Dr. S. Klim (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
futilecycle) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-02-17 09:42 am
futilecycle) wrote in thecapitol2015-02-17 09:42 am
Entry tags:
When I was the Rat... [CLOSED]
Who | Sigma and the Initiate Fraysong.
What | Sigma becomes a mole.
When | Forward dated to a few weeks after the Arena, during the day.
Where | A surveillance blind spot in a Capitol residential area.
Warnings/Notes | Reference to bombs and being shot. Set up for a mod-approved player plot that will have sign ups after the Arena. World is on vacation now so we're starting early for timing purposes.
Sigma's fingers sweat grooves into the parchment of his paperback book, frozen on a page he hasn't read. Following the approval of his release petition, he had decided to make the switch from the digitized readers he was familiar with to ink and paper. White backlight would ruin his organic eye, and without the reanimation the Arena provided, the hallmarks of age would be permanent.
Provided he lived long enough to worry about his health.
For hours his eyes stumble over the same words without comprehension. Eventually he thinks to turn the page, to suggest reading for the sake of passers by, but his cybernetic fingers pinch the paper too tightly and the words split from their sentences in a diagonal line.
Sigma closes the book and leans back against the bench. The skin beneath his eyes has already bruised black from lack of sleep - even after only a week on the job, there was less rest in Capitol Defense than there had been in the Arena. He worked late hours and used his mornings to read outside, not for the sake of research but to maintain the illusion that reading was his hobby. His morning routine was strict and consistent: he would walk in a circuit around the Capitol residential area, always stopping to read in a different, progressively quieter space. His new occupation had taught him to identify the size, range and direction of a Capitol bug, and over several days he'd created a mental map of where the cameras intersected. There was one area of a particular park where they did not.
A smarter man would wait longer than a week to stab his new employer in the back, but if a Rebellion were to mobilize, they were rapidly losing their opportunity. This morning Sigma did not bother to sleep, and set out early. At the start of his walk (it was imperative the meeting followed shortly after the message) he called the Initiate over the Tribute network, chatting leisurely as he made his way to the park across the road.
"If you would like to catch up in person, I have taken to reading in the afternoons outside of my new quarters. There is a bench not far from the complex with a beautiful view of the water..."
By nightfall there would be another camera overlooking the river.
What | Sigma becomes a mole.
When | Forward dated to a few weeks after the Arena, during the day.
Where | A surveillance blind spot in a Capitol residential area.
Warnings/Notes | Reference to bombs and being shot. Set up for a mod-approved player plot that will have sign ups after the Arena. World is on vacation now so we're starting early for timing purposes.
Sigma's fingers sweat grooves into the parchment of his paperback book, frozen on a page he hasn't read. Following the approval of his release petition, he had decided to make the switch from the digitized readers he was familiar with to ink and paper. White backlight would ruin his organic eye, and without the reanimation the Arena provided, the hallmarks of age would be permanent.
Provided he lived long enough to worry about his health.
For hours his eyes stumble over the same words without comprehension. Eventually he thinks to turn the page, to suggest reading for the sake of passers by, but his cybernetic fingers pinch the paper too tightly and the words split from their sentences in a diagonal line.
Sigma closes the book and leans back against the bench. The skin beneath his eyes has already bruised black from lack of sleep - even after only a week on the job, there was less rest in Capitol Defense than there had been in the Arena. He worked late hours and used his mornings to read outside, not for the sake of research but to maintain the illusion that reading was his hobby. His morning routine was strict and consistent: he would walk in a circuit around the Capitol residential area, always stopping to read in a different, progressively quieter space. His new occupation had taught him to identify the size, range and direction of a Capitol bug, and over several days he'd created a mental map of where the cameras intersected. There was one area of a particular park where they did not.
A smarter man would wait longer than a week to stab his new employer in the back, but if a Rebellion were to mobilize, they were rapidly losing their opportunity. This morning Sigma did not bother to sleep, and set out early. At the start of his walk (it was imperative the meeting followed shortly after the message) he called the Initiate over the Tribute network, chatting leisurely as he made his way to the park across the road.
"If you would like to catch up in person, I have taken to reading in the afternoons outside of my new quarters. There is a bench not far from the complex with a beautiful view of the water..."
By nightfall there would be another camera overlooking the river.
no subject
Grief building under pressure, he is too much of a coward to show the Initiate his tears: he shuts down his cybernetics and closes his eye. "There is one last thing that you should know. When you do this, you will be enacting our revenge."
His mechanical hands are dead in his lap for fear of trembling. He will be direct; he will not be so cruel as to give hope only to take it away.
"...None of the guests who arrived in Panem survived their incarceration." The pouches of dark skin beneath Sigma's eyes were not from lack of sleep alone: they were the products of long nights spent contemplating her fear in those last moments - staring, inconsolable, at his bedroom ceiling.
no subject
No...
No, no, his descendant, Gamzee, his Da, no...
His hands go up, claws making all to dig into his scalp as he curls. The old goat, that stupid old goat what he hated so much, what he couldn't stop praying for and giving forgiveness unto like a fucking fool was dead. Dead again because of him, because move fast enough, because never fucking be there by his side, what a waste of a charge he was. And Gamzee... oh mirth, Gamzee... His descendant, his scion, the one fucking thing he did right in his wretched future and now--
His teeth clench tight and he swallows the sound, the scream what wants to get out. There will be no screams this time. He ain't on a fuckin beach no more. This isn't the same as that strife, when it seemed as he lost it all, except for the little ways as it is. He's lost his family, but he's lost it before. And before, he swore as to become the Grand Highblood and he was to succeed.
'When you do this, you will be enacting our revenge.'
Hands shaking, they lower back down into his lap. His eyes are red. He stares ahead, with renewed purpose, just like that final day on the shores.
His fluctuations make up a storm's roar, and a devil's whisper. "WHAT. Happened..."
no subject
"I was told they were 'cared for', for some time, in District 5. Based on my limited knowledge of Panemian detainment, I doubt that is the entire truth." Cynical, perhaps, but from the comfort of another dimension he imagines the Initiate's 'Da' without his climate-controlled, Capitol-sized pool. It was not a pleasant vision. "Eventually, their cost outgrew the value of their investment..." He is dragged back into reality with a violent lurch and his chest tightens until he chokes. Sigma's voice cracks, he spits out the truth like the jab of a needle: "-So, they were lined up and shot!" An inoculation that would grow into closure. He has to hold his breath, now, biting his lip until it bled, bending into himself and breathing through his nose. His stomach has clenched into a tight, elastic ball.
You had a guest too, didn't you, Klim? A shame. His coworker had concluded with a grin. Sigma had somehow managed to look unperturbed; he had worn a mask so long it had melted onto his face. There were moments it gave way. Oh, she would have known what was going to happen, clever woman that she was... She would have cried silently as she did when she was a child on a boat with a bomb in her stomach, and in all likelihood, she would have lived long enough to know she had a bullet in her brain. Two organs defiled, now. Brain death was never as immediate as the movies made it look...
no subject
He thought he couldn't kill anymore. He thought his Avoxing had crushed this. He realises now. All this time, it was just sleeping. The Grand Highblood was always there in wait. He'll never be rid. But in this moment, he doesn't want to be.
They held his lusus. They tamed that beast and put it down. They stood up his scion and ended him. No ceremony. No grace. No reprieve. This went deeper than personal loss. Gamzee was the bringer of the angels, their guide, and so key to the rise of the Messiahs. He was their chosen one by Messiahs wills, and the sacrifice of his own past life was for Gamzee's victory.
The Capitol has done something unspeakable. They have committed sin against the Messiahs beyond imagining. And he is tired of his chains.
There's a terrible crack, as the bench is crushed under his fingers, like it's being none more than mere wet sand. The red of his eyes burns over until they're nothing but a solid bright glow, shining even in the daylight. He stands up, back to Sigma, where the Avoxed self would be there to wipe the tear and blood clean. The Highblood lifts his chin.
"MISTAKES WERE MADE. All of mistaking were they when they brought him here." Slowly, a smile comes over him. A wide, fanged grin. "FOR A WHILE THERE, SIGMA, DID THINK THEY HAD CRUSHED HIM. Did think they were so kind as to snuff him out. SO THAT A DIFFERENT TROLL COULD STAND AS THE ONE WHAT SPEAKS TO YOU NOW. But he sees now. HE SEES HE WAS WRONG! Heh... oh Sigma," He breathes, in shuddering tones, "He understands now. HE UNDERSTANDS THE TRUTH. And don't they know. DON'T THEY GOT SINGLE MOTHER FUCKING INKLING UP IN PAN? I am he what burns his brightest, what hangs his loves, and what kills his lusus, and what makes fuel of his dearest saviors..." He laughs once, barely more than a breath. Then again. Louder and uncontrolled, sacrificing his breath for the sake of its being. He turns around to face Sigma, arms spread wide. "I AM THE CROWNED PRINCE OF RAGE!" He roars. And then putting falsely benevolent smile, he says, soft, leaning in close so Sigma can hear his whisper. "And so a Grand Highblood is going to show them how... grateful he is."
no subject
It is by such terror that his tears dry up and his throat is forced full of air - Sigma takes a slow, deep breath. Blood begins to flow through his body again, the numbness he had felt earlier slips back into dormancy. The Initiate had not allowed the Capitol to defeat him, and Sigma must ask himself: where was the man who had unflinchingly walked to his doom? Where was the man who had stared through glass into utter annihilation - and had risen from the ashes as something greater? Akane would not have wasted time weeping over the past: she, too, would have laid bare the great legacy of her title. Sigma's grief is replaced with resolve, and after a few moments Zero awakens from the void he had been waiting from. He sits tall, regaining his composure; the mole wearing Sigma's face licks the blood from his lips. Someone else's words emerge from them; quiet, but with reverent grace. If Kurloz still existed, somewhere, they would reach him and he would understand.
Macbeth had not been foolish to exchange his humanity for power.
no subject
Zero. He almost forgot Sigma's other calling. His grin is cruel and approving. And those words, how apt they are. In all his reverence of those words, he did near forget their meaning, like one what breaks holy law and seeks then to undo their sin. Kurloz hears those words, eyes closing, breath leaving him. But the Highblood opens them again with that burning stare and grins.
"My hands," He drawls, "Are of your mother fucking color..."
He reaches out and places a cold hand upon Sigma's shoulder. "HE THANKS YOU, FOR YOUR WISDOM. Within the Carnival there will be deference paid to thee for your doing the holy work. IN GORE CLEANSED GLORY, WILL MUCH REJOICING BE MOTHERFUCKING HAD. You will be cast the finest stardust and most bitchin of brews." His hand lifts. He does not cut, but he is less careful with his claws than he has been in the past.
"TELL HIM. Have we more to discuss of value?"
no subject
It was a great comfort to know that- at least in one universe- their efforts would be celebrated. "One last thing. I was also informed that our guests were returned to their proper place and time. It seems, since this entire process began, that death was merely their method of sending a Tribute back to their respective universe. As you must already know, it is by no means the end..." He thinks of the Psiionic, how he had returned to their world to live out more of his life. This news should come as no real surprise, but may, perhaps, be somehow reassuring. There was no need to grieve for anything but how their guest's lives would eventually take their course.
no subject
"THE WICKED NEWS TRULY IS MOST WICKED," He muses aloud.
Death meant a return to home. All death. The only permanence lie in the death of their memories. The deaths of whom they'd become in greeting here. That, or he was doomed to one day face his future, knowing full well what it meant. He laughs again. There's bitter taste on his tongue, something not quite like blood.
"You have his gratitude... father." He falters only for that word. "MAY MESSIAHS BESTOW UPON WHAT STRENGTHS BE OF NEED. The holy two will be at our sides. WE WILL BE THEIR VOICE AND STRIKING HAND."