The Initiate Fraysong ♑ (Young GHB) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
carnagecarnival) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-09-30 08:04 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thecapitol2014-09-30 08:04 pm
I picked my life up piece by piece in the style of an awful metaphor
Who| Initiate and Open (with a special prompt for all those who helped him in arena)
What| Initiate is no longer avox. But he's still a little different.
Where| D5 floor, around the tribute tower, and the speakeasy
When| Forward dated to after his death and revival, late week 6.
WARNINGS| Language. Animal death mention?
A -- (For Jane Shepard, and Open)
He wakes up to a self unfamiliar. With a sudden breath of air and a clear head. Clear of the drink, clear of...
The Avox, the Alternian, the Other-- that's what he'd been calling it. All him, part of him, now and forever. But he thinks, at least now, he recognizes the Other a bit more. Enough that he can slip into this new skin and feel comfortable enough to explore what as it will do for him.
This new skin comes with a healed leg, one he can walk on without limping-- which is as weird as the last time he had a leg injury. It comes with those stupid little fins he'd hated so much before they were gone with only the ghost of an ache. It comes with a tongue, which settles all strange in his mouth. If he tries, he can probably make a sound now. He doesn't.
His hair feels strange all long now. He wonders if he should cut it of his own volition this time. For now, he will simply braid it back, and with that all done, he carries himself on out of the room, trying not to feel like a ghost what ain't really here with no presence to his name. He finds a water for himself from the district five fridge, then heads on to settle into one of the lounge chairs. He doesn't have to do anything. He does have to go anywhere at all. He hasn't got a job here right now. He just has to keep telling himself that.
B -- (For Terezi and Signless, Closed)
There's a weight around his neck. He'd almost not noticed it, with everything else, but he does now. He can feel the tube of paint and know he ain't got to be a bare-faced sinner disgrace for his Messiah anymore. There's a golden goat's skull; the necklace from his moirail. There are three rings interlocked, teal, indigo, mutant red. His ashmates
He'd spent too long over his ownself and upon the realisation, he curses himself for it. He had people to find.
And not find. Like Kurloz, over which he evicted no exclamation like he had the last time he'd wandered into district two, or when he watched Kurloz be dragged off with Gamzee. As his face twists in the empty doorway, he has no doubt in him that this time his other self won't be coming back. There's a second or two where as he prays, bids the motherfucker on to shangri-la , and then he moves along. He's Kurloz now. There's nothing what as he can do for this past.
Or the future, it turns out. The Disciple wasn't the first on his list or even someone what he'd call close, but she was with the three of them when they were on the run and, truth told, he's hesitant to look for, say, Terezi first in case she might not be there. But with the wake up call before him now, he wastes no more time.
He goes to find his ashmates, fidgeting the red and teal of the rings on him as he hurries on through the halls. If the Signless ain't there, so help him, he'll leave a goddamn note. And Terezi... with a heavy weight in him, he decides not to think if she ain't there. He raps his knuckles upon the door.
C -- (Open)
He ain't an avox. Not anymore. He knows that.
But on some level, he supposes he doesn't, because when them things spill, he wastes no time in dropping to kneel. He picks it all up piece by piece, slowing only for a short second and frowning as the realisation hits him of what he's doing. But then sure as sure, he's picking everything all back up anyway. He might as well, he's already done this much.
He rises up to give all back to the rightful owner. Whoever that is to be.
D -- (Open, especially to every single person who helped him in arena or even just talked to him)
There were a lot of people what had helped him back there. A lot of motherfucking people. More people than he thinks he's ever had deigning to nicety at one singular time. It's weird, in retrospect, and it leaves an odd feeling in him, one he's not sure how long all he wants to get a ponder on to.
But he owed these people. He ought to say something to these people. He knows this but he also know such things as they be is, well, a whole other sort of weird in itself. So he comes up with a new idea instead.
It doesn't take horrendously long to catch the proper amount of rats and birds needed, but still some time (and much of that is spent determinedly ignoring the looks of capitolites and the pressing feeling that he's out of place there and would be more in place in an avox uniform). Once done though, he finds himself falling into step easy with cleaning the corpses and collecting the bones and feathers from the dead things. He's already got the string pieces ready and he settles into that same comfortable quiet as he did when he did this in arena with some teeth. They're not particularly elaborate or superbly fanciful, just bones and beaks dipped into color and strung together, but they're things what he can slip easily on a door knob with no ceremony, while still managing to thank in some small way.
He still feels ridiculous, but not as much so as he thinks he might've before this all. He didn't exactly wake up with his pride restored.
From there it's just a matter of slipping them on the doors as he'd intended. Ideally it would be without notice, but he could hardly help it if anyone caught him in the hallway.
(After all is done, much later, he's still got yet more to see. People he owes explanation to. People he owes apology. This must be what it means to start his life all the fuck over again. He can't say he's exactly eager, but he ought to chew the motherfucking munitions now. Even if it means hovering outside the door.)
E -- (Open)
Finally, his task is at it's end. There's just one last thing he wants to do. He heads to the Training Center to paint.
Just the same as always, he gathers up the paint of the camouflage area to settle before the wall. He dips his fingers into the color, raises them up to the wall. Then stops.
He's never been stuck on a painting before. This is new.
F -- (Open)
When he finally goes to the speakeasy alone and for his own whims, he orders Gin. He can recall, from the arena, drinking himself stupid with it, but of course he couldn't taste nothing of it. He had some sense of taste without a tongue but not nearly enough to truly distinguish.
Turns out Gin is pure motherfucking sin in a goddamn glass. Bluh. He coughs, sputters, looks at what he's order just to be sure it's indeed the same thing, and then pushes it away.
There's an unpleasant pout upon his features as he quickly orders a soda to rectify this madness what he hath partaken in, promptly swearing to never have such blasphemy again. He holds the soda glass in hand, sliding it carefully back and forth between the other one.
What| Initiate is no longer avox. But he's still a little different.
Where| D5 floor, around the tribute tower, and the speakeasy
When| Forward dated to after his death and revival, late week 6.
WARNINGS| Language. Animal death mention?
A -- (For Jane Shepard, and Open)
He wakes up to a self unfamiliar. With a sudden breath of air and a clear head. Clear of the drink, clear of...
The Avox, the Alternian, the Other-- that's what he'd been calling it. All him, part of him, now and forever. But he thinks, at least now, he recognizes the Other a bit more. Enough that he can slip into this new skin and feel comfortable enough to explore what as it will do for him.
This new skin comes with a healed leg, one he can walk on without limping-- which is as weird as the last time he had a leg injury. It comes with those stupid little fins he'd hated so much before they were gone with only the ghost of an ache. It comes with a tongue, which settles all strange in his mouth. If he tries, he can probably make a sound now. He doesn't.
His hair feels strange all long now. He wonders if he should cut it of his own volition this time. For now, he will simply braid it back, and with that all done, he carries himself on out of the room, trying not to feel like a ghost what ain't really here with no presence to his name. He finds a water for himself from the district five fridge, then heads on to settle into one of the lounge chairs. He doesn't have to do anything. He does have to go anywhere at all. He hasn't got a job here right now. He just has to keep telling himself that.
B -- (For Terezi and Signless, Closed)
There's a weight around his neck. He'd almost not noticed it, with everything else, but he does now. He can feel the tube of paint and know he ain't got to be a bare-faced sinner disgrace for his Messiah anymore. There's a golden goat's skull; the necklace from his moirail. There are three rings interlocked, teal, indigo, mutant red. His ashmates
He'd spent too long over his ownself and upon the realisation, he curses himself for it. He had people to find.
And not find. Like Kurloz, over which he evicted no exclamation like he had the last time he'd wandered into district two, or when he watched Kurloz be dragged off with Gamzee. As his face twists in the empty doorway, he has no doubt in him that this time his other self won't be coming back. There's a second or two where as he prays, bids the motherfucker on to shangri-la , and then he moves along. He's Kurloz now. There's nothing what as he can do for this past.
Or the future, it turns out. The Disciple wasn't the first on his list or even someone what he'd call close, but she was with the three of them when they were on the run and, truth told, he's hesitant to look for, say, Terezi first in case she might not be there. But with the wake up call before him now, he wastes no more time.
He goes to find his ashmates, fidgeting the red and teal of the rings on him as he hurries on through the halls. If the Signless ain't there, so help him, he'll leave a goddamn note. And Terezi... with a heavy weight in him, he decides not to think if she ain't there. He raps his knuckles upon the door.
C -- (Open)
He ain't an avox. Not anymore. He knows that.
But on some level, he supposes he doesn't, because when them things spill, he wastes no time in dropping to kneel. He picks it all up piece by piece, slowing only for a short second and frowning as the realisation hits him of what he's doing. But then sure as sure, he's picking everything all back up anyway. He might as well, he's already done this much.
He rises up to give all back to the rightful owner. Whoever that is to be.
D -- (Open, especially to every single person who helped him in arena or even just talked to him)
There were a lot of people what had helped him back there. A lot of motherfucking people. More people than he thinks he's ever had deigning to nicety at one singular time. It's weird, in retrospect, and it leaves an odd feeling in him, one he's not sure how long all he wants to get a ponder on to.
But he owed these people. He ought to say something to these people. He knows this but he also know such things as they be is, well, a whole other sort of weird in itself. So he comes up with a new idea instead.
It doesn't take horrendously long to catch the proper amount of rats and birds needed, but still some time (and much of that is spent determinedly ignoring the looks of capitolites and the pressing feeling that he's out of place there and would be more in place in an avox uniform). Once done though, he finds himself falling into step easy with cleaning the corpses and collecting the bones and feathers from the dead things. He's already got the string pieces ready and he settles into that same comfortable quiet as he did when he did this in arena with some teeth. They're not particularly elaborate or superbly fanciful, just bones and beaks dipped into color and strung together, but they're things what he can slip easily on a door knob with no ceremony, while still managing to thank in some small way.
He still feels ridiculous, but not as much so as he thinks he might've before this all. He didn't exactly wake up with his pride restored.
From there it's just a matter of slipping them on the doors as he'd intended. Ideally it would be without notice, but he could hardly help it if anyone caught him in the hallway.
(After all is done, much later, he's still got yet more to see. People he owes explanation to. People he owes apology. This must be what it means to start his life all the fuck over again. He can't say he's exactly eager, but he ought to chew the motherfucking munitions now. Even if it means hovering outside the door.)
E -- (Open)
Finally, his task is at it's end. There's just one last thing he wants to do. He heads to the Training Center to paint.
Just the same as always, he gathers up the paint of the camouflage area to settle before the wall. He dips his fingers into the color, raises them up to the wall. Then stops.
He's never been stuck on a painting before. This is new.
F -- (Open)
When he finally goes to the speakeasy alone and for his own whims, he orders Gin. He can recall, from the arena, drinking himself stupid with it, but of course he couldn't taste nothing of it. He had some sense of taste without a tongue but not nearly enough to truly distinguish.
Turns out Gin is pure motherfucking sin in a goddamn glass. Bluh. He coughs, sputters, looks at what he's order just to be sure it's indeed the same thing, and then pushes it away.
There's an unpleasant pout upon his features as he quickly orders a soda to rectify this madness what he hath partaken in, promptly swearing to never have such blasphemy again. He holds the soda glass in hand, sliding it carefully back and forth between the other one.
no subject
He knows about Karkat. He'd gone to see the Signless first, as well as Terezi. He's not sure what to think of their kismesitude, but it hardly matters now does it?
"Naw, they ain't care about no relationship all anymore than they enjoy watching motherfucker fall apart up over them. AIN'T THINK MUCH FOR WORSE. Ain't think it wouldn't be on being the same as all what it motherfucking is though." Kankri's probably on looking for comfort. But he ain't about to lie.
no subject
He tilts his head to the side, looks up at Fraysong. "I missed you. When you were an Avox, I mean. You were here, but you weren't at the same time. You're not a kind person, Fraysong, but...I don't know. I find you comforting in your own way. I'm glad you were able to endure it."
He reaches over to pat the indigo's arm gently. Distinctly not a pap; just a platonic gesture of solidarity and comfort. He thinks Fraysong can probably use that, when he's only just getting back to himself.
"Do you think we should do something for Kurloz? A sendoff of some kind? I mean, he was my friend, but the two of you shared the same faith - a-and more, being what you are, of course - so I'm sure you'd be better equipped to think of something he'd appreciate." He says it almost shyly. "And I think he'd want us to do something, well, mirthful for him."
no subject
"MIRTHFUL," He repeats, looking upward. Then a though occurs and he turns to Kankri, brows lifting. "Do you Beforan motherfuckers know for such practices called funerals?" Because damn was his mind blown back in that arena. "AH, BUT WE AIN'T GOT NO CORPSE. I ain't want much for cutting my ownself up." He ponders.
"Aight, fold your hands and make for yourself at to be a little more motherfucking mirthful," He says. "YOU DOWN AND READY?"
no subject
"Ready." He gives Fraysong a slightly nervous smile.
no subject
"The darkest midnight curtain parted. THE VEIL'S SPLIT AND CREST. Ritual's masses who's hand mark surface," He recites. "AND SEE UPON HERE, A GLIMMERED RADIANCE OF ALL COLOR ATOP, STRIKE A MOTHERFUCKER'S BREAST. In followed crystalline effulgence, we seek quiescence strife entombed. TO BE UNDONE AND LO THE MIRTH OF TRUE LEVITY. The jeer and jest. BE SO DONE IN MOST RIGHTEOUS HYSTERIA AND SO! Ashore, see that we are blessed."
His eyes open and he reaches for his soda, raising it. "TO THEM WHAT AIN'T NO MORE, BUT CARNIVAL BOUND." And so, he drinks. Normally he'd suggest celebration. Maybe later. There was too much attention from Capitol now. And he ain't ready to facilitate such things.
He's silent for a long moment, staring through to nothing with a blank gaze that calls back to his avoxing-- even if he ain't mean it to. "I need to start the motherfuck over, Kankri."
no subject
Fraysong's next words surprise him. "Really? I thought that sounded very nice for remembering a fallen friend." No one ever said Kankri Vantas was always quick on the uptake.
no subject
"MEAN MORE THAN THAT. Meaning like..." He sighs. "BEEN MAKING LIKE YOU'RE JUST THE SAME AS YOUR OTHER. Didn't trust you. DIDN'T WANT AS TO BE NEAR YOU. You ain't him though. AND I... I ain't being..." This is more difficult than he thought it'd be. "AIN'T SO SURE AS LIKE I'M THE TROLL SAME AS WHAT WAS NO MORE. I need to start the fuck over is what I'm meaning like."
He finally lifts his gaze up to the other troll. "COULD START HERE..."
no subject
He looks over at the indigo. "What does starting over mean to you? What is it that you want to do?"
no subject
"S'LIKE... ALTERNIA, RIGHT? Remember I said on about that, how as motherfuckers adapted all for the surviving of them ownselves? YOU GET STRONGER. Harder." Ever more fidgeting with a glass fills that void. "I FELT ALTERNIAN THIS WHOLE MOTHERFUCKING TIME. Ain't weren't being a point I didn't, right all up to half a sweep later. IT'S MORE THAN JUST SIMPLE CHANGES. I don't feel like that no more. SINCE THEY AVOXED ME. Felt all them things got combattance harsh, you dig? AIN'T THINK I CAN BE THAT NO MORE, I--" He breathes deep to steady himself. He's almost a little afraid to look.
"I found something different. MAYBE IT'S NEW, MAYBE IT AIN'T. I wanna be my ownself. I JUST AIN'T SURE WHO THAT IS YET. And I figure it's right to give a motherfucker a second chance on note of that so... CAN CALL HIM MAKARA. If you like."
no subject
"All right," he says gently. "Makara it is, then."
He's silent for a few moments, sipping at his tea. Then: "I don't think being a strong person has to mean being hard or violent. Perhaps that's how it is for some people, but- I think it takes quite a lot of strength to simply resist, too. To endure, and not be ruled by those expectations. More than people who think strength comes from violence can know. Certainly more than the Capitol gives us credit for."
no subject
"HE WAS ONE OF THEM MOTHERFUCKERS YOU KNOW. Strength in survival. NEED TO FIGHT TO SURVIVE..."
Endurance, without fight. Like Mituna. Strength without cull, like Terezi.
"Think I understand," He says, quiet. He thinks too that Capitol is being underestimated but he can't tell if it's him thinking that or if it's because of his avoxing. That, in itself, makes him weak, doesn't it? He can't do this no more, where as he takes strife as means through. His old self is shattered. He followed Capitol will like it ain't weren't a thing. He'd been told to kneel and he had dropped there on the spot to do so. It made no difference that it was a seadweller saying it or if it had been a capitolite.
"THAT WHAT AS YOU DO THEN?"
no subject
He sighs, leans back in his chair. "I think everyone here has to find something like that in themselves. Something to hang onto, to give themselves something to forgive. Something that makes their survival still worth it to them."
no subject
"Uh... I ain't sure how good a pacifist as all I can up and be, Kankri," He say, unsure. Not to shut down his idea or none but, even if he's not personally thinking he'll be-- shot a tribute, disobeyed-- doing much violence now, he thinks with a flinch, he's still seen where peace preaching leads.
...Preaching...
"I GOT MY FAITH?" He tries. "I didn't pray. KNOW AS I BETRAY THE LAUGHING LAUDED. But I had faith still and they was mine and I was motherfucking their's." He looks at him with an expression asking does that count?
no subject
He drinks down more of his tea. "I fully admit that I haven't much understanding of the workings of indigo faith. Then again, I'm not indigo myself and therefore not supposed to." He smiles wryly. "But I think any deity worth following would hold such events against those who forced your hand, not against you. I know how important your faith is to you - I know how important it was to Kurloz. If your messiahs exist, surely that would be what they value more than anything else. And you can still make them proud, can't you?"
He fidgets a little, draws a nonsense design with his finger on the bar. "And you've met Kurloz. You know he has the same strength in his faith. So it's not as if you must be violent above all else and value only that to be true to your beliefs, is it?"
no subject
But he takes in the rest of what Kankri's said, and half him agrees. Of course the Messiahs would forgive, of course they'd not bar him from their grace. But still, he thinks, he does not deserve it. He has forsaken them, failed them more than once. It wasn't a forced hand whereas he made the choice to save Terezi, surely knowing...
He has always been weak. He has always wanted more.
But the last thing Kankri says, without doubt, is right. It makes his shoulders hike as he unsurely says, "NO. I guess not... IT'S ABOUT BALANCE. It's all the fuck about finding the beauty up in it all. IT'S ABOUT A LOT OF GOOD MOTHERFUCKING THINGS..." A pause. "I ain't know why it's just being indigo, always figured all the rest was just atheists natural. AIN'T SEE WHY IT COULDN'T BE."