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
"...She tell you that?" He tests, cautious as he can. "THAT ALL WE-- SHE MADE HUMANITY?"
Maybe that's the wrong move to be making. Maybe he ought to just let it go.
"But I mean, that's what it's all about. GOING MAD, DEALING ON WITH MURDER AND BETRAYAL. That's staple troll business, yo. THAT'S WHY IT'S BEING MOTHERFUCKING CLASSIC. Would be surprised as it is for you, but, heh, here's all indicative you ain't all soft species wide."
no subject
"Those are staple things for Trolls? Interesting. It was more prevalent in our old monarchies, but the time I'm from violent media... well..." Actually it hadn't changed much, only gotten less poetic. "Actually nevermind, it's fairly staple for humanity too I guess."
He doesn't sound all that happy about it though.
no subject
"SHE MOTHERFUCKING WOULD MAKE TO JOKE ON SUCH THINGS. For all atheism she sure does fancy toeing the motherfucking lines," He says, with a shake of his head.
His head tilts as Albert's tone goes unhappy. "YOUR LOT AIN'T SO BAD," He says, suddenly, as though to reassure. "Not all bad is your lot. IN GANDERING TO US NOWLIKE. Shit like playing wouldn't be happening as you do. WE'D BE PLAYING SWEET TUNE OF DYING SYMPHONY AND NOT MORE. Arenas is tame comparitive sometimes. BETRAYAL IS JUST HOW AS TROLLS DO. Madness is the motherfucking melody what all comes of voodoo's song. EVERY INDIGO IS MAD. Every troll is a betrayer. EVERY MOTHERFUCKING MOTHERFUCKER GETS TO KILL THE HOLY MOTHERFUCK OUT OF EACH OTHER."
He realizes he's rambling again and so he cuts himself off to conclude with that same attempt on reassurance. "Your lot ain't like that whole," He says, "not even when you try to be.
no subject
"No?" Albert makes a small but sweeping gesture with his hand. "So this situation we're in, created and ruled by Humans, isn't a prime argument against your supposition? Art is one thing, and it can help I do believe that, but Humans and Trolls both have that in common too. Art and violence. Perhaps even the art of violence."
"It could just be that it's a facet of sentient life," he finishes bleakly. This isn't exactly where he wanted this conversation to go.
no subject
"NO," He repeats. "This ain't everyone. AIN'T EVEN BEING MOST OF THEM. And even they got their believing somehow shit be just and right. VIOLENCE IS MOTHERFUCKING INHERENT. The art of such too. THEM'S IS THINGS WHAT CARRY TRUE. But how them things get at to be? THAT CHANGES. If all everyone here got believing a thing to be incorrect, only a few what wouldn't turn the fuck around."
He gestures to himself and then gestures around at the world they're in, knowing albert will see beyond shimmering chandeliers and finery. "THESE GAMES? Every troll does these. EVERY TROLL WHAT AS YOU'VE EVER MOTHERFUCKING MET-- beforans aside-- SURVIVED A BATTLE AT THE MOMENT OF OUR HATCHING. There ain't ever been no masses what sought to change it. BUT THAT AIN'T THE CASE UP AT ALL FOR HUMANS. No, you have many what do only because they ain't got no choice. MORE WHAT FIGHT. Them what is executed. ALL THEM MOTHERFUCKERS UP IN THE DISTRICTS LEGIT. That's a lot of people up against this little pocket called Capitol. YOU DIG? You have for violence. BUT YOU HAVE FOR OTHERWISE. Things what combat. LIGHT AND DARK AS HOW MESSIAHS WILL. Even in arenas that's how it be. AND THAT'S HOW HE'S FIGURING HUMANS IS."
He smiles, careful and hesitant in case it be taken the wrong way. "These motherfuckers ain't define you."
no subject
But something else eats at him, some contradiction in what the Initiate is trying to stipulate. "Trolls, too. There's art there. Music. Religion. Even if no one rose up against whatever oppression is inherent, you have your Hamlet and Oratio just as we have ours. You have colors and rhythm. Violence is not all Trolls are either."
no subject
He's never thought such things the opposite of violence. Art, music, beauty, faith. He'd delved in all of these things with passion. Violence was in everything, inseperable. Except motherfuckers what was born wrong or got broken. Or are just... different, and special, like Terezi, or Mituna.
It's not the art what's different. It's being able to sit with another motherfucker and reach the fuck out. It's thinking, on some level, that it's okay. It's listening to a motherfucker play and not think he fucking ought to take a knife to jugular. It's where Albert thinks as to make trolls seem better than they is, just to make him feel better, like he ain't hatched wrong inherent. Mirth, he remembers believing it the other way around, that kindess was wrong.
"MAYBE," He allows, with a soft laugh. There was Beforus afterall. He read Kurloz's book. He read how they was before it all began. They were different than what they became. "It's nice to think. GUESS AT YOU GOT A POINT."
no subject
But he can also tell it's something perhaps a little uncomfortable, and Albert knows what he doesn't know about Initiate's culture is a vast amount, so instead of pursuing the topic, he opts to turn back towards happier things, rolling his fingers on the keys again in some invented melody.
"That said, did you want another song? Or if you're not busy and hungry we could go get something to eat." Normal, everyday friend stuff. It's nice to feel like he can do that again, thanks to Initiate's original turn of his perspective. He has much to be grateful to the Troll for.
Fade out? c:
Cause damn if he wouldn't like for both them things. They both got of sounding sweet.
Sounds good~
He grins and starts playing again though, deciding the food to feed their bellies can wait until after the food for their souls.