citylogs | (OPEN) Gregor Samsa's no good, very bad week.

Entry tags:

(OPEN) Gregor Samsa's no good, very bad week.

WHO: Gregor (

blattella) & you! you! you! you! you!
WHAT: having a bad time around the city, exploring, being a menace.
WHERE: all over the city! City Hall, the train tunnels, and anywhere he can find clothes, namely.
WHEN: 17/07 onward.
WARNINGS: insectile body horror's the big one! bugs, body horror, buggy body horror.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He's been promising to go clothes shopping (to himself) for the past week or so, and yet, he'd only made the one trip out with Roland a few days ago. That's probably not enough to get him a week's worth of clothing, and there's only so much more laundry duty he can handle before he snaps.
After a little exploration, wherein he pays attention to the actual generic shops on the street past the ones that stock food and drink, and...Gregor has found himself in the generic Forever 21.

...Which isn't so bad, except for the fact that he's so unaccustomed to something like 'self expression' that he's at a loss as to what, exactly, to pick. White button-ups are nice, but should he pick something more casual while he's here? Should he pick out another coat and save the work one that he can't even wear? He can't pick anything navy, that's too much like Hermann, but otherwise...

He looks like a deer caught in the headlights as he browses through a rack of graphic tees, teeth bared in a hesitant grimace and claw practically pinned to his side. This isn't good. He's freaking out over picking out clothing. Would it be weird if he wore a striped shirt and overalls like Don showed him? Would he look good in that? No? No, he can't copy her, that's weird

help him he's having a panic attack over being given actual personal freedom]

Hah! By the Lesser Lord, I knew it!

[ cutting through the brimming, broiling vat of existential crises being circulated like a pot of overboiled spaghetti on the edge of a yawning cliff: the sharp cry of someone who's possibly just stepped off over said edge and is now enjoying a rapid free-fall towards some unknown end. at least, kaveh thinks, he will be rather happy once he impacts the proverbial ground, so long as said proverbial ground is made of slightly loose factory-standard stitching with just enough colour-bleed to suggest that nothing in this city is perfect. perfect enough, but not perfect. the knit dress is carefully removed from its rack as kaveh double-checks his finding, then for good measure, taking a second, stitch-perfect knit dress, because you can't be too careful about providing a control for whatever it is you're trying to prove. he comes out with an armful of blues and whites, the titian sunset of his eyes bright with something something both electric and eclectic as he thoughtlessly descends upon the first person he sees.

that person is gregor. gregor deserves better. but kaveh doesn't have better - kaveh has three days of no sleep and a mind akin to a slippery bar of soap on a hot summer's day. the exuberant joy speaks to something like mania, midnight coffee runs and an undergrad's terror of an insubstantial upcoming deadline. kaveh holds up the white and blue dress. he crows: ] The stitching isn't perfect after all. Look here, [ here, the tilted proximity of the dress says, ] a bit of the blue is bleeding into the white, a single off-stitch as if someone had imagined it from memory through sheer remembered rage. I would be too, if I had a dress like this with a visible flaw like that, but this is either proof that there is individualisation in this city, or that someone had come in through here and pricked a stitch just to be mean about it. That -

[ ends there, actually. the spiral of kaveh's thoughts slips out from under him. it's the man's eyes, kaveh thinks. the far-off stare as if there is something existential coming his way and there's no good way to get off the tracks before it comes trundling along. something prickles along the edges of kaveh's conscience as he lowers the dress, leaning in with a tilt. his brows furrow. kaveh looks. ]

Um. Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble. Or startle you, really. Are you quite alright?

[That cry absolutely does nothing for Gregor's existential panic, though at least he's kind of together enough that it does nothing more than make him jump. A lot more than it deserves, really, but just a jump is pretty good, as far as Gregor's possible fear reactions go! It's probably not necessary to note the way he's watching Kaveh's giddy delirium with wide, wary eyes, backing away minutely even as he's approached, the attempt of an innate people pleaser who's still afraid to be around people, but. That's what I just did anyway.

Best to humour this stranger, get him out of harm's way as soon as possible if he's going to continue to induce this sort of feeling in Gregor's fraying nerves. So he leans forward and looks at the stitching, humming non-commitally as though sweat's not already beading under his unbrushed bangs. He's a second or two too late to look from dress to eyes, and his smile's a little too anemic to be anything other than forced, but he's. He's trying. Oh Wings is he trying.]

I'm fine, buddy! Just not really used to picking out my own clothes. But that's interesting, what you just said. --It doesn't sound like I meant that. I did mean it. I would've thought that it was like all the other stuff here, just pulled out of the void, but if it's imperfect stitching, that means something organic's involved, right? That's.

[Deep breath. Calm down. Even if his arm's on 24-hour nerfed slowdown, thus keeping it from twisting and curving wickedly in an attempt to get rid of the stressor, it's still itching unpleasantly already.] That's important to note. I'm glad you noticed it. Not people actually sewing it, at least not in this place, but maybe externally? Or whatever core there is to this city, whatever organic thing drives it, trying to recreate garments?

[oh he sounds so fucking sane right now.]

[ oh, kaveh thinks. a bug arm. that's the first thought. it's got a coxa and a trochanter and everything. kaveh's only nominally knowledgeable about the parts of an insect's anatomy, and most of it is through osmosis during late-nights at the akademiya over cheat drinks at lambad's while some of the amurta juniors made a fuss about their animal physiology courses. his second thought: does he need to get that aerated? tighnari needed special oils for his fur, but even that didn't stop him from shedding all over lambad's couches every time they go out for dinner, and kaveh'd find long green hairs in his clothes for weeks on end afterwards. did insects breathe through their carapaces? this city hasn't been good for anything save for humans, and even for humans it's sort of lousy.

and then, at the tailend of that spiraling thought: oh no. on day threes, kaveh feels as if he's been hung out in the sun to desiccate. the entire world is a blur that can only be described as a little too post-modern. but that doesn't dull the rapid sublimation of feeling, which finds its wending way through him much in the way of a careening train against the too-quick beat of his heart. the man's heaving a deep breath and his smile is a little crooked, much in the way of a dried-up stream limping towards its ancestral bed. he looks much the way kaveh feels. kaveh winces, a solid shift of his shoulders in something like felt sympathy. ]

Thanks. You know, just before this, I had an argument with my - well, not roommate, not friend - but we had an argument, and he insisted that this entire place was a dream. Can you believe it? A dream. I was off to find evidence that nothing is quite as perfect as a dream can be, because who dreams of a slipped stitch?

Ah, but I'll be honest; I've been looking at dresses for far too long, and far too frantically. I might've pulled that stitch myself going through that rack for the seventh time. [ kaveh breathes in, and out, and finally lets his arms down save for the drape of the dresses. he offers the man a wan smile in turn. ] Sorry again about that. I got it out of my system.

Are you really alright, though? [ kaveh looks, towards the racks, and back, ] And what do you mean by you're not used to picking out your own clothes? Is that what's gotten you stuck here?

[When curious about the baseline of the City's residents, simply look to this bug man, who will probably be broadcasting it all loud and clear on his haggard face! Okay, so Gregor kind of always looks like shit by design, but. Yeah. Man, does he feel it even more, when faced with beautiful people.

Ah well. Not a new feeling, that. And it's much more interesting to actually listen, even if it takes more effort than normal, because Kaveh really is saying some interesting stuff, and]

I really need to get to work putting a database of theories and information together already. Folks have all sorts, y'know? It's fascinating. Don't think I've heard the dream one yet, personally, but I've heard people say that they're wondering if we're all dead. That's crock, because I can't die permanently yet, and we don't even die permanently here, but we do die.

[Wait. That's not the point. Oh god, he's crossing threads of his own here, and it should be about the clothing. But for a good few weeks, Gregor's been preoccupied with these theories, with the what and how and why, so it makes sense that he'd latch onto that, perhaps.]

Sorry. Tell your not-buddy that there's a crackpot here who thinks the City's either an experiment, with unknown aims, or some sort of living thing. Perhaps the shared dream for peace. But it nurtures us, and wants to guide us into living peacefully. Alcohol doesn't replace itself as fast in the stores. Moral nannying, I think

[He leans on the rack a little too heavily, chin tucked into the crook of his flesh and blood arm, and returns that smile in full. That's more like it, bugman. You can do it!] But I'm tired of handwashing my uniform. My life's been all uniforms, is all. Corp uniform. This uniform. Hoodies and sweatpants otherwise. I should really dress up. You're fashionable...You think you could help me look less garbage? We can talk about the City more, if you want. Really give you an information bomb for the pseudo-roomie.

[ bugman leans. kaveh reciprocates with the tilt of his body, unconsciously copying the gesture as if it were a wayward mirror. fascinating, kaveh thinks. a few days into an unending horror, and there were really all sorts of ideas coming up regarding the what's what around these parts. part of him lingers in the bask of human innovation as he considers the premise; the other eyes the lean of the other man's body as he lilts deeper into the rack. the metal will hold, kaveh's sure - or rather, it will hold the man's body. but the claw? that must add weight.

slowly, kaveh leans so that he is in position to catch the runaway rack if it were to slip out from under the man, all the while: ]

Well, first is that the - ah, not-buddy pseudo-roommate of mine had a similar thought to yours. A moral experiment of a sort, drawn from an aggregate of dreams. That sort of thing has been known to happen, though it's terribly unstable and it creates a great big void out there in the world. We had this thought - that the survey question we had to answer on the way here had a pattern of speaking to anxiety, a moral dilemma, and either deep emotions or nostalgia. It's rather specific, isn't it? It's a baseline survey, but for what? I'd love to see what a database about this sort of thing would entail.

And, second... [ kaveh looks. what had been a cursory glance skims the other man's feet and does a slow elevator crawl up the length of his body.

kaveh brightens. ] You look to be about my height. I can't say I'm more or less fashionable than anyone else around these parts, but if that's what's gotten you stuck here, let's give it a try. Come - [ kaveh gestures, already turning for racks deeper into the store. there had been something nice with the jackets back there, he recalls, ] let's walk and talk. Tell me more about this database idea. Where will it be housed, and how would it be secured?

[Ah, a brace........He notices the gesture, but his brain isn't really in the right state to go doing something proper and normal like thanking Kaveh for saving him from falling ass over tit. Later. When he's kind of functional. Promise.]

Right? And the alcohol thing-- It's human morals. Societal morals. Anti-violence, anti-crime. No weapons allowed, unless they're part of us. [He inclines his head at his claw, mouth thinning out.

Or is it because the way that Kaveh looks him over, despite being decidedly platonic, still makes Gregor uneasy somehow? Both? Perhaps both. At least he's still willing to cooperate, going by the way he draws back up to bear his own weight again, obediently shuffling around to stand by his shopping buddy like a lost child.]

...I think there's a lot of stuff that newcomers need to know, and if we get more, then we could get them caught up to speed easily by just showing them reading material. I, uh...Haven't thought about the how, bar knowing the way I'd do it on my own is kind of basic. Just a post every month, or every few weeks at least, so everyone can compile what they know...It'd get lost. We need something that trims out all the debate and chit-chat, and just states what we've discovered.

I'm no good alone. I need help, but I don't know how many people I should rope in, or who, or anything. Hah.

[ unless they're part of us, the man says. well, that's understandable enough, kaveh thinks. you couldn't separate tighnari from his fangs; it follows that the claw has similar ability for self-defense. the wry twist of the man's lips, however, lingers. it's the kind of thinning of a mouth that suggests the unsaid is something that you have to bite down with teeth, like a spent bullet casing or the taste of blood. kaveh considers the premise: what does it mean when someone considers their weapon a part of themselves? at what point do you attribute your identity to the weapon, or to yourself? at what point do you become the weapon?

cyno and hermanubis.

but the man follows, and kaveh takes him to a rack of long jackets. he begins to sift through them with a critical eye, glancing back once in a while to observe the colour of the man's hair. ]

None of us are any good alone. People in general aren't. [ is what kaveh says, agreeing with a soft lilt to his lips. ] That's why other people exist. It's enough that you have a starting point - all ideas must germinate from somewhere. From there, it's a matter of passing it through many hands for it to sprout. Hm, let's see here... Ah, I knew it. Something with a bit of a low collar will do. You have a nice line to jaw. People ought to be able to see it. [ the jacket that kaveh holds up to the man is a pale thing, with the long, sleek lines of a minimalist design. it could use a bit of embroidery, kaveh thinks, but it's passable.

he hefts it in one arm, and continues his foray. ] Anyway, I think the idea's a good one. If it's merely for information dissemination, what about a publication of a sorts? Something paper-based so that it's easier to pass around, without it being reliant on the network. That sort of thing passes censorship better, if it doesn't get garbled to nonsense, that is.

Oh. Do you have a favourite colour?

Yeah, I know. And it's not even my idea, just that--

['I'm so used to being alone that I talk that way.' But he bites it back and watches Kaveh rifle through the jackets instead, quiet for a good few seconds.] --I'd be worried about any collaborators, or the guy who really pushed this into being in the first place, not being able to change or access it. And printing out...I don't know if this place'd let us print anything useful. I'm sure I've seen printers, and all the blank paper, but I'd worry about how far censorship'd go down, and how rapidly we'd need to update stuff.

[It's all good points, nonetheless, and something he tucks away to try later just to see if he's right at all or not. He'd like to be wrong.]

...Is it still going to be alright if I tear one sleeve off? [He's always been too afraid to tear the sleeve off his work jacket, and anything else with long sleeves has been his to modify, or something temporarily manifested on him and therefore Not His Fucking Problem At The Time. But there's an aesthetic balance that's beyond him, so best to check.] Or roll it up, I guess. I could probably work it over my arm if I was careful.

Thanks, by the way.

...For saying I got a nice jaw. You'd have a field day with my co-workers. [Gacha casts.......sigh] And no, I don't really think I got a favourite colour. I don't really like blue, though.

[ the beat of silence implies something unsaid, though kaveh couldn't guess where the words begin and what form and shape they ought to take. but people are much like that, kaveh thinks. in a situation like this where primary occupations have been tossed out the window and there's an entire empty world spanning ahead, that's all they have time for: to think, to ruminate, and to let these ideas spiral. kaveh knows; it's why his hands can't remain idle, or that self-same gap is one where kaveh will too exist in in a form a little too much like himself, a little too much unlike himself. but day threes are much like this - post-modern, with even the clothes on kaveh's back seemingly searing themselves into the very palette of his skin.

coworkers, the man says. kaveh considers this. ]

Well, there's no need to tear anything off. If we find something you like, I'll have it tailored for you. [ the jacket goes flopping over a rack that kaveh mentally calls 'keepsies'. he pulls another jacket out, this time in a dark shade of red. ] It's too bad that my tailor didn't come around to this city with me - he's a peach, very skilled, keeps threatening to never tailor anything for me again because he hasn't ever stopped complaining about how my torso's just a little too short and my arms are a little too long, and I think he'd rather I just never show up at his door again. [ hm. the red jacket gets put back. ] Still, he's a miraclemaker, and I've managed to learn a thing or two just listening to him.

So if you're used to tearing the sleeve off, then other people where you come from don't have a limb like yours? And why don't you like the colour blue?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(OPEN) Gregor Samsa's no good, very bad week.

generic forever 21!

SLIDES IN HERE ON MY KNEES

AIR GUITARS UR MAJESTIC INTRO YYYYEEEEEAAAAAHHHHH

YODELS

no subject

cracking up at 'not-buddy' and 'pseudo-roomie'

look he just picks up what kaveh's putting down! he's got the vibe...he understands, maybe...

he's got it right tbh, and sorry for the delay! work busy's over, so i'm back, cracks knuckles

NO WORRIES.....i know how tf it be. take care of ur irl first and foremost always X(9

no subject