The Initiate Fraysong ♑ (Young GHB) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
carnagecarnival) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-06-26 03:41 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thearena2014-06-26 03:41 pm
Entry tags:
I'm becoming less defined as days go by
Who| Initiate and Terezi, Initiate and Homura, Initiate and Mordin and Terezi
What| The blind leads the blind, the Initiate puts his power to use, and then he is put down.
Where| Along the streets, then in the amusement park.
When| This week.
WARNINGS| Eye trauma, body horror (becoming a zombie), Violence, death, dissection for science! Language.
[Terezi:]
He stumbles through the street. Or he imagines it to be. He's listening close for the sound his feet make, a tap of concrete and the drag of gravel with his twisted leg. He can feel blood flow over his face. His paint is being washed away by his own traitorous hue. Between what's been done to his ocularspheres, his leg and his ribs, and the ache deep inside too much like... too much motherfucking hunger, it's hard not to make noise. His breath is too loud, his pusher beats too loud, every step and every noise is too motherfucking loud, how the fuck is he supposed to hear what's coming.
This is how his death will come to him. He won't be able to find what's a way to sink weapon or what will leave him with lost limb. He's just gonna die like that. Truth told, he's not too bothered by that last bit. He doesn't want to live blind, he can't live blind, not if he has a choice in the matter. He can die and Capitol will give him his sight back.
But fuck them if he's just meant to lay down for it. Fuck that, he's done with that, he ain't ever going to that shit. So he drags himself along, hands rising every so often to hover before his face, then drop again. But for some reason, some stupid ass reason, no beast comes. No tribute, no nothing. He could be walking off the cliff and would he know it?
He stops. And then from his throat rips a scream, pain and frustration all mixed up within. It echos out. Silence returns.
[Terezi - Hellarena start:]
The hunger don't stop. It just keeps going and going no matter what, distant and far as the dark blanks of his vision. But when the alarm sounded, it got sharper. He slammed his hands violently over his ears and snarled and hissed. His hands slid down to his arms to dig in until he could feel the blood. It felt like forever until finally stopped, longer still for his ears to stop ringing. And by then, he'd already pierced grey and torn flesh, leaving something... different underneath but it ain't muscle, however wet it feels. It ain't quite just blood.
By now he'd be of want to let out a purely miserable moan. But something good comes. He rises properly up to his feet, feeling out the way before him in the dark, because there in it, is a spark. It's something he can hold and feel and see. He tugs a little rougher on it than needed, on his way all finding her but he can't hardly help himself. He can feel people all over the arena, every single one what's left. There are colors and pictures in his minds eye.
She ain't even far. She probably just stood and walked around from where he's settled inside the (he assumes it's for games, there's a lot of softness about) booth. He can use his words but he's deep in the voodoo he calls out through it, speaking to her; TEREZI.
His voice is different this way. There's a loudness and softness layered, both warped and distorted. There are thousand echoing voices backed behind it. And there's his own, set clearest on top.
[Homura:]
He feels her coming from some ways off, another spark in the dark. He reaches out with fear and voodoo, slow and careful but not hesitant. He draws at her fear, trying to taste the flavor and shades. He makes all to map, real slow, who it is this might be. And of course, he commits it to memory. He won't forget whose fear this belongs to anymore than the fear itself.
He lets his voodoo touch and prod at her fear, not even trying to make like he ain't doing so. No. He's letting it be clear at least that someone is reaching out to her.
And then he grips it tight and tugs. The suggestion is unspoken but clear; Come to me. This way.
[Mordin:]
His skin is falling away, he feels it. A few hours ago, he's pretty sure he pulled out some of his hair. Just up and came like all it was nothing, a big motherfucking chunk of it. He lost a fang only to find there weren't any missing, he checked every inch of his aching jaw. He spent a small age snarling at what was probably a wall but maybe there was a camera there (probably, they were everywhere), draging his claws through the air and down his arms, screaming at how stupid they all were and how stupid this was and fuck you FUCK YOU-- until he remembered Terezi would still be near and that that mattered.
He's gotten bored and prodded at people's fears, poking and pushing. He's drawn all the color from them to paint the inside of his head. He's started painting them all dead, because it's funny and he's bored and he needs it. Every so often a laugh slips from him. Or a snarl.
But his body is tired and his mind is tired. His vision is still black and so it ain't easy to tell when all he starts to slip, if he's slipped at all or if he's in some half-state. It must be something though because he doesn't feel the person coming.
What| The blind leads the blind, the Initiate puts his power to use, and then he is put down.
Where| Along the streets, then in the amusement park.
When| This week.
WARNINGS| Eye trauma, body horror (becoming a zombie), Violence, death, dissection for science! Language.
[Terezi:]
He stumbles through the street. Or he imagines it to be. He's listening close for the sound his feet make, a tap of concrete and the drag of gravel with his twisted leg. He can feel blood flow over his face. His paint is being washed away by his own traitorous hue. Between what's been done to his ocularspheres, his leg and his ribs, and the ache deep inside too much like... too much motherfucking hunger, it's hard not to make noise. His breath is too loud, his pusher beats too loud, every step and every noise is too motherfucking loud, how the fuck is he supposed to hear what's coming.
This is how his death will come to him. He won't be able to find what's a way to sink weapon or what will leave him with lost limb. He's just gonna die like that. Truth told, he's not too bothered by that last bit. He doesn't want to live blind, he can't live blind, not if he has a choice in the matter. He can die and Capitol will give him his sight back.
But fuck them if he's just meant to lay down for it. Fuck that, he's done with that, he ain't ever going to that shit. So he drags himself along, hands rising every so often to hover before his face, then drop again. But for some reason, some stupid ass reason, no beast comes. No tribute, no nothing. He could be walking off the cliff and would he know it?
He stops. And then from his throat rips a scream, pain and frustration all mixed up within. It echos out. Silence returns.
[Terezi - Hellarena start:]
The hunger don't stop. It just keeps going and going no matter what, distant and far as the dark blanks of his vision. But when the alarm sounded, it got sharper. He slammed his hands violently over his ears and snarled and hissed. His hands slid down to his arms to dig in until he could feel the blood. It felt like forever until finally stopped, longer still for his ears to stop ringing. And by then, he'd already pierced grey and torn flesh, leaving something... different underneath but it ain't muscle, however wet it feels. It ain't quite just blood.
By now he'd be of want to let out a purely miserable moan. But something good comes. He rises properly up to his feet, feeling out the way before him in the dark, because there in it, is a spark. It's something he can hold and feel and see. He tugs a little rougher on it than needed, on his way all finding her but he can't hardly help himself. He can feel people all over the arena, every single one what's left. There are colors and pictures in his minds eye.
She ain't even far. She probably just stood and walked around from where he's settled inside the (he assumes it's for games, there's a lot of softness about) booth. He can use his words but he's deep in the voodoo he calls out through it, speaking to her; TEREZI.
His voice is different this way. There's a loudness and softness layered, both warped and distorted. There are thousand echoing voices backed behind it. And there's his own, set clearest on top.
[Homura:]
He feels her coming from some ways off, another spark in the dark. He reaches out with fear and voodoo, slow and careful but not hesitant. He draws at her fear, trying to taste the flavor and shades. He makes all to map, real slow, who it is this might be. And of course, he commits it to memory. He won't forget whose fear this belongs to anymore than the fear itself.
He lets his voodoo touch and prod at her fear, not even trying to make like he ain't doing so. No. He's letting it be clear at least that someone is reaching out to her.
And then he grips it tight and tugs. The suggestion is unspoken but clear; Come to me. This way.
[Mordin:]
His skin is falling away, he feels it. A few hours ago, he's pretty sure he pulled out some of his hair. Just up and came like all it was nothing, a big motherfucking chunk of it. He lost a fang only to find there weren't any missing, he checked every inch of his aching jaw. He spent a small age snarling at what was probably a wall but maybe there was a camera there (probably, they were everywhere), draging his claws through the air and down his arms, screaming at how stupid they all were and how stupid this was and fuck you FUCK YOU-- until he remembered Terezi would still be near and that that mattered.
He's gotten bored and prodded at people's fears, poking and pushing. He's drawn all the color from them to paint the inside of his head. He's started painting them all dead, because it's funny and he's bored and he needs it. Every so often a laugh slips from him. Or a snarl.
But his body is tired and his mind is tired. His vision is still black and so it ain't easy to tell when all he starts to slip, if he's slipped at all or if he's in some half-state. It must be something though because he doesn't feel the person coming.
no subject
At least she won't have to worry about Fraysong. Or Vriska. She tries not to look relieved before she realizes that he wouldn't be able to see it anyway. It's weird being around another blind person... Normally she's the one throwing everyone else for a loop.
"Do you need help? I can patch you up, find us some place to stay." Take care of him, like he took care of her in the last arena when she came to him injured and bleeding. A free hand goes to his face, very carefully brushing some of the blood away. Cool indigo coats her fingertips. It's a little gruesome, but nothing that she hasn't been accustomed to herself. Eye injuries and blood.
no subject
He's about to speak when he feels her touch on his face. It startles him and he nearly jerks away. But ultimately, it's something in the dark and with his free hand he reaches up, his head lifting again as he tries to get a sense of his world.
"SHE CAN PATCH SIGHT? A miracle. A MOTHERFUCKING MIRACLE WORKER IS SHE," He teases, unhinged. But then his face smoothes again and his head rests into her hand just that slight bit. He says softer, "He should like to motherfucking rest, dear ashleaf."
no subject
Dear ashleaf. She does blush this time, right into the tips of her ears. For one brief selfish moment, she's glad that he can't see her.
It sounds so elegant when he says it, and she doesn't know what to say back. Everything that she tries to think of sounds lame or insincere in the wake of that endearment. So she doesn't say anything at all as a response. She takes his hand instead, like she remembers him doing before, and she places a kiss against his palm. A promise to protect him and keep him safe.
"I'll find us someplace." She almost says safe, but there's no such thing here. The most they could hope for is a few hours of peace somewhere that's not entirely uncomfortable. "You can rest, then."
no subject
After a good few moments quiet, his mouth tugs up at one side. A smile all crooked and unfortunate looking with the pain all so close to it. But still a smile.
"BITCHTITS," He says, with that crooked grin.