?

R stares at the girl, old enough in his world to handle weapons but young enough that she could probably put on a growth spurt. Her hair’s cropped zombie-sensible – too short for anyone to grab onto, a buzz cut he has to respect. “In…way?” R shuffles to the side, trying not to trip over his own feet.

The truth is, R’s been avoiding his friends the past week and that means Peeta too. When he sees him coming, R shuffles for the nearest corner he can find and lurks there with his face to the wall, waiting for Peeta to take off. He’s not ready to talk to him. Not yet.

So it makes sense Peeta tells Katniss. Make this a two-pronged attack because he’s too slow to dodge both of them. R shuffles around a corner and sees Katniss coming instead of Peeta – his mind stalls before it delivers the message get shuffling to his feet, the zombie rooted to the floor as Katniss comes closer. R casts about for something to say, his eyes wide and staring at her instead of at some invisible point past her. What does he say? Act casual? Maybe not even say anything, just groan. Groaning’s always the safe bet. It’s noncommittal.

R’s still waffling as she gets close enough that he can see the small flecks in her eyes, his face stiff with a sense of “oh shit, I’m not ready”.

Edited 2014-03-20 08:32 (UTC)

Peeta eventually catches up, R blaming his Escort because she could’ve said he’s died again or he’s even wandered off but no – she giggles (titters) when she lets in the Peeta Mellark, fighting off the urge to ask for an autograph as she leads him to R’s room.

R doesn’t look up at first. The record player Howard gave him months ago is still working, amazingly, but it’s silent and he’s just running his hands along the metal edges, letting his fingers brush against the needle and the wood paneling, remembering how…different everything had felt when he’d been alive in the Arena. Hot, cold, sharp, smooth – everything had felt magnified compared to now, vivid. Now it’s overlaid with a gray fog, pressing down on everything from the folds of his brain to what the tactile world feels like to a corpse's hand.

“R. You have a visitor. Be polite and say hello,” his Escort clicks her teeth, embarrassed her Tribute is being so antisocial to a Victor.

He looks up and pauses, going as still as a regular corpse as he registers Peeta’s there outlined by the door. He gapes at him, his hand flopping off the record player. Something snaps off, R registering it on some distant level that'll have time to be disappointed later. “Why…here?”

Edited 2014-03-20 08:44 (UTC)

Orc looks puzzled by R's appearance, and it takes him a moment to process, they hadn't spoken in some time but he was glad to run into him [or be run into] while he was wasting his day wandering aimlessly.

Something they had in common it seemed.

"Yeah, sure man." It wasn't often someone came to Orc purposefully to have a conversation really.

Her heart nearly breaks, when she sees him. He'd been her hope, too, for a little while, though she'd seen that nearly break down in the arena. And now...

"Oh, R," She said, looking just as miserable as he did. "What are you doing?" Besides nearly getting lodged between planters.

Edited 2014-03-20 11:35 (UTC)

Maximus is indeed in the training center, like clockwork, every day at around the same time. He thrust the blade into the dummy near to the hilt as he hears the tell-tale shuffling behind him and he turns.

He arches an eyebrow - he didn't think talking was a particular specialty of R's, but he slowly withdraws his blade.

"How may I be of service?" He asks in a low rumble.

"Gan, friend, you sound worse than I feel."

Cuthbert just let himself in, as he didn't think there was a reason not to. He was definitely concerned to see R in such terrible condition. Or at least, what looked to him like terrible condition.

"Are you aright?" He leaned down by R's side, genuinely worried about him now that he can see what kind of shape the zombie was in.

If R was living, he would've probably pulled a muscle in his neck trying to stare up at Orc and his bulk.

He got right down to it: for a zombie, it was blunt, lightning-fast when conversations could take anywhere between weeks to months to get past greetings. R ogled Orc, his mouth hanging loose behind his muzzle as he grasped at words, concepts. "Have....re-gret? This...?"

R flops a hand at himself, his corpsehood, then at Orc, trying to indicate what they both share: they can't be considered conventionally human.

At this point, it might not even be nearly - in his panic, he really did get jammed in there, his shoulders wedged between two planters that weren't built for zombies. Ellie would be as safe as they come, if he was hungry enough to lunge at her.

"Not...feel," R moans. "Here."

He points at his heart, then his head, trying to mime to Ellie that he really, really wished he was like her: pumping heart, a life ahead with an actual expiration date.

R watched how the blade's hilt fit in Maximus's hand - he'd seen just how well the guy could handle it.

"Problem," R grunted. His mouth felt that annoying mix between stiff and mushy and made worse because he remembered what it felt like to have a face responding the way he wanted it to. "I think...sad."

R paused on the word, as if he wasn't sure. Zombies usually didn't do the sad thing, but reviewing that emptiness in his chest, he suspected he was sad. A gladiator who was too good at killing might not be his first choice to talk about feelings, but here they both were, so.

It's one of the rare times R bothers navigating a busy sidewalk: he's tended to avoid it because of the smell, for starters. Too many Living, too much colognes and perfumes heady enough to make his eyes water (and this is coming from the corpse without working tear ducts), stares and people bringing handkerchiefs to their noses. Trying not to inhale around him.

R's not sure why he bothered. It drives in that he's not them, that he's only got hands and arms in the same places, that he can't have what they have. After a few hours of wandering around and feeling that emptiness yawning inside his head, R decides to call it quits.

He almost gets run down trying to cross a street. Zombies don't usually check before they cross, R stumbling out without looking. A car lays on the horn, brakes squeal, and suddenly he's being dragged back.

"Hgggh..." R grunts, too surprised to say "thanks" to his rescuer. He's still wobbling from the close shave.

R stands swaying gently outside Wesker's door, the summons tucked safely away in his pocket where he's least likely to lose (or drool) on it. "A chat", it'd said, according to his Escort. Wesker wants a chat and R has a vague idea what it could be: maybe I told you so or it hurts to live, doesn't it or...something.

At this point, R doesn't have it in him to argue. He stands there with his arms hanging at his side, stooped in that awful posture that's come back ever since he woke up and realized wasn't breathing.

The door hisses, R shuffling in after a moment of staring, his muzzle tilting to the side as he glances around.

R was hunched over even more than usual, his shoulders drooping, spine bent as if he wanted to curl into a dead boy's fetal position. His grey eyes shifted over to Bert as he reached up and tried to wipe black drool from the muzzle.

"Ad...just...ing," R mumbled, relieved he didn't start dripping on Bert. "To...this. Dead...again."

It was one of those days that she was avoiding being swamped with people. Sadly, Azula had not been kidding: people WERE constantly flocking to her, and having time to herself was becoming rare. Finally, there was an uninterrupted amount of time where she could just walk around and take in the scenery...and in doing that, happened upon seeing someone walking pretty unevenly, a car about to hit him.

There was no time to think about it: Mindy was fast, thankfully, and rushed over, pulling the shambler out of harms way, breathing hard. She'd gotten scraping, some concrete in her hands, but brushed this off.

"Dude, what the hell were you-" She stopped when she saw who it was. Oh. OH. The explained the slowness.

"R, right?"

R wobbles over her, towering like a rotting grey giant.

"R," he nodded, more relieved she knew his name than the fact he'd been saved from being a zombie pancake. Roadkill? R hadn't exactly seen a lot of functioning cars back home, therefore not a lot of corpses out there who died by getting run over. The truth was, he barely remembered what roadkill looked like.

He peered down at Mindy, trying to place a face, a name, trying to remember if he'd killed her before. "Thank...you. My....hgh-hero?"

R wasn't too sure about that. He'd probably appreciate it more if he wasn't a zombie: he didn't even have that surge of adrenaline from a near-death experience, the dead boy swaying slightly as he held out his hand toward Mindy.

Shion was more stubborn than he looked - no matter which corner of the District 4 R picked to ~~sulk~~ lurk in, there Shion was, with a shy little smile that was so understanding it almost hurt. He'd been there a few days, R suspected. He wasn't too sure - he couldn't read the clock or the calender - and eventually he had to bite the bullet. Turn, head lolling, and talk.

"Busy," R grunted, trying to look very, very busy with a full schedule of groaning and staring at walls. "Want...this...corner."

The very corner Shion happened to be standing in, which was prime lurking territory to any corpse worth his maggots. R frowned at Shion behind his muzzle.

Shion had began to worry that the concept of patience didn't even exist for zombies, that there was nothing to wear down. That R would just continue to ignore him forever because he could just put him out of his thoughts.

But at the same time he didn't want to force his friend to talk before he wanted to. He should have done more to help him, he had known it had been R's one chance, to stay human he had needed to win the arena. But now that had been taken from him.

He stepped out of the corner, but didn't go far, moving in to close R off the moment the boy took his place. "You don't look busy."

It was a start, it was words. And R had spoken first, so Shion didn't feel like he was forcing this conversation.

Regrets? He's had a few.

Nodding gently "Yeah...there's this woman. She fixed me for awhile, last arena. But now I can't get to her to make her do it again. And everyone keeps telling me I should just be happy like this."

He sighed, like it was so easy.

"The whole thing sucks. They got all this fancy tech, why can't they make our lives better they way we want instead of what's fun for them?"

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Page 1 of 8

(no subject)

Howard Bassem

Orc

Hawkeye

Hans

Ellie

Cuthbert

Maximus

Max (Dark Angel)

Katniss

Peeta

Re: Orc

Re: Ellie

no subject

no subject

no subject

Re: Ellie

no subject

Mindy

Wesker

no subject

Re: Mindy

no subject

Shion

no subject

no subject