thecapitol | (no subject)

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Who| R and Joan Watson, R and Shion, R and Maximus, R and Bert.
What| R searches for help for his eating problem. He also searches for help on his groaning. Throw in the awkwardness of post-Arena.
When| Before the aliens plot.
Where| About the Capitol. R has a surprisingly wide shuffling range given enough time.
Warnings| None yet.

Cuthbert

He hangs around the Training Center even after Maximus takes off for whatever it is Victors do when they’re not killing people. He probably should go back to the District Four suites. Go home. Get sprayed in the face with his Escort’s perfume. Listen to her setting up interviews for magazines where she’ll do most – try all – of the talking and he’ll sit there staring.

R drags his feet. Normally he’d be pretending he has a social life like everyone else out there. Go hang out with Howard, try to work up the nerve to ask Julie on a date. Sit there while Wyatt carves those shapes out of wood. Now he can’t. He thought it’d be easier going back to how things used to be, pre-Julie.

He’s groaning in frustration without even realizing it, standing there swaying before the archery range.

“Uggggh….!”

Yeah, he’s sulking. So?

Joan Watson

R gets nervous after the first day going cold turkey. No matter how much his Escort scolds him, he keeps his teeth clamped behind the muzzle until she gives up with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest while the plate of substitute flesh goes cold. It’s definitely not body-heart warm anymore. She leaves it on the bed. Hours tick by and R starts to think a little bite wouldn’t hurt. It’s not like he’s killing anyone this time…

He’s lucid enough to realize he needs to call in the cavalry. Maybe he’s supposed to do this all on his own but he chickens out – he wants to talk to someone, someone who he didn’t kill directly or indirectly. R catches himself before he starts automatically heading for Julie. No Julie today. The subject of eating is off the table with her. Someone else. Someone neutral who he feels like he can groan a thing or two with. R staggers away from Julie’s door with his head hanging down, trying to rack his mind for candidates and not walk into a wall while he’s thinking.

Joan Watson. The woman he chased up a boulder and she still had it in her to ask why. Question lady. Something about addicts. Counseling. R guesses he could use some counseling, whatever that is. Make it a two-pronged attack on the hunger from both Maximus and Joan.

R’s relieved when he finds her, bumping into the door frame as he groans and forgets all about creepy staring.

“You…free? Need…your…help…”

Shion

Day Two of his new diet.

R needs a distraction. Something to keep his mind off the daydreams he has. Sometimes he catches himself staring hungrily at someone – an Avox or an Escort in the elevator – and he pictures them on the floor, his teeth sunk into the meat of their arm. Other times he doesn’t even realizing he’s seeing red. That’s when he realizes he needs something to distract him.

It’s when he realizes he’s groaning again that he’s had enough. He’s tired of groaning and moaning and everything in between. If he’s going to try to fix his whole chewing up all his friends problem, he might as well try to do something about the speech thing.

R plants himself in front of Shion’s bedroom door and waits. He’s still staring at it creepily, fixed on some imaginary dirt spot, when it opens.

Maximus

Three days later and R’s really struggling to remember things like punctuality and battle plans. He can’t breathe, so he can’t “breathe-in, breathe-out and find his inner peace”. He remembers Maximus, the flash of his blade. Blood splashing red in the desert air. Maximus equals food and relief and remembering what it means to be something other than a walking set of teeth.

R staggers into the Training Center, bumping his way into a door-frame here, knocking over a weapons stand there as he sniffs nosily around. It smells of cold hard steel, the same cleanser that was in the closet. Underneath that all is human Life wafting along. Hopefully it’s Maximus. R’s already leery about his self-control with the hunger clawing away inside, telling him it’s a really good idea to stick some fingers through his muzzle and bite them off. The good news is he hasn’t figured out how to unclasp his muzzle.

Maybe the Escort’s onto his plan. She at least had the foresight to keep it on nice and tight – Eponine proofed it, even.

R waits for Maximus, looking like a miserable corpse of a boy until someone makes the mistake of getting grabbing distance close. At least he’s not drooling yet. Even hungry, R still wants to show Maximus he’s not like that dried out husk following him around the desert.

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It makes sense now why Bert hadn't taken the muzzle seriously at first - like more and more of the people R ran into these days, he probably didn't know what a zombie was. By some miracle he hadn't gotten himself bitten first thing in the Arena. He catches himself wondering what kind of zombie Bert would've made. His hat trick days would been over, at the very least. Bert would've been a shadow of himself, if even that.

"Dead," R says. He points at his mouth, then his heart, then his stomach. "In...fected...like me...zombies."

He prefers "zombies" or "Dead" over corpse, though. It's all the same in the end. Still. R watches Bert over the edge of his muzzle gleaming in the light, noticing the change in his posture, the way his shoulders are squared forward instead of relaxed. The little something behind his eyes - a spark of amusement or whatever it was that made Bert friendly to a Dead boy - is walled off. R wonders how many bridges he burned by being true to nature out there.

He's certainly taking the muzzle seriously now, he sees the need and respects it. Cuthbert had a concept of zombies or something similar. But he hasn't found any yet who could talk and weren't just mindless killers.

"You're well spoken for a dead man. Do they all stay like you in your world?"

There's still a lot he doesn't understand about this. He's not willing to give R the same easy banter he usually did, but he wasn't going to give up on things so easily. There's obviously something to R that is different. It helped that he seemed to be both docile and calm at the moment.

R wonders what he did to deserve a compliment like that - he did nearly kill Bert and now he's getting praised for his sometimes-questionable coherency. "Not...many. Most...can't...speak. Most...just eat."

Honesty's the best policy and seeing how he nearly killed Bert first thing in the Arena, he figures he should get the details, the warning in the details. Staring at Bert, R struggles to read his face, to find out where they stand or if it's over and done with. Will he think first of his mouth gaping open, drooling for blood and more or will he see past that and put himself in danger again?

R has no idea. Despite all the practice he's had watching emotions flickering across human faces, he has a hard time reading Bert's.

He hadn't meant it much as a compliment, although he was still impressed that this was going so well. Somehow he expected R to try and finish what he started before Bert got away.

"Aye, eating seems to be one of those things your kind excel at."

For the most part Cuthbert is unsure. He's been kissed by an alien, brought back from the dead and killed people in a dress, and this may still be the most unsettling part of being here. R has hit him in so many deep and meaningful places and yet he's an abomination and a thing of Cuthbert's nightmares. He can't quite meet R's eyes, but he can't bring himself to walk away.

Oh, there's definitely a part of R that wanted to try even with the muzzle on: he just has to keep it as far in the background as he can manage. Obviously he hadn't managed very well their last encounter.

"Part...of us," R says. He's making excuses for his fellow Dead again. "Our...drive. Sorry," he adds, realizing he's not exactly being tactful. He can't put into words just how powerful the new hunger is and even if he could, it doesn't make up for nearly ripping a chunk out of Bert.

R falls silent, aware that Bert has acquired this habit of glancing at him and then looking away, a subtle shift in his eyes that hadn't been there before. What does he say? Can he fix this? What does Bert hope to get out of a conversation with a Dead boy?

For his part, Cuthbert isn't sure what he wants to get out of this yet. He's still trying to settle all of his own internal thoughts and feelings.

"Why make connections, then? Why get close to those you see as little more than a waiting meal?"

He's still hurt, he doesn't know what to think of what's happened between them. He genuinely liked R and the idea that he had attached himself to someone who wanted him dead was more than he could take.

This is wandering into deeply personal for a zombie. R pauses, the silence stretching.

"Need...to..." He trails off again, looking for the words, knowing what he says won't illustrate what it feels like to be a corpse. "Feel. What...you have. Are."

He finishes lamely, staring at Bert. Ideally he'd like to do all that without he killing but he'd never known a zombie to resist that primal urge. He hates that Bert had to see what he was really like.

That is a more personal answer than Cuthbert expected as well and he's momentarily at a loss. It's not much to go on, but he can infer what R means.

"So you wish to be something you're not? You want to feel more human?"

That's a fairly admirable goal, if it's true. Bert doesn't want to deny that to anyone. It's not the first time he's heard something like that, either. This conversation isn't going in the direction he expected at all and he's right back to pitying R.

He takes a step closer, showing some trust and forgiveness. But he's still tense and ready to leave again if things go pear shaped from here.

R pauses. Yeah, yeah that's basically it. He knows he's human, Homo sapiens, he's got arms and legs in the same places, he's driven by ghosts of the same instincts - but he's not human like Bert. He nods.

"Drive. When...like this...onl-y drive."

He wonders if maybe he should step backward. He can feel the muzzle like a safety guarantee between them, the cold metal flush against his face. He can also sense Bert's pulse from here, that electric smell caressing his frontal lobe, the back of his throat. R tries to hold his breath out of respect.

"Don't...be like..." R gestures at himself. He touches his heart. "Keep...that. Be...Bert."

That's puzzling and he isn't sure what to think of the drive versus what he had expected. Still, he isn't backing away, he even takes another step toward R.

"I know many a man who would be grateful to leave their human side behind in my line of work, and I too know when to turn it off and on again. But I cannot be anyone but myself, much to the lament of those around me."

He reaches a hand out, hesitating slightly before touching R's arm.

"I am sorry."

For so many things, that R has to be this way, that Cuthbert reacted in a way that obviously scared and upset him, that both of them were there to begin with. There's any number of things Cuthbert could be sorry about, both personally and generally, right now. And he's felling almost all of them right now.

R imagines he flinches back at the touch. He stands there, staring dumbly at the hand flush with life and heat touching his own cold grey flesh.

"Not...fault," R mumbles, confused. Bert continues to confuse him, the way he offers other chances and reflection when he expects self-preservation and anger to kick in.

Something Julie asks him suddenly resurfaces. Staring wide-eyed at Bert, What are you? comes back to him. Just who is Bert? R reluctantly pulls his arm away, dropping his eyes to the ground, his mouth working behind the muzzle.

"You...make better...human than...Dead," R says finally. He manages the weak ghost of a smile, a muscle in his face twitching. "Take...from...me."

"You might be surprised. I've already died twice and come back to life each time. Mayhap you make a better living man than you think too."

It's easier to be brave when R is wearing a muzzle again, so Bert stays where he is. He doesn't try to touch R again, since that seems to be a lot for him. Mostly he wants R to cheer up some, he doesn't feel so threatened and for Cuthbert, a frown is a far worse thing to leave with R.

"I may keep my distance the next time we meet in the arena. But I will be sure to never blame you should you do what comes natural to you, aye?"

That's generous of Bert, really, it is. R purses his lips, the muzzle tilting as his head sags to the side like it's wilting. Those strange grey eyes of his are fixed on Bert. "Appreciate...it. Sorry...about...almost..."

Almost biting him and then it was death or life after death, your pick. Not really good options. R feels that odd urge rise up, the one that says he wants to argue instead of groan like a good little zombie. It's one of his bad habits. He wants to point out to Bert that daydreaming about ripping out his flesh wasn't always natural. He's sure he wasn't born this way.

R heaves his shoulders in a shrug. "See you...then...?"

"Please, don't dwell on it. I have forgiven it, as I hope you can forgive me for doubting you."

For all the Cuthbert is usually calm and collected in social situations he's not entirely sure what to do with R right now, so he fidgets a bit. Surely the zombie won't mind if he leaves at that last statement?

"If not before, friend."

And then he hesitates, because that might be a bit much to say to R right now. But what's done is done and he can't really take it back without making it worse. So he gives R a short salute goodbye and heads out again, he will need to think things over more before he talks to R again.

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