Alain Johns (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
atouchofka) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-07-06 09:43 pm
atouchofka) wrote in thecapitol2015-07-06 09:43 pm
Entry tags:
[OPEN] The morning dove sings
Who| Alain and YOU
What| Alain's not-so-triumphant return to the Capitol
Where| Central commons; D4 suite (specifically seeking Roland, but open); D7 suite; anywhere else you'd like!
When| End of week 6, early week 7
Warnings/Notes| Death things, I guess?
Death is, somehow, easier than Alain expected. Embarrassing - of all the ways he expected to die, he didn't expect it to be at the hands of a child, and a girl-child at that - but easy. It's waking from it that's hard, pulling himself out of the darkness and fully expecting agony in its wake. But of course, there is no agony. He's whole again, and when first he awakes, he looks with wonder at the fully-formed callouses on his palms, which were so recently reduced to raw new skin and blisters. Wonder, and a kind of creeping disgust and horror. This is wrong. Even knowing it was coming, it's wrong. He spends several moments just checking himself over, flexing his hands and testing his weight on his no-longer-broken leg. That creeping horror doesn't fade. At last, unwilling to be left alone with the evidence of his own unnatural recovery, he heads out of the room into the Center proper.
i. Central commons
He makes for the stairs first, not sure what he hopes for, just knowing he doesn't want to stay sitting around in the aftermath. It doesn't hurt that the bars are down there; after everything, he could use a stiff drink. The crowds are a relief, after the echoing silence in his own head, although the numb lack of the Touch is nagging at him again, dragging at his attention like a loose tooth. He keeps his head lowered, though, not making eye contact until he's at the bar. Company is well and good, but he isn't interested in replaying his embarrassment in the Arena for Capitolite ears.
He settles down in the corner of the bar with a double whiskey, scanning the crowds, looking for a friendly face. Or at least one that shows something more than vulturous curiosity.
ii. D4 suite
After a couple of drinks, the noise and press of the place starts to get to him, as does the aching emptiness that's all that answers his Touch. He no longer craves busyness so much, and he has his own concerns to attend to. Some people don't come back. Has he really gone so long without making sure Roland isn't one of them? Sluicing down the last of his whiskey, he gets to his feet and starts back towards the stairs (the elevators are something he doesn't think he'll ever be comfortable with, trapping yourself in a tiny prison in the hands of a machine), but not back to his own suite. He stops at the fourth floor, takes a deep breath, and heads inside, going to knock on Roland's door.
iii. D7 suite
He can only stay out so long. Eventually, he ends up back on his own floor, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he curls on an armchair, leafing through his well-thumbed copy of Homilies & Meditations without really reading. He's tried to shake the heavy thoughts that have weighed on him since his awakening, but they won't leave him.
Death is a heavy thing. It isn't that he wishes for it to last - not for himself, not for Roland, not for anyone who's fallen that way - but he's a man who believes in things in their place, and death is, above all else, meant to be an end. It isn't just that this feels like a mockery. It feels dangerous, coming back time and again from things that ought to send you to the end of the path. He can't help how it makes his skin crawl to think of it.
He'll sit there for a very long time, even sleep there a night or two. He has a lot to think on, but nothing that seems fair to say out loud.
What| Alain's not-so-triumphant return to the Capitol
Where| Central commons; D4 suite (specifically seeking Roland, but open); D7 suite; anywhere else you'd like!
When| End of week 6, early week 7
Warnings/Notes| Death things, I guess?
Death is, somehow, easier than Alain expected. Embarrassing - of all the ways he expected to die, he didn't expect it to be at the hands of a child, and a girl-child at that - but easy. It's waking from it that's hard, pulling himself out of the darkness and fully expecting agony in its wake. But of course, there is no agony. He's whole again, and when first he awakes, he looks with wonder at the fully-formed callouses on his palms, which were so recently reduced to raw new skin and blisters. Wonder, and a kind of creeping disgust and horror. This is wrong. Even knowing it was coming, it's wrong. He spends several moments just checking himself over, flexing his hands and testing his weight on his no-longer-broken leg. That creeping horror doesn't fade. At last, unwilling to be left alone with the evidence of his own unnatural recovery, he heads out of the room into the Center proper.
i. Central commons
He makes for the stairs first, not sure what he hopes for, just knowing he doesn't want to stay sitting around in the aftermath. It doesn't hurt that the bars are down there; after everything, he could use a stiff drink. The crowds are a relief, after the echoing silence in his own head, although the numb lack of the Touch is nagging at him again, dragging at his attention like a loose tooth. He keeps his head lowered, though, not making eye contact until he's at the bar. Company is well and good, but he isn't interested in replaying his embarrassment in the Arena for Capitolite ears.
He settles down in the corner of the bar with a double whiskey, scanning the crowds, looking for a friendly face. Or at least one that shows something more than vulturous curiosity.
ii. D4 suite
After a couple of drinks, the noise and press of the place starts to get to him, as does the aching emptiness that's all that answers his Touch. He no longer craves busyness so much, and he has his own concerns to attend to. Some people don't come back. Has he really gone so long without making sure Roland isn't one of them? Sluicing down the last of his whiskey, he gets to his feet and starts back towards the stairs (the elevators are something he doesn't think he'll ever be comfortable with, trapping yourself in a tiny prison in the hands of a machine), but not back to his own suite. He stops at the fourth floor, takes a deep breath, and heads inside, going to knock on Roland's door.
iii. D7 suite
He can only stay out so long. Eventually, he ends up back on his own floor, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he curls on an armchair, leafing through his well-thumbed copy of Homilies & Meditations without really reading. He's tried to shake the heavy thoughts that have weighed on him since his awakening, but they won't leave him.
Death is a heavy thing. It isn't that he wishes for it to last - not for himself, not for Roland, not for anyone who's fallen that way - but he's a man who believes in things in their place, and death is, above all else, meant to be an end. It isn't just that this feels like a mockery. It feels dangerous, coming back time and again from things that ought to send you to the end of the path. He can't help how it makes his skin crawl to think of it.
He'll sit there for a very long time, even sleep there a night or two. He has a lot to think on, but nothing that seems fair to say out loud.
alain wants the d
The pattern of Alain's speech, though, did catch his attention and he continues on from there without waiting for a reply. "Is that what your machine does to your High Speech? Only stops your tongue? Mine makes me sound like a stuttering idiot, even in the simpler words like tha- th-th-than- thank you." He grimaces and shrugs a shoulder. "'s odd, having only the vulgate to speak in. And not even all of that. Some of the terms my own tongue's replaced with I've never heard in my life."
...i hate you
well if that's the thanks I get for pointing out the truth
He thinks on that a second, shrugs. Cort would have him treat this as a mission, he's pretty sure. Another battle waiting to be fought. And in one way, it is. But if it is a mission, being here, it's never felt like his. This lack of attention, not knowing any of the important players in the Capitol's game, would not be something the Roland living in Mid-World would tolerate.
The Roland living in the Capitol does not care to think on it. So he doesn't. "But I ought to at least know the ones living close to you," he says, refocusing. "Tell me about your Jason the Escort."
YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH
It's an uncomfortable subject. But it does draw things away from Jason for the moment. Alain falls silent, staring out at the city and smoking thoughtfully as he considers how to explain his feelings about Jason without sounding too traitorous to listening ears. At last, still looking at the flashing billboard on one of the high-rise buildings, he says thoughtfully, "As for Jason, he reminds me of an old friend of ours. Jonas."
Partly, he says that as the easiest way to get across to Roland how deep his loathing is without saying it straight. But also, he's realising more and more how true that is. Jason has that same self-pitying sense of injustice, the same sudden fierce rage and the same blindness that comes along with it, the same disdain and carelessness over people. Attuned as he always was to ka, Alain can't help wondering if it's a coincidence that even their names are similar: Jonas and Jason, barely a breath from one another.
Is Jason Compson as dangerous as Eldred Jonas? Alain isn't sure of that, but he's unwilling to underestimate a man like that. He's never felt Jason's mind, but he knows what he'd find if he did; that tight directionless anger that feels like sticking your hand into a hornet's nest. Alain is honest enough with himself to admit that Jason's dangerous attitude isn't why he hates him so much (look rather to his introduction to the man), but it's undeniable nonetheless. Jason is a ticking grenade, and one day, all that anger and self-pity will destroy not only him, but the rest of them forced into his presence.
no subject
Roland takes another pull from the cigarette, then puts it out and flicks it in the same direction their filters had gone. Capitolites won't like that, litter in front of their tower. He wonders briefly how far the responsibilities of the avoxes go, whether one of them will be send out to clean it. Probably.
"Is our palaver done? I'd stay with you a while, Alain, but I'd like to get all these other matters out of the way first."
no subject
Looking back over at Roland, he manages a little smile. He's tired as he's rarely been, bone-weary in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. That nagging absence of the Touch is itching at the inside of his skull, making him feel like a man among ghosts, and the smoke's done nothing to take the edge off his nervous tension (though seeing Roland has helped, a little). There's only so much heavy conversation he can take, at a time like this.
"Shall we go back in?"
no subject