Everybody Knows This Ain't Heaven [Open]

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

WHO| Howard and OPEN
WHAT| Howard tries to prepare for the next arena.
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WHEN| A couple days after Valentine's day.
WARNINGS| Post-trauma, so some recollections of death.

In a way, Howard already misses the arena. Not the killing, of course, but the solitude, the way he spent so many days there in relative isolation, alert but alone, catching birds and melting water, ears pricked for every sound. There's no possible way to do that in the Capitol; if he jumped at every sound, he'd never stop startling. As it stands, he can't shake the idea that he should be listening for something, should be aware of someone sneaking up on him through the crowds that he can't hear over the white noise.

He's taken to shadows, to dark corners, to trying to exist as part of the periphery rather than in the middle of any attention. Before curfew he goes out into the Capitol and tries to find alleys to hide in, quiet locations, places away from televisions and radios. He's taken a liking to the pitch dark restaurant. After curfew he hides in his room with locks and a chair lodged under the door, or tries to visit Eponine. It's as if he's trying to lift himself away from this world, to become so convincing that he's not there that eventually it becomes true.

But spending all this time hiding doesn't actually accomplish anything recuperative. He's worn out. He spends so much time looking over his shoulder that he can't sleep at the Tribute Center. He has dark circles under his eyes and sores from biting his lips, including one that travels all the way up to the scoop above his mouth. He jumps at loud noises and stumbles when he's not staring directly at his feet as he walks.

Death was hard, but rebirth has not been kind to him. He wishes he could turn it off, banish it to the arena. He wishes he could trust the other Tributes to do the same, but he knows none of this will just be forgotten when he looks at Draco again, or Alpha. Aunamee.

Eventually he finds himself at the Speakeasy. He gets a non-alcoholic drink and finds a booth in the back. He has a book with him, Basic First Aid in the Field. If he's going to be prepared for next time, he'll need to be self-sufficient, and useful enough to keep alive for anyone whose graces he relies on. He goes over the book, getting visibly agitated and frustrated as his scattered mind fails to retain information as fast as he wants it to.

Comments

have some R fail.

[shambler]

Weirdly enough, R misses the other zombies back at the airport.

They aren't his family - they aren't anyone's family, not really - but they were all people he kinda-sorta-didn't know and he didn't feel the urge to take bites out of them every few feet. It was the next closest thing to normal. A few years doing the same thing day in, week out, every month and it's hard not to get used to it. Maybe it's not living, but it's still something. Being shoved into a place where he's got easy-pickings everywhere and he can't even take a few taste tests is teaching him what it's like to feel frustrated, R torn between gawking and working out how to scowl again.

He surprises himself wishing there were other Dead here. For all the times he's wished he could have conversations with people, the real thing is so draining that grunting at each other doesn't seem half bad.

Wandering into the Speakeasy, R at first thinks he found another zombie. Finally! The other guy looks wasted enough, although pretty damn good for another corpse, and it's only when he's close enough to reach out and slap his hand down on his shoulder that R realizes he's still alive. Oops. The book should've been a dead give away.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's zoned out enough that he's let his guard down - a momentary indiscretion he'll pay for in heightened paranoia later. The words on the page in front of him are starting to bleed together, blind spots developing mid-sentence, and he realizes he's been staring at the same paragraph for several minutes now when-

"Yahh!" He jumps back in the booth, at the other guy - the other dead guy - so close to him that he could reach out and high five. Howard scoots back in his seat to the corner of the wall and booth, gaping at the guy in front of him, all pasty face and dark lips and too-bright eyes.

Facepaint, he tells himself. Facepaint and color contacts, because of course the Capitol citizens are so morbid as to glamorize not only lethal games, but death itself. Why not start dressing like corpses? It's all part of the fun of watching people butcher each other on TV.

"Very...very funny." He can feel his pulse in his neck and a prick of sweat on his temple. Awesome. He loves panic responses like that. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Not that R really 'snuck up', but it's better than 'don't approach me when I'm being a space cadet'.

[shambler]

His hand pulls back almost reluctantly. So many Living crammed into one easily accessible place. R doesn’t get it. He shouldn’t have even been able to get this close and, sneaking a peek, he’s not seeing any signs of weapons either. Really weird. At least this human had the sense to panic unlike a lot of the others, even if it so after the fact that R can’t imagine him lasting more than a week out in the real world.

The zombie’s hand flexes uselessly for a moment before he decides to drop his arm at his side. He’s not even sure what to do with his hands these days.

“Thought you…” R decides to be adventurous and go for a bigger word. “Familiar.”

He’s getting pretty good at this talking thing, even if these Living can still run circles around him. This one showing some common sense makes him homesick all over again. He almost wants to ask if they really did meet somewhere. Maybe they're from the same city. Maybe someone ate a relative of his. R strains to remember any zombies who look like they could be related to this guy. Seems like it could get awkward fast to start asking stuff like that when they're not even on first name basis.

R comes closer, listing slightly to the side like a ship taking on water at a snail's pace. "You're not like Them." He looks vaguely pleased that came out in one shot.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

As R gets closer, Howard presses his back up a little harder against the wall. His feet can't touch the floor from here, but his hands clench around the bottom of the booth. He keeps repeating to himself in his head that it's the Capitol, it's not the Games, and no one's going to stab him, but the many, many alarm bells are going off in his head.

His breath is like a little moth flutter over his lower teeth. R smells like...dead things. Howard's far too acquainted with dead things to believe that the scent is something anyone, even the fashion-conscious (fashion-crazy) people of the Capitol would be keen to emulate. The pungent smell of rot and dessication fills up the space and Howard wonders, briefly, if one can be so sleep-deprived that they hallucinate scents.

At the very least it doesn't look like Zombie Guy's very fast. Very fast at anything, really, but Howard's used to listening to Orc grope and struggle for the right monosyllabic words for an idea, so it's only as an afterthought that he realizes how arduously R tackles his language.

"Yeah, I, uh, I wear less makeup than them." He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Do you, uh. Do you want to sit down? I mean, across the table, not next to me..."

He doesn't like feeling trapped in this space. He'd rather have an escape route that wouldn't include hurling himself over the back of the booth or diving under the table.

"Don't know if they have brains on the menu though," he mutters, more to himself than to R.

[shambler]

R's eyes shift over to the table like he only now sees it. New table. Not the same old counter he sits down with M, year after year, or the one with the wobbly leg he bumps into every time he rides the escalators up there. None of the grooves or curves look familiar at all. He doesn't particularly care about sitting down, or want it (he knows what he wants: he's easy compared to the Living), but it seems like it's the in-thing to do right now and he literally has nothing better on his plate.

The zombie slumps down across from Howard, bumping his knees against it and jostling the table. Even sitting hunched over, R has several inches on the other Tribute. He was tall when he died. These days it just makes him a larger target for humans to take pot-shots at.

"I...if on-only," R says, each word a wheeze. "You like?"

The sarcasm flies over his head, R motioning at his blackened mouth with his awful teeth bared, like he can finally talk the finer points of cannibalism with someone for a change. Talk about refreshing. Weird, he didn't take you for a brains kinda guy though, Howard. You look way too tense. Get some zen in your life. It isn't like what comes next is any better.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard stares at R, a little bit stunned and a little bit petrified, and waits for R to finish his statement. There's a bit of stunned silence as Howard realizes that hey, Zombie Guy just made a joke, sort of, or at least a colloquial phrase of longing, and then Howard actually laughs. Or giggles, rather. A nervous giggle that just bubbles out of his mouth.

"Depends on what it's the brains of. Lizard brain's okay, I guess. Nice and salty. Rat brain's pretty gross, texture-wise." He hasn't tried human brains and as the thought makes his stomach turn, he doesn't really want to ruminate on that one.

Right. Talking about eating brains with a zombie. Why not? He supposes they're all some level of undead anyway. His hand relaxes on the underside of his seat, and he passes the menu over to R. He wonders if R can read. Maybe - he seems alright at talking, if very slow. The clipped sentences seem less a product of intelligence and more a natural way to streamline the idea into as few words as necessary.

"You, uh. You got a name, or do I got to just call you Stinker forever?"

sob

[shambler]

R pulls a slow, disgusted face at all this talk about lizard and rat brains. Really? C'mon, he's got some standards (that and he's already worked his way up the food chain to humans - humans have a spark everything else doesn't).

"Stink-errrrr," R repeats, dragging that last consonant out because this Living is getting there. Pretty close, although he doesn't want to be called Stinker the rest of his undead life. No thanks. "Rrrrr. R."

The zombie reaches up to touch his chest, right above where Julie took nailed him with that knife. His old clothes are gone, the bloodless wound covered up as if it never happened. R misses that stupid red hoodie too. It was still his. He'd wondered a lot about that thing and it'd been there with him on every hunt, every day he thought he'd die all over again from boredom. R leans forward toward this Living boy, his corpse's eyes on him as he tries to read the expression on his face. Unlike the others back home, this guy has almost too much range in his face. There's a slight quiver in his cheek, his jawline tightened.

"Name?" He asks. R's mouth works like he wants to ask more, but the words catch in his throat and turn into a rasp.

Talking about names and the finer points of brain-eating. As far as R's concerned, it's not a bad conversation. A lot more interesting than the non-conversations he's had before. R decides he likes this guy as he tries to take the menu from him. He fumbles it a bit - don't give him hand grenades - but manages to hold onto the menu, clutching like he doesn't know what to do with the thing.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"R?" Howard raises his eyebrows, waits to see if he's got it wrong and if R's just really slow in correcting him, and when that isn't confirmed, he shrugs. "I don't like R. I already know a K and I'm not trying to get the whole alphabet. I'm going to call you Rob, okay? Starts with the same letter."

And he laughs to himself and hums a snatch of 'Living Dead Girl', because he likes Rob Zombie, and he finds himself incredibly witty in his exhaustion-riddled mind. Better to be amused than stay panicking. R doesn't seem to be an immediate threat. Besides, if zombification is contagious by air, Howard's already been screwed for several minutes now.

It should bother him, he thinks, how fatalistic he's gotten in such a short span of time. Or maybe it's not been that short after all. Maybe a year and a half is a perfectly reasonable amount of time to become a hardened cynic.

"I'm Howard. Sorry, I know that's kind of a mouthful for you." He points at the menu with his fork. "Hey, can you read that? I mean, I can order for you, I think the waiter's probably going to just give up and bring you oatmeal otherwise."

[shambler]

First Julie trying to figure out his name and then Howard, as if R hasn't put literally years of thought into this himself. "Rob" doesn't ping him either, his face going slack in disappointment. Somehow he doesn't think Rob was his real name either. Still, if it's a choice between Stinker and Rob, R guesses he can live with it for now.

It takes him a long moment to realize that the strange sounds coming from the other Tribute are...music? It sounds like music, vaguely like the records he has back in his 747, only different. Humming. This is what real humming sounds like, not the weird sound that comes from the Bonies. R tilts his head, his mouth parted behind the muzzle as he studies the Living across from the table.

"How. Ward," R says, stretching the word out like he did with Julie's until he got to her name under control. Breaking it up into easier to manage chunks seems to work. "I..."

R looks down at the menu. The words swim, the characters dance and twist and it's just like trying to read the posters at the airport. He has the sense that he should know what it says, but that connection isn't there. Severed, like it got bitten off and chewed up and there's only mush left. R shrugs helplessly, trying not to look too frustrated at Howard's question. Not being able to read is something of a sore point, like "hey, you're still dead today? That sucks, buddy" kind of sore.

"Could," R looks up from the menu at Howard, then at the waiter serving another table. "Eat him."

It's a joke. Mostly a joke. R wouldn't say no, though, if it stopped being just a joke.

[downbeat]

Katurian is not sure why he's in the bathroom.

He was drinking, sure. He remembers that, the harsh vodka burning his throat just like it did back home, the familiar pain a soft bandage that covers up all the agonies of the last month. He remembers tipping the bartender with money he couldn't afford to tip. He remembers cracks in the floors, cracks in the walls, blurry faces of the other bargoers that he couldn't stand to look at, and then -- had he been trying to leave? Is that it?

Was he looking for quiet?

He braces one hand against the mirror and uses the other to shift his once broken nose back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He studies his face for mismatches in skin tone, invisible sutures, body parts that don't (and can't) really belong to him. He shoves his hand under his shirt to feel for holes in his chest. He chokes.

This is an opportunity, he tries to tell himself. This is a blessing. How many writers who write about death have actually, truly experienced it for themselves?

(How many get to experience it again and again and again at the cost of their loved ones who depend on them?)

"This is an opportunity," he says, scratching the tears from his eyes. He pounds his fist into the mirror, hard enough to rattle the frame. He hisses the words, furious with himself for his fear, his desperation, his hopelessness. "This is an opportunity."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's taken to the bathroom as well, if only because that one extra wall between him and the ambient noise of the crowd is much appreciated. Or it could be that his stomach hurts, not from anything wrong he can tell but because there was a knife longer than his hand in there not so long ago, and he doesn't want to draw attention to himself by curling up fetal style in the dining booth.

Instead he sits on top of the water tank of the toilet, back to the wall, feet around the rim, staring down at his not-bleeding concave malnourished stomach. He looks so much smaller now without the winter clothes puffing him up, clearly just a hungry kid and not a short adult. He was putting weight back on before the arena but the last game wicked it away again, and he can see the veins stand out like rope in his wrists and ankles.

He listens when he hears someone come in, and he stays very still for the many, many minutes they spend in front of the mirror. He doesn't hear water, he doesn't hear them use a stall. He hears a choked sound and he wonders if they, like him, are very good at crying quietly, then he hears a man's voice - and that's dumb, he thinks, of course it's a man, it's the men's bathroom - saying "this is an opportunity".

Howard can't help but make a sharp laughing sound, which unfortunately echoes in the stall around him. Isn't that exactly what he told himself before the last arena? For some of us, it's an opportunity to get out of a bad situation.

It was his ticket out of the FAYZ. Out of the endless nightmare of starvation and mutants and abuse and into a brave new world of...more of the same.

He laughs again and rolls his eyes, shaking slightly. "Wuss."

[downbeat]

He startles like a rabbit. His hand loses its grip on the mirror and there's a thump as he falls forward, stomach colliding with the sharp edge of the sink. He catches himself on the counter to stop himself from dropping completely and remains there, frozen, staring at his own wide eyes.

No one is in the stalls. He checked. He looked.

He wheels around, searching for cameras, monsters with impossibly large gullets, anything. It sounds like a boy, but he can't be sure. He can't be sure of anything anymore.

"Who'sit?"

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

When Katurian startles, Howard jumps a little too, slamming his hand to the side of the stall to keep from losing his balance on the tank. He should have remembered that he can't be easily seen with his feet drawn up.

He takes a deep breath before answering. "Chill out, man, we're okay. No need to kill each other out here."

There's a quaver in his voice that betrays that he's not the tough guy he's trying to sound like, and the last word is punctuated by a pubescent squeak. Great. He needs to work on that.

He hops off the toilet, unlatches the stall door and pokes his head partially out to see who he's talking to, just his forehead and eyes visible.

[downbeat]

His hair is a mess that he hasn't bothered to comb. His arms are thin. His eyes are sunken. Everything about him (from the way his eyes never quite settle on one place, to the way his hands tremble against the porcelain) screams tribute. When he sees Howard, he visibly relaxes, but that does little to conceal the wreck inside. He swallows a breath.

He's only a boy. He's only a frightened boy

"Y-You scared the fucking shit out of me, you know that?" he says. He manages a laugh, except the enthusiasm behind it is obviously fake -- certain sounds are too loud, others are too quiet. "Jesus. What were you doing back there?"

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

In a way, seeing Katurian in this state boost Howard's morale a little. He wears those self-same marks of skittishness all over his expressions, all over the haunted look in his eyes, the tension in his knuckles, the deer-like awareness of his surroundings, but it helps to think he's not alone. That, in fact, he might not even be the worst off.

Howard laughs too, that same sort of laugh as Katurian, that sound less like humor and more like a voice being cracked in half. "Same thing as you. Hiding from the crowds."

He comes out from behind the metal wall of the stall. "You're right, though. This is an opportunity. This is a step up."

It's hard to tell if he's being sarcastic. It's even hard for him to tell.

[downbeat]

Katurian glances back at the mirror as though he needs to see it to remember the words Howard is referencing. He looks at his worn, pale face, his tired eyes, and then-- and then he realizes that he can see the same things in Howard, that suffering. This isn't a comfort for him, not at all, because this is still a boy, this is still a kid, and how could this place throw a fucking teenager into a life or death struggle? Katurian's time in the arena was mercifully cut short. He knew there were younger tributes.

He just hadn't seen one before.

"I probably sound like an insane person." He starts a nervous laugh that trails into a sad one instead. "I didn't think anyone was in here."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Sorry." Howard does look genuinely apologetic for scaring Katurian like that. He wouldn't want to be caught freaking out in the bathroom either. That's why he hides. "And don't worry. I seen people go off the deep end before. You sound okay."

He emerges entirely from the stall, shrinking, somehow. Hands in pockets, clenched into protective little fists. Rocking on his feet, in case he has to run. Shoulders hunched, spine curved forward and costing him a few inches in height he can't really afford to lose. He's the very definition of 'skulk'.

"It's only a matter of time before someone loses it outside the arena, though, I guess." He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and cringes.

[marcato]

He slips his credit card to the curly haired waitress and lets her know who it's for. That boy. Yes. Over there. Him.

"It's a gift," he tells her, his voice soft and low. He wears a suit, his tie perfectly tied, his shirt perfectly ironed. "Keep it anonymous."

Anonymous. Anomia. Anomie.

The Capitol has not been kind to Aunamee in these last few days, but it has not been cruel either. He smotheres memories of his death through charity, buying flowers and gourmet nuts and bar tabs and gifting them to strangers. He is a generous angel, he is a smiling beacon, he is sweet and kind and a gentleman, and this is what they must remember when they see his face. Not the bruised neck. Not the swollen eyes. Not the fear or the rage.

(Fear and rage that tear him up every moment of every single day, trapped like a fucking animal, strung up like a puppet --)

When the deed is done, he waits outside against a light post, greedily smoking a cigarette.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard pulls out his credit card for his meal (the four entrees, the two milkshakes, the baskets of fries), hoping in some way that it'll deplete his kill money. Three hundred credits. He's almost eager to get rid of it, to be able to pretend to anyone who sees the balance that he didn't kill three people. Of course, that only spurred him to binge-eat more, knowing he'd have to pay for it; the last few days, he's swung wildly between bingeing and losing his appetite entirely, eating only what's placed in front of him by the Avoxes if he touches it at all.

In a way he's almost disappointed to be told it's been paid off by an anonymous benefactor. He's surprised - he didn't think he was a particular popular player, although apparently getting as far as he did paid off with revival. But the Capitol has strange whims, so he accepts it and, stomach cramping, leaves, shoulders hunched and book jammed into a messenger bag he grabbed at the Tribute Center.

He trips a little on the way out the door - he isn't drunk, he doesn't drink alcohol, but he is a little slow on reaction time, a little easily distracted from exhaustion. As such he reminds himself to watch his feet, and is within ten feet of Aunamee before he recognizes who he is or that they're now looking at each other.

And he wants to run but he can't. It's as if his feet have been fused to the floor. He feels his heart pounding, hears a ringing in his ears, feels his breath speed up, double in pace. His hand flexes to reach for the knife he wants to believe is still in his pocket, the one that he carried back in the arena.

He tries to say something but it just comes out a strangled squeak of a noise.

[marcato]

Auname takes a drag of his cigarette.

Mortality. Things were so much easier before this, back when he could sample thoughts and futures like hors d'oeuvres, back when he always knew the right thing to say and when to say it. The smoke tastes harsh in his throat. His shoulders are sore. He needs to use the bathroom.

"Howard," he says.

He ashes the cigarette on the light post before letting it fall into the nearby trashcan.

"I won't get any closer unless you ask me to."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Okay." Howard's voice is a thin tiny sound. His legs are shaking. He wants to tear his gaze away from Aunamee and look at somewhere else, but he finds he can't, and when he closes his eyes he sees only the knife, the knife with his blood on it, coming from his stomach to his chest, the knife...

He's terrified, and deep down, he knows he has nothing real to fear right now. He knows he's being pathetic, a coward, the crybaby his cousins used to lock in dark basements where there was nothing real to be afraid of, but where he screamed all the same. And he knows also that he's not that kid anymore, that he's almost an adult, capable of taking care of himself, and he doesn't want to be that easily broken.

God only knows how many more arenas he'll have to do. He feels like throwing up, and he tries to tell himself that it's only overeating.

And yet it doesn't escape his notice that Aunamee looks different. Tired, automatic. Like the Aunamee he met, not the one who held him down and gutted him. Maybe it's an act, or maybe it's just that Aunamee knows he can't do anything to Howard outside the Arena. He doesn't know.

"Th..." He swallows, gropes in the dark for some courage. "Thank you for dinner."

[marcato]

"Dinner," he says, "is the least I can do."

He studies the boy. His trembling knees, his trapped eyes. The way he fights for his voice. Even without the telepathy, there's a certain allure to it. All this fear, all this agony. Because of him.

He knits his brow, wearing concern like a party mask. He keeps his hands visible, non-threatening.

"How are you doing?"

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard doesn't lie, both because he's afraid there may be future consequences to lying and because it would be pointless. How he's doing is written all over his face, all over the sore and dark circles and bloodshot eyes. "Can't sleep. That's normal, though. After an arena."

He stares at Aunamee and swallows again, tries to reprogram the part of his brain that's decided Aunamee is the incarnation of everything that ever went bump in the night. It's only the arena. None of it is permanent. Even pain is temporary. He doesn't even feel it anymore.

"Why are you here?"

[marcato]

"I came here to apologize," he says. His voice is tinged with a weariness. Regret.

It's not entirely an act.

He enjoyed killing Howard. That much is certain. But if he could do it all again, he would have spared the boy. In the hour between Howard's death and his own, he was poisoned by loneliness, despartion, fear. No, things would have been better if he kept Howard close, if he fed off his sorrow and gradually instilled trust in those bloodshot eyes. He should have formed a powerful bond with the boy, the kind that could only be forged by fire. It would have been better if someone else killed Howard so that he could hold him, dying and weak, in his own arms.

Not Wyatt Earp's.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard wasn't expecting that. Maybe he should have been, from the dinner. But the words hit him like a splash of ice water to the face, and he rocks a little back on his heels.

"What happens in the Arena stays in the Arena," he says quietly, more to himself than Aunamee. He wants it to be true. He wants to take that memory of Aunamee on top of him, twisting the knife, and leave it behind in that cold wasteland.

But he can't forget, and so he can't forgive. The hurt coils around him like tendrils, seeking a weak spot, and they find it in his own armor. Because he's scared to reject the apology, and scared to trust, and scared to even be standing here, so he attacks the easiest target: himself.

"I'm sorry I freaked out about the food."