[OPEN] The power's out in the heart of man

[futilecycle]

Who | Sigma and the Initiate; Sigma and you!
What | Sigma decides enough is enough and starts a bonfire outside of Chapter One.
When | Week 2 and 3.
Where | Chapter One bookstore.
Warnings/Notes | Mentions of serious injury. To be added.

[OPEN]

Sigma was nearing the end of his considerable patience for this Arena.

The cover of his biography alone had given Sigma a terrible start: -Confessions of a Gamemaker, as poorly written and uninspired as the title suggested- and he'd hidden himself in the back of the store to read it cover to cover, eager to discover what dirt the Capitol had on him. What he found disturbed him wholly. He understood the spin: Sigma was an unattractive old man with a small handful of fans, most of whom had moved on to more interesting Tributes before long. But his confession had sparked interest, drawn those who loved the idea of Games in a world other than theirs, and thus this piece of trash had come to be. He wondered if these books would be made public, published in Capitol bookstores - or worse, narrated dramatically during the broadcast. A sensationalist interpretation of his life was one thing, but spreading lies about Diana when she might still be alive... He couldn't begin to express his disgust at such slander. Sigma clenched what remained of his right hand until metal ground into metal and screeched. Facade be damned, he was going to burn every last one of these.

It did not take long to gather a stack of them into a pile and ready the fire starting kit he had received. He did not think to comb the store for more copies, only emptying the ones on display and dousing them in an excessive amount of gin. The inferno was loud and immediate, rising tall as it burned the paper to ash. Sigma sat near the blaze and waited, warming himself. This would no doubt draw attention - that suited him. He was looking for a fight, half a man that he was, lumbering about the Arena with only one hand left and no sensation in it. Yes, it might be nice to give up, here...

As the fire spread, Sigma covered his eyes with his sleeves to shield his grief. He did not want to admit that there was a piece missing from his life, a connection between himself, Diana and Phi that he was not privy to. There was evidence contrary to what these books believed, and Sigma could only cling to it helplessly for reassurance. He didn't want to consider the implications if such an outrageous guess turned out to be true.




[Sigma and the Initiate]

Recovering from a traumatizing ordeal, Sigma continued to tremble long after he'd escaped from Harley. He'd retreated to a far corner of the mall to survey the damage the grenade had wrought: his left hand had been blown clean off, breaking his wrist into a sharp metal stub. Traces of charred skin clung to the back of his right hand, but as sluggish as the damaged skeleton was, it was usable, to Sigma's great relief. The injuries his coat concealed were far worse: his chest was soaked in blood from shrapnel that had rained down on him, both from the grenade casing and from splinters that had once been the bones of his hand.

In shock, Sigma collapsed against the wall and waited to calm, completely overwhelmed. It took a long hour before he could gather the strength to make it down to the lockers. Sponsor gifts waited there, as he had suspected: his villain speech had drawn some interest from the wealthy, after all. He surveyed his supplies: a fire starting kit, a crowbar, and a bottle of gin. ...So it wasn't exactly what he had anticipated, but he would make it work.

Sigma stole some clothes from a nearby store and ripped them into shreds for gauze. He unbuttoned the jacket that had nearly melted onto his skin and shrugged it off to expose his injuries. Holding his breath, Sigma attempted to pour gin over his injured shoulder - his shaking and crippled hand spilled a quarter of the bottle onto the ground. Sigma cursed; he couldn't rub a soaked cloth onto his wounds if it would force the metal deeper, but he couldn't pick out the shrapnel with a broken hand. He'd find help, or he'd suffer. Pulling a clean woolen jacket over his shoulders, Sigma gave in to despair and huddled there.

Comments

[carnagecarnival]

The whimpers start up and, curiously, his first thought is that he wishes Sigma had for a moirail. Preferably a moirail what could sit by here. Motherfucker is all about needing the shoosh paps sweet up and on, a soothe against the ache. But Sigma ain't got one and it ain't the sort of thing the Initiate can or wants to give.

The whimpers and noises of pain try as to make him unsteady. He's hurting a tribute, is what his thinkpan whispers on at him. Disobediant. Sinner. He grits his teeth hard to fight against it. His ears flatten against the metal's screech.

He only pauses for true when Sigma speaks. He goes still as he considers all the same things what Sigma does. Now or later? Later, he thinks, would be best. Do it all at once. Get the sting over with and then the relief. Leave no question when it's like to be motherfucking over at last.

Its amazing Sigma should let this happen. Were Sigma a troll, the Initiate would be culled surely for what he's doing now and attempting to do, getting so close to one who was injured and in pain. He thinks on his own self and he can't remember even taking such care with his ownself. Disinfecting a wound? The fuck was that? But here, now, it all makes sense.

And with Sigma, it seems worth it. He hopes this works. He prays not again to try and save someone only to have them die in his grip. He is so tired of that.

With his eyes focused on his task, he plucks one bit after another. He trills lightly, just to see that Sigma ain't fading on him.

[futilecycle]

Without Phi or Diana to ground him, Sigma's mind has retreated somewhere far away, the place he went when suffering overwhelmed him. He is only vaguely aware that the Initiate has made a sound, and opts to respond with a drowsy nod rather than an answer. Keep going. The sooner this ended, the better for the both of them.

Each piece removed causes Sigma's whole body flinch. At the end of the ordeal he is almost within a state of catatonia. In his younger body, he had strode unyieldingly into into the maw of a killing machine. Now his age has reduced his capacity for pain, and he has gone pale, on the brink of fainting. He feels as though his chest has been rubbed raw with a grater, and with his high blood pressure the loss of real, red blood has made him dizzy. The temptation to rest is too great: Sigma closes his eyes. He falls upon the borderline between consciousness and sleep before he worries he would frighten the Initiate, and so he forces his eye open, like prying skin from frozen metal. After he blinks a few times, his eyes finally seek his caregiver for reassurance that this is almost over.

[carnagecarnival]

He doesn't want to do this. On no level does he want to do this and he's trying so hard not to shake with what he's going but it's motherfucking hard. He gets scared sudden and sharp when Sigma's eyes close. He remembers trying to save Disciple with that amounting to nothing. This time the blood coating his hands it red as rage. Red as love. Sometimes he thinks humans had this color blood to taunt him.

But Sigma's got white too. White like care. And that care gets pushing Sigma's eyes back open and he gives a choked chirp of relief.

Then apology, because next all comes the liquid what's sure as sure going to burn. He picks it up, looking pleading. Brace yourself. Then he starts to pour.

[futilecycle]

Sigma expected the alcohol to burn, but not one of his infinite lives had prepared him for the fire the union of gin and blood would create. Sigma screams, the desperate wail of a man who, more than all the evil in the world, hated pain. Seconds later it is choked out, lost in his throat, not wanting to put the Initiate in any more danger than he already was. As he writhes, his functional arm sprawls out behind him and gropes for the crowbar he had laid against the wall. He clings to the weapon like a hand to hold through pain. Then it is done, and Sigma gasps and sobs between breaths, tears burning down his cheeks.

It takes him a good while to compose himself. Tears give way to a stoic, hollow expression. From his position on the ground, Sigma drags the crowbar along the floor carefully, trying to make as little noise as he can manage. He no longer has the strength to lift it into his arms.

He adjusts his grip on his only weapon until he is satisfied he could swing it, given the need. "...If someone comes, you run," he commands. His eyes are empty, his head limp against his shoulder and staring at the floor. He cannot tell the Initiate how he loves him and how much good he has done, but he can express his gratitude in other ways.

[carnagecarnival]

The scream fills his ears. He's not unaccustomed to screams. But he doesn't want to hear it come from someone what all he cares for. He doesn't want it to come about by the will of he who's Avoxed. There's one irrational moment he thinks of slamming his hands over his ears, but he refrains from it.

Tears flow and he almost thinks to wipe them from Sigma's face. But then Sigma grabs the weapon and all his old instincts and what he's got of his Avoxing crash down, and his arms go up to cover his head without thinking. But Sigma doesn't swing at him. Not even when he's near able.

He's just making to protect himself, for if he should be left alone. His arms lower down and his shaking, blood-coated fingers go to the floor.

i stay?

He'll obey Sigma's command, of course. But no one's coming yet. At least, he can't hear anyone. His eyes dart about, just to be sure.

[futilecycle]

He can see the Initiate move from the corner of his eye - Sigma protectively attempts to sit up when the Initiate covers himself, believing he had been startled stiff by another Tribute, or an incoming strike from the Gamemakers. His pain prevents him, and when Sigma gauges that there is no immediate danger and returns to rest, he realizes with horror that the Initiate had expected a blow from him.

His simmering anger towards the Capitol once again spits and boils beneath the surface, but is quenched by his own hatred of himself. He had caused this, caused Kurloz to expect pain and punishment from a man on which he should be able to rely.

He was so far beyond becoming a good person and an admirable figure for his son that the Doctor did not know why he continued to live his parasitic life. "I would like that," Sigma whispers tiredly. His voice lowers, still audible to the audience, but easily mistaken as a dying man's confusion. His eye begins to flutter open and close as he loses the battle against keeping himself from slipping into unconsciousness. "But only if it is what you want."

[carnagecarnival]

If he knew, if he even could, he'd argue. It's a natural thing on Alternia. It's a natural thing as an Avox (although, were he better, he'd have let whatever happened just happen). It's perfectly reasonable for someone to do so to him. He'd not even hold it against Sigma if he had.

But of course he wouldn't. Sigma is good. Sigma is kind. Sigma has and will always look out for him, penultimate. He'd have one less person what to rely on, without Sigma, and so he'd never wish him to go. He believes that.

He leans forward and nods frantic, even knowing Sigma's slipping off. There's just one moment of pause, and then he's shifting around, moving so that his back is to the wall, right next to Sigma. He's not touching, but he's close enough to reach. His presence can be felt, no matter how he tries not to have one. He should keep watch, he knows, but just for a moment or two, he thinks to rest his eyes next to someone he cares for.