zdobby. (![]() ![]() @ 2011-03-24 19:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! log, fitzherbert grewcock, zdenka novakova |
log.
WHO: Zdenka Novakova [THE CANNIBAL] & Fitzherbert Grewcock [CHRONICLE]
WHAT: Running into each other in a training room.
WHEN: March 24, evening.
WHERE: The smallest training room.
RATING/STATUS: Medium for language. Complete.
Fitz lived in a state of diaspora. He was a walking, breathing anachronism, slowed down in time, pacing the earth--or more specifically, the floor of a secluded training room on a Thursday night. Fitz couldn’t concentrate or sleep, so he’d left his room, partially for something to do, and partially because he wanted to give Jai some time alone with his electronics. The quiet stroll led him here, to the training room, lights dimming as he drained their electricity. He had changed from his bell bottom overalls (thanks, Krysta) and waistcoat to looser training gear, stretched his limbs.
The Fitzherbert of the Internet was hardly reflective of the man in the flesh. He was cheerful, yes, but capital letters and exclamation points were deceiving. Fitz was composed, reticent. Not quite reserved, not quite shy--but there was definitely something behind his smile, a politeness that gave him away as something more than jocular. Fitz had seen things, and even if he wouldn’t talk about them, they were there. Maybe that’s what had drawn him to Zdenka, he thought. Although Fitz didn’t see her many inhumanities, the horrific details that others couldn’t get past, it was impossible to ignore some of her darkness. The difference was that Fitz didn’t think her darkness defined her.
Perhaps that was why he dug his grave on St. Patrick’s Day. It wasn’t just the alcohol, he’d hoped. Or maybe he was actually delusional like everyone thought. He clenched his fist and a blast of psychic energy rippled through the room, glazing the air with a milky hue, just as someone flung the door open.
Zdenka bobbed her head absently to a soundless tune in her head, reeled back and kicked open the door to the training room. Most people would probably be surprised that she bothered or cared enough to train, but despite the I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude that she toted on the networks, Z found herself making her way down to the training rooms at least once a week. Sober, even. It wasn’t that she gave a fuck about Ranking Week or even the Tournament. Quite the contrary. Camulus could go to hell, and it wouldn’t matter to her. But a good workout, like a good high or the calm euphoria after an orgasm, made the awful things that scratched at her insides quiet down, if even just for a few hours. Z was nothing if not addictive, and she chased these little moments of escape everywhere she could. Moreover, if she didn’t find some way to vent all of the anger she felt, she would probably end up swallowing the entire school and letting it rot inside her. Training was a better alternative to all of--that.
The door swung open and Z barreled in--this particular room was usually empty at this time of day. It wasn’t hers by any means, but it was the one she used most frequently and therefore, she felt entitled to it. She saw the ripple of psychic energy burst through the air first. Someone was already occupying this room. Who the fuck else was using this space at 7 PM on a Thursday? More importantly, how dare they? She squinted, eyes narrowed, ready to intimidate the other cretin into leaving when it turned out to be none other than Fitz. Great. Really funny, universe.
Z hadn’t been actively avoiding Fitz, really, but seeing him across the room halted her steps. She contemplated turning and leaving, skipping the training session altogether to avoid any chance of another uncomfortable encounter with the anachronistic Englishman. There was a part of her that actually felt guilty. Fitz wasn’t as bad as most of the other pricks that went to Camulus, and Zdenka felt like a fuck-up and a dick for what happened. Not to mention, she was probably the last person that he wanted to see right now. She hovered, about to backtrack to the door, when a sudden streak of stubbornness struck her. The situation was complete batshit and the fact that she even thought about derailing her current plans to accommodate this bullshit was annoying to her. She clenched her jaw before opening her mouth to speak: “Well, this is fucking awkward.”
Fitz turned on the spot to stare at Z. He hadn’t been expecting anyone else to show up, let alone her, and as always, he blinked rapidly at her profanity. “Good evening, miss,” he chimed, and his torso dipped in an almost reflexive motion at her entrance, voice too loud for the small, quiet room. It was awkward, but he wasn’t going to agree with her, although the thought of it was painful. Fitz was hurt, yet he couldn’t help but feel conflicted--he wanted to make Z apologize, or at least understand how he felt, but he also wanted to patch things up. His compulsion was to smooth over, to forget, forgive, and perhaps hold her hand and carry her over large puddles. But that wasn’t going to happen.
He corrected his pleasantry after a beat. “What I meant to say was--good riddance, what are you doing here! I am utilizing this facility!” Fitz straightened, puffing his chest out. It might have looked pompous or even impressive if he were wearing his waistcoat, trousers, shoes, and overcoat, fob watch ticking in his pocket, but in training garb he just looked gassy and uncomfortable.
Zdenka bit back her urge to laugh and simultaneously roll her eyes at Fitz’s awkward correction. The kid was weird, kind of gay, but his often out-of-place behavior wasn’t always unwelcome. She liked to mess with him sure, but she knew that all of her teasing and joking wouldn’t change how he was and deep down, she was cool with that. She crossed her arms and planted her feet in a rather determined stance. “Nah, I think I’m going to stay.” It would have been just as easy for her to turn around and leave, to find another training room, but once she made up her mind to be stubborn, it was hard to go back. “You can leave though, or stick around. Whatever. I think some people train with partners sometimes.”
She wasn’t entirely sure why she was offering to let him stay. Maybe it was the aforementioned guilt that she felt. Maybe part of her wanted to give Fitz a chance to snap the hell out of it and get it out of his system. Zdenka wasn’t used to tolerating these kinds of situations, but with her ever-growing list of people who hated her, she thought maybe once in awhile she ought to try. Of course, Z wasn’t fully conscious of the implications behind her actions, or even the thoughts that led her to them. But the fact was, the things that she had gone through this year were slowly and quietly chipping away at her walls. More and more, she was letting people in.
He shook his head, jaw tightening, and took a few steps closer to her. Fitz wasn’t the tallest guy, but he towered over the miniature Zdenka. “It would be remiss of me to allow you to remain in my company during these activities,” he said to her, sincerely, and looking directly into her eyes. “The nature of my abilities requires me to inflict mental pain I do not wish even on my strongest opponents.” And it was true. Fitz didn’t enjoy combat--his skill was in debilitating his enemies before they had the chance to get close enough to attack him. His way was strategy, not force, and where Zdenka lived for the fight, Fitz dreaded it.
It was why Serena would never get through to him. It was why he wouldn’t win the Tournament, not that he cared about Axiom or even personal glory. Fitz was at Camulus because his country had told him it was what he had to do; in the process, he had found he liked the school, liked his friends and the life he had been pushed into. So he fought. It was expected. He fought to stay. But he didn’t enjoy it.
“I will depart,” he said simply, but didn’t move, waiting for her to respond--to give him anything.
Z narrowed her eyes again, looking back into Fitz’s. She wasn’t remotely worried about the pain that he could inflict on her. She was certain that whatever he could throw at her, she could handle. If she couldn’t, she’d die and well, that wasn’t too bad either. His words told her that he wanted to leave, but his stance seemed to indicate otherwise. Normally, Z wouldn’t have cared whether he stayed or went--in fact, she couldn’t see a reason why she should start caring, but again she found herself trying anyway. She jabbed him on the arm sharply--it wasn’t a very forceful blow, but it was probably enough to smart. “Just don’t use your powers. Hand-to-hand only. What the fuck ever.”
She didn’t wait for his response. Instead, she made her way to the cubby, pulled out mats and sparring gear. She didn’t care about a few bruises--the obelisks took care of them pretty quickly anyway--but this wasn’t really a fight. They still hadn’t acknowledge the wooly mammoth in the room since they got here: the engagement. As retarded as this situation seemed to Zdenka, she did understand that Fitz meant to be genuine. She may have been immature and a bitch, but she was an expert in knowing when she had fucked up, having done it so many times before. She simply didn’t know how to make it better. It was strange to her that she even wanted to.
Fitz winced at her poke and sighed, an unusual action for him--exasperation wasn’t a common emotion. “I do not engage in these types of fights, Miss Zdenka. Especially not with--not with a lady,” he blurted, a furious blush creeping into his cheeks. The overhead lights flickered as the technology dead zone expanded with his embarrassment and contracted rapidly, his control restored.
He frowned, brain itching with psychic energy waiting to be released. He almost wanted to tap into her head. But not that much. Plus, it was rude. “I do not derive enjoyment from bruising an equal’s flesh.”
The mat in Zdenka’s hand dropped with a muffled fwump onto the ground. She wasn’t used to being the patient one, or the one who pushed for social interaction of any kind. She was usually the one holding people off at arms length. “All right, Fitz. Fine. No training, then. But let’s get one thing fucking straight. I’m no fucking lady. If you had realized that from the get-go maybe shit wouldn’t be so fucking awkward right now,” her words were bitter. She had tried, and Fitz was not as responsive as she had hoped. Nevermind that he had a good reason not to be. If they were going to clear the air, now was the time, if ever.
She was defaulting; she could feel the frustration well up in her chest and all she knew how to do was release it in a spray of verbal acid. “I was blackout drunk, so really, the only fucking logical thing I can conclude is that I accepted your proposal without knowing what the fuck I was doing. And then, later that night I fucked my boyfriend.” Some part of her knew that these words would probably hurt Fitz, but in her frustration, Zdenka had stopped caring. She was lashing at the minor rejections that Fitz was showing, ignoring for the moment, that she had already given one far worse.
Fitz’s stomach hurt as Zdenka spoke. People talked down to him all the time, mistaking his naivete for stupidity, but this was worse--Z was being honest. And as much as he needed to hear it, he closed his eyes and crossed his arms childishly. “You have another suitor?” He asked quietly. Oblivious as ever, Fitzherbert. “But you--Miss Zdenka, I have been courting you.”
He looked at her, bewildered. “We have kissed. I care not for the promiscuous dalliances of my peers; their choices are their own. But I am not them. I do not behave in this manner or expect similar things from my life. My comfort is in decorum, tradition, and ceremony. I do not engage in romance lightly, Miss Zdenka. This is principally why I am wounded by our interactions.”
Fitz paused, his gaze warning her against interruption. “Furthermore, if you are promised to another--if I am assuming correctly this has carried on for longer than the Irishmen’s holiday--then it is extremely rude of me to pursue you, and in that case, I offer you my sincerest apology, and would request the name of your paramour so that I may make amends.”
Zdenka was a careless girl. She rarely thought further than her own motivations and desires. She secretly took pride in this fact, and she reveled in throwing it other people’s faces. She continually overstepped boundaries and offended others, sometimes for her own amusement. She thought it was “keeping it real,” even though it simply meant that she was a selfish and lonely person. She didn’t have decorum, tradition, and ceremony to comfort her, or guide her. She didn’t believe in romance. She had kissed Fitz on a whim and then continued on with her life--to her, it had been a joke, without thinking even for a moment that it could possibly be anything but the same for Fitz. Z was shamefully near-sighted--she couldn’t imagine the world that Fitz had come from--but even she could see plainly that they had come from completely different places. She fought her usual impulse to roll her eyes and dismiss him as “retarded” and “gay,” or to set the record straight about the stupid kiss at the risk of probably hurting him more; instead she listened, arms crossed, the brunt of her frustration at his naivete dying down to mere embers.
“Don’t fucking apologize, Fitz Just--whatever; now, you know: I’m with Killian.” If Zdenka knew how to say sorry, if the words had ever crossed her lips before in the past, she would have said it then. Fitz would simply have to settle for this: “I’m a heinous bitch anyway; trust me when I say you’re better off. Go give that ring to someone else.”
Fitz crossed the space between them and bent to embrace Z--although it may have been awkward for her, Fitz didn’t sense that at all--before responding verbally. “You are far from it, Miss Zdenka, and I believe that in every molecule of my existence. You are a treasure, and Mister Duff is a blessed man to have you love him.”
He nodded and raised the back of her hand to his lips. “Although my heart may tremble for it, I am joyous on your behalf, and take comfort in the fact that you love one who is at least from my brother nation.”
Z rarely let people hug her. It was a personal space issue, sure, but she was never really an affectionate or cuddly person. Casual contact amongst friends was common--and sure, when she was high on something, she was more prone to touch, but a hug, especially a hug when sober was downright uncomfortable. Her posture was stiff, but the arms that were crossed at her chest dropped to her sides. The situation was only made more uncomfortable by the things that Fitz was saying; at the word “love” Zdenka let out of snort of surprise. “Wait--” she wanted to say slow your fucking roll there for a second, Fitz. She had never said anything about love, but now that the word had come out into the open, she stalled.
She stared at Fitz, her mouth hanging open for a moment, but she couldn’t correct him. Until that moment, it hadn’t consciously occurred to her that she might actually love Killian. She was used to dismissing those kinds of feelings as “faggotry” but the fact that she couldn’t muster up a retort meant--something, right? Uncertain of what to do with this realization, she took a step back, and did what she usually did in these kinds of situations, push it out of her mind and distract herself. “Fuck it, we should spar. I know you don’t like to fight girls or whatever, but you’re going to have to eventually so your argument is kind of bullshit, Fitz.”
He nodded thoughtfully, contemplating the situation. He genuinely didn’t enjoy hitting anyone, especially a woman, especially someone small like Z. But he had behaved poorly over the past week, and he had endangered a romance and felt he owed her something--but what could he do? Fitz didn’t have anything, nothing in the world that was his to give away. It would have to do. “I accept your challenge, Miss Zdenka,” he stated, and bowed. “We shall begin when you are ready.”
A grin cracked across Zdenka’s face like an egg, the joy registering on her face immediately. She was practically child-like as she swooped to finish spreading out the mats and then stood, twisting the joints in her arms, wrists and neck. She didn’t look impressive, this was true--a rail-skinny waif--but she had had plenty of experience in the ring, and it showed in her stance. She balled her hands into fists, pulled them up by her face, dragged her right leg back in an unmistakable fighting stance. “I hope you’re fucking ready, dude,” she said just as she launched at Fitz, fist raised.
Fitz flinched at the last second, stopping himself from blocking her, and let her blow fall--as her fist compacted into his ribs, he felt woozy. In a miniscule fraction of a second, the room started to ripple and fade around him; he got in a soft “oh, not now,” before his body went slack, and he fell to the ground, utterly unconscious. Images flapped in front of him like a pair of giant bird’s wings, pieces of them falling towards him as if they were stray feathers being shed across his body. He could tell it was Ranking Week by the assembly of people--fists gnashing together in a complex tangle, bolts of electricity blinding him through the dead space of an unrecognizable room. Faces swirling with shadows, mouths laughing, taunting, gaping through the dusk on their skin. The bird flapped its wings again, digging its talons deep into his skin, and it was over. Fitz gasped for air and grabbed at his chest, but there were no wounds, no bird. Just Z sitting nearby.
Z was smoking a cigarette. She took one shot at Fitz and he crumpled like a ton of bricks and no matter how many times she tried to shake him awake, he was out cold. She spent ten or so minutes yelling his name and wondering if she should try to get him moved to the infirmary and the twenty minutes after that sitting on the mats and chain-smoking anxiously instead. He had finally come to, and she crushed the butt with her sneaker and jumped to her feet to help him up. “Fitz, you weak ass son of a bitch, what the fuck? You take one hit and go down, what’s with that!” Her words may have been mocking, but there was an unmistakable note of relief in her voice, and her grip on his arm to help him sit up was gentle. “What the fuck just happened to you?”
Massaging his ribs slightly, Fitz sat up but declined to stand. He felt, as he always did after a precognitive episode, slightly woozy, short of breath, as if he’d been lying under a crate of bricks for a few hours. It was nothing a shower, a Donne poem, a few solid hours of sleep, and a meal wouldn’t cure, but Fitz sagged a little more than he did normally. The vision didn’t exactly trouble him--he saw much worse on a regular basis--but his powers drained him, and he needed to perform his domestic functions quickly or he would faint for real. “I have had a vision,” he said, “I apologize if it was disrupting to you.” He thought for a second and cocked his head to the side before pulling himself to his feet. “I do not think I will be able to continue to fight you tonight, Miss Zdenka.”
As Fitz got to his feet, Z quirked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Boooo,” she said, but waiting a half an hour for Fitz to wake back up, plus the five or so cigarettes she smoked away had more or less killed the desire to train. “All right, Fitz. Let’s get out the fuck out of here.” When they made it to exit at the other end of the room, she paused and turned to him. “But you totally owe me, dude. One-on-one training, or a beer. Actually make it a beer. Deal?”