They wake him up earlier than the others, almost at night still, and all too early to catch a broadcas. Ain't that a mercy? Because if he had, he'd have gone to panic a lot more than he was being to do then. Stepping out of his room, peacekeepers there, glancing around to find ain't nobody coming with him. That two seconds of horror that this might be what he thinks, that they've come for him, and they're going to make him a mute again because he just wasn't being good enough.
Then nothing. Whatever happened, he doesn't remember it, and right up until he rises up into the arena, that dark fog remains.
He sways upon the platform, like growth in the ocean. His helmet if perfectly round at the top, normal as all any human's. His head sings, with the countdown beating on him with each number and dancing 'round his thinkpan. He looks around through the Helmet, seeing a lot of motherfuckers what's around but not being able to tell who's who. He squints, like that might make it all the clearer by some miracle. He spots the square shaped holes around the distant walls. He sees the cubes upon the ground, all just laying there, waiting.
He sees so many motherfucking stars. It's so beautiful, even with his head aching. Are they going to kill him like they did the first arena? Make it so he dies here and winds up somewhere else? He guesses he'll find out.
The countdown ends and he lurches forward. It's like swimming, he should be able, but Mirth his head is spinning and all of want to come the fuck off. He reaches the cube closes to him but missing putting his hand on it at least three times. He has to be careful, he manages to think through the spin. If he loses this he's dead. This is the extent of what all he knows, as he tries not to lose the cube when shoving it in the slot, as he sees the faster of the other Tributes is doing. The doors open and he steps in, the door snapping the rope he didn't all quite realise was on him, but something much greater happens. The voodoo comes back.
Like breaking out from underwater, he can suddenly breathe again. He can feel and he can feel. Motherfucking. Everybody. Their horrors dance in his head, their paranoias and fears. He can feel the minds and souls of all, and his eyes flash against the visor, showing the pink to indigo back and forth as it dizzies his ownself. And more than that, he can feel sharp the ache of what's missing.
He's stripping out of that space suit and fast, claws near making to tear in his panic. He twists and pulls and yanks it inelgantly off of him. He reaches up for the Helmet and makes a pained gasp as it comes off. He sees the button, slams it to move on the next room, then collapses against the wall. His hands rise up, slow and shaking. He brings them up over his head, hovering, and feels nothing. Nothing. A noise slips from him, and he lowers his hands down on the place where all his horns should be, where his nerves burn. There's something there, like a soft plastic and cloth instead, stitches up to hold them on. A strangled cry comes.
His horns are gone. His horns are motherfucking gone.
He jerks his hands away with a final scream. He's a sitting duck right there, as all motherfuckers make to come up but he can't think, his head aches, his horns are gone, and the voodoo is all caught up in his thinkpan. He stays there, rocking, trying to steady himself in the sea of everyone's fears as his eyes flash that solid pink to indigo, fear seeping on out of him in waves for them unfortunates coming near.
Initiate Open + Body horror warn?
Then nothing. Whatever happened, he doesn't remember it, and right up until he rises up into the arena, that dark fog remains.
He sways upon the platform, like growth in the ocean. His helmet if perfectly round at the top, normal as all any human's. His head sings, with the countdown beating on him with each number and dancing 'round his thinkpan. He looks around through the Helmet, seeing a lot of motherfuckers what's around but not being able to tell who's who. He squints, like that might make it all the clearer by some miracle. He spots the square shaped holes around the distant walls. He sees the cubes upon the ground, all just laying there, waiting.
He sees so many motherfucking stars. It's so beautiful, even with his head aching. Are they going to kill him like they did the first arena? Make it so he dies here and winds up somewhere else? He guesses he'll find out.
The countdown ends and he lurches forward. It's like swimming, he should be able, but Mirth his head is spinning and all of want to come the fuck off. He reaches the cube closes to him but missing putting his hand on it at least three times. He has to be careful, he manages to think through the spin. If he loses this he's dead. This is the extent of what all he knows, as he tries not to lose the cube when shoving it in the slot, as he sees the faster of the other Tributes is doing. The doors open and he steps in, the door snapping the rope he didn't all quite realise was on him, but something much greater happens. The voodoo comes back.
Like breaking out from underwater, he can suddenly breathe again. He can feel and he can feel. Motherfucking. Everybody. Their horrors dance in his head, their paranoias and fears. He can feel the minds and souls of all, and his eyes flash against the visor, showing the pink to indigo back and forth as it dizzies his ownself. And more than that, he can feel sharp the ache of what's missing.
He's stripping out of that space suit and fast, claws near making to tear in his panic. He twists and pulls and yanks it inelgantly off of him. He reaches up for the Helmet and makes a pained gasp as it comes off. He sees the button, slams it to move on the next room, then collapses against the wall. His hands rise up, slow and shaking. He brings them up over his head, hovering, and feels nothing. Nothing. A noise slips from him, and he lowers his hands down on the place where all his horns should be, where his nerves burn. There's something there, like a soft plastic and cloth instead, stitches up to hold them on. A strangled cry comes.
His horns are gone. His horns are motherfucking gone.
He jerks his hands away with a final scream. He's a sitting duck right there, as all motherfuckers make to come up but he can't think, his head aches, his horns are gone, and the voodoo is all caught up in his thinkpan. He stays there, rocking, trying to steady himself in the sea of everyone's fears as his eyes flash that solid pink to indigo, fear seeping on out of him in waves for them unfortunates coming near.