history: lines on my face

[anachronologistics]

Who| Davesprite (anachronologistics) and YOU, with a closed prompt for Nill (reassures)
What| Post mini-arena shenanigans
Where| All around in the Tribute tower; the lounge, rooftop, and D11
When| a day or so after the victors/survivors of the mini-arena emerge.
Warnings/Notes| Strider language and probably existential depression. Will update if necessary? Let me know in the subject line where your character is meeting up with this feathery asshole, or make up something of your own! I am very flexible.

Everything fucking hurts.

Normally, Davesprite wouldn't bitch about it. Honestly, it isn't unlike all those times when he spent hours strifing with Bro on the roof and woke up the next day feeling like every fibre in his muscles had been snapped.

His muscles ache, his wings are caked in slime and feel like they've melted in places where they caught acid from the water guns, and all he really wants to do is sleep.



D11;

The viking kid didn't come back from the arena.

Not that Davesprite really talked with him much, but he had been pretty cool. Nerdy, in a way that kind of reminded him of Egbert if Egbert knew more about turning wild boars over spits and wearing a bunch of fur and leather. A quick check reveals that his room is stripped empty, and there's a sort of violated feeling about that, kinda like walking into your room to find something out of place and knowing your bro has been rifling through it.

To his credit he doesn't outwardly look bothered by it, even as he splays himself on his stomach over a couch in the tribute suite, and rifles through a pile of sketches and doodles (most of them his own) that had been left on a coffee table. The television is on, left to broadcast coverage of post-arena bullshit.

What. He's looking for his friends himself on television. Wouldn't you?

Should anyone walk in, Davesprite doesn't look up from either one as he offers a casual, "Honey, I'm home."



Lounge;

He had decided very quickly after his arrival that the Avoxes are a little creepy, and that if he needed anything he was just going to handle it himself, masking it as being unable to trust anyone to get a satisfactory glass of apple juice. After a couple of hours of casually watching the post-arena media frenzy, Davesprite decides to saunter vaguely down into the lounge to get something to fill his gut in spite of the fact that he feels like hell. In the back of his mind, he knows that getting something to eat would probably be the best thing for him, besides a nap.

(At least he has the decency to change into some clean clothes, although his wings are still rather rough-looking from where it looks like he had tried to scrub congealed slime from his feathers and wound up just pulling them out.)

He hasn't really ever bothered coming down here before, and he doesn't really want to be down here now -- but if it came between dealing with creepy people in ball-gags (okay they really aren't ball-gags, that's just part of his entire internal dissertation) and dealing with the frenzy of the lounge, he'll take the lounge.

Should anyone make long enough eye-contact with him to where it would be awkward if neither say anything, he'll nod ever-so-slightly and casually ask, "What's good?"



Rooftop; Closed to Nill

Showering is awful. The residual traces of acid had washed away easily enough -- though it leaves him hissing because it feels like the world's worse sunburn under the shower spray -- but the slime actually repels water, so rather than wash clean with just a rinse it gets trapped further in his feathers and requires a god-awful amount of scrubbing with soap. Even then, though, a good amount of it is caught so high up that it's impossible to reach without turning into some sort of feathery contortionist.

He's sure this shit is starting to harden and chafe. He's also too tired to deal with it.

There are still a few hours to go before curfew kicks in, but honestly he doesn't really care about it. Nill will find him sitting on the roof and staring out over the Capitol. It's hard to say if he hears her when she approaches, but he doesn't seem to look surprised when he looks back over his shoulder at her.

"Hey."

Comments

The Lounge

[crabmunicator]

An orange dude with feathers who looks like his best friend.

That's what Karkat sees when he comes down to the lounge this day, likewise not wholly comfortable with the Avoxes. Being served like that is just weird to him - not something one of his not-even-a-caste could expect, nor something he really wants. But he is hungry, and he wants something better than just grabbing something of his own out of the kitchen area in district six.

It's just, you know, he didn't expect to see this guy. He knows who he is - it's Davesprite, no doubt - but he's looking worse for the weather. And why does he have legs? He's not going to learn anything by gawking, though, so he finally heads closer.

He asks, "How long have you been here?"

It's awkward. He feels awkward. He's never actually spoken to Davesprite about anything; it's just impossible to misidentify an orange bird Dave, is all.

[anachronologistics]

There is only one thing that Davesprite does not envy Dave for, and it's that Dave was the one that wound up having to catch the meteor express. If it had been himself, Davesprite is pretty sure that he would have put a shitty sword between his eyeballs. He doesn't have as much patience for the trolls as Dave apparently does. It's kind of the thing that happens when one of them kills your best friend and you have to doom your whole timeline and everyone in it just to fix it.

His tone is still casual though, almost bored, even if his wings do try to tighten against his back in spite of the way that they ache.

"Approximately twenty seconds, and I'm surprised it took that long for my troll magnetism to kick in."

[crabmunicator]

Well, he's a Strider alright. Karkat's eyebrows lower and he passes a sigh through his nostrils.

"Not that, you obtuse tube of jello. I mean here." His arms spread in a broad motion. "The Capitol, Panem, this place. I haven't seen you yet and just because we haven't spoken before this doesn't mean I can't come up and greet Dave's fuzzy bird double who suddenly has legs."

He hikes a thumb at himself now. "I'm Karkat Vantas, leader of the Alternian troll team, the one that made you all, and I'm trying to assemble a mental list and some kind of contact with the people here from our conglomeration of universes. And no, I don't remember what past me did here if you were around to see him, so let's just sweep that out of the way now."

[anachronologistics]

"Wow, there is absolutely nothing in anything you just said that I care about."

Davesprite doesn't really remember much of his conversations with any of the trolls prior to his boarding of the reverse-timeline express. Almost a year of bullshitting around Sburb plus three years of bullshitting around a flying battleship sort of trumps the memorybank of the few hours he might have had in contact with any of them before they fucked off to whatever corner of the multiverse they were shitting up and everything went to literal garbage. He remembers Terezi -- though, to be fair, it is kind of hard to forget the person who royally fucked your shit to hell and back -- and even further back he sort of remembers the weirdly cheerful one who called herself a maid of time before he even knew what that actually meant.

But he had spent three years bullshitting around a battleship with Jade, who did more than her fair share of talking about the trolls even when he didn't want to, so he knows the name. She'd talked about him a lot; he was the shouty one who turned out to be something of a nice guy.

"But that's nice, I guess. Now can I respectfully request to be removed and put on the do-not-call list? You assholes always call at dinnertime and it's so goddamn unmannerly..."

It's kind of like old times, isn't it.

[crabmunicator]

Karkat's face scrunches up in a downright affronted look. What's this guy's problem? He's a version of Dave, alright, but one with all the annoying qualities back at the forefront for reasons he doesn't know. He never had some jealous conflict over Terezi with him, so what gives? He didn't even have part in the doomed timeline business, and it's not like they ever spoke to have a bad history before.

"Did someone excrete in your breakfast grains this morning? You don't even know me. Or if it's something past me did, I'd appreciate being informed instead of a bland 'don't care, don't talk to me' response that clarifies absolutely nothing."

D11 - prepare for momming

[belongsontv]

Really, Davesprite should have been prepared for this. Even with his attempt to wink to try to comfort Milla, there is no escape from the inevitable. The inevitable parenting that comes with Milla Vodello as a suitemate.

Dave's greeting knocks whatever she was thinking about out of her mind entirely as she moves towards the couch Dave is strewn upon. "Oh, darling." Concern is written across her features and she's likely to hug the boy if he sits up.

She'd ask if he was alright, but she knew the answer to that. It wasn't even worth asking. The most she can muster is something simpler. "How are you feeling-?"

but mooooooom

[anachronologistics]

Davesprite piles the papers so that his own doodles -- it looks like talking nachos? -- are on top. He doesn't sit up just yet, his back hurts too much for sitting up, but he does prop his chin on his hand and watches her from behind his shades as she comes closer.

Wings notwithstanding, there are a couple of superficial cuts and scrapes but they look like he's already attended to them. He tries to shrug a shoulder, so that it looks more like he's just flopping his hand around, and glances at the hologram television replaying the past few days' events.

"Like I just woke up grinning like a goddamn bear full of honey from a delightful nap on a bed of soft flowers and I'm ready to take on the day."

no escape, no surrender, only disco mom

[belongsontv]

All his words do is make her frown more pronounced as she moves to crouch next to the couch and touch his forehead. The gesture is gentle, careful for any bumps or bruises he might have gotten on his head.

Milla doesn't question the sarcasm or demand Dave answer her honestly, she just looks concerned and accepts this is Dave. A teenager who deflects a question like that. "You certainly look the part, dear. Bursting at the seams from all that honey."

Milla opts for honesty on her part. "I was so worried about you, darling. I'm glad you're back."

surrenders quietly to that sweet night

[anachronologistics]

He's relatively unscathed. Another bonus to having wings, save for exceptional balance -- natural shields against bullshit that's prone to flying at you during death races.

"Winnie the Pooh ain't got nothin' on me," it feels a little weird to have a hand touching his face. He's not sure what to do with it, and so his brow furrows and he just watches her look him over. "Shit got pretty hot to handle, but we took care of it."

Mostly. He kind of wishes he hadn't failed so spectacularly at getting Dave through the arena, or a couple of the others.

"Did all the adults have an epic meltdown when we all left?"

[belongsontv]

"I'm proud then, dear. You survived." She states softly back, only pulling her hand back when she's satisfied. "And you didn't hunt anyone down for 'fun'." Milla is proud of that, proud he didn't indulge the games anymore than he needed to.

His question earns an amused sound from the psychic, "Darling, they made us have a drunken slumber party with the ugliest pajamas known to mankind, so, yes. Yes they did." Even if lying feels like a better choice, Dave's a teenager, he wouldn't believe everyone was fine.

closed - god damn it I had a nicer one written and then it got eaten I'm sorry

[reassures]

The aftermath of the Arena had left Nill unsure of how to really react. How were you supposed to act, how were you supposed to feel, after you just watched kids fighting for their lives and dying? And some of them even dying for other people?

Watching the Arena had been horrific, but at least she knew what to do. Get tickets (no matter her comfort level), send them to people. Smoke (a lot). Drink (a little). Try not to lose it (she had, when Initiate died). Very standard, no matter how awful.

Then came the after, and though Nill didn't honestly know what she was supposed to do with the after, she at least had some idea. A tiny thing in the back of her mind that was something she could do, that no one else probably could. It wasn't like the place had a surplus of people with wings, and it certainly didn't seem like Davesprite could handle all the stuff he'd had dumped on him by himself.

The roof wasn't the first place she checked, but after she got there, she wondered why she didn't look before. Nill walks across the rooftop until she stops a few feet away from Davesprite, and she offers him a small smile, though it doesn't reach her eyes. There's a bag in one hand, and her notepad in the other, and after taking a moment to flip the page she holds it up, a message already written on it.

I thought you could use some help

... would you believe me if I said the same thing literally just happened to me?

[anachronologistics]

In some fucked up way, coming out of the Arena had been worse than actually being in the Arena. At least, in the Arena, there was hardly any time to think. Just run, don't do something stupid, keep your shit unfucked, don't do something stupid, get Clementine over the finish line, and don't do something stupid. Coming out of the Arena there was nothing but time.

How are you supposed to act, coming out of a death race against a bunch of other kids and knowing that many had died. How were you supposed to feel, knowing that some hadn't come back at all? Meaningless death is not foreign concept to Davesprite -- it's the concept of finality, that is. What determines whether someone is brought back, and how does he know if he's slated for return packaging?

His feathers puff, save for the ones that are coated in congealed slime, and he scoots over a little as if to make room for her next to him. Not that there isn't a whole rest of the roof for her to sit.

"If by help you mean taking in mad scenery, I think I got my shit pretty much handled."

yes I would, go us

[reassures]

Instead of taking the obvious offer, Nill drops the bag of stuff beside him. The contents are a pretty impressive first aid kit, which has almost everything except the usual plastic box as opposed to the bag. There's a bigger emphasis on bandages and creams, a tiny pair of scissors, some tweezers - the works, really.

Nill doesn't write anything. Instead she gestures towards his wings, her own shifting against her back in a slightly sympathetic gesture, as if just looking at them is enough for her own to ache. Then she lifts an eyebrow at him, the general intent behind it obvious. She can take care of that if you let her, Davesprite.

We are the most talented. It is us.

[anachronologistics]

He glances down into the bag, and then back up at her.

"Jesus tits, I think the only thing you're missing is a goddamn bonesaw and one of those adorable paper hats. Knock, knock, it's time for your lobotomy..." He props his elbow on his knee. As if to mimic her, his own eyebrow rises behind his shades. "You're definitely missing the lollipop for being a good boy, though. I might be inclined to start screaming and thrashing and being a generally intolerable and inconsolable little shit without one."

His wings relax, though, as if waiting for her to start doing the thing.

D11

[wizardplease]

Haruto staggers into the central lounge, clutching a cup coffee, and the presence of Davesprite there catches him by surprise. "You're back." He normally wouldn't say anything as really obvious as that, but he is wrote. There is no internal censor anymore, and his brain feels positively liquified. This is but the first of many dumb things he will say today.

"...why are you even watching that?" Like this, for example. He'd spent the last twenty four damned hours being forced to watch it, and he would like to never see it again, thanks. Unsteadily, he moves in to try and find the remote and change the channel.

[anachronologistics]

"Sup."

... wow. Gone a couple days and suddenly coffee never smelled so good. The feathers on his wings perk a bit, and Davesprite props his chin on his hand.

"Looking for myself on tv, what does it look like?"

It's obvious what Haruto's looking for. The remote is on the coffee table. Davesprite isn't going to protest if he changes the channel.

[wizardplease]

"Ah." He sounds not the least bit thrilled about this, and grabs for the remote the moment he spots it. "You know, you're really easy to spot...." What with being bright orange, and also the focus of many an exciting focus moment, or instant replay. Why, look, they've cut to a nice shot of him and a pink-haired girl dodging acid slime. There's time for the both of them to appreciate it while Haruto tries to remember which buttons change what. He manages to get the volume to rise, then to lower, and then finally hits on the right combination to switch it to a nature documentary.

With that arduous task completed, Haruto drops the remote back to the coffee table with a clatter. And then, clutching his cup of coffee with both hands, he has a long drink of it. It seems to bring a little life back into him, because he speaks again. "....you did pretty good."

[anachronologistics]

"Until you stick me in a pumpkin patch. Then I'm a goddamn chameleon," the corner of Davesprite's mouth purses as his image flashes across the screen. Whoever it is who's talking over the footage seems to be over-invested in the 'possibility of sparks' between the pink-haired girl with wings and the blonde-headed boy with orange wings. All things considered, it reminds him eerily of ironically watching Entertainment Hollywood with Bro over Chinese takeout.

Davesprite doesn't move as the remote clatters. Why, this documentary on field mice is riveting.

"Yeah, except for the part where my ass got served like a dude on butler island," and the part where he lost Dave and barely got Clementine over the line. As if to prove his point, his wings try to fluff.

D11

[a_minute_younger]

"Hey there sweetpea," Gary calls back as he steps out of the elevator. Yes, part of this is just to tease, but if the hop in his step is any indication, he is genuinely happy to know that Davesprite's back. The lingering discomfort from making so many people in the Arena angry, combined with the wariness of finding one of the rooms in D11 empty earlier in the day, has Gary feeling particularly grateful, if not outright clingy at finding people he recognizes going about their business. Just like normal. Nothing wrong here.

He walks into the common area and his eyes are immediately drawn to the television. Gary parks himself behind the couch. "What have they said? Anything about me?"

[anachronologistics]

"You always know what to say to me," he jibes back casually. He's actually pretty glad that Gary came back from the arena, though he'd joke that it has to do more with wanting to not have to adopt Gary's two furballs than it does because he is actually kind of cool. Davesprite doesn't look up from the television.

"Something about me being a winged Adonis and you being a weird asshole, but I don't know, I was too busy basking in my beautiful image on the screen."

[a_minute_younger]

"I don't blame you," Gary shrugs, a wry smile betraying his otherwise deadpan expression. "Your fat head takes up the whole shot whenever the camera's on you. Kinda hard to miss."

He, too, keeps his eyes glued to the screen. Gary doesn't realize until a few moments later that he's actually looking for that kid that's gone missing. Maybe they'll have a special dedication to him or something before sending him off? That seems likely.

Lounge

[seestheman]

There's the stuff Clara expected to come with being a Mentor: watching people go off and die while she sits in the Capitol in horror, having to go to oh so glamorous parties and be asked ridiculously probing questions about her personal life, not having to share a bathroom with anyone on her floor ever again because she now has her own (okay, she's not going to complain about that last one). No one ever mentioned how much ass she would have to kiss on behalf of the people who were once her peers and were now technically her Tributes. And sometimes that asskissing involves meeting up with wealthy Capitolites who want to wine and dine her.

She's waiting for one of those Capitolites with a drink that's emits a pulsating light in different colors. She still isn't sure if she's supposed to drink it or watch it (though, she's found that it tastes like blue raspberry Jolly Ranchers if she does dare drinking it). When she hears his voice from over her shoulder, the drink's currently pulsating to the beat of the Capitol pop song being piped in.

"I don't see why you bother asking that when, everytime, you always end up ordering apple jui-" The words die mid-sentence the moment she turns around and sees lots of orange instead of blond and pale and red. "Well. I knew you two looked a like, but I never expected..." No, Clara, that's not the proper response for this. "I'm Clara, Clara Murphy. I know your...I know Dave."

[anachronologistics]

Up close, there are some very stark differences between the two. The orange wings notwithstanding, Davesprite's features are a little sharper and longer in some places where Dave's are probably softer and rounder. If Davesprite could have been made to take his shades off, his eyes would be a sunset-orange orange color rather than the stark cherry red. Still, everything else is distinctly similar, and Davesprite can tell immediately where her line of thought is going the moment her words cut off.

(The feathers on his wings bristle, and he crosses his arms.)

"Yeah, I know, you're the reigning champ from the last round of Murderball," he continues, tone sounds just on the scathing side of neutral. He's sure she's nice -- she looks very nice -- but it's difficult to look past first impressions when one's first impression is of being crowned for being the sole survivor in a blood bath murderarena. "I saw them crown you Homecoming Queen. It sucks that your party had to look like an ad from BDSM Today."

[seestheman]

The moment she sees him cross his arms, she can't help but feel like an asshole. He probably gets that a lot, he doesn't need to get it from her too.

Or, at least, she feels like an asshole until he speaks and the tone of his voice sinks in. Is this how Dave would've reacted to her if they had met after she won? "It wasn't by choice," she says quietly, trying not to get angry at him or show. "I would've loved it if someone else won." If Carlos had just shot her like she thought he was going to. If Black Tom had succeeded in killing her and Carlos had taken him out. If she had been allowed to kill herself once she knew for certain that Dave was out of the Arena instead of Bro stopping her. Really, any of those sounded better than her winning. "And trust me, I didn't have a say in the party's theme."

[anachronologistics]

It's the tone of her voice catches him off-guard, and to be fair he tries his damned hardest to not show it.

(Stupid fucking wings, though, they'll always give him away. They relax a little, even the feathers that are caked in old slime and half-melted from being splashed with acid.)

He knows, in the back of his mind, that it's only because he's just meeting her now -- after running the Murdercourse ver. Kid.0 and watching kids throw each other to the animatronic wolves, melt each other's faces, and tumble to their deaths in vats of god-knows-what -- that it's hard to not be skeptical.

And he knows it's not fair.

But it's still hard.

So he isn't very apologetic about asking her a few hard and unfair questions.

"How did you win?"

She probably can't see it behind his shades -- maybe she can feel it; Davesprite thinks she looks like the kind of woman who is intuitive about these kinds of things -- but he is watching her very, very closely.

(Kinda like a hawk. Or maybe a crow.)