thearena | Don't you break I will not let you

Entry tags:

Don't you break I will not let you

Who| A lowly Avox and you?
What| servitude!
Where| In the dining hall of the castle
When| Wednesdays only from dawn to dusk. (2nd, 3rd, 4th weeks so far)
Warnings/Notes| Avoxing references, naturally.

A

He prepares a feast that he cannot partake in. The arena began and immediately they lot of them were tasked with making the massive meal at fast a pace as possible. Despite the enormity of the task, it's still far from the worst or biggest thing any of those in their collective have done.

There is no fear of entering the arenas, possibly perishing there, when every moment alive is something of fear, but he knows in those who are able, there is no doubt a wonder. The last time Avoxes were let into the arena, many of them had not come out. He can remember the ringing of the explosion and the carnage of the corpses. He knows even if a Tribute were to set a trap once more here, none of them would do anything to stop it.

Fear of disobedience remains ever closer, far more powerful. It means after hours of standing perfectly still against the wall, a living statue, he will dive ahead at any sign of spill or mess to clean and serve.

B

The world of this arena is, for the most part, a gloomy one. He doesn't mind the dark, it all being easier on him as a troll, and for slipping into the shadow as an avox. But when the light peak through one of the high stained glass windows at one point, he blinks, breaking the character of being perfectly still. His head lifts up, and though it isn't kind on his eyes to look so direct into it, he cannot help himself.

The light shines through in visible beams and within them the dust dances like a million little stars. Its a slow waltz over all their heads, filling the dining hall with life without even meaning to. When he breathes, he can see them swirl faster before his eyes. The colors of the glass paint those little stars, and fill in all the greys with color; stone, clothing, his skin as well.

Nobody else seems to have noticed this rapturous sight, though he notices one of the newer made avoxes (new enough not to have fallen too far yet into the eternal pattern, but old enough that his first conditioning is fresh... something that will change soon,) glancing at him. There's the ghost of curiosity in that look, though to anyone but an avox the expression is as dull and empty as could be. Away he looks and he lifts a hand just an inch two out and up, swishing the air and it's dust. There's a breath of ease, and then the faintest sharper one as a Tribute enters their midst.

C

Overtime in the day of the third week, the rain of fish and frogs had sounded like marching in his ears, or like a hundred lashings befalling the earth below. It was a small mercy that they were not ordered to serve outside in that for he's sure many of the Gamemakers would have little care for a non-person. Except for Sigma that is. He can't imagine Sigma had condoned this at all, and if he had he would've only done so due to a strong-arm of his position and even his life, or the smaller risk. Sigma would've rather had him nearer, serving the coffees and teas and keeping him so busy he would have nowhere else to be. But it's only one day per week, so he'd overheard.

The "rain" sapped the light. But even as it was, each day, as dark approaches nearer, he begins to note that even the most well trained of the Avoxes start straining to see. He opts to be their eyes, no ulterior reason, just that if they fail, then they all fail together and their very function depend upon success. It means he's watching extra close, in case there's anything to trip over, any bit that needs cleaning, that the others won't spot. He can't do anything for them whilst a Tribute is here, but if he catches things before they show, it's fine. No one will be watching them on camera and no one cared if Avoxes did a little more than the norm of what they did for Tributes behind closed doors, even if that "more" is still "not much".

He can tell on his own when dusk has finally arrived for he feels more awake than he has all day, while his fellow Avoxes fight hard against exhaustion. Finally, it is time to clear the table away, and there is rush to do so that would leave one debating whether it was mere efficiency or desperate desire to rest and be done. But as is wont of any place serving food, there are stragglers, those who arrive late to the banquet hoping for scraps at the least. He debates, but not for long. He brings the food and drink he'd intended to cart off to the closest available chair for the arrival, laying it down neat and stepping back.

As the weeks go on, the amount of food available becomes less and less. He does not need to be a Tribute to read the signs.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Nux can't say he's fond of the 'rain'. It reminded him of the grey place, the bad place, with dying ravens. And after stepping outside to have a frog land on his face? Yeah, he's...not fond of repeating that one. It sure led to one dead frog, but it hadn't exactly been his most heroic moment, with all the screaming and flailing before the stomping.

But he's been here for a while now, and it's starting to take its toll. The Organic Mechanic had called him already a corpse, but that blood from the feral had done him good. But it was running out, now, apparently, and he felt...really not so good right now.

So he grabs at the shape that comes to put the plate of food in front of him, and the sight of it...kind of turns his stomach. "Look, friend. Blood. I need blood."

He freezes the moment he's grabbed, waiting for something, anything to happen.

He's asked for blood. What an odd request. It's something strange, not to hear, but to hear in a voice that isn't his own, isn't his oldest self wanting to the walls with miracles and beauty and horrors endless. No human he's ever known has asked for blood specifically. And this one is surely human, even if he looks... unwell.

He doesn't know what this human could need it for, or how the blood is wanted. But an order is an order.

Of all things, a good Avox could no sooner hurt anyone than a chair or a table. But unlike those things, an Avox can pick up a knife and wield like it is a familiar thing. He doesn't know how much blood is needed either, but perhaps he'll be told when enough is enough. He points the tip of the carving knife over the other wrist, bringing it down and cutting precisely enough to bring out a flow. His arms are already so scarred, no one will notice this. He doesn't respond to the pain as an Avox, nor for how much worse he's felt and walked off. This nothing. His eyes stay dull, but he's listening close for a response to the spilling indigo-purple.

It...wasn't that much of an order. Nux is a driver, yeah, but he's no Imperator. And it's only when the other guy didn't speak that he realizes how much he really misses someone to talk to.

But that. That...

"That...I didn't mean..." But then again, why not? Would it work any worse than how the Organic Mechanic did it? He tried to think back to the infirmary, how it was done, while he's staring at the color. "Wh-what blood type are you?" See, he knew that much.

To be fair, that's true. The command wasn't exactly commanding. But an Avox can process things only into orders to be followed and disobedience. Ignoring even a faint request skirts far too close to the latter of those things.

Which makes such a question one big problem when he can't communicate. For more reasons than just the one.

Nux is not in luck. He knows less of how doctors (docterrorists) worked then Nux likely does. He fails to comprehend the question entirely, taking it to mean the most literal meaning he can think it to be. He steps closer towards the torch on the wall, lighting his arm up so Nux can see what type of blood he is. Indigo. Of course.

In real life, Nux couldn't order a kitten to nap, so this is a totally new experience.

He kind of doesn't like it as much as he thought he would.

But he can tell when he's supposed to look at something so he looks down at the arm, and, uh, "That's a, uh, that's a nice shade of blue." Really it is. Just, maybe not so normal for blood?

Okay, Nux. You asked for it, and this guy--it is a guy, right?--just cut his arm open for you and...yeah, come on. War Boys aren't known for fancy manners, but even they understand reciprocity (just don't ask him to spell it). So he's going to lean over, and tell himself it's blood and it all goes into the same place--him--so yeah, here goes nothing! Mmmtastyyyyyeeeeeeeech!!!

Uh, he means, "Thanks, mate." At least that's what he's trying to cough out.

Blue. Blue. Some small part of him still manages to be affronted. He wasn't a blue, he was way better than a snobby aristocratic ass blue. The was like calling him seadweller-violet, another pack of snobish aristocrats his caste had been slapped between.

But his conditioning bites right back on that slight twist in features and his thoughts both. He's not better anymore. He's lowest of the low, not even a person, not even an animal. He's a thing.

And this thing is to be offering blood to a-- oh. Oh. Motherfucker's a rainbowdrinker. Well shit. His arm aches with the slice and the drinking but he doesn't let it show. And more importantly, he doesn't let the faint fear show either. Rainbowdrinkers weren't exactly known for their charity and restraint. Would he be drained dry? He wishes he'd asked Kankri more about rainbowdrinkers, what with his mother being one.

But then, this may be one of the most unfortunate looking of rainbowdrinkers he's seen. Motherfucker's looking like he's getting a struggle on lapping at that blood. He has to admit to himself, even as an Avox he never exactly anticipated this being an event in his life.

The usual faint feeling of satisfaction with having done right is marred this time, as the thanks is coughed out rather feebly. He wants to assume this a dismissal and starts lowering his arm, but if an Avox could look concerned, he would.

It's not Nux's fault. They didn't really have much learning in the Citadel beyond engines and cars and throwing things. Colors are still kind of, you know, basic.

And besides, he said it was a nice shade!!

But they can agree on this being an event neither of them had anticipated. Nux sits back after a minute, looking a little green.

"I don't know. I mean." Is it just him or is the room feeling kind of, uh, barfy right now? Don't mind Nux: he's just gonna leeeeeean back against this chair. "It's gonna work, right?" Right?

This is true, and might be a fair enough conciliation in better circumstances. For all shades being good or bad of his own, Nux's color is definitely going onto something he's certain a human shouldn't.

The Initiate's concern grows until it's something that can actually be seen flickering over his features, not just hiding under the surface of a blank face. He grabs empty bowls, napkins, water, anything that might be needed and wanted for.

He hasn't the faintest motherfucking idea if this would work. He hadn't even known what at this was supposed to do. He's getting the sneaking sense that whatever was originally thought wasn't was wanted.

Maybe it's the wrong blood? But he glances back at his fellow Avoxes, proper red, all of them, but he knows that they would be bled dry and die from it before a soul helped them. He could bleed a while and be fine enough still. It's not as though he can speak up anyway.

Well, now there's two of them without the faintest fucking idea if this would work, but Nux's stomach is voting NOPE.

"...water?" he croaks, because maybe it's just the taste of it that's kind of overwhelming and he could dilute it a bit? He's grabbing at the table, trying to find a glass, but he's probably knocking more things over than not. "I-I'll be fine in a minute. I'm sure."

He's totally not sure. But the guy looks upset and Nux doesn't want to look you know like a wuss.

There's no hesitation. He just about dives, in his haste to follow command and get the requested water. One little bit of universality that, ain't none of them as what could live up without, and what was the clearest possible solution to this problem.

Luckily for Nux, this water just so happens to be clear too, not at all like the muddied well water or the salty sea. No ill what to be had of this. He hoped.

He fills the cup up and passes it over, figuring it large enough to wash this all on out. He's not exactly being no kind of docterrorist himself.

'Lucky' and 'Nux' don't often seem to go together. And he feels bad--the guy cut his arm open for him, and here's Nux trying not to barf.

He takes the water, gulping down three or four long swallows, hoping it will settle the acid sort of simmer in his belly.

"Thanks." His voice is croaky and hoarse, and he reaches out his other hand, the one not holding the water, to do, you know, some sort of macho hand clasp thing. Because they are bros now. Or something.

Relieves starts to spread in him. It isn't much. There's still no telling what could go wrong here and if there'd be anything at all to do about it. But it's an assurance some respite can be claimed.

Bros. That would be nice. But he's an Avox and he doesn't know what to do with an expression of grattitude save for carry on in his work. He certainly doesn't know what to do with the hand offered to him. This is a human handshake, he thinks, but he is not a person, let alone a human.

He reaches over for a piece of bread and fits it in Nux's hand instead.

Part of it is that Nux is used to feeling like crap. This was just a little...extra terrible, but he could manage it. War Boys didn't let anything like their stomach wanting to invert itself slow them down!

The bread slaps into his palm and there's a moment of 'wut?' because whatever that is does not feel at all like a hand. He looks down at it, and then up at the other guy, and, OH RIGHT. Probably not from the Citadel. They probably did things different where he was from.

He looks at it--it's that thing he's been avoiding eating since he has no idea what it is. And it's...spongy and fluffy. Weird.

Is he supposed to eat it? Or what? Right, this is time for diplomacy, so he's just gonna stow it in his pocket. You know, for later. "Thanks...?"

He almost thinks to protest. That bread isn't going to last if Nux just saves it. He has vivid image all at once of trying to scarf down a damp molding bit of bread, but even if he had a tongue, and even though he's pretty damn hungry himself, he doesn't think he'd dare.

But it doesn't take long at all to recall all the reasons he definitely can't be about no protesting. Nux will just have to figure out for himself. Hopefully he will.

His head bows in what could but doesn't necessarily have to be a nod. All to interpretation is that little bit of communication. He takes a step back, hands folding together behind him, waiting for if more of his service is need or otherwise letting the man go.

If Sam hadn't come to visit him, Psii would have stayed hiding down in the catacombs eating bats. Instead, Psii decided to chance this feast at the castle. ("If we get attacked, I can inthinerate them. Jutht point my head in the right direction, theeing-eye-human.") Psii admired Sam not only for his practicality and skill, but for his compassion, too. He could trust someone like that to be his eyes. No doubt he'd fit right in with Signless's followers.

Psii's monk robes had taken a beating, ripped from his lightning strike and later covered in dust. He figured the rags would help camouflage him as they crept across the grass.

"No, Sam, for the latht time, you are not carrying me. Pretending to be lame when I'm already blind ithn't thexthy. We're almotht there anyway."

In truth, he'd feel embarrassed to be carried. Troll invalids were usually culled, since the belief was they'd die sooner than later anyway. Psii's legs worked perfectly fine, even if he stumbled over a rock or twenty. If Sam carried him, he might die of mortification and never be able to face him again.

Of course Sam'd gone to visit him. Maybe Psii didn't want to leave the catacombs or join the group of allies Sam is with, but Sam still wanted to check in on him, make sure he was as okay as he could be, try to get him out to get some food. ("Hell yeah man, I got you covered and you got me covered. And I'm gonna remember that in case those make outs ever do end up happening.") Psii is his friend, as far as Sam's concerned, and he has a bad habit of trying to look out for them.

His own wizard robe has long since discarded, turned into bandages, but he'd found a replacement outfit in one of the closets of the castle rooms. Not exactly his style, but at least he wasn't tripping all over himself in it.

Which means he could totally carry Psii up to the feast, but given Psii's likely discomfort with it, he's not really pushing. That's not going to stop him from teasing about it, though.

"Why do you keep spurning my romantic gestures, huh? Just think of how impressive it'd be, me carrying you in to a magnificent feast."

It was bad enough that Sam checked up on him and brought food like a lusus. Psii didn't want him to think him useless. For some reason he felt overly concerned what this human thought of him. He liked how capable and compassionate he was, and he wanted to be the same.

"It'th not thexthy! How can you be attracted to an invalid? Humanth are fucking weird. Ithn't there thome other courtship ritual--"

Bristling at Sam meant he wasn't watching how his feet felt the ground. His foot stubbed on a rock, but Psii knew enough to keep whatever rude word he'd have shouted down to a hiss. They were still in the danger zone. He grit his teeth and rubbed his toe. He'd escaped his lightning strike with only one shoe.

"Ok, if nothing hath eaten uth by now, we should be relatively thafe. Carry on, human. Hoitht me up like an unattractive thack of dirt tuberth and let'th get on with thith embarrathing shitshow. God, my foot hurtth."

He winces a little when Psii stubs his toe, and considers telling him that that’s the reason that Sam’d wanted to carry him, but it looks like Psii’s already there. Which is more than good with Sam - it saves him from having to actually have to try to convince the guy, and it means he can still joke about romantic gestures.

“Nah, man, it’s not about you being an invalid. It’s about me knowing you’re way more than capable of zapping the hell out of anything that comes after us and you letting me help you out the best way I can, anyway.”

He rests a hand on Psii’s shoulder for a moment, giving it a squeeze before he crouches down to sweep Psii up into his arms.

“You protect my ass and I’ll protect your toes, all right?” he asks, and then grins a little. “Besides, how the hell else am I supposed to show off how much work I put into my biceps, huh?”

Sam announced where he was when he stood next to Psii and clasped his shoulder. Then Psii's world gently tilted as he was cradled in the arms of a warm human. It wasn't often he let someone hoist him like this, his priority being avoiding injury in the first place. He had to relax each of his stiff muscles one at a time before he felt comfortable. Psii prodded one of Sam's firm biceps, half impressed and half jealous. Alternian aesthetic tended to follow those who looked strong.

"My toeth thank you. I hope, for your thake, that the camerath are getting an eyeful. Wouldn't want your effortth to go to wathte, would we?"

He fumbled around and drew out a piece of paper, the kind sent with sponsor packages. He'd also received a stack of Celebrus with it, but he didn't care much about reading that now.

"Before we go in and pothibly get ourthelveth killed by hungry hordeth, can I athk a favor? I got thith along with thome thupplieth, but I have no idea who it'th from or what it thayth. Can you find uth thome cover and read it to me?"

Sam chuckles when Psii pokes his biceps, just barely managing to resist the urge to flex. ...okay, maybe he does it just a little, but it's mostly to accommodate Psii's weight in his arms. Really.

"The cameras are always getting an eyeful." His amused grin doesn't fade, but there's something softer in his voice. As close as he gets to acknowledging that yeah, the cameras are always watching them and most of what he does is with an awareness of that these days, and it sucks.

But he shakes his head a little, glancing at the paper that Psii pulls yeah. "Yeah, man, of course. Looks like a note, probably from one of your mentors or escort. Dining hall's got a couple of spots we can hide in."

"Hey, I feel you flexthing! Don't you dare drop me jutht to pothe for the camerath! That will be two hundred pointth off your thexy-o-meter!"

He wrapped an arm securely around Sam's neck. He wasn't ready to be unceremoniously dropped like a sack of dirt tubers until they were safely inside.

"If you think it'th not thafe enough to read out here, then we'll brave the cathtle firtht. I wouldn't know, obviouthly. Man, being blind ith a fucking drag.... Open the door and tell me where to shoot."

Sunlight gold and sparkling dust-motes, these were signals of safety. Dust settled where no-one had been, sun meant safety, light meant freedom. There was food on the table, and maybe Shepard's methodic, hurried way of shoving extra into her makeshift carry-sack stole something from the dignity of the moment, but it was all she knew.

Shhff! a movement behind her, somewhere, the soft scuff of an avox foot on stone. They'd been coming in and out all afternoon, carting things in and clearing them out. Shepard jumped every single time, too wary to the idea of a stealth tribute, and the promise of blood to garnish the table.

Not that she hadn't considered it, herself. But the food was more important.

"You ever want to just throw somebody down a flight of stairs?" Her voice was loud in the hallowed silence, wrought sun-gold. She glanced and-- oh. It's you, "...don't answer that."

That's not funny, Shepard. That's mean.

The light is beautiful, but their views are backwards. Safety, freedom... those had never existed in the light of day. The dark was safe. The pitch blackness was reaching out and feeling like your body must be an infinite thing. But things needn't be safe to be beautiful.

The sudden sound of her voice makes the other Avoxes tense. He's no exception, but at least a little, he has different reasons. Perhaps the moment is murdered by her but it was a moment that never should have lived in the first place.

Has he ever thrown someone down stairs? Surprisingly, no. He usually murdered them well before the staircase came along. He's been shot down stairs as an Avox, but that was a whole other thing.

He doesn't scowl or frown at her for her question, but his assumption is immediate; he needs to deal with this somehow. He walks on forward, making his approach to the table and grabbing what he can to pass it on to her way. He doesn't little more than blink slow with her follow up.

He hands her a fork and she looks at it with nothing short of suspicion. She looks at him, shorn like a sheep, bowed shoulders, blinking with that slow, deliberate avoidance of conflict that she has learned to associate with the tongueless. Shepard remembers this: close cavern walls and the emaciated dead. She remembers uncertain fates, promises and livery, a girl who called herself 'she'. Shepard remembers a conversation, in a library, and thinks to herself, I lied.

She pockets the fork and says nothing, turning away. Let him have the silence then, if that was what was left to him. He had asked her for his life, and she had given him her word. And nothing else.

And the world, was watching.

There's a twist in him, way deep in his guts and the darkest bit of his heart, a bitter snarling thing that claws from the back of his throat. Walking away, always fucking walking away, he thinks with a sudden sharp violence that the rest of his current self recoils from.

But what else did he expect to happen. He doesn't want her damn sympathy and that's the most anyone can offer him right now.

So he lets her go, just like last time. He hates and can't figure out who it's directed at.

It's late and the feast - for all that it's not that anymore - is probably picked bare, but he couldn't chance checking on it sooner, to contend with the healthier tributes, to take his chances when he's slowly becoming more and more ill as the days pass. Still, he can't rely on the others, be a burden on Bucky, Sam. He still doesn't trust them, no, but his wariness is slowly ebbing with each passing week, his comfort rising. So, he can't just linger and rely on them, he has to still survive on his own, he still needs to pull through on his own two feet.

So, with the cover of the failing light, Steve makes his way to the dinning hall, using his size to his advantage to stay quiet and out of sight. But he arrives too late, seeing the Avoxes pack up what remains, leaving him with nothing. Sure, he could run up and steal something, but he won't endanger the Avoxes, he knows too well what they went through to become that. He knows well enough now to look at them with understanding instead of pity.

He's about to turn, to leave, when he sees one of them turn, placing the food and drink they held back on the table, stepping away in invitation to Steve. There's a long moment of pause before Steve moves closer, eyeing the scraps, then back up at the Avox, the dim light and bad eyesight masking the familiar face until now. It makes him even more determined not be the cause of any further punishment for the troll.

“I don't want to get you into anymore trouble,” Steve says it softly, his breathing a near constant wheeze now, even as his body protests him not diving for the food while he has the chance.

Steve is not an Avox. This ain't like things with Cecil or Punchy or Starkiller or Justin was getting to being. He can't commune the way Avoxes do, privately little things amongst themselves, signs on their faces and in their movement to tell, things only they can see, as a whistle only the obedient dog can hear.

But they are not Avoxes for merely being mute. There's the little twitches, the sharp jarring signs that the rest of the world stays blind to. He can't offer that non-communication back, Steve is still a Tribute, but he can see it. He can try a little more. He can think of the irony of it, that Steve is surely doomed, deemed as much a worthless, ruined traitor as himself, but because Steve is still a Tribute he still has duty to serve.

Those little loopholes what all make the world go round. Even now he manages to be good at it.

There's a breath's worth of time, then he steps forward again and repositions the food, neater and nicer. He steps back again. They can do this all damn night. He's nocturnal, he can manage. He's going to get into trouble either motherfucking way. He knows his reconditioning is sure to come. The least he can do is offer some more time to one who should've more. If there's only one thing he has too much of, it's time.

There's a long second where Steve just watches him carefully, trying to determine something there is no voice for. He's not even sure what he's looking for, but his gaze doesn't leave the troll, even when he steps forward to fix the plate in reply. Steve wasn't expecting words or a nod or anything, but this is as loud as a scream where Avoxes are concerned.

And he hears it clearly.

Steve nods, his eyes squinting ever so slightly in a smile he doesn't show, a thank you, before he moves to get into the chair. The food is scraps more than anything, the bread a little moldy, but Steve picks at it, finding things that smell right, that look okay before eating it. As he does, he keeps glancing at Initiate, half out of caution, half out of concern.

Maybe Initiate can read the as of yet unspoken question of how the troll is doing, of if he's okay. Steve hadn't ever wanted to see this happen to him, he feels responsible for not fighting harder, for not doing more.

The twitch in his eyes, a smile that doesn't spread, a thank you as ain't said. He accepts it, holding it close in his mind the way he can only hold other broken damaged things. A ghosts touch that passes through anything unfitting of the place.

He wishes the food were better. He wishes there was more than just food to be had. He wishes that Steve had more time. This is too close to that little fear he talks always of, and yet is never mentioning at all, the inevitability. Brightveins. Beautiful little sparks burning the fuck out and out and out while the ocean goes on and on.

This is too fast. This is way too fucking soon. He doesn't even know Steve so well outside the unspeakable understandings they've come to in the past month or two, with only two moments held in that. This wasn't supposed to happen to Steve.

He spares a glance at his fellow Avoxes, still clearing things away, then looks back down with a sigh. His hand is upon the table, pushing a cloth napkin closer, but his hand lingers a second too long. I am well considering. I am more worried on you.

For the moment, Steve just nibbles on the food before him (well, the good parts of it) instead of scarfing it down and he knows he shouldn't prolong this when it's better not to, but he almost can't help it. This is first time since his capture he's felt, well, almost at ease around someone. He knows the Capitol is watching, he knows they will take any chance they can to punish either of them if they so much as toe the line, but it's probably too late. Steve is a traitor more than a tribute and Initiate is serving him instead of cleaning up, they both signed themselves up for whatever is to come at this point.

Steve wishes he could do more for the troll, he really does. He feels he could have fought harder, lasted longer, then maybe, just maybe, Initiate and the others could have gotten away. But no, they had made those network posts, there was no sparing Initiate capture. Maybe if Steve had done more damage, said it was his idea, maybe they would have- It doesn't really matter what could have happened, it did and Steve feels responsible.

The movement steals his attention from his thoughts, watching, hoping he's reading that right, but he doesn't have the same art of subtle communication down that Avoxes do. Still, his poor hearing taught him a long time ago to read people not their words, so he thinks he gets the gist of it and does his best to communicate in kind, though errors are definitely possible.

He takes the napkin into a gentle grip, skin touching skin for a split second. I wish I could do more for you. Steve pulls it away to wipe his mouth before setting it back down again with a gentle pat. I'm fine, see? Nothing to worry about.

The touch of Steve's hand goes through him like an electric shock, and indeed it hearkens back to volts on volts coursing through him in his conditioning process. It brings the ghost of that, and that ghost courts fear, and for a moment his weakening conditioning shows in the sharp frightened exhale that comes.

But it's just a split second. He catches the meaning here regardless of all that. Fucking rebels, he thinks for the first time in maybe half a sweep, less in derision now that exasperation. And sadness.

His eyes don't narrow. They would if he weren't conditioned to show nothing at all, but such isn't the case. You're a liar and I am not fooled. There's no outside indication of this statement, but he thinks it anyway. He thinks it in the way that, if he had voodoo, Steve would hear him, if only in his mind.

He tries to think how to say things like, 'don't you dare blame yourself', 'don't motherfucking worry about me', 'do something as to impress them into making stay of you', 'win'. It's frustrating. The hardest part ain't his lack of voice it's his lack in will, the ability to fight and make something happened that ain't commanded.

He turns back to the other section of the table, gathering up emptied plates and more of the part-molded food. I am going to keep doing at what all I'm doing. You keep doing at yours. Which means living.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Don't you break I will not let you

C slap me if this doesn't work? late in this week

AHAH oh no this is lovely

hurray!

These poor disasters

i am so sorry xD

ahahah don't be...

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B

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C-ish

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