thecapitol | Been working for the church while your life falls apart

Entry tags:

Been working for the church while your life falls apart

Who| Kurloz and Derek, Kurloz and open
What| Kurloz reacts to the Quintus' video
Where| D4 house, out around the Capitol
When| After Quintus' video
Warnings/Notes| possible Violence-mention, possible torture-mention, ptsd, drugs, emetophobia, injury

D4 House - Closed to Derek (please note the later two warnings)

He finally shuts it all off. He's done. He can barely stand nevermind write another word.

He could've fixed this. He could've saved Altair. He could've saved them all, and in that, the esteem in the Peacekeepers, the hope for peace. If he'd just done what he should've these people would be saved. They were sick, like he'd been, they just needed to be taught, they needed anything but this.

What will Altair look like after this all? How mutilated shall he be? Will he be brain damaged? Deafened? A mere broken piece of a person, bones left in pieces, bruised and lacerated...

He stomach heaves, an already terrible outcome made worse for someone like him. He barely makes it to a sink and even then, his stitches do their work. First instinct is to tear at them, fuck the pain he'd deserve it, but his silence is more important than any violence and threading entirely anew will not be an easy thing. He finds a knife. His knife. The cut is quick and catches flesh, but it does its job. He coughs still more until he is only shaking and shivering before the water. In a moment more, he goes about trying to wash his face, though the blood returns again and again, and he finds even trying to clean the knife doesn't keep him from bloody hands.

His family is torn again. His Capitol, his city, his Panem is fallen into war. And these are the Peacekeepers, now and forever, all of them even when they try to make good of their name.

The blade clatters in the sink and he bows his head down, elbows bracing him as he finds himself unable to beat back the feelings like he wishes he could. He wishes he were numb, scoured through and empty, not a wretched thing crying over a sink.

OTA (only the first four warnings apply here)

The Capitol is good.

He sits in the cold February air, smoking on a park bench. A few twists and turns, this will lead to the path where Meulin showed him the most beautiful of sights. With each puff he repeats his mantra, the only thing that makes his head feel clear.

The Capitol is good.

His fingers don't hold steady. He thinks of what may be happening that very moment, then forces himself to stop thinking about it.

He spoke against a Peacekeeper. He wonders when his payment will come, for surely it will. He might care less if he knew it would be anyone but himself who would pay. That's how this worked. This was what happened when one opened their mouth. He hasn't slept, just waiting, and even his makeup has suffered. But his stitches are back in and brand new. That's one thing.

It's a quiet park. There's room on the bench for others, but he doesn't anticipate anyone. He finds himself surprised. He finds himself looking up with vacant eyes. Everything's got in this unreal haze, he's not even sure if the person can even see him, if he exists in their view. He wonders if he should offer a smoke.

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Sigma Klim hates smoking, but has always kept a package of fine assorted cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket to bribe. To appear friendly. When one kept the company of roaches, there were things that they eventually grew used to.

Still, the tangy stench of smoke in the park catches Sigma's attention, makes his stomach clench. His walks were one of the very last things he had left in this war that he thought Panem could not touch, and as he turns to leave he thinks to himself that he will not come here again. He finds he's turned in the wrong direction. The source of the smoke is not ten feet away.

But Kurloz did not seem to be in the park in the same way Sigma was. Sigma stops in front of the stylist, eyebrow furrowed, wondering if he should do something. Say something. His constitution will not allow him to let a person who may be in need go ignored and he takes a deep breath, breathing in the cancerous scent, wondering what he will come to regret next.

"Kurloz... I have been meaning to thank you. May I take a seat?" He'll learn from his response how well the stylist is.

Sigma is an odd sort. His feelings regarding the man are so solidly of nameless quality. Sigma is neither an enemy, nor a friend. He is not an ally- despite the removal of his other self- and only vaguely- in ways that shouldn't be with them being on the same side- a threat. He is definable as nothing. He is only ever Sigma Klim.

Who could say if this would change in recalling a memory of a dream, one in which a man sought to help him save a friend. A traitor. Instead of the reality of a boy carrying on alone and only causing more pain for his friends.

Dizzy and lost, he knows not how to respond to Sigma's presence. The unreality that shifts around them makes him doubt Sigma's existence despite his being the realest thing. He wonders if Sigma has come to murder him, for no reason other than that he imagines someone will and maybe even should.

Sigma does no such thing, addressing him directly. Kurloz looks hopelessly confused, bruised round eyes blinking in that particular owlish way. His eyes then dart a little downwards with a brief stir of fear, only for this to end and for Kurloz to stand unsteadily and gesture for Sigma to take his place, going to sit down on the end soon after.

Whatever goodwill Kurloz had burned with his arrogance was won back by his partnership with Phi, and Sigma knows if they cannot be friends, then they must tolerate eachother. But the Doctor has never been able to protect himself against his own concern. The stylist was definitely out of sorts - the question was if he could be forgiven for calling an ambulance. He could not trust anyone in the Capitol not to veer suddenly and violently towards self destruction.

Eye narrowed gently, Sigma accepts his seat. He hadn't meant to usurp his spot, but it seemed they could not share the bench the same way Sigma had once done with his counterpart. "It appears I have interrupted you. Rest assured I have no intention of staying long..." Considering how he and the Initiate had made friends, there may be another way to appeal to the stylist. "But I believe we both understand the virtue of extending our support. I owe you a favor, Kurloz, for what you and the rest of District 4's staff have done for Phi. I would like... to apologize for how I have treated you." It was as good a place to begin as any, he supposed.

Interrupted? He's not sure how. He's done nothing but sit in reverie and unwanted though, circling like a vulture high and ready to strike down. The wait is torturous. It would be easier if they just did whatever they came to do already.

He's not sure what he would do if he indeed saw an ambulance approach. Run perhaps? Flee out of lack of knowing what else to do. They might take his stitches out. They might make him talk.

He takes another drag from his unsteady smoke and realises Sigma is still there, talking to him. he listens, as intently as he can manage. He's talking of phi. Of payment due. Of, bafflingly, owing him and-- He blinks. He stares at Sigma, brows furrowing, the shrieking static of his head going into the background for just a moment. What? So speaks his expression for him. A shake of his head follows. I know not what you mean. You owe nothing, sir.

He's just a... well, not even a stylist beyond the propaganda. He thinks back to the earlier incident with Sigma and near shrugs his shoulders. Phi was safe. That was all that had mattered really. Meulin is no longer here to disrespect. That thought is what makes him stop. He digs about his jacket for pen and paper, finding it a miracle if he's got it. He means to write something else, really, but what ends up on paper is; MEULIN IS MISSING. I HAVE LOST HER.

Kurloz's confusion is incongruous with Sigma's expectations. Weren't they meant to give and take with equal measure - wouldn't Kurloz have realized by now that for all his hard work Sigma Klim had given him nothing but his disrespect in return? He thinks the Initiate Fraysong may have in his place and wonders just how alike they are.

This thought doesn't last long. Kurloz retrieves some paper and begins to write - Sigma allows himself to watch the words form on the page and his breath catches as 'missing' appears. In war, this was not an auspicious status.

Meulin, the one Panemian who had greeted him with genuine kindness and respect. Meulin, to whom he had only spoken at a distance the last time they would ever meet. Meulin who may be dead, her bright smile lost, an opportunity for forgiveness or friendship gone. Sigma cannot pretend to know her, but his horror is sincere. "...I am sorry," he answers, at a loss. "Forgive my ignorance. I hadn't heard." He watched the world through the fishbowl-lens of the Gamemaker tower, eyes set on the battlefield. News, relationships, lives passed on beneath him without being seen.

"...Do you have any idea what could have happened to her?" Perhaps her job was repurposed as a war correspondent - in which case, the conclusion was obvious. This war had gone on too long. But Sigma clings to the shred of hope that she had met a different destiny, and he holds his breath, waiting for all of the possibilities to collapse into one fact.

He turns his eyes slow from Sigma, staring ahead without writing for a long time. The sympathy he can perceive as genuine, but like all things delivered genuine, he regards them with a lack of understanding. Playing along when he can, suspicion and doubt in lieu, but mostly a sort of alien lack of context. It was a thing that existed but he could not process.

There are so many things that don't click in place now. That haven't for a long time now, in his first meetings with Caiaborus. It settles for the most part into a beautiful void, a calm like a waveless sea. Then something, like this, unhinges it all.

He shakes his head miserably. He doesn't know. She could've been found by the rebels. She could've been found by... by others. She could be dead. Not a hint has he got but he knows one thing singular.

THERE IS NO SANCTUARY FOR HER KIND. THE REBELS WILL DESTROY ALL. THE CAPI

THE PEACEK

SHE HAS NO SAFETY HERE. Do any of them? They were all better off dead, weren't they?

FORGIVE ME. I AM UNWORTHY OF YOUR OFFERINGS.

Sigma cannot know what he means by 'her kind' (nor most of the puzzling note) and finds himself too afraid for Kurloz to ask. If he meant that the rebels would march into the Capitol and terrorize its civilians, kill the last of the Peacekeepers, Sigma had to believe that this wasn't the case. But he has seen the Rebellion have very little mercy. He thought he could trust Tabris and she had murdered a couple who had never held a gun to anyone... now he wondered how much faith he had left to risk.

His purses his lips thoughtfully before answering. "That remains to be seen. I want to believe that my work will keep the Capitol safe," Sigma reminds him, speaking frankly, but hesitant to encourage anti-rebel sentiment. Still, Kurloz was perhaps the last thing that kept the people assured that Sigma Klim fought for the Capitol. If it meant he must endorse government brainwashing, it was a consequence he could live with. Hateful thoughts, he believed, could be undone.

"Unworthy? I do not understand. You are an accomplished man. Your hard work has done a service to your country. Did Meulin not think highly of you, as well?" He sincerely believes that she would have supported him no matter where her loyalties lied. "It is natural to have doubt over an uncertain future. Meulin's disappearance has, rightly, disturbed you. You have nothing but my sympathy and gratitude." He thought he might be telling the truth. Sigma could not hold a grudge against a boy brainwashed by his captors.

That remains to be seen, he says. Like he ain't witnessed. Did Sigma not see what just happened? The announcement that went out with Altair's torture? Why did that not count? But then, why did it? Altair was a rebel. Rebels were looking to kill them all. They were foolish, misguided. He shouldn't care for them. Not every rebel could be saved like he'd been.

Sigma is all encouragement. All good. In clearer words than that of his Uncle. Kinder words than any other in his family. It just begs the question why. He had all this good, he had something. Yet it digs in like knives. Like needles. How does he begin to explainer what he is? What word has he but ones so archaic and illicit in this age?

A sinner.

His pen is fidgeted in his hands. A MAN WAS TORTURED TODAY IN SHOWING, FOR ALL TO BEHOLD. A RIGHTEOUS ACT, SURELY. YET, I CANNOT CEASE MY QUESTIONING. I WANT ONLY PEACE, SIGMA. YET ALL THOSE I'VE KNOWN TO SEEK IT, HAVE BEEN PUNISHED. MOST MOTHER FUCKIN UNJUSTLY IN SOME, AS THE FAULT LAY WITH ME. A STEP OUT OF LINE IS A SYSTEM DISRUPTED. A TONGUE UNCHECKED IS A CYCLE SWEPT OFF COURSE.

I SOUGHT TO REDEEM MYSELF. AND SO, I SOUGHT TO REDEEM MY MOTHER FUCKIN FAMILY. STILL, I HAVE ONLY LOST THEM MORE. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT I HAVE DONE EITHER, ONLY THAT IT MUST BE SOMETHING. I HAVE COMMITTED SOME CRIME. WITH HASTE, I DEMAND THE PUNISHMENT COME TO ME. IT DOES NOT. NOR DOES ANY MOTHER FUCKIN FATHOM AS TO WHY.

HAVE YOU EVER MOTHER FUCKIN FELT THAT NO MATTER YOUR CHOICE, DOUBT, OR OTHERWISE, THERE WAS NO WAY YOU COULD WIN? PERHAPS DESTINED TO LOSE, IF YOU'LL PARDON THE ABSURDITY OF SUCH HIGH POWER.

This confession has reframed Sigma's entire world. Now he does not know if he is shocked to find Kurloz has had this revelation, or he is surprised it did not happen sooner. He had seen his past. They both had witnessed how the Capitol responds to a step out of line, and yet... Perhaps it would be a surprise if Kurloz had attributed the behavior not to a system but to his own father. For an instant, Sigma remembers what it is like to hate.

But he also knew how it was to be in so deep that anything was justifiable. Sigma's eyes drift slowly from the paper to Kurloz's face, acutely aware that as far as Kurloz knew, the Gamemaker had turned over a rebel to line his pockets. Either of them could be falling into a trap. He should have no empathy. But if he did... maybe it was a matter of finding the right excuse to defend it with.

He shakes his head slowly - not to disagree, but to indicate that it is something beyond what he can tell. "More than you could know. More than I have any hope of explaining to you..." Where do the two of them go from here? Should he risk Kurloz's life luring him into rebellion, or keep his hands clean? He had made a similar choice once before, when the consequences were predictable. This was Russian roulette in the dark.

Sigma takes a deep breath. What happened from here was Kurloz's decision to make. "I was set up, once. I was made to waste a very long life pursuing an exhausting goal my manipulator knew I could not reach. The consequences of refusing to try were dire. As far as I was concerned, I had two options..."

He spreads his hands the way he had seen some people pray, palms open to the sky, to represent a binary choice without alternative. On the right side, a cybernetic palm with an eye to match... "The first was to pursue this goal, to have faith in my fate without argument. This would guarantee my life, though what I 'wanted' from it would cease to matter. I would become a spectator on a predetermined track, but I would have longevity, and those whose fates were entwined with mine would live."

And on his left... "The second was to lose my faith, to put my trust in the evidence and accept that my goal was impossible. In doing so I was guaranteed to lose the people whose lives were at risk; thus, I would have my life by sacrificing everything that made it worth living to begin with."

He folds his hands together, now, resting his elbows on his knees. "You see, Kurloz... In the end, 'fact' and 'evidence' were completely irrelevant. I did not choose to believe I would succeed because I suspected it was the most likely outcome. I believed I would succeed because it was the only way I could live with myself. Now you have a choice to make. Whatever it is you choose, I caution you to be prepared to own it." Let it be said that he had not tried to sway a man from the Capitol's path - he had only explained that he had once had the choice between blind faith and freedom, and he'd chosen blind faith with a predictable, messy outcome.

He's a little breathless when Sigma shakes his head. His question, half done up metaphor, barely uttered in hope for an answer, was receiving... at least a response. Sigma claims to understand. For that moment, he stares at Sigma like he's a lifeline, his only fucking hope. For what, he ain't sure.

Two choices. He could see the parallel there. Even if he could see no manipulator on his part. Would he not serve all the better if this puppet he was to be had strings so deftly controlled by another? It would be easier wouldn't it? He's sure that's the case. But Sigma ain't done.

Faith in his fate... could that be his faith in the Capitol? Or perhaps his sure and most certain downfall as illustrated by a name thief.

On the other hand, giving up faith. He'd done that for the Capitol, hadn't he, for the good of it? But that doesn't fit with accepting an impossible goal unless he was to think the Capitol's triumph was impossible. No, the Capitol would win. So what fit here? To risk it all and lose everything... that sounded like what he'd done to damn his friends. His family, his world.

But then, still no way to win. None up at all.

His hands curls into fists, one empty, the other around a pen. He wishes Meulin had never come back. He wishes she'd stayed in District four, the lot of them. He wishes they were all dead, including himself. His head drops down. His expression twists, shoulders going to shake, and a noise comes of him. He ain't sure what it is. Laughter... pain... doesn't really motherfucking matter. So two choices to lose, that's what he had? Well he guesses then--

A shiver runs through him, so sharp and sudden. A sharp shock up and down his spine, blanking his brain. For a second, his eyes go as dull and empty as a mute's should be. There was only one answer, one that was encoded into him so he could never stray. He writs without even looking without even realising.

PANEM TODAY, PANEM TOMORROW, PANEM FOREVER.

He blinks and comes back to life. Sort of.

He turns a smile on Sigma, warm in that totally artificial sense of it. Distant. Like he's only half there. He folds his hands over his heart to express his gratitude. The Gamemaker had helped after all. Whatever Sigma thought he owed, it was no longer needed.

Phi had witnessed the confrontation on the broadcast. It was hard not to, when every eye was trained on the sight of a man being publicly tortured, unable to look away. It twisted a cold knot into Phi's stomach, wondering if that might be her or Sigma some day. But she brushed the thought aside. She couldn't worry about that--not until it came to pass.

When she finds Kurloz on the park bench, she pauses a moment. It would probably be better to distance herself from him after an outburst like that, at least for a little while. But she can't bring herself to do that, not knowing what she knows and feeling how she feels.

"Hey," she says, quiet in the still of winter, a little puff of air passing her lips. She gestures next to him with a gloved hand. "Mind if I take a seat?"

Phi. His Tribute. This occurs distant, followed by the much sharper thoughts and hoping she's not the one who ends up having to pay. He doesn't want Phi to suffer and he doesn't want her to do so for him.

Yet even through all this he feels his mind has taken some manner of vacation. She lifts her hand and his first thought is that maybe she wants his smoke. Then he blinks, realising, and shifts on over.

Of course she's welcome. More welcome than he is here. And with him, he likes her. No reason to make gone. He thinks.

Phi sits easily and without hesitance once he makes room for her. She doesn't take up a lot of space. Her clothing is an outfit that he made up for her. Even after an outburst like that, she wouldn't toss out his good will. His heart is in the right place, even if he acts quicker than he kind think. Like someone else she used to know...

"Are you alright?" she asks after a moment of silence between them. It feels like a stupid question, the kind that she hates to ask, but there's a tension around the topic at large that she's not sure how to break. She knows the dangers of speaking against the Capitol's decisions. If she wants to sympathize with him, she'll have to do it quietly.

She's asked him that before and seen right through it, but he lies again all the same. Or he tries to, rather. He doesn't even manage a strained smile this time so much as something strangled and pained. It lasts only a few seconds worth of time, though he does notice the clothing she wears. Still his work. He thinks he should feel good about this, perhaps. Maybe later.

Not certain his message made it through, he nods his head. He feels dizzy for it and curls tighter in around his cigarette. He's not fine. He's so very far from it. But admitting that is admitting defeat. He's not done yet.

He looks to her, down, then back again, before he shakily offers a smoke she didn't ask for.

Once again, she doesn't really believe him. Her question wasn't meant to be answered honestly, only a gateway into talking about his outburst against the Head Peacekeeper. She gives him a moment of reprieve from any questioning when he offers her a smoke and she accepts.

Smoking isn't a hobby that she readily picks up, but there's something to be said for the companionship that it induces in people. So she takes a small puff, blowing it out slowly in the cold winter air. It's hard to tell the difference between the smoke and her own breath, but it makes a visually pleasant stream in the air. She hands the cigarette back to him again.

"Thanks." She crosses one leg over the other, leaning back against the bench and staring up at the clear blue of the winter sky. "...I saw the broadcast. I thought you were really brave." She doesn't say things like that often. Absently, she wonders if he realizes how much of a compliment that is from her.

"Don't get me wrong. I get why he was punishing the guy, but torture is an ugly weapon. It's not something that anyone wants to see. I'm glad that someone had the guts to speak up, even if he was too wrapped up in himself to listen." Her opinion of Head Peacekeeper Quintus Falxvale isn't exactly the highest, but she knows how to toe the line--at least in her own opinion. It's not rebellious to point out that someone was acting out a personal matter in a public venue. Half the city is probably thinking it right now.

"If you need a place to crash for a while, our door is open. I figured I should return the favor for all the times I've crashed at your place."

The video feed hadn't bothered Derek. He hadn't even been surprised to realize that there was almost a mild disappointment that Altair hadn't successfully managed to assassinate Quintus. He'd wonder how Quintus can preach about not tolerating any breath of sedition when he'd supported a rebel offworlder over two loyal Capitol soldiers, but that doesn't really surprise him, either. The Capitol is nothing if not hypocrisy in its finest.

Derek'd watched it impassively and clicked it off. It's another reminder of what might await him if he decides to do something like the way he and Phi had helped the night of the Valentine's dance, he guesses, but he'd already known that, and he doesn't care. It wouldn't matter to him at all, except for what it would do to Chuck.

Still, he's unsettled in a way he can't really explain, and when it's done he fiddles with some of the projects in their room before giving up and heading out to go train.

But he stops when he sees Kurloz bent over the sink, picks up the smell of blood and vomit, and immediately realizes what happened - even if he stumbles over the why and doesn't connect it to the broadcast. Derek'd never really thought about the complications of being sick with the stitches, but he definitely is now.

He pads over next to Kurloz, reaching out to put a hand on his back and rubbing gently in circles, the way he remembers Chuck's mom doing for him when he was small and not feeling well.

"You sick?"

He feels a hand at his back and he jerks, terror striking him in an instant that this is it, he's done, he's finished, he's being dragged off. But in a moment more he's connected it with Derek and that's even before the small circles begin tracing about him. The fear abates some. He shudders all the same.

Is he sick? That's a funny question. In the mind, Derek.. Maybe the heart and soul. The body. Hell.

Hesitantly, he nods his head. Yes. He's sick. That's all.

The tears mean nothing. The racing heart felt through ribs ain't shit. But there's one thing that prompts him on.

Voice hoarse and whispery, he croaks, "...f-fucked up. N-not ssafe..." If Derek got dragged off for his mistake...

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