thecapitol | If vision is the only validation then most of my life isn't real [closed]

Dave has had his eye out for Clem most of the night, but he hasn't let it distract him too much from the task at hand. He and Elsa had plans to paint the town, literally, and they'd been doing a good job so far. He'd even enlisted some guy to help, someone he doesn't feel too weird leaving Elsa around for a while so he can look for his favourite eleven year old.

He wanders around, spray paint in hand and hoodie lowered to obscure his face, hunting until he spies the familiar build in the dim lights and approaches quickly. "Cleminem." He calls out in a loud hiss, wanting her to know it's him before she flips out and thinks he's some creep in sneaking clothes.

"Dave!" Clem calls back in the same hushed tone without hesitation. She recognises his voice instantly and even she didn't the use of the nickname would have been a give away.

The blackout had proven distractingly exciting so far, she knows so many people must have leapt into action the moment the power went down. She herself had no real plan except finding her friends and having actual conversations without having to worry that they were being listened to or watched. There were still peacekeepers around but they were occupied by the louder forms of protest going on.

"Hey." she says, coming closer, looking over him from hoodie to paint can. "Are you okay? What are you doing?"

It doesn't surprise Dave in the slightest to find Clem out on the field of dangerous doings. She wasn't really the type to waste a chance like this doing something lame like hiding, and he can't really nag her for not wanting to. She might be helpful, actually.

"Never been better." Y'know, aside from the obvious bad things that they just don't talk about. "This." He answers, stepping past her to shake his can of paint before starting to spray letters onto the wall behind her.

"This is exciting, isn't it?" she says, referring to the blackout. Clem wishes she had a more concrete plan of something to do, some way to take advantage of this and --

-- is that a spraycan? Oh yes it is and there goes Dave using it.

"Wow." Clementine turns round, watching as he sprays the letters. "That's a great idea, where'd you get that?"

"Exciting, pants-shittingly terrifying. Sure. It's a lot of things. I had no idea Eva was so uh.. I had no idea this would ever happen." He feels similarly, because what she had said about doing nothing really resounded with him. He feels inadequate for not having more to do, but he can make a mark in some way, right?

"I've had some around for a while. I'm a teenager, I got art to do." He'd basically set up a little prank basket a long time ago. He underlines the words he's written on the wall, standing back to admire his handiwork.

"You wanna write something?"

"I never met her. It was really brave of her to do." The things she had said about losing her child though... the Capitol had it coming, it had everything coming. These people were terrible and deserved whatever people did during this blackout. She only, like Dave, wishes there was something big she could do.

Clementine nods approvingly, grinning when she see's what he's written. "Pretty cool. Yeah, I'd like a go." she holds out her hand for a spraycan, practically bouncing on her heels at the prospect. "Oh! Could I draw instead?"

"Pretty cool?" He sounds indignant at the assertion. It's very fucking cool, thanks a bunch. "You're only saying that because it's going over your head- and not just because you're short. Anything you write is going to be crotch height." Bitter? Dave? Never. Whatever, let her have fun.

He shrugs at her question, trying to ignore the fact that she's being cute because it's cramping his style. "Do I look like the oppressive government of spray-painting? Do what you want, just don't make it obvious that it's you doing it. Don't sign it or write your name or draw caps on everyone." That's clearly the definition of Clem.

"No, I get it!" she puffs up her cheeks. "I like it, I mean it." Clementine doesn't get how he could take offence to what she said. Try and give a guy a compliment and look what happens.

She rolls her eyes at the next part. "Just means they'll have to bend down to clean it off." Peacekeepers on their knees with buckets and cloths is pretty funny.

Now she's going to do some extra-awesome, just watch her. "Duh, I know that." Clementine walks up to the wall, trusting Dave is keeping an eye out and starts to spray. It takes a little getting the hang of but when she's done there's going to a be a splodgey but unmistakable cartoon drawing of President Snow on the wall, stink lines wafting off him in every direction.

Edited 2014-10-05 19:11 (UTC)

"Sneaky fucker." He observes crudely with an audible chuckle, one that's uncommon for Dave. "I mean, they're probably getting used to getting on their knees and kissing Capitol Ass- but we can totally go for a casual stroll and see if we can watch them scrub the tricky places like chumps."

He steps back to admire her work, stroking his chin like he's watching the renaissance slowly coming together right before his eyes. "Yes, yes. Compelling, Lady Clemington. I really feel like I'm standing right in front of him, his stench wafting into my nostrils as he cuts the presidential cheese."

But now he's gonna step closer and crouch down. "Climb aboard, cub scout. Now we're gonna put it up high so they're getting their daily jazzercise in."

Why did he have to say it like that? As she's done with her piece of artwork Clementine almost drops the spraycan to start laughing so hard she actually ends up bent over for a second, muffling it against her sleeve so she doesn't attract them any peacekeeper attention. "Oh my God, yes. We should draw that too!"

It's making her a little giddy, this small act of rebellion with Dave's encouragement and jokes speeding her along.

"Thank you, Lord Davemont." her attempt to put on the posh voice cracks a little through her amusement but she's grinning, going to climb up onto him as Dave indicates. "More people can see it up there too."

That's the way Dave says most things, Clem. His colourful use of language is practically his defining trait. It really helps with envisioning all of the risque and revolutionary art and sarcasm that he's gladly painting the town with.

"You're the artist. The can is in your hands." He points out struggling to keep a straight face in the wake of all of Clem's giggling. Luckily she can't really see his face when she's climbing his shoulders and he brings himself up to his full height of 5'9. "How's the weather up there, champ? You ready to illustrate some vitriol?"

"Little chilly but I can handle it." she says, taking a moment to pat the top of his head. He's a good Dave, alright. "All clear off the port bow." is that right? She heard that somewhere, it seems like a thing to say in this moment.

It take's Clementine a moment to figure exactly how to draw a Peacekeeper kissing Capitol butt, well the Peacekeeper's easy enough, it's how to personify the Capitol. In the end she draws something like the eagle emblem they use (only looking more dopey) with stick arms and legs and a Peacekeeper's helmet approximately where its ass should be. "Ta da!"

"Don't touch me." He murmurs from under her, which is contrary to the fact that he's happily picked her up for this. "Let's hope the wind doesn't pick up or I'll fall on my poopdeck."

He shifts his weight on his feet, but he isn't struggling to hold her up. He's a lot stronger than he looks after all those years of training, he just has no ability to gain muscle. He peers upward as she draws, stepping backward to admire the word. "Ah, the piece de resistance. You've outdone yourself, Clemington." He gives her leg a pet. "Now get down and I'll climb you this time." Not really, but he hopes she takes him seriously.

"Shhh! If you make me laugh someone will hear us!" but she snickers anyway, adding the finishing touches to her work. Clementine is of the opinion she should really start drawing more often again, she'd really liked to do it as a kid.

Funny what could inspire you to pick up old hobbies.

"Why thank you, Lord Davemont. I feel quite accomplished." she says with her nose in the air, all posh and stuff. Then she gives him a disbelieving look, "No, you'll squash me with your butt."

It's been a long night and a long day to follow up the long weeks and months of being here at all. Dave is getting used to being hellishly exhausted by this point, he's looking forward to trying to get some brief shut eye when he and some of the others gather to pretend they'd been huddled up hiding the whole time. He doubts he'll make it long before being disturbed, but at least he knows that everyone who participated in spray painting is washed off and ready to go.

The smell of smoke is apparent the moment he sets foot in the lobby and it's worrying, but it seems like it's been handled. Someone must have really got their rebel on, suddenly spray painting feels juvenile, but he feels sorry for whoever's shit got ruined. A passerby informs him that it was District 11, so he doesn't feel too worried as he paces up to the commons to find familiar faces. What he finds instead is a familiar cape. A familiar bundle of cape. Well ain't that a pretty picture?

He almost walks away. Almost. But the petty part of him insists he step forward and grab Eridan's shoulder suddenly. "Shit, man! Wake up! Fire!" Oops, that was a tasteless emergency to use.

Eridan's just been having a shit time since he's shown up. It started to look good when the prospect of a kismesis cropped up, but he's been more than proved to that it's a hopeless endeavor. Dave's called him out on his flirting, dismissed it, and so there goes that. Though, that's admittedly small in comparison to the other shit he's been going through.

Like last night. Through several fights, one of which ended with him being paralyzed for a while, his gills being mutilated, him being mocked and disrespected, he's looking worse for wear. To top everything off, his floor's been burned down, and so he's left in the lobby trying to rest after such a horrible night. He hurts everywhere, but his gills most of all.

He's exhausted, and so when Dave approaches, he doesn't even notice him. He's somewhere between consciousness and sleep when the hand touches him, and the words sound far off, as if a faded echo far away. But after a moment the words sink into his brain, and his eyes pop open and he's panicking and scrambling to his feet, hissing in pain as he strains himself to do so.

Now, with his cape no longer obscuring him, it's pretty obvious how roughed up he is, there's cuts near his eyes, no glasses, and there's violet stains on the sides of his shirt near his ribs. It takes him a moment to grasp that there's not actually a fire, which leaves him staring at Dave in disbelief, then disgust, and eventually anger. His hands curl into fists, and he swings one right at Dave. It's pretty sluggish and tired, pretty easy to dodge, and even if it landed, it's notably weak from exhaustion.

Edited 2014-09-30 14:52 (UTC)

The extent to which Dave doesn't care what Eridan has been doing is phenomenal, honestly. He's been staying out of his business, for the most part, which is good because Dave doesn't have to face the awkwardness of telling him that they are never ever getting back together. Or together at all. Ever. No.

Eridan has proven in extensive lengths that he pretty much brings all of his problems and misery onto himself. If he's in pain and humiliated, then Dave can ensure that he's been doing something fucking stupid. He's expecting a fist to fly at him for a joke like that, so he's prepared enough to dodge the weak fist flying at him.

He steps back with a raised eyebrow, shaking his head. "Is that really an appropriate reaction to fire? Smokey the bear's cremated ashes are rolling."

"There ain't no bleedin' fire!" He wheezes at him, even more angry that his fist missed its target. But he's too worn to throw another, so he stands there, looking like he could topple over with the soften of breezes, as he glares at Dave.

"What the hell is your problem? What do you want? You clearly got no interest in me, so why the fuck hawe you sought me out just to fuck with me?" It isn't that Eridan doesn't understand trolling, he just knows that's really a troll thing, and if Dave really has no intention of dating him a way that's downright kismesal, then why the fuck is he messing with him?

Especially when he's wounded and weak. He could have come in for a kill, and yet here he remains, alive and--well... not well, but alive at least.

"There was." He says plainly, like that justifies absolutely everything, not that he really feels the need to. Eridan acts pretty damn put upon for someone who piles crap onto people shamelessly, but he's entertaining about it.

"My problem?" He raises an accusatory brow at Eridan's affronted warbling, folding his arms defiantly over his chest as he visibly looks the troll up and down. Injured, huh? Not surprising. What the hell has he been up to, though? Dave is gonna have to Nancy Drew this shit.

"You go around pointing guns at people willy-nilly and you have the balls to act like a prank is the end of the frigging world? My god, how does it feel being a functioning body with a weird, empty coconut with a complex for a brain?" That was a very flimsy metaphor, but it'll go over his head anyway. "What did you do." It's not even a question.

"Of course there was! Why else would I be down here!?" Of course, with all his yelling, his wheezing is increasing. He's too hotheaded to really think about what strain he's putting on his respiratory organs. That is, until he can feel the painful consequence, causing him to wince, a hand instinctively palming at his wounded gills as if it could comfort the pain away.

It doesn't.

"Oh shut up." He almost sounds ashamed of that being brought up, almost. He's wishing he had the energy to flounce the fuck out of this situation, but he's feeling pretty cornered, he can't even lick his wounds properly, and now Dave is here antagonizing him.

The metaphor does go over his head, but he can get enough that it's probably meant to insult him, so he just glares at him - until he asks, or rather states, what Eridan had done. Eridan's expression is a bit complex at that point, there's no guilt in it, but perhaps humiliation swirled with bitter anger. He even looks a little helpless.

Eridan looks like he wants to say, but something (probably pride) is holding him back.

"Don't go askin' about what I did like--like you ewen giwe a fuck. What do you ewen want? You humans like to act all high an' mighty with your shitty idea a morals, but when you see a guy wounded an' weak, you're sure to be the first there to kick him while he's down." He nearly spits that out at Dave, the words more growled than said. He's defensive, slightly worried, and still pretty fucking furious at the previous night.

Edited 2014-10-05 13:46 (UTC)

"Because you got kicked out? Wouldn't put it past you. Wouldn't put a lot past you, actually. Which is why I'm asking what the fuck you've been up to in our little power out, because it sure as hell doesn't look like you've been dancing around the bonfire and embracing your femininity."

He isn't rising much to Eridan's vitriol. His voice is flat and he's keeping his stance as casual as possible. "Are you really playing the guilt card on me, bro? All I saw was an idiot curled up with his back to everyone, someone could have done a lot worse than waking you up. But hey, you'd know that what with being the patron saint of paranoia, right?" He raises a brow at Eridan, wondering how he'll dig his way out of that.

"I didn't get kicked out!" He barks at him with annoyance, "I ain't interested in sleepin' in soot an' ash. Not when--" his gills are in the condition they are. He bites back the words, opting to just glare at Dave.

He shrinks a bit, when Dave calls him out on his attempting to guilt, his eyes looking away from him for a moment as he scowls like a child who was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar. As Dave goes on, he looks back to him, the scowl lessening a bit, because Dave actually brings up a good point, but then he suplexes the point a moment later calling him paranoid. Yes, it's absolutely true, but Eridan doesn't want to hear it.

"Look--fuck, if you REALLY fuckin' want to know. I got into a bloody fight, it didn't end well for me. The bitch shot me full a some shit, left me paralyzed. So she--did things. Whatewer, there's your fuckin' answer. Satisfied?"

He'll leave out what she did, and who he killed before hand because that's absolutely irrelevant, he thinks.

"You asked why else you'd be down there and I answered, shut the fuck up." He's had about as much as he can take of Eridan's foul, accusatory attitude. He deserves everything he gets, even if Dave doesn't particularly revel in his suffering.

"Oh right, so in other words you got in over your head and did something stupid and you got fucked up for it. Shit, who would have thought there'd be dire consequences for being a douche in distopian paradise." He gives his chin a scratch in mock consideration. "Things isn't really specific enough to be satisfying, so no. I'm hungry for more of those juicy tales of failure you got all lined up there."

Eridan just snarls at being told to shut the fuck up, but he doesn't do much else. What fight he has is dwindling. He's tired, in pain, and so far done it's downright silly.

When Dave asks for more details, and phrases it so nicely, Eridan scrunches his nose in annoyance. He feels small, and backed into a corner. In other words, he hates this, hates Dave, and hates that Dave doesn't hate him. Well, like that, anyway. Despite the sting, he indignantly folds his arms over his chest, trying to puff up, trying to save what dignity he has left. Not that he's ever had much to begin with.

"I don't see why I ought to giwe you any more deets than what's been giwen, seein' as your only interest is tryin' to tear me down more. I ain't gettin' shit from this." He growls out at him, trying to regain his composure as best he can. "But you know the fuck what? I don't giwe a shit, if you know then whatewer. I can be weak around you 'cos I know ewen at my weakest, I'm still better than you."

He grins, trying his best to look confident, even if he doesn't feel it. It's hard, though. To admit what's been done, but he knows he'll look weaker than he wants to if he hides it, and he'll look as backed into a corner as he is if he tries to evade it.

"Bitch mutilated my gills. Hear that wheeze to my woice? Any genius could hawe figured it out, but I guess with your inferior biology, it's no small surprise to you. I'll heal up fine, kind of a thing we trolls do, so don't you worry. Not that I'm bettin' any beetles you are or nothin'." For all his posturing, there's a waviness to his voice, a telling fact he's desperate to seem like anything but weak. He's grasping at any means to feel not pathetic, to feel in control, and maybe a little less scared of what's to come of his gills.

Edited 2014-10-30 14:00 (UTC)

From the moment Dave agrees to meet up with Cronus, he's regretting it. Even though logically he knows he can probably spin it in his favor, the guy is already pinging all the creeper lights. He just seems so.. so... Capitol. There isn't any other way to describe it. He's met Capitolites who weren't so bad, but this guy encompasses all the perverse and vapid traits they're so proud of.

But he needs the PR. And he needs the solid relationship with his escort. He needs to do anything he can to make the Capitol regret cuffing him. It's already been proven to him time and time again that he's useless in Arenas, so he needs to make himself useful elsewhere. If he's lucky, it'll be a quick drink, a life story and then the guy will send his friends a bunch of useful shit. Easy. It seems like he's the kind of person who would be insufferable until this happened, anyway, better to nip it in the bud before it gets awkward.

He doesn't bother to change into anything worth looking at, he's in his jeans and skate shoes with a Doki shirt that had kindly been presented to him. Sends a pointed message, he thinks. He's just sitting on the counter of the kitchenette, tapping at his communicator like he isn't expecting company.

Edited 2014-09-28 17:54 (UTC)

Cronus, however, does change into something worth looking at. Considering that's just how he is, it's literally unsurprising. He likes to look good, especially when he'll be meeting with one of his tributes. Emphasis on the possessive there.

Sure enough he finds Dave, and sure enough he isn't in the least surprised that the kid didn't bother to get dressed in something else. He doesn't expect tributes to have taste or style, so he doesn't even hold it against him! What a swell guy.

"Hey there tiger, ready to go?" He asks, his voice rather sing-song and chipper. It matches that smile across his face, and the overall friendly expression to boot.

It isn't really surprising to Dave that a Capitolite would take the theme of 'drink and a bite to eat' and make it a reason to change. At least, by their standards, Cronus doesn't look too glittery. Dave almost isn't ashamed to be going on any sort of outing with him. Almost.

The fact that he's still socially awkward is present as ever, the moment he hears footsteps he's wondering if faking food poisoning would be the best course of action. God damn it, no. He's gotta get this out of the way eventually, so he'll spin himself around on the counter and hop off it. Striding toward Cronus with an entirely manufactured air of casual confidence and sticking out his hand almost aggressively.

"Yo." It's said almost defensively, like he's trying to start a fight rather than say hello. He reels it in a little bit and shrugs. "You bet. Lead the way, Ssssss..." Don't say stud. Don't. "Sexy." FUCK. "So uh. I think I got the food poisoning. From the food I ate earlier, so I should probably not. Eat." Kill him.

If vision is the only validation then most of my life isn't real [closed]

[Clem]

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[Eridan]

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[Cronus]

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