Pseudopod Plays Ninja [Poppy and the Smiths]
Feb 27, 2014 18:32:28 GMT -5
Post by Raeoki on Feb 27, 2014 18:32:28 GMT -5
(Ooc: I vote that Onyx, Poppy, and Kya form a band, and name it just that: "Poppy and the Smiths". Cause, really, how does that NOT sound like a rocking band?!)
it's physical
you must try to ignore
(Ooc: ...Yeah, I tried my hand at coding...It was sort of fun, actually...
)
it's physical
only logical
you must try to ignore
that it means more than that...
People were factors that Pseudopod had never found pertinent enough to consider. It seemed, to be heartlessly frank, a waste of time to consider the alterations that humanity made on life and living in the world of Earth; after all, people were simply people: most of them were slaves, with a keen exception of a few select people (Pseudopod being one of them), and that was that. People were simply people. The most capable of obtaining the enlightenment of logic, thus making humans the freest of all the world's creatures, but, still, for the most part, enslaved, made foolish and dumb by emotion, and thus useless, especially for endeavors of the mind, where emotions were barred against. Their feelings, their existences, were expendable, in terms of attention (NOT of preservation), until they learned of logic. For what was life without logic? How could life, how could ANYTHING, be comprehensible, without logic?
Once again, Pseudopod found herself before her father's jewelry store. Not once again, Pseudopod did not wait for her father to emerge so that she may escort him back to their home- one of Mrs. Lillison's constant, silly requests. But, this time, Pseudopod found herself standing before her father's store for the sole sake of standing before her father's store, with naught to occupy her, with naught to keep her mind entertained by any rigors that were outside her philosophical sphere. For her father's store was closed for the day, such was the weekly ritual of the establishment, thus leaving Pseudopod alone, her mind her sole companion.
To say the least, Pseudopod was more than content with her present predicament. Her mind had always made an excellent companion, even during her rebellious years, and she preferred the rapid but intricate lines of thought that wove their way through her mind to the gabber and presence of human beings. Again, people were merely people, not variables, and thus she did not much care about her own species - though she did find other people great sources of answers and arguments, whenever she felt the desire to trade ideals. Such, to her, was all that she found necessary for companions - and so she sat, alone with her ideals, not in the mood to find someone to share with it, not in the mood to speak, but merely in the mood to think and see.
Yet, on occasion - not then, not at that moment, but on past occasions - a face would surface in her mind, like the scaled back of a fish flickering briefly beneath the diaphanous flesh of shallow water, just before the fish disappears into the coal fog of the deepened waters. It was the face of a boy she had seen once, carrying a camera for some silly old illogical reason, whose surname was all she could remember to refer to him as whenever she thought of him: Smith. Something Smith. The first name was, she remembered, different, original and not very similar to the gaudy names of certain other District 1 residents, much like hers in someway, but - she could not remember it. She never could remember names well. Just faces. Indeed, the only person whom she ever met only once whose name she remembered was the Onyx Smith fellow; his name had collided into her mind when it had been called at last year's reaping. Indeed, he was the only reason why she could recall the flickering fish boy's last name, for his and the newest male victor of District 1 were completely alike, for the two were kin.
I wonder why District 1 must win everything, Pseudopod observed. with rather indifferent casualty. They've got quite the streak, so far. Can't last forever though. Or can it...?
Her mind swapped gears in a quick jerk; such was the way of Pseudopod's brain: she could leap from one thought to the next quite quickly, and not lose track of either's solo discussion. At that moment, she sorted through, identified, and filed the queries she had in store for the flickering fish boy, as well as his victor brother, should Pseudopod and Onyx ever have the pleasure of meeting each other again. What is the point of the camera, Mister Smith? she silently asked the younger of the two Smiths. For what purpose do you have it around your neck? Does it give you perspective? Does it give you release? What is the message behind the photographs you take? What shall you do with them? Why?
Her mind jerked to another discussion. I wonder if the next crop of tributes shall do as well as their predecessors. They've quite a healthy and prosperous batch of mentors to hold their hands; they ought to do fine, if the sole matter of survival in the Games relied on mentors.
A new discussion. How is your brother, Mister Onyx Smith? Does he hate the world for what it did to him? Does he shudder at the thought that he killed people? The emotional are quite perceptible to those sorts of trauma, you know.
A new discussion. Both of the tributes now are volunteers. Volunteers are usually quite able. They manage to squeeze their way into the final five, for the most part...
A new discussion. You know, it's a very funny thing, Mister Smith. Many emotional humans are quite self-loathing, in matters of species; they complain that humans are so evil, so sinful, so worthless, without some deity or another to help us hobble along. But, at the same time, so many emotional humans scream at the very thought of human death. Well, I speak in hyperboles, I suppose - but I wouldn't be surprised if there were quite a few emotionals like that. And, you know, some of those emotionals are the same people who say that humanity is worthless without a hand to hold us. The level of contradictory is almost hilarious - well, would be, of hilarity meant anything...
From across the street, a sound came from the smithy. Pseudopod looked up, and blinked a pair of steadfastly cold eyes. She paused in thought and motion; a curiosity that had always been within her but was now commonly denied by her took up her little feet, and without quite thinking about it, as if some other being was manipulating her body, not herself. It took her the door, and with a vague remembrance that the establishment was the place of business for the Smith family, she opened the door, and poked her head inside, her smilingly brown curls tickling her cheek a little with the jerk-like motion.
As she did so, she added to her latest-thought discussion: Might I ask as to how you think, Mister Smith? Do you value human life? Or are we all missing a denied piece, and so we are worthless? Or do you even care, and think that such questions are the silly litter of vanity?
Word Count: 1190
(Ooc: ...Yeah, I tried my hand at coding...It was sort of fun, actually...
)
