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
"This feels wrong," she says, barely more than a whisper. "I can't. She's barely been gone, and this..." She can't even get the words out, but they have to know what she means. They have to.
no subject
Stupid. Stupid motherfucker he is thinking this would do any kind of the like work. His hands clasp together and he fidgets. Yeah, he knows what she means.
"IT AIN'T PALE," He says. "It ain't. JUST A TALK. But we ain't have to talk about nothing, neither. PLEASE?" He raises a hand to dab at the blood on his face, keep it from dripping. The more it goes, the more he thinks maybe he ain't really doing it for them up at all. Maybe he's just selfishly wanting shit for himself.
"I can sit on the floor." He shifts, sliding further away from the Signless and entirely out of the pile. "SEE? It's not like what you's thinking. I JUST THOUGHT IF WE WAS HERE TOGETHERLIKE THAT... It might hurt less maybe. JUST A LITTLE" He hopes. He breathes deep. Maybe he really ought to give his own angle. "I want to talk. I WANT AS TO TALK AT YOU BOTH. If you both go it's gonna get real quiet. AIN'T GOTTA SAY NOTHING BACK."
no subject
He looks between them, at a loss for what to say. He's already made his decision, strange as it feels, but it's not his place to try and convince Terezi to do something she's not comfortable with. He doesn't want to make this worse for her, not when he knows intimately how much losing the Disciple hurts.
no subject
And he wants to talk. She can't deny him that, after what the capitol did to him. She still blames herself in some small part, even if she tries not to. She can't take this away from him.
She says nothing, but slowly she moves forward. There's a moment where she considers the pile, but ultimately sits on the floor next to Kurloz with her back resting against it instead. This is an okay place. This she can do.
no subject
And then when she is, he sighs his relief. He looks on behind him, just to see if he might be able to lean back too, or if that would even be a good idea or not. No contact for now. This already pushes lines enough.
Now just to figure what the fuck to up and say.
"I..." He breathes deep. "We've lost people. THE BOTH OF YOU GOT AT LOSING PEOPLE RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. We've all done this shit beforeways. BUT IT AIN'T HELP. Such things ain't never been to helping. S'WHY I FIGURED WE FOCUS ON THE SHIT WHAT IS. Miracles what's being presentlike. ALL MOTHERFUCKING BENEFACTIONS LEGIT WHAT IS MOTHERFUCKING BEING OURS." He pauses, just to see if he's still got them. "We're all here. WE ARE ALIVE. We all got our knowings if this was being elseways we up and wouldn't be." Which doesn't always feel good enough, he knows. But... "MAN, YOU KNOW WHAT ALL I'M GONNA DO AT? I'm gonna try on tasting every motherfucking sweet thing what I can. GONNA GET A BIGASS ICECREAM AND PUT ON EVERY TOPPING THIS MOTHERFUCKER CAN GET ON IT. Like sprinkles and shit. HOW ABOUT YOU GUYS?"
He's not looking for them to give no fucking ice cream flavors. He's looking for hope. For something good.
no subject
The Signless knows that isn't exactly what Fraysong means. Hasn't he been telling himself for so long, small things? Little victories. Little joys. That's all he can really have here and it has to be enough, and in a way Fraysong is advocating for the same thing. They are all three of them alive and they are all three of them still together, and that's a joy and a victory both. They may not have the power to change everything that's hurt them and is still hurting them but they do have the power to not allow that hurt to consume them.
Still, he can't pull that out of thin air, and a silence stretches uncomfortably because of it. What can he do that's good? What does he still have to give here? It frightens him that it takes so long for really anything to come to mind.
"I was thinking of taking up sewing again. I used to often with my guardian but I've fallen out of practice." Nevermind that he was never very good (his sewing skills were directly responsible for the prototype Leggings). It's something methodical and therapeutic to do.
no subject
She doesn't want to do it. Every part of her just wants to lay here and grieve and not think about the future. Not when the future seems so much emptier than it did just a few days ago.
She tries to think up something, anyway. Just something--anything. She doesn't even have to do it, but every time she tries to think of some activity to pick up, her thoughts fall back to things she did with Meulin. Drawing together, braiding each other's hair, the little gifts that they made for each other...
She takes a deep breath. Something good. Anything, just something good. Something she can do. "I want to paint," she finally says after the longest silence. It feels like a breath taken in the dead of winter's chill, hard to breathe in and hard to breathe out. "I want to paint her room. They emptied it out of all her things, but I want to fill up again from floor to ceiling. I want to make it so they can't get rid of her so easy."
She clenches her fists, tight then loose then tight again. She breathes. And she lifts her head to smell their reactions, to gauge if they would come with her or not.
no subject
His palms press together. With eyes closed, he recites; "The darkest midnight curtain parted. THE VEIL'S SPLIT AND CREST. Ritual's masses who's hand mark surface. AND SEE UPON HERE, A GLIMMERED RADIANCE OF ALL COLOR ATOP, STRIKE A MOTHERFUCKER'S BREAST. In followed crystalline effulgence spume, we seek quiescence strife entomb. 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."
He looks to one, then the other.
"I HAVE THE PAINTS. We should do it. SHE NEVER LIKED HOW I PAINTED. Perhaps you two may show me how she did." They would know best afterall. He gives Terezi a reassuring nod.
To the Signless alone, he says whilst rising up, "I REMEMBER HER. Your guardian. SWORE TO MESSIAHS SHE'D TRY AND DRAIN ME DRY ONE DAY. She always looked at him as all like this brother had already painted himself in hues bright."
no subject
"She looked at everyone she didn't know like that," she says with the barest hint of a smile. His mother was friendly only to a very small few, and especially when he was younger she didn't take his word that a new friend wasn't dangerous to him. To be fair, she was probably right to be cautious.
"I think that if you have the paints then there isn't any reason not to fill her room with color. She would have liked that. I'm nowhere near as good a painter as she was but I'll do my best."