My spirit aches...

[the_marshal]

WHO| Wyatt and all the insomniacs.
WHAT| Avoiding sleep.
WHERE| The Lounge
WHEN| One night, so late one might call it early, before the crowning.
WARNINGS| Some talk of nightmares, but nothing too terrible.



Night time was the worst. While the sun was up, while he had people and things to distract him, he could push the bulk of his troubles to the back of his mind. But at night, once things had gone quiet and he was alone with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts, they would all come rushing back.

Alcohol helped - took off the edge - but there wasn't a drink strong enough to stop the nightmares. The images that haunted him once his eyes finally closed.

Faces taunting. Sometimes Dora, sometimes Neeshka. Howard. Max. Sometimes a combination. At once beautiful and terrible. Dead and alive. Screaming. Whispering. Blaming and crying. 'Why didn't you do more?' 'Why didn't you save us?'

Sometimes, trying to put sleep off, he would pace for hours, to and fro across the floor of his room. Others he would flee into the training room, throwing knives until his arm burned and his back was sore. Tonight...

Tonight, he sat in the Lounge, a cup of black coffee, steaming gently on the table beside him. His chair turned out so he could lean over a trash can. In one hand he held a lump of dark wood, vaguely familiar in size and shape. In the other, was a small dinner knife.

Painstakingly, he worked the latter against the former. The point digging and turning, putting the finishing touches on a pair of tiny eyes.

Comments

[doc_holi]

Holiday found out early on that she also had problems sleeping in this place. At home she could ignore the rest of the world while she buried herself in her work and research. Here there was no such thing for her. She had recently tried taking a page from Six's book to just train until her body forced her to rest, but it didn't work. It shut off her body, not her mind. There was nothing here to occupy that side of her.

Instead of lying in bed to stare at the ceiling, she sometimes roamed the center when the Peacekeepers allowed it. On this night, she wasn't all that surprised to find another face around here. The thought of leaving Wyatt be crossed her mind, but she wanted a distraction. If she was bothering him, she would go.

"Wood carving?" she asked, approaching him.

[the_marshal]

Knife ringing careful circles into the face of the buffalo, he didn't immediately look up.

"Some might call it that," he replied, a tired, self-depreciating smile flitting across his mouth. He risked a glance at her. "Myself, I think it's a might too early to say."

[doc_holi]

Holiday gave a chuckle. "Well I think it looks pretty good so far. Much better than what I could do." Not that she tried before. It looks pretty difficult to mold something like that out of nothing.

She walked over to him and sat in the couch arranged across from Wyatt.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's having trouble sleeping too. That's why he wakes up from where he's hidden, inside a closet adjacent to the lounge, wedged between a vacuum cleaner and some spare clothing for the Avoxes. The ring from an Avox's belt is leaving a red imprint in his cheek. His eyelids flutter a little; his hands clench around the edge of his jacket.

In his dream, for a few moments he's in pickup truck, with Wyatt. He's driving, and Wyatt's saying something about how they didn't have automobiles in the 'cowboy days', and Howard's asking why they aren't mechanical horses to Wyatt.

"The way you drive is more like a mechanical turtle," Wyatt says. And then Howard stops the car and says he's getting gas. He hops out and grabs the gas can out of the back, and he trips and spills it. It washed all down his front and pants, making the cloth stick to him, making it cling.

"Now look what you've done," Wyatt says.

"It was an accident!"

"I've had about enough of your attitude."

Then Wyatt's gone, and Howard's not covered in gasoline but Eponine's blood.

In his sleep, for several minutes, he makes a whimpering sound like an injured dog, or a child choking. The light coming through the slats falls on his face.

[the_marshal]

The knife scratches at the buffalo in a rhythmic rasp almost like a heartbeat, broken occasionally by a gentle puffing of air as Wyatt blew away tiny curls of wood and the light click of his coffee cup against the table as he drank. It was relaxing, and for a while he almost forgot where he was, losing himself in the soothing work.

At least, he did until a new sound broke into the rhythm. Low and soft, but disturbing. Troubling by it's very nature.

Pausing, he turned, head shifting to one side, then the other as he tried to pinpoint where the muffled cries were coming from. When his eyes landed on the door, he lingered just a moment, before setting the buffalo aside and nudging the trashcan out of the way with his foot.

The knife he held on to, blade tapping thoughtfully against the back of his leg as he approached.

With his free hand, he reached out and tapped a knuckle against the door.

"...Everythin' alright in there?"

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

The voice seems to be just enough to push Howard from barely sleeping to barely awake. He jerks as he wakes up, realizes he's gasping in air like he's just sprinted a hundred meters. His clothes are slightly damp with sweat. He yelps before he's conscious enough to stop himself.

It takes him a moment to remember he's in the closet. That he hid here because Alpha was prowling around the suite. That this is the first sleep he's gotten in 48 hours.

Did someone say something to him? He finds his knife in his pocket and holds it.

"Is someone out there?"

[mediumdrip]

Blaine came down from his suite to find some tea or something else that will be soothing and comforting. He didn't think it would actually help but it was better than tossing and turning.

"Marshal?" he asked as he stopped when saw Wyatt there.

[the_marshal]

Pausing for drink, knife and wood clutched in one hand, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth in the other as the title was called.

He wasn't anymore, technically speakin', but it wasn't the sorta thing a man could just stop bein'. He looked up just as he would of if it'd been his name.

His head bobbed, cup lifting a fraction in greeting. "Evenin', son."

[mediumdrip]

"Trouble sleeping?" Blaine asked as he moved closer. He ended up sitting down, too tired to stand for long. There were little circles under his eyes but whatever exhaustion he was feeling wasn't enough for him to sleep.

[luckofthedevil]

Usually, Alex's dreams were manageable, as he was about as used to his chronic nightmares as one could be. But the moment the calendar had turned to June, they'd taken a turn for the worse. Egypt was generally never very far from his nightmares, but as he approached the one year mark since everything that happened in Cairo, Alex's subconscious could focus on nothing else.

After screaming himself awake from a dream filled with fire and sand, Alex emptied what little remained of his dinner in the toilet and figured he should at least let his District-mates finish the rest of the night in peace. Too exhausted to put on actual clothing, Alex pulled on a dressing gown (it had take four tries to make his stylist understand the function of the garment) and made his way down to the Lounge, thinking to maybe scour the images of Egypt from his mind with something else. Like someone getting bumped off in the most recent Arena. Which was rather sad, now that Alex thought about it, exchanging one image of violence with another. But he needed to get the taste of sand out of his mouth and the odor of fire and gunpowder out of his nose.

As he stirred a little milk and sugar into the mug of tea he'd ordered, Alex realized he wasn't the only person awake at this disgusting hour. After flicking the stirstick into the dustbin, Alex carried his tea over.

"Mind if I join you?"

[the_marshal]

Wyatt looked up, eyebrows raised as the knife paused in its path against the buffalo's hide.

"Help yerself, son." He glanced around at the empty tables and tipped his head, shoulders rolling gently. "Plenty'a room."

[luckofthedevil]

Alex planted himself in an empty chair, careful not to spill his tea.

"You're really good at that," he commented, nodding at the carving in Wyatt's hands. At the same time, he makes a mental note: skilled with knife.

[neclectus]

Timaeus had always thought it polite to personally ensure one's guests returned safely home- and as such was making his way back down from the District suite when he came across Wyatt in the lounge. He'd been quite impressed with him in the Arena- a man of courage and convictions. The kind of man Timaeus liked to see.

"Excuse me," he interrupted, voice syrup smooth and clearly intrigued. "Are you Wyatt Earp?"

[the_marshal]

The scratch of the knife against the wood - point digging out the wide nostrils at the end of the buffalo's long nose - paused as he looked up, surprised by the strange voice.

He leaned back, head tipping slightly.

He did not know this man.

"Can I help you, friend?"

[neclectus]

Watching Wyatt's hands was definitely fascinating- Timaeus couldn't quite work out what they were working on. He pulled his gaze at from the piece of wood with some force of effort, and smiled.
"Oh, no, I'm not looking for any help," he assured him. "I'm simply an admirer. Timaeus Nadir. I would have loved to have you come to the party I hosted recently aboard my company's flagship super yacht, but you were... otherwise engaged. I'm glad to see you back with us."

[gruesome]

These are grues' hours. Some was returning from a party, dressed in draped white cloth and wrapped red ribbons, rubbing glitter from his face. The fur of his face was fluffed up, almost hiding his smallest four eyes, and there was a red-green smear of someone else's makeup along his throat.

Leaning against a table in the lounge, he slipped out of the custom-made shoes that his stylist had insisted he try, stretching out his long feet with a quiet sigh, and sank into a sofa near the carver's chair.

[the_marshal]

He tried not to stare, really he did. He'd seen the beast in passing before, after all... but there was something quite different about having the strange creature sit down beside him, rather than watching him from a distance.

The knife slowed, barely touching the wood as he eyed Some out of the corner of his eye... until finally it stopped altogether as he gave in and turned in his chair to face the spider-man.

"Forgive me, friend, but I gotta ask," his eyes moved over Some's face, unsure which set of eyes he was supposed to be looking at. "Just what are you?"

[knifewithnoname]

Pruna was sneaking in. Even if they generally were used to tributes coming and going through the night, parties to go to and people to impress.

Pruna hadn't been at a party though, and she was wearing the plainest dress she could find, her feet bare.

She recognised the man, he had gotten quite far in the last arena and she had seen him once she was back in the capitol and watching the television.

When she saw the knife she assumed he was killing something, so she crept forwards to see. And frowned when she saw it was wood.

"What do you be doing?"

[the_marshal]

He looked up, knife pausing, as he turned to spot the little girl who'd crept up seemingly from nowhere. He glanced past her, wondering she'd come from, but smiled gently as he shifted to see her better.

"Whittlin'," he replied, mouth curving lightly. He opened his hands to show her the knife and the little buffalo. "On this bit a wood here, see?"

[gluteus]

Maximus only ever dreamed of home. Of wheat fields and his wife and son waiting, calling for him. He never revisited their smoldering corpses in his sleep, even in the darkest hours of his dreams.

He didn't need to. Those images were with him every moment of his waking life.

Sometimes, however, he dreamt of Commodus. Of a laughing, retreating wisp of smoke. Of the vengeance he was now nearly certain he would never have.

Sometimes he avoided his rooms at night (mostly to avoid the avoxes that were still sometimes sent to them), spending his time training when everything else was quiet. He had just finished such an outing, having worked up a decent sweat, and was passing through the lounge for a tall glass of water when he spotted Wyatt.

Company was better than staring at his ceiling in a bed that was much too soft, so he walked over to Wyatt and pulled out another chair.

"Evening."

[the_marshal]

He didn't have to look up, knowing the stride and the voice well enough, but he did anyway, offering a friendly curl of his lips and a nod.

"Evenin'." The knife tapped against the trash can, knocking away a stubborn shaving, as he noted the patches of damp at Max's temples, the sheen to his face. "You look like ya could use a drink."

[polyturtle]

There was another man walking around in the Lounge. Or turtle. Of course, he had his own nightmares, his own flashbacks. However, he had no need of alcohol; Valeria's attempt to spike his tea hadn't made him any more partial to the stuff.

Still, he spotted Wyatt, and he walked over to it, his own cup of coffee in hand.

"Hey there."

[the_marshal]

Looking up, Wyatt offered the familiar face a friendly smile.

"Evenin', Don. Not much of a sleeper, are ya?"

This wasn't the first time they'd shared a drink at some ungodly hour. Whether that was a symptom of this place that they shared, or more due to Don's being a turtle, he couldn't say.

He'd never much paid attention to their sleeping habits.

[amourtician]

Jay, wearing the most ridiculous frilly nightgown this side of steampunk cosplay traditions, has sleepily wandered into the Lounge, in search of a nightcap. He's not been sleeping well at all, between homesickness and longing for Mara and Raimut (it's surprisingly hard to fall asleep on his own, alone in his bed) and the horrible, nagging knowledge of the upcoming Arena and deathmatch. He's going to die, very soon, and the fact he'll resurrect does nothing to comfort him at all.

He wonders what sort of afterlife he'd be going to, before he's brought back to life. Would he go to his father's former gods? To his and his mother's Lord? Or will Raimut's underwater goddess take him in death, after he served her interests as a necromancer in life?

He really does not want to find out. He doesn't even want to think of such things -- he's twenty! Far too young to dwell on one's place in the world to come. So he wanders down to the Lounge to drink something strong and mind-numbing and hopefully pass out, dreamlessly.

He doesn't remember his dreams, lately, but he wakes up upset and shaking.

He spots Wyatt and comes over to watch him out of pure curiosity. He's a little too intimidated to start up conversation, but he tries anyway.

"Evening, dearest. Can't sleep?"

An obvious comment, but he's got nothing else right now.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt had noticed his approach, the way the strange young man seemed to hesitate and shy, like a skittish horse and did his best to look as non-threatening as possible. He just sitting up, in a slow, smooth movement, and reaching for his cup when he finally spoke.

"Evenin', friend." He lifted his coffee in a small greeting. "I could ask you the same."