thearena | With your feet in the air and your head on the ground

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With your feet in the air and your head on the ground

Who| Initiate and Terezi
What| Guess who's not dead. It's this guy. Terezi is going to find this out.
Where| Third floor, near the Alternia store.
When| Forward dated Mid/End of the third week in arena.
WARNINGS| Avoxing/avoxes, references to the conditioning process. Mentions of torture, police brutality. Many instances of altered mental states, guilt/panic. And just for the book, just in case that comes up, all the warnings are here.

The addition of one, then another Kankri Vantas, surprisingly didn't do much to interupt his schedule. He still went back to Kurloz's pile, he still curled up there in silence (after another torturous round 'force the avox to defy his conditioning and learn to sign') at the far corner of it and slept, the woke again to head off into the arena, once again seeking someone to give him something to do. When he's not reading his own future that is.

His ears are still scabbed and shredded. It's clear now, like it wasn't totally obvious before, the one useless fin is completely missing. The other is torn something awful, all the thin membrane for feeling that underwater noise is all gone to shit, some of it hanging off loosely in a way that taunts for the tearing but he firmly avoids touching. His hair ain't grown in such short time of course, so it's still short cropped and curling as ever. He's grey faced, largely. And he's near gotten used to not having a tongue.

With each passing day, he finds he can do a little more than he could before, without the fear swallowing him whole immediate. He finds his shatter cracked self still staying such, but that mysterious third way of being, dragged up through the break line that the Alternian v.s. Avox war got making in him, starts to rise and settle more and more. He still doesn't know what to expect of it, but he's starting to accept it at least, with somewhat less choking terror.

Today, he can almost tell himself he's walking just because he feels like it. Even if just a while ago he got finished helping the other avoxes put food out as he and they always do. He's up on the third floor, passing all the shops. He's passed them enough he recognizes them all, but his eyes mostly got to glazing over. Today though, he decides to actually take a look at one in particular, that one being, the Alternia store.

And then he proceeds to look immediately down because no, he still does not have the capacity to sort through the sight of that shit. And it's just in this short bit of time, he fails to notice the presence of anyone else altogether, where otherwise he'd be all over it.

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Fraysong isn't the only one who has decided to visit this store. For Terezi it's half curiosity and half-hoping that she might find something useful. She hasn't gone in yet, though. There are some parts that she knows are going to be painful, and she's not sure how she wants to deal with that yet.

As she lingers outside, it dawns on her that someone else is approaching. Terezi backs away, her first instinct to find some kind of shelter... Until she simply stops dead in her tracks. The person that she's smelling... The clothes are different, and certainly the hair is much shorter. There's very little paint on him, but... That stature, and those horns. It would be difficult to mistake them for anyone else.

"Kurloz...?" She doesn't think to use his title. Her throat is tight, and even that one word barely escapes. She doesn't dare to even breathe as she waits for some kind of response, looking as if she's run into a ghost.

Edited 2014-09-01 05:54 (UTC)

The name is confusing. He knows there's the other him here, and most don't know his ownself as being Kurloz. It's strange for someone to reach to that part, when he's being an avox and there shouldn't be any part what to reach beyond accepting directive. Honestly, ain't nobody what should be using any name for him.

But he turns anyway. He keeps his eyes on the ground so he may only see her feet, the start of her legs, but he knows the voice. If her throat is tight, his is of want to collapse.

It's her. He's sure it's her, she's alive and she has a voice and she's here. And it does something awful to him.

He stands there like he's frozen. His outside if blank but his insides are all of churning terribly.

He doesn't speak, he barely moves. He only turns to face her, and there's a fear in Terezi's chest that maybe he's not really there. Maybe her grief has finally gotten to her. Maybe the Gamemakers just want to fuck with her a little more. She's not sure that she could handle either of those things right now.

Gradually, she finds the strength to come closer, to find out if he's really there or not. Her hands lift, hovering hesitantly in front of him before touching against his chest, palms flat. They touch something solid, and her eyes widen a little. He's really there. Not a figment, not a hologram. A real living person.

Her hands ball to fists, clutching the fabric tightly. She's almost certain that she's forgotten how to breathe, up until she makes a strangled gasping noise, almost like a sob. She presses her forehead against his chest, between her two hands.

He watches her shuffle closer, each step slow, fearful, and hesitant. He doesn't know what she might do. He keeps waiting for a task of some kind. Maybe she'll be angry with him. Maybe she'll just be disgusted. Maybe, maybe, motherfucking maybe.

He flinches at her touch, though not enough to pull away. His own hands curl and then are force to flattening at his sides.

And then she starts to cry. His breath catches. He feels as though he's been drenched in the coldest water, right down into his bones. His fingers twitch but he doesn't dare bring them up to touch her, like doing so would shatter them both. It might, his thoughts whisper. It could very well do that. And he'd be the one to break her then, wouldn't he?

He's all shades of helpless, unable to help her, as he just stands there, but finally the thought is able to come through; would he have done different to be able to respond as normal, if only for the cost of losing her? His thinkpan is whirling, cracked and broken. He can't hardly do nothing. But this one thing is clear; no, he chose right. This is one thing he's done right.

Her shoulders shake as she buries her face against his chest. He's alive. He's alive, and all she knows how to do is cry on him. But gradually she reins herself in. Not because she wants to or because she's finished, but because he's just standing there, like a wall. There's no reaction from him that she can tell, and suddenly a new fear grips her.

Is he angry at her? He would have every right to be, after everything that's happened. She lifts her head, trying to catch the scent of emotion on his face, but there's nothing there. There's nothing to tell her what he's thinking, and that worries her even more.

"I'm sorry. I... They took you. They never brought you back, and I didn't know what they did... I thought you were dead." That was...weeks ago, now. Weeks spent thinking that they had murdered her closest friend. And now here he is, and... And everything feels wrong somehow.

"What did they do to you? Why won't you talk to me?"

Somehow, in everything, he never considered what she might think if he'd been made dead. There was never a time he thought it a thing, no point at which he'd stopped to consider it. He'd been avoxed, his mind had not been his own, and the put immediately into the arena. There wasn't space for such a wonder that hardly made sense.

He can't understand the worry. He can't fathom apology. He deserved this. Didn't they see? Couldn't everyone understand? This was right to be done, it was all right and meant. Why did everyone be as to apologize when it was not they who'd done anything? What all was there even to motherfucking apologize for?

But for what he's done of course. He takes each bit of what she says, and though the tone ain't accusatory, he knows it should be. Sorry, I'm sorry, he thinks, and his head bows more on the reprimand.

He can't answer either of those things. He braces for what's to come.

Edited 2014-09-01 16:26 (UTC)

He doesn't answer, and Terezi doesn't understand why not. He doesn't smell angry. He doesn't smell anything. He just stands there like the world could pass him by and he wouldn't care. He wouldn't blink or move. It's almost robotic.

It's not like him at all. Something must have happened, they must have done something to him for him to come to this. And as she's wracking her brain for an answer, one finally comes to her. It's horrific and terrible and unfair, and... The horror is already building inside of her as she fixes her attention up at his face. She doesn't want to ask, but...she has to know.

"Can you...open your mouth for me?"

Such a simple thing to be asked. A simple thing to do.

It's strange how the action fills him with dread.

On command, his mouth opens. It's empty. No tongue lays within his maw at all, like there was never one being there except for the way the flesh is closed over all mangled and indigo. It's raw, as such things are, but it's starting to heal, or at least, not be so swollen.

He closes his mouth again when it seems sufficient.

There's a look of horror on her face for a brief moment before she lets go of his chest and turns away. Her stomach churns, and the urge to be sick is intense. They took his tongue. They mangled him, tortured him, made him into an avox.

She clamps a hand over her mouth, fighting back the urge to throw up. It's not fair. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair. Why him? She was the one in jail. She was the one they broke out. Why single him out?

She knows why, of course. Because it was his idea. Because he's violent, uncontrollable. And not he's not. Now, he won't plot against them. He won't do anything except what they tell him to do.

The sickness doesn't pass, but it does ease--enough that she can lower her hand back down. She turns back to face him. Her chest still aches, but not as badly as it did before. There's something else there now, amid the grief and horror. Something brighter. Something with a purpose.

"Kurloz..." she addresses him quietly, trying to keep her voice level, but gentle. She knows that she has to be careful about the words she says now. She doesn't want to order him to do something that he wouldn't want to do. "...If I asked you to stay with me... Would you want that? Just a yes or no is okay."

Her reaction cuts like he knew it would. It's violent and visceral, and between it and her tears, he's done some grevious sin upon his sister.

Sorry, sorry...

It's harder to stand straight. He wants to slump. He feels his guts all rent through in some fuckin misery undeniable.

His head starts to rise as she turns back. He can't quite meet her eye to see no spark, but something's changed.

Does he want to stay with her? He's not supposed to want anything. He ain't supposed to have thought as to want. It ain't just that either. He has a job to do. He's supposed to be all about serving the tributes here, and who all ever he got to running into. He's supposed to clean and work and help. He has to do it, no matter what is wanted. It's why he left Kurloz as he did all the time.

His hands shake some as he thinks it over. He's disobeyed command to remain silent for much of the arena. He will pay for this almost certainly. He breathes a deep shuddering breath. Then, in first true sign of having more in him than obedience, he answers. The nod starts stiff, more like a spasm, until it becomes a real genuine nod, something really and speaking of yes, yes, please, of course I would.

I missed you.

It occurs only after that it ain't mean he's going to be allowed. She might just turn him away just for it. The thought hurts.

Edited 2014-09-01 19:44 (UTC)

Terezi exhales, offering him a small smile--a first for her as well. He's not mad then, at least not enough to want to leave. She's glad for that much. And she's glad enough that he was able to answer. Carefully, she steps up to him again and takes his hands in hers.

"Okay. Then I'd like for you to stay with me." She says it more confidently, perhaps closer to the command that he's looking for, even if she doesn't mean it that way. What she really wants and what she intends is to protect him. It's her responsibility. She won't let the Capitol continue to hurt him. Her hands squeeze his, trying to make a comforting gesture of it. And then quieter, she adds: "I need you here, Kurloz. I can't do this without you. So don't leave me alone again... okay?"

When she takes his hand, his own stays loose. It shakes in a way what she'll feel. His thoughts run all over not being allowed to touch, then back around again and again.

He listens intently, watching everywhere but her face as he does. She may not mean it as she does, but it's much easier to take it as such. He can stay as he is asked then. He'll try his best not to lose sight of her.

He'll do whatever she needs him to do, be wherever she needs him to be. He won't leave her alone.

He gives a single firm nod. Yes, he understands.

Distantly, he hopes that don't just make for all the more trouble.

He understands. She exhales a sigh, a bit of guilt weighing on her mind for using his conditioning like this. But it's for his sake. He would understand, she thinks... She hopes.

She lets go of his hands, only to reach up to his shoulders. "Lean down for a second?" she asks. If he complies like she hopes he will, she'll take that opportunity to bump her forehead lightly against his--just like they used to.

She grabs his shoulders and the panic changes to something else. Her request doesn't make it ease, it just makes it worse, and for a split second he almost thinks to shake his head 'no'.

His shredded ears twitch, bringing a flinch. He shakes all over now and he has to hold his breath not to let the panic be more obvious than it is, his wide eyes brimmed with it. But then slowly and stiffly, he's leaning forward as he's been asked.

And then she bumps her forehead to his.

There's two seconds of shock. Then, so easy like that, he feels his pusher break. There's no noise, of course, none at all. But his breath comes sharp like a sob, gets all caught outside his lungs and his face twists something awful, a real show of emotion.

He's quick to breath deep, swallow it back, push it down, and the go numb again just a few seconds later. But it was there. He can't take back what she caught just then. No matter how much more times goes, letting it fade.

She didn't expect such a vivid display of emotion, but it's impossible to miss with her face only inches from his. With the shaking and that brief look he gives, it tells her more than she's been able to get this far. He's scared. They've made him terrified of the most basic communication... but he's still there. Her friend is still there somewhere.

"It's okay, shhh." Her heart still breaks a little for the brief emotion she got. "No one is going to hurt you. I won't let them hurt you anymore." Not like they have. She doesn't care what it takes. She's going to protect him tooth and nail, and she's going to bring him back.

Her hands drop from his shoulders, but she catches one of his hands instead. "Come on. There's something I want to try."

There's a jerk in him when all she shooshes him. A twitch like he's been electrocuted. His jaw works then snaps shut. He doesn't dare look at her.

The kindness is overwhelming and terrible and he can't bear it. He can't bear her promises, especially knowing there's no way he won't pay, there's not a chance, he knows it.

She lets go of his shoulders and he both is and isn't relieved. The hand she takes is still loose like he can separate and disconnect from the contact made if he doesn't put effort in. The other one grips his book tight. He follows.

Edited 2014-09-01 23:23 (UTC)

She holds his hand firmly, even if he refuses to hold back. She's not letting go, she's not losing him again.

She leads him into the strangely Alternian store. There's all manner of things here, some of them average, some strange, some downright lewd. But she knows what she's searching for, so even if she might find herself a little distracted (It's a shame that she can't take these scalemates back with her...), she doesn't slow her pace for more than a few seconds.

When she comes to a distinctly Indigo portion of the store, she knows that she's on the right track. It doesn't take her long to find what she wants: white paint. A quick sniff confirms that this is the stuff, and she turns back to Fraysong.

"Here, sit on the ground here," she says, gesturing to the floor in front of her. It smells like someone might have tried to paint his markings back on, but they're faint and smudged to boot. Regardless, Terezi remembers well enough what shapes should go where.

"Do you remember this?" she asks, uncapping the paint and holding it out for him to see. She doesn't know how much of his mind or his memory might have been tampered with, but this... This was an important part of him, before the Capitol messed him up. This was something he cared very deeply about. "Do you remember how to put it on?"

He follows her, taking in all that of what Capitol thinks of his homeworld-- their homeworld. It all rings of a sort of uncomfortable and he's not sure if it's because some of it's being incredibly wrong, weird, or right in other ways. He sees her Scalemates, as he recognizes from her little performance before she was arrested, taken from him. That feels so long ago now.

He sits on demand, immediate. His head is down again as is natural for an avox, and more so when under orders.

It's only then, when she speaks, that he realises what she's found and brought him to. Paint is here, real paint, all done as for indigos proper. That's the only thing what slows him down in all getting thought on her actual words.

Does he remember? Of course he does. There's not a part he's forgotten. Ain't nothing he's been as to forget. He wonders why she would think that but... he guesses it wouldn't be so impossible, which in its motherfucking self, is an uncomfortable thought. Memories were what he had best right now. Just because he's all shatteredlike of his selfness ain't mean he don't remember.

He nods, staring at the paint and breathing deep.

Terezi tries not to be unnerved by the quickness and submissiveness in the way that he takes a seat. She does wince a little, though, mostly in retrospect. She'll have to be more careful about her words.

To her question, though, he doesn't even need to answer. She can tell that he knows what it is, that he remembers it, by the way that he looks at it. It's that sort of silent reverence, and even if she doesn't share in the feeling, it still makes Terezi smile.

"Here," she offers, placing the little container into his hands. She waits then to see what he'll do.

The paint is put in his hands. He's got right here more paint than he's ever had in an arena, even what with his necklace what he ain't no longer have. Possibility lay here for him to get a full and proper face, his true self all returned of his outsides. His alternate had fixed him, tried, and it had meant much, but even his alternate's paint thin, pulled off the motherfuckers own face and so sparse, just enough to save from a real blasphemy done.

But the paint just sits there. He doesn't do more than hold it. He stares and his mouth presses to a line, like he's holding his breath. His digits twitch where they're settle on his book. His hand lifts.

Then falls.

He can't. That's too much personhood for an avox, he can't. It's different when Kurloz got to do it, that was by another tribute's will it had gotten done. Even that had been hard with so much touch. This is beyond him. He knows, oh does he motherfucking know, that this will disappoint. She'll be unhappy with him. His ruined ears make all to droop some.

Terezi is disappointed--for a moment. She'd hoped that giving him this would help break whatever hold they had over him. Maybe it would help him feel more like him. But it's obvious that he can't do it. She smells the way his hand lifts, only to fall again. His ears droop.

She's at a loss for a few seconds. It's clear that he wants it; He just can't bring himself to do it. She remembers a time (over a year ago now) when her ancestor had fixed his paint for him in death, and it occurs to her that she could do it for him. That would be allowed, wouldn't it? If Redglare could do it, then Terezi can't think of a reason why not.

She reaches out, and instead of taking the paint away from him, she holds it steady in his hand. There's a slight grimace on her face as she hesitates. The paint is gross, and she's always given him grief in the past for making her touch it... But this is different.

Tentatively, she scoops out a bit of the paint, and it's exactly as gross as she imagined it would be. But she keeps going, touching the paint to his face and going over the faint lines made earlier, fixing the ones that had smudged. Her face is only a few inches from his, as she tries to sniff out the exact shapes that she's making. She doesn't have any practice with making it as pristine as he might be able to do, but after more than a year of smelling his face, she has a good sense of the design of it.

He can hardly believe it when she doesn't just turn around and walk out on him, give up right there and leave. She ain't only not doing that, she's painting him. She who swore never to go near the paint, who would curse on his faith if only she had liked him less.

But here she is, touching it, putting it on him, even when she'd probably like him better without. She doesn't know so clear the heresy it is to be barefaced like Kurloz does. Yet even still, she tends, and more than that, she knows his face as it should be.

The same surge of emotion comes as with how it did last time. That overwhelming knowledge one got chosing to help or giving him a quick cull, that he's being given this gift, being made a person. He's got all to having his soul again properlike. And all the while that same old war wages that he shouldn't be touching and this is wrong and he's not supposed to be a person what's holding no soul, and he doesn't deserve this.

It's a lot. It's a lot more than what he can deal with like this. The intensity of the war in him is enough to hurt.

He can't help the catching of his breath, though he closes his eyes to hide the turmoil under. He can't help but push against her fingertips just that little bit.

If Terezi knew his thoughts, she probably would agree: She does like him better without the paint. His face smells cleaner without it. Softer. And the paint marks him as part of his cult, which... She can't say she hates it so much anymore. But she wouldn't go about saying that she likes it, either.

But what matters most in this moment isn't her own feelings. It's his, and as soon as his breath catches, as soon as he closes his eyes and she feels him lean into her touch, she knows that she made the right choice here.

She paints silently for what seems like a while. It's turned from a gesture to an almost challenge. She has no skill for face-painting, but it's not too much different from painting anything else, and his response to the paint only makes her want to do it right. So she's slow and careful and focused...

And after a while, she finally speaks up: "Your hair hasn't been this short in a while. I'm sorry I can't do anything about that. I remember you telling me that you hated it like this... It made you look too young."

There's a distinct pause, and even her movements slow a bit as she remembers that particular conversation so long ago. "I remember... I got mad at you for this stuff, too. Your faith. I...didn't have the best opinion of it back then. My only exposure to it was nothing short of a tragedy. It hurt... a lot."

"But you..." She puts on the last touches, then drops her hand back down, taking the paint container from his hands. "It was different for you. It...wasn't as vicious and terrible as I had imagined. The celebration thing you had... I have to admit, that was fun. But I never would have known that without you. And... I don't want that to be the last time we get to do that. Okay?"

Edited 2014-09-04 22:27 (UTC)

That feels so long ago. Both by the avoxing between and it truly having been long ago now. His hair is shorter than it had been then, but her point is the same. He had hated it. It does make him look young.

He remembers her response to his faith. He remembers who scathing she was to hear of it, how much the loathing poured that he'd wondered why she'd want to be near him at all when it was all he knew to be. It hadn't be surprising or none, ain't like hate for the church was uncommon. But he can't say it didn't bother none. Even if he stopped the speak of scripture around her after that.

His eyes open as the paint is taken from him. He can feel it's all been done, good and proper is it. It feels better. He feels whole. His gaze falls on her face as she confesses to him. There's a sort of wonder there in him. There's a clench all upon his pusher.

She wants to attend Carnival with him again.

There's not but the faint 'woosh' of breath leaving him. Gone all to wind-ing is he by such a thing. It means a lot. More than he could say if he could say anything. He feels all out of control of himself like this, like somehow they made him fragile and these little things... they are so much.

A day he does that again would be a day he ain't an avox no more. He's not sure if that'll come or not. But she has faith it will and it makes him wish so badly right then that there was being anything what he could do to express. His head bows to her and her graciousness.

She's not honestly sure what he's thinking when she tells him all that. Maybe it feels like a strange thing to confess in this situation, but they aren't thoughts that she's taken lightly. It's something she's turned over in her mind more than once or twice, and having fun with him during his Carnival thing only solidified the idea...even if she was reluctant to admit it at the time.

She can tell that he's shocked, and that's no surprise. His head bows, and she takes that as an opportunity to bump her forehead against his again. She comes away with just a little bit of paint, which is summarily wiped away with the back of her hand and a grimace.

"This paint is still gross, though," she adds lightly, wiping her hands off on the closest bit of cloth she can find: some kind of tapestry supposedly for sale. "Is there anything else you're supposed to do for this? To finish it off?"

Usually up in the arenas he doesn't actually have for more he can do. He could only bring one token and that meant the necklace tube of paint alone. But this is special circumstance. Usually there ain't being no way for proper face.

He rises up to his feet and walks on over in that stiff, silent fashion avoxes tend like to do. He goes to the racks of make up and looks it over, up and down, to see if they might have some setting powder.

In the most distant of senses, an ire churns. They had these all lain out here as such like his faith and the paint ain't weren't being some shit sacred. For a second, his brows furrow, then he finds what he was looking for and walks back, settling to the floor and holding it vaguely out to her.

He places the powder in her hands, but Terezi is a little uncertain how she's supposed to use this. She assumes--correctly--that it's supposed to go on his face somehow, but the intricacies of paint and make-up application are not her forte. She frowns a little at the jar before lifting her attention up to Kurloz.

I don't think I understand... What am I supposed to do with this? I don't want to mess it up." It, being the paint that she's just carefully applied for him. It was pain-staking enough the first time. She really doesn't want to do it over again.

He can't paint himself. It's too hard as all he is. But this is just a second long thing. She doesn't know how to do it and she's asking him what to do.

He can do this.

His eyes close and he breathes deep like he's gathering every part of himself what he can. Like he's preparing to sever a limb and not just do good by his Messiahs and his ownself. (He ain't supposed to have a self, he's supposed to-)

He takes the power from her, opening it up with a face torn between fear, determination, and trying not to have expression up at all. He's not giving personhood to himself, he's just making a tribute's hard work keep. Yeah. His hands tremble but he's going to do it if it kills him. He puts the powder on.

And once it's on, the paint made for staying, he droops like he's been drained of energy entirely. His face goes blank again but his eyes are a little brighter than before.

Edited 2014-09-16 01:22 (UTC)

Terezi honestly expected him to give some sort of demonstration or to mime what she should do. Or simply say nothing at all. So when he begins to apply it himself, Terezi sucks in a quiet breath and holds it.

She almost forgets to breathe during that, and when he finally finished and droops like he's been sucked dry of willpower... That's when she finally exhales in a relieved sort of sigh. He did it. It must have been so difficult, but he did it.

"Thank you," she says, smiling at him and taking the powder from his hands to place the cap back on it. "I'm so proud of you. You did well." She hopes that the encouragement will help to reinforce that this was the right thing to do.

For a long moment, he just sits the numbly un-reactive, too drained to nothing to offer up anything the motherfuck at all. The slowly, in the tiniest increments, his eyes lift up, then his head, until he he can sort of see her there before him.

He did well... she's... proud?

He knows he gave himself personhood when he wasn't supposed to. But did he follow her command, in some sense?

Was he really worth any pride at all even if he had?

He has the strangest urge to simply curl up here and rest. Not touching her, but near, with the warmth of her pride and the weight of his exhaustion. He merely closes his eyes and sighs. His hand goes to his side, feeling the book left there, and he picks it up to draw it close to himself.

It's not the first time that he's touched that book. He's been carrying it around with him since she found him outside the store. Why, she's not sure, but it must be important to him to keep it with him. That's good at least, right?

It feels a little like he's drawing in, so she leans forward to bump her head against his again--leaving it there this time. They'll have to move soon. They can't stay hidden away in this store forever, but it's enough to let him rest a bit after all of that. They can move on when he's ready.

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With your feet in the air and your head on the ground

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