thearena | I am not what I was or what I will be

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I am not what I was or what I will be

Who| Initiate and you?
What| Initiate goes and does avox things like cleaning up after people, his new avox conditioning starts to break some the persona his old society built on him, and then eventually he finds a book about his horrific past and future
Where| Around panemall, Chapter One, the food court
When| Very end of week one, going into week two (and possibly onward???)
WARNINGS| Avoxing/avoxes, references to the conditioning process. And just for the book all the warnings are here. And many instances of altered mental states, guilt/panic.

~A~

When he first finds out they're serving food, out right getting miraculous motherfucking set up of the wicked shit for all them tributes, he doesn't go to the food. He goes to the other avoxes. He tries to look for places where he's needed, tries to get on helping with the setting up. It simultaneously eases him with the natural feel of it all, and sets him off with how he so very clearly both is and is not part of them. He's supposed to help, but he is not all the same. Sends a sorts of jitter-wrongness vibes on through.

He sets up what he can, he even tries to stand with them-- as long as he ain't being in the way of course. When they make to clean up, he makes sure to do so motherfucking thorough, going right out of his way to take the trash on to its place. He maybe... just a little... tries to go a little faster than the other avoxes so he can do more, make up for all the work he isn't doing and gotten done in the arena's go thus far. (And to squirrel away something for his ownself, but that's an aside.)

He pays no mind to what looks he does and does not get by those in court. By all meaning, he does not exist, they are simply looking through him, if at all. Unless of course, someone commands his attention.

~B~

There's a break all of shattercracks up in him. As the time goes on and on, he feels himself waking up so slow, coming alive again and filling out his own corpsecasing, instead of just hiding small inside it now as it begins to occur he's not being touched here by his avoxing team. His soul fills out his digits, comes on to being further front in his eyes. He's slowly making awares of himself.

But he doesn't feel like he's shifting back to how he'd been before his avoxing. That's a disquieting thing being up in its own. Its like what got done on him crushed down on half of himself. The other half is there, still the same, but the crushed half is lifting up to show things up underneath he forgot so thorough, he didn't think as they was being there. They got trying to clean paint off the wall and tore on right through the wallpaper. And he's not sure what-- who-- he's gonna find as being underneath. The three parts, the one he knows, the one he don't, the avox, they all get their clash on sharp.

Its more than just a little frightening, especially now he's lost the thing what let him all to block out that shit in the first place. All his fear training, done for sweeps so as not to not acknowledge it is gone to naught and fucking nil. He's no better than a motherfucking wriggler now in that respect and he knows it. He's almost relieved, for the first time, that he doesn't have his power because he's not sure how he'd take to feeling that all suddenlike the way he is now.

Of course, he can't press too far in thought. Too much of that gets him reeling and he's lost up all over again. Thinking back to things tends on making him jump to the avoxing and-- no. Thinking about that just ain't a thing to be done. No matter his... improvement? Worsening? No matter his progression, he is still too small for his shell and he ain't so ready for the raw edges to touch, the way they do when he directs his own self and calls up a will. As far as pushing out goes, these small observations are as far as he's got. Things like that and 'it's nice not having to wear the blade shoes or any shoes up at all' or 'I could walk in this just because I want to and that would be okay, probably'. He goes back to Kurloz, his alternate, whenever he tires because, while Kurloz ain't an avox, he's mute too and for that reason alone it eases his thinkpan to be by him over anyone else. With Kurloz, he doesn't feel so much the need to be attentive to command when they ain't exactly apt to come.

All said though, he wanders when he's awake for the very same reason; Kurloz isn't going to give an order nor ask him to serve. And when he's awake, when he can't fathom the doing on anything the fuck else, he has to get his look about him for someone what will. The longer he goes without, the more the terror rises up. It batters in his skull, the back and forth of needing to do something and not knowing what to do. And so, even though he knows he should hide, he wanders the halls looking, in all subversion of who he was before, for someone to take advantage of a wandering servant.

~C~

There's already a book laying open upon the ground, left all tossed or knocked over or just done dropped in a motherfucking hurry. He picks it up automatic, because this is what he's here for, to clean, to serve. All up in his grip, he looks for its proper place, seeking as where to find that it was being prior and put it back there. But as he goes, the words on the books register.

As he goes he sees pictures and little signs and he slows the fuck down. Until, numbly, he turns the book in his hand up to the viewing of his own oculars. His pusher makes want to climb up out of him as he flips the book open with shaking digits, to find a familiar name of one of the tributes past written there. And it talks on them, telling a motherfucking story but his mind races too fast to absorb what it is. He sets the book down neatly atop some others, then turns with a fear in him to look.

It's everyone. They got shit on everymotherfuckinbody. The more he goes, the more panic starts of want to override even his conditioning. He flips through the books faster and faster, searching, and struggling to put them back up on them shelves cause of shaking so hard. And the book what's being looked for falls right down as he's jamming another one back.

It slams to the floor, pages closed. His hands go down, reaching slow and shaking like they're going to pop off from his wrist sockets. His hands curl around the massive tome, claws clicking against the back cover as he lifts it up to himself. And then slowly, sinks down, back against the book shelves.

This is it. This is his future. This is his sin. And he's finally, finally going to motherfucking get a know on for it. He just holds it to his chest like a lifeline, staring upwards at them ceilings like they're going to make about caving in on him. He can't hardly breathe.

Finally, he composes himself just enough, swallowing down the knives in his throat, he opens the book and turns the page. He finds its accuracy the first few pages in, as it makes jolts and jabs at buried memory in his thinkpan for things what got being too long ago to remember. Its the accuracy what frightens most, with a dread filling up for the pages what will touch upon the sweeps he ain't yet lived. Where he done became what he was so motherfucking near to becoming, the terrible boogie man what his best friends whispered about.

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"Are you certain you should read that? That sort of thing is usually full of lies." The bookstore is an area that Albert finds himself haunting a lot more as the week peters out, mostly out of looking for actual things to read than anything else. Whatever's been useful here for survival has been picked clean but with himself and his partner having been incredibly fortunate this arena, he finds himself with time to simply read. He tries to avoid the tribute's biographies as a rule after that first perusal with Bruce, but when he'd caught sight of Initiate's towering form, he thought he should say something.

Edited 2014-08-26 20:50 (UTC)

His towering form ain't so towering as he sit on the floor, stripped of all them little aspects save height what made him so motherfucking imposing. He looks up in alarm, jolting on the spot, then immediately ducks his head down again.

His arms wrap around the book he's got held, holding it close to his ownself like it's something to protect and not just set fire to. His face ain't happy like it's something to protect. There's a pale-ness to the grey what ain't got no paint (thanks to Kurloz) upon it.

His head shakes near frantic. He knows his book ain't lies. That's the problem.

"It's alright, it's your decision. I'm not going to take it from you." It's apparent immediately what had happened. Avoxing is a hard thing to miss and Albert's heart clenches that someone so vibrant, if intimidating, as Initiate is brought to this.

"Only...Most of them are false, and even the ones that are true... there's little use in dwelling." His voice grows soft and soothing, trying to piece together exactly what's going on. He assumes Initiate's book is like his own, a breach of privacy that explains all the things he'd done in stark detail. All the things he wants to take back, the things he'd forgotten he'd wanted, the things he'd managed to put from his mind until the book brought them back full force.

He doesn't know they can contain the future as well.

He stares at the floor, staring ever more intently as Albert's words sound. He takes them in and turns them over.

The he draws even closer to himself, book coming with him. He shakes his head, much slower and deliberate this time.

Albert didn't know. It does matter. He has to know, avox or not, what sins he got as being committed. He has to know what he did and why he did it and how so he can be being as not to up and motherfucking do them again. It ain't no choice being in the matter of wanting, he must.

Albert doesn't know what to do with this. He considers Initiate an ally, if not a friend, but this he has no context for. He knows general things about the Troll, religion and cultural things, but what does he do for him as an individual? An individual obviously in distress, who needs help in some way that is out of Albert's depth.

But he has to try.

Quietly, Albert crouches by Initiate, bringing a gentle hand to the Troll's shoulder. "What can I do?"

He's not even certain how Initiate will respond, or if he's able to at all, but sometimes the gesture is what's important.

The flinch is not as violent as some others of his have been these pasts days, but it is still fairly visible. Still, he doesn't fight the hand off him.

He thinks over the question and he's not sure how to respond, for a number of reasons. Answering is difficult, not being allowed to communicate, even coming up with the thought to do so at all. But more than that, he's not sure there is an answer he can give. What can Albert do? He breathes deep, then lets that whistle through his teeth.

A command would be something. That isn't what Albert means though.

Maybe he can explain, a little, why there ain't nothing. He lets the book fall. Just slip gentlelike from his hands like it was being an accident. An "accident" that goes to a page spread picture of his ownself, sweeps and sweeps and sweeps older than he is now, huge and old and fearsome. A future.

Edited 2014-08-28 06:14 (UTC)

Right, yes or no questions. It will be easier on both of them after whatever the Capitol did. Avoxing seems to be more psychological than physical despite the removal of the poor victim's tongue. He's seen in Cecil, in the other Avoxes that he knows little about, silently cleaning and serving and made to believe they're tools for those around them. Less than nothing. Lacking in free will.

It makes Albert's skin crawl, knowing that this could have been him too had Jaden succeeded back on Mocawa. Could still be him if the Capitol decided it.

The book falling open pulls Albert's attention, the page resting on what he first sees as a towering beast, some primordial nightmare from an eldritch tale, but upon closer inspection bares striking similarities to the Troll at his side.

"Is this you...?"

He's not supposed to be making no eye contact. Doing such is like to a panic like knives and jolts and dark voids in his pan. But he glances at the face for half a second, as Albert beholds the book. He notes the expression there.

His hand reaches back to close the book. He pulls it back and tucks it close to his chest. His eyes and face are vacant. He can see through floors and there is nothing up at all on the other side. For a second, it might seem as though he's not going to try response at all.

Then, stiffly, he manages the smallest of nods. Yes, it's him.

Alright. That's a little frightening, especially given what he knows about this religion of Initiate's where fear is something sacred, but it strikes a little something in Albert and he thinks for a moment before responding.

"Is that who you want to be?" Eye contact seems hard for Initiate so he doesn't demand it from him, just crouches patiently by his side, keeping level and lacking in judgement.

His eyes widen. His pusher does for something he can't rightly be about as to explain.

It seems a simple and obvious answer. But now, phrased like that, where he has to actually be about deciding, he's not so sure. He pulls the book away from him, just enough to peer into it, peer at what is there.

That had been his dream. He'd worked his whole life for it. It was the one thing he really wanted over all other things. And it was glorious. It was just as he'd hoped and more. Nothing to stop, nothing what could make him. He was the Messiahs' greatest servant. He'd become more feared than nearly any other troll what ever was, more powerful, untouchable. He'd had his throne and he'd has church. If he could forget the sins done, the people hurt, he could say still that that life had been his everything.

He turns to the pages on the execution of the Signless. Where he himself had stood above with a wide grin, a barkbeast by Her Condescension's side. He finds Mituna's part. Mituna, who'd been his only true friend here at first, who'd done so much for him, made him better, helped him all to be able to find more. His beloved, his starshine, his best friend. He'd deserved so much better than any of this.

His face takes on a miserable twist, his overhanging fangs threatening-- succeeding-- to pierce through flesh. His head bows lower, like he can hide himself from albert. His head shakes.

A firm, no.

He glances over the pages as Initiate turns them, all the violence inherent in the illustration making him want to turn away. His keeps his attention on Initiate instead, hand still on his shoulder, waiting for an answer.

He's relieved at it, when it comes.

"You don't have to be. I know this likely sounds impossible considering what you've been through, but you are the one who dictates your future, what you'll become. If you don't like who you see, you can change it." Funny, coming from him, who'd wallowed in what Black Ghost had turned him into for so long, who'd nearly been made to kill his family and friends because he'd been twisted into thinking it was the best and only option.

He has grown, he realizes. He's grown to understand that no matter what you're made to do, through circumstance, force, or coercion, the only person who can dictate who you are is you. An individual is the only person who can truly define themself.

"It's just a book. One possible future." He reaches over and closes it with finality, squeezing Initiate's shoulder. "You don't have to make it yours."

He's changed. He's certain he's changed a lot. Even without the avoxing he'd be fairly sure things would... they would have to be a little different. Mirth but he tried so hard.

And he was an avox now. There was no way he could be that. His conditioning firmly rejects being close to anything like that thing. (Maybe it's another reason he ought be grateful. Maybe it's another sign of his worthlessness, that he's clearly better this way.)

But he doesn't feel in control. He doesn't feel in control of his future, it just feels like a weight and a curse. He's lost control of his present and put it in the hands of everyone what ain't being him. He's just as much the lapdog of some higher power as he's ever been. He's all shatter cracked up in his pan and he ain't hardly know who or what he even is no more.

And yet. And yet here Albert up and being is, putting things in his head, thoughts like he can decide for himself and that he ain't really that motherfucker what's been written onto the page. He's not sure what it is about the closing of the book or the squeeze of his shoulder what gets him, but it does.

When his hair was long and wild, he could hide it in. But now, he's got nothing but his hands. His eyes burn. His throat burns too and that reminds clear that he still ain't to be reacting to none of this, he ain't supposed to feel, he's not supposed to motherfucking impose, why is he even doing this all so wrong?

His breath hitches and catches over and over. It makes his shoulders shake. Finally, his hands force down and his back goes straight. He keeps his face turned away from Albert as much as he can, and more so, to keep no more purple trails about following the first. Face empty, eyes vacant. He is not a person he is just a serf. He does not feel, he tells himself, a proper avox, and so his transgression will not be so huge.

Edited 2014-08-31 21:39 (UTC)

The reaction is unexpected and Albert isn't sure if he should feel badly for eliciting it. For his part he doesn't move his hand, though he does let Initiate turn his face away to retain his dignity or hide his tears or whatever other reason he has for it. Both, maybe. He knows he'd hide such a reaction from anyone but those closest to him.

He stays like that for as long as he's allowed, remaining a silent presence of support in the face of emotional upheaval that he knows he can't fully understand but at least sympathizes with.

Still, he feels he has to do something, try to help in some small way to lift Initiate's spirits when he'd had a hand in dashing them to so low a point. So yes, he remains silent verbally and doesn't move his hand from Initiate's shoulder, but he does do one thing.

He taps his foot.

It's just one beat at first, but he taps again soon after, and then a third, all in time and rhythm. It's a soft sound made by a sneaker on carpet, nothing like them pounding spear and staff on the concrete training center floor, but it's there, audible, like a heartbeat.

He just hopes he isn't committing any kind of blasphemy in its doing.

The first sound puts a twitch to his ears, which, in itself brings a shot pain through all thanks to his shredded and missing ear fins, both of which have scabbed over to an ugly indigo.

Another beat, another twitch. It hurts less this time because he's ready for it.

A third comes and he starts to turn his head. Though, still, he doesn't quite face him.

But he does reach down, the arm between the two of them, more hidden than any other part. His knuckles rap once on the floor, in time with the next beat.

Ain't no blasphemy done. His eyes close for a moment.

The response brings the beginnings of a smile to Albert's face. So Initiate's not so far gone. Like Cecil, he's still there, still fighting, and still the same person at the core.

Albert squeezes his hand on Initiate's shoulder again, something bolstering, and keeps tapping. He joins his other foot in as well, not really dancing but it's an alright approximation of it if you define dancing as vaguely moving to a beat.

He won't dance for the Capitol's purposes, but maybe just a little for a friend.

He doesn't knock more after the first one. That makes it an attempt to commune. It makes it obvious and dangerous.

But his fingers tap soundlessly. His eyes stay closed and he listens, as music comes.

Liar, he thinks through a fog, you said you couldn't dance. There's plenty of feeling there.

His eyes only open when it stops.

It stops maybe sooner than it should, Albert's soft shoe reaching the limit of what he knows how to do with his body as an instrument. Give him a piano, a violin, a triangle, something and he can work with that, but his own two feet are a poor excuse.

Still, it seemed to help Initiate and in that he's glad, grateful even.

And it gives him another idea.

"Will you come with me? It's not far, but I want to show you something." It's a bookstore but it's a modern bookstore, which means there has to be a music section. If he can find Wagner and a pair of earphones, he'll be beyond grateful.

The gratitude is mutual.

He was made for obedience. It's not exactly an order, but it's got a clear point of something needing to be done and that he ought to do it. He rises up almost instantly to his feet, back straight, shoulders set. Ready to serve as needed. He still holds the book in one hand, as his arms settle to his sides, but it's looser, less desperate.

He waits to be led away.

It's a little disconcerting how quickly Initiate jumps to follow, but Albert tries not to think of it, imagining instead the peace he's trying to give the Troll for at least a little while.

Wagner may not be the best though, Albert muses as they make it through to the music, lines of headphones on the walls attached by cords to screens with the vast library of music the store has to offer loaded on them. He leaves Initiate for a moment to make sure the set of earphones he's chosen is safe to use - who knows what the gamemakers might do, anyway? - and looks for something more rhythmic, more tribal, for lack of a better term. In his search he comes across no artists he recognizes and some genre's he's fairly sure are just animal noises or people screaming, but finally he grins and beckons Initiate over, offering him the headphones and hoping they're large enough to keep from irritating the poor Trolls injuries.

The music, at least, he hopes the purple blood will enjoy.

He comes as required, seeing them headphones and... not exactly recognizing them immediate for what they are but definitely knowing where they're supposed to and that Albert wants them on him. He braces for it and still winces, but it ain't being so bad he can't stand it. Just a bit of teeth gritting and he's fine.

Music fills his nugbone, surprising him. The sound curls up soft somewhere in the back of his thinkpan, against the skull. It buzzes through. There's calling in it, back to the famiarity of subjugglator dances, but it builds at an easy rate what he can handle. And after a while, he thinks he starts to recognize the sound of brooms as being that, which in itself, pulls of an irony with his avoxing, the irony being a funny one.

He ain't supposed to. It's hardly being there. But, for a second or two, he smiles.

That's what he'd been looking for, a sign that the same joy he'd witnessed when Initiate had been dancing his Troll version of Holi, all colors and rhythm and completely assurity of himself and who he is. What he is.

He has to wonder how long it will last, or if this is really helping at all in the long run. Will he still be an Avox after the arena? If he shows too much of himself still, would they try to recondition him? Could Albert even protect him if he tried?

While Initiate may smile, Albert's mouth curves into a deep frown, lost in his worries.

The worries Albert has aren't thoughts that have eluded him. Where all his mind says he deserves this, he deserves this punishment, to be nothing, to serve-- he doesn't think why he would be let back to how he was.

Reconditioning too, seemed inevitable. It pulled a tight noose around his throat every time he disobeyed, every time he pushed it. Kurloz's signing lessons, making him communicate, even write, were torture. Even now, all this, his own smile, he feels as though his pan is being torn wide open and eaten messy by some great beast.

Eventually, it becomes too much. He lifts the headphones off with a small sigh and walks over to a pile of overturned books. He kneels down and starts stacking them proper, putting them back into their places. Neat and tidy. The sort of task what eases the shriek, if makes him a little more numb.

No, Albert can't protect him. But he's been given something nevertheless, and with the song in his head, he knows he won't forget it.

Edited 2014-09-01 16:02 (UTC)

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I am not what I was or what I will be

C

Re: C

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Small retcon: the other fin is 2/3rd's torn up along with the one that's just gone.

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