HK-47 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sloshing) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-08-15 08:09 pm
sloshing) wrote in thecapitol2014-08-15 08:09 pm
Entry tags:
[open] if my anatomy had a chat with me,
Who| HK-47 and YOU
What| Panem doesn't confuse him, his new equipment does. Manual dexterity fails. Food is weird, taste is weirder. Clothes are constricting. Why are the soles of feet so sensitive and fragile? The complaints could go on forever.
Where| Tribute tower: D10 floor, Training center
When| Today
Warnings/Notes| Body dysphoria. Will update as necessary.
D10 Floor
His body and mind are not fully synced up yet, present in the very slow crawl out of sleep mode in the morning. He's wrapped in a warm feeling, almost uncomfortably, so and he throws the blanket over him off. The cool air that touches his skin shocks him awake almost immediately. Hands on the bed, he shoves himself upright too quickly for his equilibrium to handle.
Good morning, and welcome to headacheland, HK-47.
Rudely awakened, he tries to blink away the stinging from his eyes (he'd rather have his optical sensors again, but he'd also rather have everything else from head to toe of his former chassis again). He's having a hard time that meatbags actually enjoy their existences so far, because the whole experience has been annoying, inconvenient, and varying forms if discomfort.
He moves to stand up, feet touching the carpet of his room. Feet are lifted off the floor. Nerves. High sensitivity on bottom of feet. He'd worn his socks and shoes all day yesterday, up to the moments before retiring for the evening. He was familiar with the usual concentration of nerve endings to certain areas of the body but he wasn't familiar with how that felt until now. He sets his feet back on the floor again and stands, taking in the small dip in the plushness of the carpet as his center of gravity moves.
With only a basic understanding that clothing is required to appear in public spaces and no sense of fashion, he just grabs whatever from his closet and dresses himself. There a bit of struggle with figuring out what goes where, dexterity rolls are failed, but eventually he's clothed in a manner that he gathers is acceptable and carries himself out to the kitchen. Overcompensating for the fluidity of movement that he's still unaccustomed to, his movements are very rigid.
His feet land on the cold tile and he stops. Completely still, he just stands there, staring at the counter and passing over who else might be there in the kitchen/dining area with little actual acknowledgement of their presence. Cold. He doesn't know how to cook. Cold. He doesn't know what's edible. Cold. He skipped eating last night so by logic he should eat now. Cold.
"Quandary: How am I supposed to live this way? How do meatbags do it?"
1. Comprehensive and literal answer.
2. [Light Side] Comprehensive and well-intentioned advice.
3. [Dark Side] Point and laugh.
4. Ignore and carry on with your own business.
What| Panem doesn't confuse him, his new equipment does. Manual dexterity fails. Food is weird, taste is weirder. Clothes are constricting. Why are the soles of feet so sensitive and fragile? The complaints could go on forever.
Where| Tribute tower: D10 floor, Training center
When| Today
Warnings/Notes| Body dysphoria. Will update as necessary.
D10 Floor
His body and mind are not fully synced up yet, present in the very slow crawl out of sleep mode in the morning. He's wrapped in a warm feeling, almost uncomfortably, so and he throws the blanket over him off. The cool air that touches his skin shocks him awake almost immediately. Hands on the bed, he shoves himself upright too quickly for his equilibrium to handle.
Good morning, and welcome to headacheland, HK-47.
Rudely awakened, he tries to blink away the stinging from his eyes (he'd rather have his optical sensors again, but he'd also rather have everything else from head to toe of his former chassis again). He's having a hard time that meatbags actually enjoy their existences so far, because the whole experience has been annoying, inconvenient, and varying forms if discomfort.
He moves to stand up, feet touching the carpet of his room. Feet are lifted off the floor. Nerves. High sensitivity on bottom of feet. He'd worn his socks and shoes all day yesterday, up to the moments before retiring for the evening. He was familiar with the usual concentration of nerve endings to certain areas of the body but he wasn't familiar with how that felt until now. He sets his feet back on the floor again and stands, taking in the small dip in the plushness of the carpet as his center of gravity moves.
With only a basic understanding that clothing is required to appear in public spaces and no sense of fashion, he just grabs whatever from his closet and dresses himself. There a bit of struggle with figuring out what goes where, dexterity rolls are failed, but eventually he's clothed in a manner that he gathers is acceptable and carries himself out to the kitchen. Overcompensating for the fluidity of movement that he's still unaccustomed to, his movements are very rigid.
His feet land on the cold tile and he stops. Completely still, he just stands there, staring at the counter and passing over who else might be there in the kitchen/dining area with little actual acknowledgement of their presence. Cold. He doesn't know how to cook. Cold. He doesn't know what's edible. Cold. He skipped eating last night so by logic he should eat now. Cold.
"Quandary: How am I supposed to live this way? How do meatbags do it?"
1. Comprehensive and literal answer.
2. [Light Side] Comprehensive and well-intentioned advice.
3. [Dark Side] Point and laugh.
4. Ignore and carry on with your own business.
no subject
"Fine, then I won't bore you anymore," she snaps, glaring, and produces a cigarette from... somewhere. It comes from somewhere, okay? No one knows where Molotov keeps them or how she manages to produce them seemingly from thin air. Maybe she's magic and she doesn't know it. But the point is that she lights her cigarette and furiously drags it down, looking away from him to watch the others training around them.
But really she's pouting.
no subject
The last time he had to backpedal was back when Revan had forgotten who they were and sometimes found his attitudes or word choice objectionable. That was quite some time ago, but he does it so fast with Molotov.
"Clari--" Stop right there. "You're mistaken- I'm not bored!" Uh, how does he go about this... "As it's been established, there are certain habits that are hard to break, and previously I was very disinterested in the more base affiliations of human nature and the feelings that accompany them. However, since this memory is one that is very important to you, I would like to listen." His expression, should she look, is the home of an apology.
no subject
There's a pause, then she puts out the remainder of her cigarette on the table. "Base affiliations and feelings are important," she huffs, more sulky than anything else. "They can be manipulated, used against people. It was Paris, in 1987. We were both training -- I do not know what he and his handler were doing, but Papa and I were following an enemy spy. Papa saw people on a rooftop, and he sent me to go investigate. That was when he and I saw each other."
She stops for some water.
"He chased me into a hotel room, we went in through the window from the roof. But he was young and stupid, and when he thought he was about to use me like one of his American whores, I stabbed him with my heels. Drugged him, I keep hallucinogen in the spikes. I pinned him to the bed with my sais, lorded it over him that I was better than he was, that he could never keep up. That he needed me."
Molotov sighs, and rests her cheek on her hand again.
"Then I set the room on fire and left him there. Threw him the butt of my cigarette when he whined. I guess his mentor saved him, though, because he didn't die like I wanted. Papa and I were gone by the time I found out he was still alive."