Howard Bassem (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-02-17 11:18 pm
iselldrugstothecommunity) wrote in thecapitol2013-02-17 11:18 pm
Entry tags:
Everybody Knows This Ain't Heaven [Open]
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.
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.
no subject
His first instinct is to be outright rude to her. Of course he doesn't want company. Can't she see that he's eating dessert, finding solace in the monosyllabic groans of the undead rather than dealing with other living human beings? If he wanted to cruise for chicks he'd have gone somewhere besides the furthest booth from the door, hunkered over his pie.
And, he figures, she doesn't seem to have the entitlement I-own-your-life vibe that Howard's seen from the Sponsors on the networks, so she probably isn't anyone important who's going to send him goodies.
He swallows and turns back to his pie, eyes narrowed and a sneer on his lips. "Whatever. My friend Rob here could use some dessert."
no subject
At first what Howard says goes over both their heads. The girl freezes, surprised, with her autograph book half-extended toward Howard.
"Rob..?" She turns to R, only just now seeing him, and she doesn't recognize him at first. Not when he'd been a late arrival to the Arena and he was bundled up in all those clothes. "What?"
You know what? He's hungry enough to put Observe the Humans on hold. Howard can find another girl to mess around with. R decides to reach out and try to paw at the Capitol citizen, his cold fingers closing over her wrist. The girl skitters back and bumps into another table, swatting at him with her autograph book as recognition finally dawns on her face. Unlike Howard, he probably didn't leave a big impression on her, unless you count trying to chew up wolves and losing body parts in the Arena. Her face pulls in disgust as she maneuvers herself to stand closer to Howard - whether it's silently asking from protection or using her favorite Tribute as a shield is up in the air.
"I-I think you should find better friends, Howard!" The girl tries to regain her composure, her voice shrill. "You're better than this. Have some class."
no subject
Hey, it worked, didn't it? Don't know your romantic prowess, R.Howard takes that as his cue to actually get mad. It's not that R's his friend - he just met the guy - but he doesn't take kindly to people telling him who to hang out with, or what sort of people he's too good for or not good enough for. It rubs the wrong way, and given that the entire Capitol seems to be exercise in grating his last shred of patience. it's enough to make his frayed nerves snap.
Besides, R's a nice guy. Good conversation, for a given value of conversation. Lets him talk about death and sadness. Hasn't tried to eat him yet.
He stands up, hitting his hipbone slightly (and painfully) on the edge of the table, which just irritates him more. He keeps his hands in front of him because they're still sticky with pie. The girl's at least half a foot taller than him, but something about the Arena, as much as it's stripped away at his sense of security, as much as it's made him scared and haunted and small, has in some strange way emboldened him.
He's been stabbed. He's had a spear punched through his parka. He's felt blood from his own body and his ally's and his enemy's soaking his clothing. He's not afraid of some fancy-haired Capitol girl with an autograph booklet and artificially-whitened teeth.
Some deep part of him knows he's being disproportionate, that it's not her fault that he's scared and angry (and scared because he's angry, and angry because he's scared) all the time he's here, and that he hasn't slept in days, and that he can feel his pulse pounding in his neck more often than he can't. But for a moment, he just wanted to sit down and eat comforting food with his new buddy the dead guy, who's been nothing but perfectly civil, and Howard doesn't want to be reasonable about the fact that the Capitol won't give him time to heal.
"You know what, no. I like hanging out with Rob. Rob's been a lot better company than you have, bitch."
And he reaches over and smears the mess on his hands onto the front of her shirt.
no subject
Come tomorrow, some of Howard's ratings may have gone down. He won't get any gifts from her neighborhood next Arena.
R watches for a few seconds longer, fascinated. So that's what total rejection looks likes.
He turns back to Howard, coming up with a single word that somehow sounds disapproving. "Uncool."
Maybe he's too dead to get offended. R has no idea. It's hard to bother when half the time your mind washes in and out on itself like the tide. What he does know, in the here and now before he forgets, is that he thinks Howard went too far. Zombies aren't high class; the Living girl was right on that front. R tries to frown at his new friend, but his corpse only manages an awkward twitch and starts drifting slightly to the side like the chair wants to shift out under him. R lists to the left to compensate, his colorless eyes fixed on the other Tribute. At least he hasn't told Howard to go apologize.
no subject
And then a switch flicks inside, and his face deadens. This is petty. This is pointless. He's helpless here and he's helpless in the Arena, and arguing about his feeble displays of resistance with a zombie just spirals upwards into patently ludicrous.
"She was insulting you."
He says it as if it explains everything. R's with him. He thinks back to hanging out with Orc at school, listening to other kids whisper about the fat, ugly, stupid bully kid, and he passed the message on to Orc back then and pointed out the perpetrators so they could get their asses beat, because it wasn't fair for them to go without comeuppance for their arrogance, for their intolerance.
None of it's fair.
He crouches own and picks up the piece of crust that fell to the floor, eats that, ignores that it has a piece of hair on it. Then he sits back up on the booth, palms down on the seat between his knees, shoulders hunched, looking off to the side as if eye contact is painful. He tells himself this is dumb to be angry about, a dumb thing to be hurt over, but he's still angry enough that his blood feels like an electric wire coiled through his neck and gut.
"You didn't deserve it."
no subject
“I don’t…” R forces the words out as usual. He’s doing a better job doing that than working out this guy’s weird reasoning. “…feel ins…insulted.”
Really, he doesn’t. Eating people isn’t something he’s ever been proud of. The rotting and thinking about littering body parts all over the place part isn’t a walk in the park either. He can see why the Living girl was grossed out – he’d be too. But it’s who R is now, the only thing he remembers. You gotta live with being dead.
R shrugs. Without Julie here to keep an eye on that, R plans to keep shrugging for all he’s worth. Besides, what can you say to what just went down? A shrug is the best answer he can think of. The zombie stares right at Howard, unblinking, eyes wide. Before Howard was more than happy to look him in the face, something R liked because for a second it made him feel human. Now the other Tribute looks off to the side like it’s awkward, which it kinda is, and R somehow feels like he needs to say more here if they’re going to be friends. R clears his throat, the sound coming out as the rasp of a dying man choking on his blood.
The zombie tries to offer Howard a smile. “Think I’ll live,” he slurs. The smile is twitchy and sagging at the corners where some of his muscles are slowly decomposing, but it’s still a smile. “You?”
Risking a guess, he’d say Howard wasn’t doing okay. R isn’t sure how to cheer him up, but he’ll try.
no subject
He frowns and shakes his head as if waging some kind of internal battle with himself, then stares off into space a moment, lost in the morass of exhaustion that's made studying on this diner so completely impossible. He doesn't have the energy to argue to R that he should be insulted, that this entire 'kidnap you and make you play our murdergames' schtick is offensive to the very idea idea of basic human decency, so instead he just gulps down another fistful of food and swallows.
"Anyway. Sorry about that." He doesn't sound sorry he did it, just sorry that R didn't like it, but at least going through the motions of apologizing will do something to finish laying the tension to rest, he hopes. He looks up again, sees R making an expression that can only be described as horrifying, and reminds him of that scene in A Clockwork Orange with the eyes being held open only with R's mouth. He manages to smile nervously back instead of just, well, screaming.
"So what kind of things do you like to do? Besides like...I don't know, eat waiters and talk to living people. You like movies or music or anything?"
no subject
“Music,” R repeats, his head wobbling in a nod. “Good.”
Maybe it’s better they don’t talk about Howard’s fangirl anymore since they can’t agree about her. Music seems like a safe bet. R wishes he could blab to Howard all about his collection, how the notes make your tongue feel less swollen in your mouth. Closing your eyes and drifting. Not drifting in that fog, feeling thoughts starting to form only to drip away. It’s different somehow. R sits there at the table, still for once, no swaying or leaning to the side like he needs to be propped up, his hands limp in his lap. The zombie looks thoughtful.
His head comes up. “Frank. Ssss,” R dogs on. “Sin-tra. Heard of him?”
R knows his tastes are considered old school, but Frank’s timeless. Pure cool. There has to be a reason why even a zombie can still appreciate him and, according to Julie, R has good taste. It’s not often he gets to talk music with anyone. Julie and now Howard are about the only ones, actually. The more he thinks about it, the more R likes the idea of talking hobbies. Howard has to have some, being Living. Maybe even more than one! Obviously he’s a fan of food, even if he’s kinda picking at what’s left of his pie right now.
no subject
"Old Blue Eyes? Yeah, I know Sinatra." And he whistles a bit of 'Fly Me to the Moon', noting that his pitch is a little off from it used to be, the whistle a little keener, with his new teeth. Of all the strange changes made to his body here in the Capitol - gaining weight back, being put back together without scars or injuries after each arena - it's the teeth that feel weird to him. He had gaps before, places where his teeth had rotted out entirely, one place where he ripped one out with pliers and had the Healer fix up the socket, and now he has a model actor million-dollar grin, white and shiny and perfectly straight (currently still slightly caked in pie).
"I didn't know you had taste, Rob, but I gotta say I'm more of an Elvis fan myself." There's a way Howard's beaming now, like he's found common ground he didn't even know he was searching for. He looks thrilled by this new revelation of kinship. He even sits up straighter, somewhat unconsciously mimicking the way R's perked up.
no subject
"Let...me sing...for...e-ver," R tries to match Howard, mouthing along with lyrics he knows by heart. "Because..."
His moan trails off into a sigh. Despite the awkwardness with that girl earlier, R suspects he's happy and he thinks Howard is too. It's not a bad day, stylists and Arenas and hunger aside. R sits there, slumped back into his chair like trying to mumble along took everything out of him. That felt good. It felt really, really good. It’s probably not what being actually alive feels like but maybe it’s close. He wants to go up to Howard, shake his hand, thank him for being kinda awesome. For a moment he could almost forget Julie, listening to that whistling. R seems to revive after a long minute as if he went into a trance, just in time to catch Howard going on about the King and being hit full-force with Howard’s grin at the same time. It’s the total opposite of a zombie’s snarl: all white teeth and healthy gums, big and wide, with a full person behind it and not a shadow.
R has no idea what that girl was talking about. Howard’s got class. He bleeds class all over the place when he lets it.
“Good Luck Charm,” R says. “Your song?”
Man, he wishes they were back at the airport now more than ever. Getting Howard past all the other zombies would be…fun, but it’d be worth it to show off his vinyl collection. R bets Howard never heard Elvis like that.
no subject
Something about finding this music so far from home is relaxing. There's something profoundly melancholy about knowing that odds are that he and R are the only ones who recognize the tune, but in a way it's a bit exciting, like figuring out a private language you can share with someone. He likes R. R's like a secret keeper, in a way, a treasurebox into whom Howard's putting fears and sorrows and joys, a large human diorama into which Howard is arranging his interests and taking delight in the fact that they fit into scenery so well. That R absorbs, processes, responds.
"And that's kind of funny, Good Luck Charm..."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Tribute token, a lucky rabbit's foot he won at an arcade when he was twelve. It's really the only physical memento he has left of his life before the Games, before the FAYZ. He holds it in his hand, letting his eyes linger on it as if it's something amusing, as if it's whispering a semi-amusing joke to him.
He holds it out to R to look at. The dyed orange fur is ratty and faded, and the keychain that was once silver is now a brassy color. "I don't guess it does me much good, but..."
And he starts to whistle Good Luck Charm instead. He even taps out the rhythm on the table, the one two three four...
no subject
R gives a pleased wheeze.
Still in that gentle glow of friendship, R twitches another smile on and leans forward as Howard fishes something out of his pocket. R’s gray eyes go to the thing in his hand, taking that few-second delay to focus and process it. Orange. Furry. Chain dangling from one end. Another moment to realize he knows what this is: a rabbit’s foot. There’s a few of these floating around his 747, when he first raided the airport stores for things to add to his collection, by now probably buried under more stuff. Another sign Howard has taste, R thinks. The zombie reaches out and paws a little at the rabbit’s foot, his blood-stained fingers brushing up against Howard’s skin and noticing that it’s warm like Julie's, vibrating with life. Pushing the charm around on Howard’s palm, R fixates on the feel of its soft down fur, running his fingers across patches where it’s rubbed down to leather. Maybe Howard likes touching things too. For all he knows, Howard needs to reassure himself things are there.
“Nice charm,” R looks up. He reluctantly pulls his hand back to himself. The phantom sensation of warmth fades.
Howard goes on with more whistling, his fingers drumming out Elvis now. It's way better than the big, in-your-face Capitol anthems. R opens his mouth to croak out the lyrics but nothing comes out, he blew it all on Fly Me to the Moon and it’s like he needs to recharge after all this talking. Instead the zombie closes his eyes and listens. Maybe he can do the uh-uh-uh parts, it’s kinda close to moaning if you think about it. In the end he decides nah, he only wants to listen.
R waits until Howard finishes before his eyes drift open.
“Per…” R sounds insistent now. “Perfect for you?”
no subject
He keeps whistling and then actually sings the last verse, to hold, to hold you tonight, in a hushed little voice. The song itself isn't a perfect match for him, he thinks - but then again, he's not very aware of his cycle of looking for his 'good luck' in others. It's a subconscious thing, innate and obvious to everyone but him.
"You should come to the karaoke sometime. I mean, most of it sucks, but they have the backing track for a few good songs and until I figure out where to get an iPod in this joint, it's the closest we'll have to the originals."
Which is sad, but it makes the challenge sort of fun, Howard guesses. At least, he's trying to look at it that way, and he's finding R's company is helping him to feel normal for a few moments instead of just scared, instead of just sick inside and trapped. Finding pieces of themselves in the Capitol is like looking for ore flecks in stone.
He wants to laugh at himself because this is all wrong, it's something out of a comedy, eating pie across from a dead guy and feeling like he's calmer now than he was half an hour ago.
no subject
“It’s…a date.”
The glow from before fades as it sinks in not only did he make a new friend today, he’s also going to hang out. With a human. That makes a grand total of two in his whole life. Uh oh. How do you hang out? With other zombies, it’s easy. But someone like Howard? The only practice R had with hanging out were those few days with Julie. What if Howard gets bored? What if they run out of words? What if bounces around the inside of his skull.
Oh man, oh man. Maybe he chewed off more than he could swallow. R starts worrying.
He’s still worrying when he happens to look up and see a flash of teal moving through the Speakeasy. R freezes. Before he can think about ducking under the table and telling Howard to cover him (friends do that, right?), his Escort catches sight of them.
“Ugggh,” R groans.
“There you are!” The Escort is frazzled enough that her hair isn’t perfect, her teal outfit literally thrown together last minute. “Impossible!”
The first thing she does is check the muzzle. R rolls his eyes at Howard.
It’s then the Escort notices Howard, recognizes him, and her face softens. Howard might not be the most popular, strongest or even most handsome Tribute in the running but she’s rather fond of him all the same. He can put on a good emotional show and he cleans up nicely if he puts his mind to it. She may have been rooting for him in the last Arena. Privately, of course. Anything else would hardly be professional!
“Hello, Howard!” she says, smiling at him. “I’m afraid I need to borrow R now. He’s due for a…cleaning. Why don’t you pop by after? District 4’s level, of course.”
no subject
"Oh, uh, hi..." Howard looks like he doesn't quite recognize the woman, because he doesn't, but at the very least he recognizes her position. She's either a stylist or an escort, probably the latter, because generally they seem to wear the brightly colored outfits and bemoan how uncivilized and hopeless their tributes are. His own stylist has complained a few times about how it seems like Howard doesn't even want to be part of the Games, what nerve! "District 4, you said?"
He makes a mental note of that. As far as he knows, that's not anywhere near the multitude of people he's avoiding for various reasons (either because he killed them or because they killed him). He wouldn't exactly fall asleep anywhere near R - just because R seems chill doesn't mean Howard wants to let his guard down around someone who possibly tried to gnaw on a fangirl - but it might be nice to just lounge around on the couch with his new buddy. Watch TV. TV that isn't people dying.
He wonders if they have The Deadliest Catch in Panem.
"I'll see you around, Rob." He pulls out his credit card, all that useless blood money to blow. "Steak and bacon's on me."
Okay, gonna wrap it up with my post
"Buh," R raises a hand to wave, not even thinking until now you actually had to pay for the food here. It's a seriously extinct way of doing things. Where he comes from, it's first-come-first-serve, and everything's free. "Th...ank."
The Escort being here makes R so nervous that his words are practically incoherent gurgles now. She's been trying to coach him on "proper" diction ever since he got here. Hovering over his shoulder, nagging him on how he should hold the silverware (or...use it at all), how to stop slouching, on and on. The same stuff coming from Howard would be okay, though, R thinks, because he honestly likes the guy and it's somehow different between buddies. He bets Howard would joke around, use a normal speaking voice instead of that teeth-grating lilt. Also there wouldn't be sea-foam anything involved. R thinks he'd be okay with that.
R starts to shuffle out of the Speakeasy with his chaperone, feet dragging, and he can't resist glancing over his shoulder at Howard back at the table. His first friend in the Capitol. Huh.