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Pins and Needles; Using Monty with Joe, closed to others (except maybe Annika later on?)
Topic Started: Feb 24 2013, 12:03 PM (193 Views)
Miss Exposition
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The Patchwork Princess
Montag rummaged through the haphazard pile of fabric, eyes narrowed in a look of utter consternation.

"Not one fucking scrap of gingham," she declared to nobody in particular, resting back on her haunches. Her crown slipped precariously from her head, and she shoved it back into place with a disparaging scowl. "How the hell am I supposed to make new threads for Annika without gingham, hm?"

She blew out a frustrated breath and stood up, averting her gaze from the Scrap Heap. The pile was usually crammed with odds and ends--torn clothes, shriveled rags, moth-eaten pants. There was always a good pattern or two to salvage from the wreck, and Monty had an especially good eye for melding the dissonant scraps together. But today...

She summoned up her authority and extended her arms in a mock invitation, eyes roaming over the scant few AP members currently occupying the makeshift sewing room. "One goddamn square. Anybody?"

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Riddle
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Riddle Me This
Joseph eyed the girl from a nearby workplace, where he idly pieced together new bits of clothing for his dolls. This table, specifically, was his and his alone. Everyone knew that. He made his supply runs personally, venturing out of the shelter to grab bits and pieces of cloth from those that were willing to trade. Thus, every scrap on his section belonged to him and no other. Another willing to dispute that fact would get an earful. Around it were his belongs, and although not entirely personal, nearly every item he owned sat at the table. As he was seldom found away from it, they were hardly out of his sight.

The... special guest had been, more or less, expected. Joseph had taken note of her patterns, her tendency to journey here when kindness struck her fancy. Montag was talented with cloth, to say the least. If she took the time to hone her skills, Joseph imagined that she could reach his standing with little to no effort. While he had no clue as to why she was willing to help the ridiculous girl, Annika, he knew that the red-head would have clothes fit for a queen. Or, well, a queen of the dumps. But still a queen.

He raised his hand, slowly but surely easing back in to his natural way of striking a conversation. Without waiting to be called on, he called, "I've got some. Don't know why it would matter, though. The girl is too touchy to last long. Too emotional." Stating, as he usually did, with blatant disregard for the opinion of his leader. Shit, shit, shit. It was just like him to regret what he had said after it had already been done.
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Miss Exposition
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The Patchwork Princess
Montag quirked an eyebrow, her initial excitement quickly morphing into thinly-veiled disdain. Granted, she'd grown used to Lethe's strange mannerisms--learned to tolerate, even appreciate, his ability to call out bullshit. But now was really not the time for smartass observations, especially after she'd busted her ass to accommodate Annika in the first place. Poor kid was already on her way to an aneurysm, and the last thing she needed was some dickhead reinforcing whatever anti-AP propaganda The Laureate had drilled into Isaak's skull.

"Aw, shut the fuck up. Annika's just sensitive--you know how we artists are," she remarked coolly, striding over to Lethe's table. "And maybe I need to refresh your memory, Lethe, but I remember going through hell to defend your ass when you joined. You're not exactly Mr. Congeniality yourself, and it's pretty damn gutsy of you to insult my recruiting judgment when I got heat for picking you."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Montag fought the impulse to cringe. Refresh your memory. Dammit--of all the things to say to fucking Lethe.

"...The memory thing. Just a figure of speech," she muttered, leaning against the table. If Montag's spiel hadn't caught the attention of all the eyes in the room, this singular gesture did. Nearly everyone knew not to breach the sanctity of Lethe's solitude, and what Monty had just committed was akin to a battle taunt.

But if Montag had any designs of provoking a conflict, she didn't show it--just swept impassive amber eyes along the fabric on Joseph's table, figuring that his compliance would be sufficient penance for his earlier stupidity. In all honesty, she had a bit of a soft spot for Lethe: while other AP kids put their artistic vision and divine inspiration above dirty work, she could always count on him to drop everything and follow her into the fray. It was refreshing, really.

A smirk ghosted her lips as she remembered why she had lobbied for him in the first place--and then widened as Montag caught sight of a worn blue bag, a crowned doll dangling precariously from the side. "'That supposed to be me?"
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Riddle
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It stung. It hurt, enough to resemble being punched. He would admit to the pain of his memories aloud, if someone requested as much. The subject of his memory was a delicate one, at best. At worst, it was a ticking timebomb, simply waiting for the right comment to trigger. Mentioning it was strictly forbidden, in his mind. And yet, all he truly knew how to do was assist himself with the Unmentionable Problem. When he first realized this, he made the obvious decision of referring to it as the Circle of Problems. To this day, he still calls it such- a constant reminder that he would never be to fit in, not really.

Joseph took a moment to recall the name of the Circle before replying. "I don't believe I ever required your help. I recall thinking that it was all trivial. As you may well know, people like me only earn respect by dealing with our own problems. That girl- she's like me, in that sense. Too much assistance will leave her like a broken lamb afterwards, ripe for the picking." He mumbled, his quick-ended sentences losing their edge and fading into the speech pattern of a normal person. Though he cast his gaze away, the spark of distaste was obvious. Even with Montag, he couldn't help but have a moment of spite for anyone who brought his disability to light. Couldn't they just treat him with as much respect as another person? It's common sense that you don't go pointing out the flaws in others.

He heaved a sigh, leaning back in his chair and shutting his eyes. He searched the back of his eyelids, as if expecting to find anything out of the ordinary there. As always, there was nothing but darkness.

Joseph opened one eye- just enough to spot the doll Montag was speaking of. "You tell me. I don't know what you look like." He paused, gesturing to the supplies on the table. "As always, whatever you wish will be yours. Gingham, buttons, leather."
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Miss Exposition
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The Patchwork Princess
Montag gave an incredulous little scoff, trying to repress a sardonic retort. Broken lambs and shit--since when did Lethe become so damn philosophical? All the same, she begrudgingly admitted he had something of a point. Overprotective as she was and challenged as he was, she couldn't remember having coddled him a day in her life.

In fact, she hadn't really coddled any new recruits lately. They were all Outskirts folks or wayward stragglers, hardened by hunger and hard knocks. Annika was an anomaly, the rare successful Academia escapee. And goddamn it, Monty did have a soft spot for city kids--kids who'd lived the hell AP was trying to avoid, who knew how it felt to be shunned by their own homes.

"Dammit, Lethe..." She blew out a hot breath and wrenched herself out of her self-pity, finally addressing the matter at hand. "I'm only getting her a new dress; she'll have to walk around in this godawful uniform otherwise. Not like I'm chewing her food for her, y'know?"

As unconvinced as Montag was, she couldn't help but cringe at Lethe's next few words. Fuck, she should've known not to be so callous around the kid. It wasn't as if he could help his memory, and bringing it up wasn't going to prove anything. And it wasn't as if he wasn't trying to overcome his block--even a cursory glance at the doll, meticulously stitched in a startling likeness of her, was enough to validate that much.

"Has my name on it," she remarked with as much good humor as she could muster, indirectly attempting to make amends. "Maybe add a frown to show what a goddamn bitch I am to everyone, though. And like hell I'll take your scraps without an even trade, so what'll it be? I'll make you a scarf or something?"
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SeeHerPlay
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Annika lifted her body off of the filthy ground and felt a fresh cut swim across her pale knee and onto her boots. She hid her face behind her red, curly hair as she could hear the AP students around her criticizing her awkward stupidity, whispering and snorkeling as she could only wish to escape her embarrassment. Annika pushed her hair over her cheek, gazed at the ground, positioned her face in the opposite direction of her sight, and walked out of the crowd feeling like an absolute imbecile. When she was at last alone, she plunged her body forth and breathed a sigh of relief.
Why am I not normal? Annika pondered as she wandered the burrow.
She aimlessly walked around the cave, accompanied by her own thoughts, she unexpectedly found her way to a familiar voice; it was raspy, angry, and over-all sincere filling the air around her.
"...you know how we artists are!" she exclaimed.
"...assistance will leave her like a broken lamb afterwards, ripe for the picking!"
Curiosity got the better of Annika; she crouched over her bleeding knees and placed her ear against the door. One of the voices was obviously Montag while the other voice was unknown to her.
What are they talking about? she wondered.
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Riddle
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He was tired. Tired of everything. Tired of being awake. Tired of living. He might almost say that there was a permanent headache creeping about him, not willing to leave, and definitely not welcomed. No matter what he did, the pain and the exhaustion never faded. Joseph figured that he simply had to live with it; that was what made living what it is, after all.

Joseph placed a hand on one temple, massaging it lightly. He felt aged beyond his years-- No. It wasn't just a feeling. It was a fact-- He had the life of someone near double his age. It wasn't right, but it was life.

He pushed open both eyes, glaring at Montag for a moment before speaking. "You know... A lamb, as I said. They're simple creatures. Simple, stupid creatures. They go where they are lead to be slaughtered. They have no defense. One might even say that their point to living is to feed other creatures. Not to have a will. A lot of the people here are lambs." He stopped, pulling a tag from the table. On it, in the new girl's handwriting, was a name. He pronounced it slowly. "The girl, Annika... Making her a coat from wolves' skin won't protect her." He had time to think about this. More time than he needed, really, but he took it without remorse. However, if he were to name the girl in front of him, to bestow upon her the title of a specific animal, it would not be a lamb.

A smile crept onto his face. Not quite mocking, but not genuine, either. "Well, because my memory is shit, that means I can imagine whatever I'd like to see. So I doubt that any expression put on that specific doll would ever be a frown. I'd prefer happiness being showcased on that one."

No, Montag was no lamb.
Edited by Riddle, Mar 19 2013, 09:06 PM.
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