Trisphee
#33
A selection from a roleplay that I'm especially proud of. I'm hoping to write a story for this universe in the near future.
Books littered the floor. More sat neglected on shelves. The room smelled of dust and, of course, himself. He forgets, sometimes, how much time his scent has had to permeate every inch of his quarters. It's stale, but not quite dirty, not yet. It would be, in a few days time, if he didn't behave. But even if he sat for a week, he wouldn't be bothered. Their punishment wouldn't work. That didn't keep him from noticing.
He'd been cleaned up the night before, several of them were, from what he'd understood. They had to be presentable, ready to offer themselves to scrutinizing eyes, hands, mouths — stop, stop that, don't think about it, think of anything else — his damned arm was itching again. Though he was covered with a thin, comfortable sweater, his arms were folded behind his back, tied into place with a far too elegant strip of fabric. It pulled his sleeves just slightly too tight, making the hidden tubing above the crook of his elbow press and rub whenever he moved the wrong way. Or at all.
This, too, was punishment. Needing to request help to do anything for himself. Maybe if he hadn't fought against the new line — too new, the itch wouldn't go away, and his shoulders were getting sore — maybe then he would have been given more privacy. Never away from the cameras, oh no, but cameras could hardly leap from the walls and stop him, could they?
His door opened.
His number was called. He didn't look up. They always used a number, at least for him, he hardly knew about the others. But this was good, oh yes. They didn't know his name, and he wasn't about to tell them. They couldn't take it away. Another call, closer. It was his, and so was his mind, they weren't taking it away, oh no, not yet, no matter how-
Pinstriped pants and black heels strolled into his view. "You look a wreck-" Obviously, what else could be expected? "-They were supposed to put you in something decent. I knew someone was gonna ask for you." Don't look up, don't react, but it was hard and his heart was hammering. She still heard it, they always could, but she moved away. Don't panic. It wasn't as if he hadn't done this before. Breathe, fighting now would make it worse.
"Get up then! We can still fix you up if you hurry." If there's no struggling, no shouting, no shoving. "You want to make a good impression, don't you?" Those long legs stopped before him again, and this time, he did look up, up from his spot on the only rug covering the cold floor. Her smile was tight, an arm now filled with stiff pieces of clothing. "I'll let you do it yourself, if you make it quick." He stared up at her, stared and watched, for ages, for an eternity, but she was perfect stone. His gut knotted as he gave a jerk of a nod.
Ten minutes later had him on his feet, watching an unfamiliar man in a glassless mirror. His hair was cut short, shorter than he'd liked, but it was still just long enough for its neglect to show in kinks. He looked older, god, so much older than he remembered, though it wasn't just that. It was like he'd been sick for so long — he supposed he still was, in a way. Thinning. Yellowing. But still strong, even he had to admit that. Maybe it showed better now, with less weight to cover it. Then again, really, how could he not be when all there was to do was either sit or move?
His gaze drifted down. The suit was stuffy and didn't fit him quite right. Cheap, but old and in good condition. His arm still itched terribly under his sleeves, but the cause of it didn't show. It was simple, all in all, just a safe, boring gray. He couldn't stand the tie, she'd tried to make him, but that had ended with him pinned to the floor with an ache at the back of his head. It left his neck and collar exposed. Almost like freckles, small scars were scattered across the visible skin, only standing out from the real ones by the fact that they were lighter.
Movement in the reflection, his attention shifted instantly. The woman stood by the door, toying with a long strip of fabric between her hands. "Finished?" She started towards him, and his stomach gave a jerk. No, no, no, his shoulders still ached, he was already bruised, it wasn't enough time to himself. He spun around, to argue or fight he didn't know, and it hardly mattered.
He was escorted out of his room with his arms bound much too tightly. His fingers tingled, and so did the side of his head. Somehow, though, the woman had been able to spare his clothes, and it took little more than some straightening and dusting to tidy him back up. He'd never understand how they could always pull that off.
Past heavy doors, across the empty yard — empty, but surrounded by impossibly tall hedges, even out here it felt like just another room — and into the front building. He knew the way well, it had only taken one trip to be etched into his mind. Breathe, keep calm, what was that bitch muttering now? It didn't matter. He was led into one of the few private rooms.
His first impression was that the one awaiting him looked just like the rest of them. It was odd, then, that his first real thought was that something seemed different. He didn't know what different was. He'd seen different, and it had been bad, very bad, but this was a different different. She was talking again; he didn't hear. The door shut behind him. Keeping at his tallest, his arms useless, his feet apart just enough to assure his stance was steady, his eyes alight, and his heart nevertheless banging at his ribs, he watched, and he waited.
He'd been cleaned up the night before, several of them were, from what he'd understood. They had to be presentable, ready to offer themselves to scrutinizing eyes, hands, mouths — stop, stop that, don't think about it, think of anything else — his damned arm was itching again. Though he was covered with a thin, comfortable sweater, his arms were folded behind his back, tied into place with a far too elegant strip of fabric. It pulled his sleeves just slightly too tight, making the hidden tubing above the crook of his elbow press and rub whenever he moved the wrong way. Or at all.
This, too, was punishment. Needing to request help to do anything for himself. Maybe if he hadn't fought against the new line — too new, the itch wouldn't go away, and his shoulders were getting sore — maybe then he would have been given more privacy. Never away from the cameras, oh no, but cameras could hardly leap from the walls and stop him, could they?
His door opened.
His number was called. He didn't look up. They always used a number, at least for him, he hardly knew about the others. But this was good, oh yes. They didn't know his name, and he wasn't about to tell them. They couldn't take it away. Another call, closer. It was his, and so was his mind, they weren't taking it away, oh no, not yet, no matter how-
Pinstriped pants and black heels strolled into his view. "You look a wreck-" Obviously, what else could be expected? "-They were supposed to put you in something decent. I knew someone was gonna ask for you." Don't look up, don't react, but it was hard and his heart was hammering. She still heard it, they always could, but she moved away. Don't panic. It wasn't as if he hadn't done this before. Breathe, fighting now would make it worse.
"Get up then! We can still fix you up if you hurry." If there's no struggling, no shouting, no shoving. "You want to make a good impression, don't you?" Those long legs stopped before him again, and this time, he did look up, up from his spot on the only rug covering the cold floor. Her smile was tight, an arm now filled with stiff pieces of clothing. "I'll let you do it yourself, if you make it quick." He stared up at her, stared and watched, for ages, for an eternity, but she was perfect stone. His gut knotted as he gave a jerk of a nod.
Ten minutes later had him on his feet, watching an unfamiliar man in a glassless mirror. His hair was cut short, shorter than he'd liked, but it was still just long enough for its neglect to show in kinks. He looked older, god, so much older than he remembered, though it wasn't just that. It was like he'd been sick for so long — he supposed he still was, in a way. Thinning. Yellowing. But still strong, even he had to admit that. Maybe it showed better now, with less weight to cover it. Then again, really, how could he not be when all there was to do was either sit or move?
His gaze drifted down. The suit was stuffy and didn't fit him quite right. Cheap, but old and in good condition. His arm still itched terribly under his sleeves, but the cause of it didn't show. It was simple, all in all, just a safe, boring gray. He couldn't stand the tie, she'd tried to make him, but that had ended with him pinned to the floor with an ache at the back of his head. It left his neck and collar exposed. Almost like freckles, small scars were scattered across the visible skin, only standing out from the real ones by the fact that they were lighter.
Movement in the reflection, his attention shifted instantly. The woman stood by the door, toying with a long strip of fabric between her hands. "Finished?" She started towards him, and his stomach gave a jerk. No, no, no, his shoulders still ached, he was already bruised, it wasn't enough time to himself. He spun around, to argue or fight he didn't know, and it hardly mattered.
He was escorted out of his room with his arms bound much too tightly. His fingers tingled, and so did the side of his head. Somehow, though, the woman had been able to spare his clothes, and it took little more than some straightening and dusting to tidy him back up. He'd never understand how they could always pull that off.
Past heavy doors, across the empty yard — empty, but surrounded by impossibly tall hedges, even out here it felt like just another room — and into the front building. He knew the way well, it had only taken one trip to be etched into his mind. Breathe, keep calm, what was that bitch muttering now? It didn't matter. He was led into one of the few private rooms.
His first impression was that the one awaiting him looked just like the rest of them. It was odd, then, that his first real thought was that something seemed different. He didn't know what different was. He'd seen different, and it had been bad, very bad, but this was a different different. She was talking again; he didn't hear. The door shut behind him. Keeping at his tallest, his arms useless, his feet apart just enough to assure his stance was steady, his eyes alight, and his heart nevertheless banging at his ribs, he watched, and he waited.
Posted 07-23-201311:05 AM
