Luke (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burningdaylight) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-08-01 11:12 am
burningdaylight) wrote in thecapitol2015-08-01 11:12 am
Entry tags:
The exit signs are flashing [closed]
Who | Luke & the CR who'd like to visit him soon after his expose's run + ONE OPEN SLOT for anyone else who might want to talk to him.
What | That expose is out, painting Luke as a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad person. Who will believe it? What friendships will be tested?Find out on the next exciting episode of Panemball Z
Where | Luke's room. If you'd like another scenario/prompt/location, just let me know!
When | Kind of a catch-all here... your character can swing by in periods of wakefulness during the Dream Event, or catch him after said event.
Warnings | References to drowning, probably reference to violence.
Secrets don't sleep forever and he had sensed, with a cold, creeping dread, that his hand would be forced someday. But not like this. Never like this.
The expose isn't just his life peeled back and laid bare. It's a twisted interpretation of it, the things he's said and seen and done gleefully sifted and cherry-picked through by shameless drama-mongerers. Chewed up and regurgitated. It's not their past to share but the Capitol has made it theirs, as much for entertainment as in a bid to shake trust in him and tear down the alliances he's tried to make. He's sure of it.
He’s been sitting on the edge of his bed for a while, his communicator forgotten on the nightstand. Too drained in that soul-deep way to make for the training centre but too wired to rest, his mind chasing its tail. As Tributes they've all grudgingly accepted the Capitol's intrusive, helicoptering presence in every aspect of their lives, but this new violation of privacy leaves him cold and shaken inside. They know more than he could have ever imagined and now there's nothing of the world he left behind – and the world that lives on inside him - left to hide.
There could've been some bitter sense of relief in all this, no longer burdened by secrets. But his heart's as heavy as it has ever been, and as the numb, buzzing fog around his mind begins to clear all he can feel is a furious powerlessness he can’t do anything about, the same he had felt while struggling to resist the injection. Not just anger at the Capitol for the slander but for Nick having to find out this way. It's a small, fucked up blessing that there're too few of his friends left here to upset.
Hard to remember that, though, when a knock jars him from his thoughts. His pulse jumps in his throat. A beat passes, the another, but he doesn't keep his would-be visitor waiting long. One rustling chain and a deadbolt later, he opens the door and finally shows his face.
What | That expose is out, painting Luke as a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad person. Who will believe it? What friendships will be tested?
Where | Luke's room. If you'd like another scenario/prompt/location, just let me know!
When | Kind of a catch-all here... your character can swing by in periods of wakefulness during the Dream Event, or catch him after said event.
Warnings | References to drowning, probably reference to violence.
Secrets don't sleep forever and he had sensed, with a cold, creeping dread, that his hand would be forced someday. But not like this. Never like this.
The expose isn't just his life peeled back and laid bare. It's a twisted interpretation of it, the things he's said and seen and done gleefully sifted and cherry-picked through by shameless drama-mongerers. Chewed up and regurgitated. It's not their past to share but the Capitol has made it theirs, as much for entertainment as in a bid to shake trust in him and tear down the alliances he's tried to make. He's sure of it.
He’s been sitting on the edge of his bed for a while, his communicator forgotten on the nightstand. Too drained in that soul-deep way to make for the training centre but too wired to rest, his mind chasing its tail. As Tributes they've all grudgingly accepted the Capitol's intrusive, helicoptering presence in every aspect of their lives, but this new violation of privacy leaves him cold and shaken inside. They know more than he could have ever imagined and now there's nothing of the world he left behind – and the world that lives on inside him - left to hide.
There could've been some bitter sense of relief in all this, no longer burdened by secrets. But his heart's as heavy as it has ever been, and as the numb, buzzing fog around his mind begins to clear all he can feel is a furious powerlessness he can’t do anything about, the same he had felt while struggling to resist the injection. Not just anger at the Capitol for the slander but for Nick having to find out this way. It's a small, fucked up blessing that there're too few of his friends left here to upset.
Hard to remember that, though, when a knock jars him from his thoughts. His pulse jumps in his throat. A beat passes, the another, but he doesn't keep his would-be visitor waiting long. One rustling chain and a deadbolt later, he opens the door and finally shows his face.
no subject
Of course, there are options that negate a human user's involvement entirely — devices that will simply 'print' pre-determined tattoos onto skin in seconds — but for Daryl it would defeat the entire purpose. Tattoos aren't damned impersonal fashion accessories, to be changed on a whim. The process is part of the experience, and taking the authenticity out of that would render it as soulless as so many other pursuits in the Capitol seem to be.
At Luke's comment, he almost does smile then, but it never quite makes it there before his expression settles into something more somber. No coincidences happening here. But even if he is there under partially false pretenses (he'd have offered to redo the ink eventually, regardless), he sees little reason to lie if Luke's prepared to be having this discussion already.
"I'm good," he answers, looking back over his shoulder and watching Luke watching himself in the mirror. "Saw the bullshit broadcast about you, if that's what you're gettin' at."
This doesn't have to be weird, is what his tone says. They can talk about it or not. His expectations had been left at the door.
He turns around to sit properly, and uses the tattoo gun to gesture between the more plush chair that's available and the bed. "You wanna sit or recline this time?" The advantage of the latter position being how well it naturally keeps skin taut in the areas he'll be working on, while the former keeps everything within easier reach. But there's minimal difference for him; it's more a question of Luke's comfort and ability to be still right now. With that thought in mind, Daryl's back to watching him as he says, "Can just talk, if that's what you want."
no subject
It might help take some tension out of his frame, which is among the last of things he needs more of while under the needle.
"We might as well get to the inkin' first, seein' as I'm all dolled up for it..." He moves to the bed and drops into it, sitting on the edge for a moment. The expose will be an easier subject to broach while they're both kept busy, the low to moderate-grade, near-constant hum of pain dumping endorphins and adrenaline into his system. He needs it, the bitterness and the sweetness. Needs it more than he can say.
That Daryl doesn't buy into the Capitol's tale of his dick-swinging panache and child-killing is unsurprising, but reassuring to know all the same. There's a world of difference between suspecting something and hearing it, confirming it, while his mind hives with the potential complications of the broadcast. He can't control what people will think and how they act; only the choices he will make. And that, at the end of the day, is what'll best define him.
His gaze falls on the stencils again. "So which tat're we goin' with first?"
no subject
"Already warmed up before I came over," he mentions as he takes a seat, knees bracketing Luke's. 'Warm up' being the octopus tattoo he'd redone on himself; he's grown fond of the design, in no small part because of what it represents. "So let's go with complicated first."
He indicates for Luke to stay sitting up as he is with a gesture, then tips the bottle onto his gloved fingers, letting a small amount of the liquid coat them before rubbing it onto the skin of Luke's chest that's going to be tattooed. The liquid itself is entirely clear and has the consistency of alcohol, with a clean, soap-like smell once lathered. When the skin's sufficiently wetted, he carefully positions the bigger of the two stencils and presses it down, using his fingertips to trace over each part of the design to ensure a solid transfer. Not that he can't freehand small sections perfectly well, if he has to — he just prefers to be thorough instead.
"Been thinkin' of any other tattoos?" he asks lightly without looking up. Once he's satisfied with the transfer, he peels back the paper, mindful to go slow enough that nothing smudges in the process. For lettering in particular he wants to have the cleanest lines possible. He leans back in the chair, wiping his hands on a paper towel as he nods at the stencil. "Position good?"
Best he can tell, it's as close to the original tattoo's placement as it's likely to get, but Luke's the one who'll be living with it (possibly indefinitely this time). The final judgement's left to him.
no subject
He doesn't look up either, watching Daryl in a patient, absent way as if feeling the cool slick of solution and the press of a stencil to his skin and fingers edging its crisp outlines is a ritual they repeat every day. Like last time, he opts for the pattern to be close to the heart. Cliched, he supposes, but appropriate. There were so many they hadn't time and the chance to bury. So many he hopes will come to forgive that final indignity, so many that still live on in memories that play back, over and over, in an endless loop, something different and lost each time like nitrate film reels in slow decay. It's harder to remember the tones of voices and gestures sometimes, harder to bring into focus the times they had ever laughed or smiled.
He catches himself slouching and straightens slightly.
"Actually, y'mind addin' a couple extra birds?" The design features a flock of silhouettes sweeping across his chest, resembling dead leaves caught up in a breeze. More solemn and poetic than majestic. There's a sad pinch to his brows, his lips pressing thin a moment. "...I don' mind if you freehand it."
He looks up into Daryl's face. He has faith in the careful steadiness of Daryl's hands, in their skill.
no subject
"I can do that," he agrees as he lightly pats the transferred design with a paper towel, ensuring it won't run during the next step. Additional silhouettes will be simple as anything, and though he has a solid guess as to whom they're meant to represent, the question is in his eyes when he briefly glances up to meet Luke's. But he isn't going to pry. "Last chance for a piss break," he says and pushes away from the bed to stand up. "Lie back when you're ready."
He sets the stenciling supplies aside and gathers the rest of what he needs, then returns to the chair, tattoo gun balanced across his lap, and starts picking at the plastic seal of a new, small jar of petroleum jelly. Damned difficult to find any purchase with gloves on, so it takes a good minute.
"Seen ya around at the museum." With a muttered oath under his breath, he finally works a corner of the seal up enough to peel the rest off. "Stopped by before to see if you wanted lunch, got told you were 'busy'." The sneer in his voice on the last word is an imitation of the censorious dismissal he'd received. "Reckon they didn't bother passin' the message along."
He'd even considered staying to play tourist for a bit, horrifying the well-to-do locals more with his filthy mechanic's coveralls and skin covered in streaks of motor oil, but in the end he'd submitted to his schedule, which doesn't permit lengthy lunch breaks.
no subject
He swings his legs up over the edge of the bed and lies back, letting out a slow, careful breath as he settles. "Can't say I'm too surprised about the whole thing." A beat passes. With a pang of awareness of their ever-present audience, he adds: "I'm a pretty hard guy to catch these days. My schedule changes up a great deal so I grab lunch whenever I can get it."
It's funny -- a few years ago he'd have embraced the opportunity to put his major to good use, at long last. But he can't say there's any measure of pride in what he does now even if he feels at ease with delivering presentations to strangers. Who could? It's the kind of job that wears on you. That kills you on the inside piece by piece, a slow erosion. Big Brother is always watching, always listening -- so he hides for hours behind charisma and a thin Capitolite-like smile while directing tour groups from piece to piece, offering historical context ('who controls the past controls the future', he thinks) and repeating the same propaganda-heavy spiel about the Capitol's rise to glory from a barbaric, bloody past to anyone who cares to listen. It scares him sometimes, the way some kids look on with blank-faced eagerness, soaking up everything he has to give.
He never did think he'd find himself trapped in a police state, but no one ever does.
"So how's work treatin' you these days?"
The pay is one thing and, sure, he hopes it's enough to keep Daryl from just scraping by like their sort are used to, only that it's worse here with diddly-squat to hunt in the Capitol other than the ducks at the pond, if that. But whether or not his job's a soul-draining vampire is just as important as Luke sees it.
"...Rick doin' okay?"