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thecapitol2014-07-09 09:15 pm
void_whereprohibited) wrote in thecapitol2014-07-09 09:15 pm
teach me the way to be humble and good
Who | Cecil Palmer and YOU
What | There's a new Avox in town! ...Well. There are a lot of new Avoxes in town. This one is now a Tribute for District Three, no longer a radio host, and not keen to be reminded of why this is the case.
Where | Around the Tribute Center! See below for prompts.
When | A few days after Penny and Cruentus' broadcast.
Warnings | Threads will likely include mentions of torture, brainwashing, etc.; everything that comes with Avoxes and Capitol retribution.
PROMPT 1: CORRIDORS
The Capitol had gone to a great deal of trouble to strip Cecil Palmer of both his previous identity, and his human dignity. He could have told them, had they allowed it, that very little of it had been necessary - all it would have required was taking his voice.
They'd taken that, and removed every cosmetic change he'd made, as well. No more moving tattoos, or extra eyes, or scales, or neon tints. Even the color in his hair is gone, back to the sandy blond that even he hasn't seen in years. Of course, they'd also made sure that he wouldn't miss them - the mere thought of failing to blend, of standing out, makes Cecil's stomach twist and his palms start to sweat. Just standing next to particularly colorful people is stressful, as though flamboyance could be contagious.
Luckily, it's easy to avoid with his eyes leveled at the ground, and that's where he keeps them as he walks briskly through the corridors, on the way to his next errand.
It's as he's passing an open door that he hears it-- someone's got a radio on. Someone's listening to Messalina Baker's program. Four o' clock on Friday afternoons, every week. Hello, hel-lo, and wel-come to your Capitol afternoon with--
The pause in his step is completely involuntary, as is the swing of his head to look. There is not a single part of him that means to engage with the sound in any way-- and he stifles his reaction quickly, of course, schools his expression and drops his eyes and picks up his pace--
--just in time to sidestep someone whom he had, in his distraction, completely failed to notice. It's a near miss-- too near to be remotely conscionable. Too near not to be noticeable.
PROMPT 2: DISTRICT THREE SUITES
Among Cecil's current host of difficulties, some are more immediate than others. The lack of his voice is, of course, the most pressing, the one he thinks about most often, the one that the mere act of existing is most likely to remind him of. But next to that it was almost easy to forget, when he was first taken to his new home under the Tribute Center, that he's lost not only his voice but his citizenship - that he is now not only an Avox, but a Tribute.
He enters the District Three suites for the first time because he's been given a cleaning shift there. It's quiet when he comes in - he can take a second to stop, to look around the place he technically (only technically) belongs.
There's no one present when he halts beside a set of pictures on the wall - a bright, artfully-lit arrangement of landscapes. District Three landscapes. Cities at night, spread out circuitlike next to aerial views of rain-soaked forests, interspersed with waterfalls (some with turbines at the bottom of them and some without). It occurs to him that none of these places exists anymore. That the turbines have fallen silent. That the circuits are broken. That he, a person without a citizenship, will die fighting for a District that does not actually exist. He thinks there was a time when he would have found something beautiful about that.
A minute later, he's still staring, cleaning cart forgotten beside him, head tipped up to look at every picture in turn. As if he's forgotten where he is, and that he has a job to do.
PROMPT 3: AVOX QUARTERS
It's been less than a week, and already the Avox quarters feel like an oasis. Cecil thinks that this is probably strange; they shouldn't, right? They should be the worst place in the Capitol to be. The cruelest reminder of where he is in relation to where he was. Maybe it's just that misery loves company. Or, rather, that misery cuts less deeply when in the company of similar misery; misery averages out across a miserable group, rather than accumulating on an individual level. Cecil has never been a mathematician, but he thinks there may be something to this.
When he returns in the evening (almost as late as he had been known to stay at the radio station, once), he wants nothing more than to sit down. He trudges to the banks of pull-out cots, and is pleased to find one both unoccupied and with room to hang his feet over one edge. He sits; stretches; winces at the pull in his still-aching jaw. Ugh. Cruel and unusual municipally-sanctioned cordectomy, right?
With a sigh, he lets himself slide off the metal cot to lean and tap the nearest Avox on the shoulder. He can't think of a gesture for Have they sent down that shipment of painkillers they promised yet, and if so could you direct me to where they're keeping them?, so he just points at his mouth and winces expressively. Eloquent.
[ooc: If you'd like to discuss a specific thread prompt, PM me or hit me up on Plurk!]
What | There's a new Avox in town! ...Well. There are a lot of new Avoxes in town. This one is now a Tribute for District Three, no longer a radio host, and not keen to be reminded of why this is the case.
Where | Around the Tribute Center! See below for prompts.
When | A few days after Penny and Cruentus' broadcast.
Warnings | Threads will likely include mentions of torture, brainwashing, etc.; everything that comes with Avoxes and Capitol retribution.
PROMPT 1: CORRIDORS
The Capitol had gone to a great deal of trouble to strip Cecil Palmer of both his previous identity, and his human dignity. He could have told them, had they allowed it, that very little of it had been necessary - all it would have required was taking his voice.
They'd taken that, and removed every cosmetic change he'd made, as well. No more moving tattoos, or extra eyes, or scales, or neon tints. Even the color in his hair is gone, back to the sandy blond that even he hasn't seen in years. Of course, they'd also made sure that he wouldn't miss them - the mere thought of failing to blend, of standing out, makes Cecil's stomach twist and his palms start to sweat. Just standing next to particularly colorful people is stressful, as though flamboyance could be contagious.
Luckily, it's easy to avoid with his eyes leveled at the ground, and that's where he keeps them as he walks briskly through the corridors, on the way to his next errand.
It's as he's passing an open door that he hears it-- someone's got a radio on. Someone's listening to Messalina Baker's program. Four o' clock on Friday afternoons, every week. Hello, hel-lo, and wel-come to your Capitol afternoon with--
The pause in his step is completely involuntary, as is the swing of his head to look. There is not a single part of him that means to engage with the sound in any way-- and he stifles his reaction quickly, of course, schools his expression and drops his eyes and picks up his pace--
--just in time to sidestep someone whom he had, in his distraction, completely failed to notice. It's a near miss-- too near to be remotely conscionable. Too near not to be noticeable.
PROMPT 2: DISTRICT THREE SUITES
Among Cecil's current host of difficulties, some are more immediate than others. The lack of his voice is, of course, the most pressing, the one he thinks about most often, the one that the mere act of existing is most likely to remind him of. But next to that it was almost easy to forget, when he was first taken to his new home under the Tribute Center, that he's lost not only his voice but his citizenship - that he is now not only an Avox, but a Tribute.
He enters the District Three suites for the first time because he's been given a cleaning shift there. It's quiet when he comes in - he can take a second to stop, to look around the place he technically (only technically) belongs.
There's no one present when he halts beside a set of pictures on the wall - a bright, artfully-lit arrangement of landscapes. District Three landscapes. Cities at night, spread out circuitlike next to aerial views of rain-soaked forests, interspersed with waterfalls (some with turbines at the bottom of them and some without). It occurs to him that none of these places exists anymore. That the turbines have fallen silent. That the circuits are broken. That he, a person without a citizenship, will die fighting for a District that does not actually exist. He thinks there was a time when he would have found something beautiful about that.
A minute later, he's still staring, cleaning cart forgotten beside him, head tipped up to look at every picture in turn. As if he's forgotten where he is, and that he has a job to do.
PROMPT 3: AVOX QUARTERS
It's been less than a week, and already the Avox quarters feel like an oasis. Cecil thinks that this is probably strange; they shouldn't, right? They should be the worst place in the Capitol to be. The cruelest reminder of where he is in relation to where he was. Maybe it's just that misery loves company. Or, rather, that misery cuts less deeply when in the company of similar misery; misery averages out across a miserable group, rather than accumulating on an individual level. Cecil has never been a mathematician, but he thinks there may be something to this.
When he returns in the evening (almost as late as he had been known to stay at the radio station, once), he wants nothing more than to sit down. He trudges to the banks of pull-out cots, and is pleased to find one both unoccupied and with room to hang his feet over one edge. He sits; stretches; winces at the pull in his still-aching jaw. Ugh. Cruel and unusual municipally-sanctioned cordectomy, right?
With a sigh, he lets himself slide off the metal cot to lean and tap the nearest Avox on the shoulder. He can't think of a gesture for Have they sent down that shipment of painkillers they promised yet, and if so could you direct me to where they're keeping them?, so he just points at his mouth and winces expressively. Eloquent.
[ooc: If you'd like to discuss a specific thread prompt, PM me or hit me up on Plurk!]
not at all! thanks a ton for waiting!
At the brush against his arm, it's all he can do not to move away from the touch-- but even through his conditioning he can tell that the gesture is meant to be surreptitious, that pulling away would make this somehow worse. He draws a sharp, voiceless breath as Albert passes, and though it's fearful, he manages to stay where he is.
He follows Albert's passage with his eyes, though he keeps his head down - he recognizes him. Another Tribute of District Three. Another technical ally. He feels the twist of guilt in his gut-- here's someone to whom District Three actually might have meant something before it disappeared.
That flash of guilt is all that shows in his glance, though, the only sign of anything other than an Avox's normal dull fear-- that, and the fact that he hasn't yet moved away from the pictures.
no subject
It's a barely audible sentiment, something he probably shouldn't be voicing, but he has to make sure his meaning is taken correctly. Has to hope that whatever the conditioning that goes into making someone an Avox doesn't fundamentally change who they are.
To Albert, District 3 was just a name, but to his mentor - to Jessica - it was a home, a place with people she knew and loved. It was a place like that for so many people, most he hadn't ever met. He'd never gotten the chance to see it, only two arenas under his belt and in neither one a victor, but it was a place with people who deserve to be mourned. And Cecil gave them that ability, that knowledge.
And this is how the Capitol repaid him.
It's barbaric.
no subject
He's been conditioned to be terrified of disobedience, and so the reminder of his own disobedience - the greatest single act of disobedience of his lifetime - is, in its own way, more frightening to him now than what happened to District 3.
It's clear that the thanks frightens him. His eyes dart quickly from side to side, and his breathing picks up a little-- he's trying to hold on to perfect neutrality, but he doesn't quite manage it. The short glance he throws at Albert is almost pleading-- Please, don't mention it. Please, don't give them any ideas. Please, don't act like I was right to do it.
no subject
So he backs off of Cecil, a sympathetic looks still in his eyes but he removes himself from Cecil's personal space readily. Even so, he's decided he'll do what he can to make the poor man's life easier. Even if he can't tell him he's going to do it for fear of the reaction.
With the tiniest of nods, Albert retreats to his room, leaving Cecil with - he hopes - the knowledge that has people on his side.