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
But she does notice the look on his face when he registers her appearance. It's reactions like that that make her want to hide away in her room in the tower so she doesn't have to see any looks of pity coming her way. Self-consciously, she tries to hide the stump as best as she can, knowing that nothing can currently be done for the eye other than the pink satin with black lace eyepatch she's wearing.
"No, it's perfect," she says, giving him a smile. "Thank you, by the way. Out of all the things that've been sent to me since I got out of the Arena, I think this is probably my favorite." There isn't even the slightest hint that it might be a lie when she says it. She'd guessed it had probably come from him since none of the other Tributes have an affinity for bones like he does and it wasn't sent to her like the rest of the other gifts that had been sent to her. This was something much more personal and she couldn't help but treasure it.
"You know, if you want to drink alcohol, you could probably get them to make something that's more your style."
no subject
Maybe that's all a sort of silly. It wasn't as though humans had blood castes. It wasn't as though he was even being an any good example of a highblood his ownself anyway. Not anymore at least.
All that don't matter. All what matters is the compliment she pays and the way it makes him swell with pride, pleased to have done right by
a tributesomeone. It lights up his face."I'm glad to be hearing that."
As for the Alchohol. "THINK AS I'M BEING MOTHERFUCKING GOOD THOUGH. My style's being soda and sweet. WHAT ABOUT YOU?"
no subject
Sometimes it's just better not to think of it and focus on the here and now instead.
"Me? Schnapps and sweet." Okay, it's not totally accurate, but it's a good piece of alliteration. "If you ever decide you want to try alcohol again, I can help pick for you. When you're a little older, of course," she teases, smiling up at him. "Speaking of which, aren't you a little young to be hanging around underground bars?"
no subject
But his smile shifts to a frown, then confusion. Older? Too young for... bars? "Uh..." He looks around, like he might find the context for this all if he only searches for it. He doesn't find nothing though. "NO? I mean. IT AIN'T UNDERGROUND." She must mean how this particular place got being at least partially illicit. That ain't the point. The point was defending his age. He tries not to pout over the fact Clara's seen through that-- it won't help his case.
"I got an adult title. EARNED IT AT SEVEN SWEEPS. Been leading troops since. BEST OF THE MOTHERFUCKING BEST IN MY DIVISIONS, PART OF CHOSEN ELITE AS TO BE BOTH SUBJUGGLATOR AND TRAINED LAUGHSASSIN OF HIGHEST MERIT PER EACH MIRTHIMOIETY, INCLUDING BEING CHOSEN BY MESSIAHS TO PREFORM THE MIRACLES OF SPEAK AND PREACH FOR THEIR GRANDEST CARNATHEDRAL. So, what I'm meaning is, I'm basically being adult anyway."
no subject
Clara keeps considering trying to interject. Hell, she even does try for a moment before deciding to let him wind himself down. Instead she just lets him list off all the (really kind of horrific, really) reasons why he's an adult and sips at her drink.
"And, even with all that in mind, you're still technically a kid," she says softly. It never occurs to her that Trolls and humans aren't the same and maybe it'd be fine. But that doesn't change the fact that, in her eyes, he's still pretty much a child (okay, teenager, but still). "Though, maybe you could drink it with adult supervision," she teases.
no subject
It all gets worse with the teasing and he really does pout this time, irritably so. A bit of huff goes on along with it.
"AIN'T NEED NO ONE LOOKING UP AFTER ME. I look after me. ALWAYS MOTHERFUCKING HAVE. Ain't no worthless fuckin wriggler. HELD MY OWN UP AGAINST PLENTY OLDER THAN ME." He still doesn't care for the drink. Shit's gross. But it's the principle of the matter!
no subject
Instead she looks up at him with a concerned look on her face. "Everyone needs someone to look after them sometimes. It's not always about who's the strongest in a fight, sometimes it's about knowing you have someone who'll always have your back and be there to make you feel better if things go catastrophically wrong." Obviously, she isn't just talking about drinking now.
no subject
His hands curl around that glass of soda. His eyes are going down. "That's a whole 'nother thing, that. A WHOLE DIFFERENT THING THAT BEING IS, SISTER." A pause. "Had me someone like that. THEY'S BEING GONE NOW. How it up goes." He almost shrugs, but the idea of shurgging Mituna off like he's no big kinda of deal, like he's not falling apart inside without his moirail here, well it sits all wrong with him. He turns his eyes away instead.
no subject
It takes a bit of doing, and she almost reaches out with the wrapped up stump instead of her good (only) hand, but she places her hand on his arm and fixes him with a comforting, downright maternal look. "You make it sound like you can only have one friend when, really, you have so many people here who care about you and would be more than willing to be there for you when you need us." She pointedly tries not to focus on how much his words hit close to home, how she can't help but think about the fact that Alex pretty much was that for her until the Capitol got their hands on him. Right now isn't about her, it's about the troll in front of her.
no subject
He breathes deep. He tries to focus.
"Sorry," He says, eyes down again. "IT AIN'T THAT I AIN'T KNOW IT. We just got done on with what happened that arena. ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS GOT LOOKING OUT FOR ME..." While he was Avoxed. "But things as is like that. YOU'RE ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE DOING IT BY A MOIRAIL. I know you humans just get on about shit like that by anyone but it ain't so easy for me yet."
no subject
"It's hard to lose a connection like that," she says softly, trying not to focus on the fact that she all but has lost that kind of safe, dependable connection with Alex. "And it takes time to adjust to it. But we're here for you and we care about you. We may not be your fr...moirail, but we still love you."
no subject
"...YOU KNOW, SISTER. I ain't even know what that motherfucking means," He says then. His hands curl around his drink. "I DO, BECAUSE IT'S GETTING ON A TRANSLATE AND THE RIGHTEOUS NOISE GETS KICKING ON THROUGH REGARDLESS. But I don't... I don't know that I'm on about getting it." And it's one of those things, those stupid fucking little things, where he's not sure if he's not knowing it because it's human, or because he's just that much a failure troll, never knowing that other trolls know innate because he took on shit on his own. But just how the fuck is he supposed to fathom this brand new mode of affection? Mirth, he'd had enough a damn time trying to process it normal. He's done nothing to earn. And up until now, that meant nothing gained.
"ALL I FUCKIN' KNOW," He continues, "IS I DON'T WANT TO FUCK THIS UP. I don't know how not to. I AIN'T KNOW WHY I GIVE A FUCK. I ain't know why motherfuckers like you all give a fuck. I DON'T GET IT. Why?"
no subject
Her smile grows into a grin, "And if it seems like you're about to get yourself deep into shit that might fuck all this up, I can help keep an eye on you so you don't." It's a terrible pun, considering the situation, and she wouldn't usually be down with making eye jokes, but for the time being she's willing to if it'll help get him out of his head.
no subject
"OKAY." He'll just have to learn to believe harder.
In the mean time, he's going to laugh, because his sense of humor is something awful and he can resist a good proper mutilation joke. He notices how, this time, unlike in the arena, he can hear himself. He can a little freer that way.
no subject
And if that never happens? Well, she'll just believe it for him.
"Oh, you think that's funny?" From the laughter in Clara's voice, she thinks it's a little funny too. "I guess that's one thing I'm good at doing one-handed." Okay, that joke's admittedly lame, but she's willing to say anything to hear him laugh right now.