lostcarnival | all jobs is bad

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all jobs is bad

Who: Lars and whoever! OPENNN
What: Rampant mundanity.
Where: Around the carnival; rides and food court specifically; then his own trailer!
When: Mid day, dusk, and early evening
Warnings: Lars's potty mouth.

on shift; mid day
Lars leans back against the box that operates the ride he's stationed at—carefully, so as to not accidentally bump any knobs or whatever, but enough to take some pressure off his feet. He stares dully into the distance, feeling like his brain is going numb. And despite that, he still manages to look surly, his brows knit together.

This is only his second day on this job, as he'd racked up a handsome debt—one be was tempted to just bail on, because this carnival was clearly weird, sketchy supernatural bullshit. But it was clearly more fucked than he'd originally anticipated, so Lars was not eager to find out what would happen to him if he he didn't repay the debt (plus, the thought of home was too humiliating right now). He'd probably be cursed, he decided. People were freaky around this place—especially the other carnival workers, which he hadn't put a lot of thought into. Until today, really, during this long lull.

Groaning, Lars rolls his head wayyy back, his chin facing the sky as his posture melts backwards against the console, one of his feet slipping forward as he sinks—oblivious to any recent approachers, absorbed as he is in his own angst. Why did all this lame spooky crap always happen to him?

after work; dusk
Somehow, this job was even more boring than what he did at home. Even if he and his coworker in Beach City weren't always super talkative, even just having some company made it a little more bearable... Of course, sometimes they would flirt and goof off, which was also super helpful. Here, he couldn't even get any reception on his phone to pass the time—he would probably have to resort to reading a book like some kinda friggin' uncivilized caveman. Anyway, the drole of it all had Lars totally beat. He sits, hunched over one of the tables in the food court or the carnival, barely able to tuck his knees under it. He apathetically eats whatever garbage he'd purchased.

Once finished, he balls up the foil and greasy paper and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. This, of course, unfortunately bops your character on the head. Wrong place, wrong time.

at "home"; evening - closed to Kadin
With needlessly dramatic flourish, Lars throws open the door to their trailer. "Ugh!!"

Somewhat clumsily, Lars attempts to heel off his right hi-top sneaker. He stumbles, growls, and gains balance by flattening his palm against the wall near the door. "This place sucks!! Watchin' paint dry would be funner than takin' tickets, watchin' all those weirdos waddlin' around..."

Lars honestly doesn't even know if Kadin is home, when he enters; the yelling just kind of happens immediately. A natural reflex.

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"That what you did? —And all those other people? Slight the carnival lady?"

The tension in the air is kind of like what you would expect from kids around a campfire, but it's not hard to get Lars's anxiety going hard. He already broke one of her machines, but he was working off that debt.

Maybe he really should think of a way to leave... Normally, he'd say Alois was full of shit, especially since they were just having a bitch off, but the fact that everyone was all fucked up and magically mutated was too evident to ignore.

Raising his chin, turning up his nose, in the most practiced of posh ways, Alois has the barest look of revulsion. "I've been on my best behavior," he says primly. That's probably not very reassuring, but now he tosses his head, careless or just worn out. "No, we're all like this just because she wanted it. Imagine how much worse if we pissed her off."

"Eugh, cuz she wanted it?! Ain't it bad enough we're all workin' for her?"

There was definitely welling panic in Lars, now; such that he could feel his heart racing, and his breath constricting. Thankfully, it was very mild, but his chest was starting to visibly heave. He tried to pass off his fear as irritation.

"Ugh, whatever, man! How do I know you didn't just piss her off?! Like, oh, I don't know, by punchin' her in the mouth or somethin'?? You're just—messin' with me, cuz I threw trash at your head."

"I bloody well would not punch her in the mouth," snaps Alois. Not because she's a woman (no holds barred there, in Alois' opinion), and not because he respects her, but because he's terrified of her. But he takes a breath, again, and proceeds quite calmly—even reasonably. It's like this, according to him: "I know you didn't mean to chuck that rubbish at me. I was cross about it for my own reasons, and that's why I gave you a warning: if you don't do it again, things will be fine. As it stands, it's not even an issue. So why have I got any reason to muck around with you?"

... Then he pauses to worry his lower lip between his teeth. Granted, he does lie a lot. Like, all the time. About a ton of stuff. Sometimes for no reason. However...

"It's scary enough here as it is," he mutters.

Lars slumps, seeming deflated. "Ugh." He casts a soured glance at the ground, almost wishing Alois were fucking around with him. And despite how scared he was beginning to feel, Lars isn't even sure if he wants to go back to Beach City. He was in danger there a lot, too—he'd spoiled his potential among this peers; his parents were inadvertently condemning him...

He does miss Sadie, though. Well, he misses everyone; shame was a powerful immobilizer. He glances back up at Alois.

"If that's all true... What're you still doin' here, then? In this place."

Edited 2016-11-08 05:21 (UTC)

If it's a question of lying or telling the truth, Alois will usually choose to lie; but for a passing moment, he chews on the inside of his cheek and considers his options. He could make some crazy shit up—maybe he really should scare Lars, maybe he should show Lars what it's like to be terrified of this place, maybe he should be overbearing and intimidating after all, everything Lars said he wasn't. Or... he could... blurt out the desperation that brought him here?

Yeah, right. Not a chance. Alois hasn't told a soul about the reason he accepted the Ringmaster's terms. So...

"It's a matter of business." His voice manages to be strong with pride, and low with sullenness, both at once.

"Sounds sketchy," Lars decides flatly, but doesn't press Alois any further.

He leans forward in his seated posture, rather than back, his elbows now on his knees, hands loosely draped between them. He glances away for a moment, looking concerned, and then looks back at Alois.

"Hey, uh... How long were you here before stuff started to change on you?"

In truth, Alois is deeply grateful that Lars doesn't press the issue; but rather than acting gratified, Alois instead gives a shrug that seems thoughtless. It doesn't suit his station, but that goes for most of the things he does, and he hasn't crowed to Lars yet about being nobility anyway. In short: whatever.

Anyway, he's not completely lacking in sympathy. His heart honestly does go out to people who are scared of the Carnival's whims. And it is scary to watch yourself grow hideous. (Alois isn't exactly hideous, but the state of his body is very important to him, and...) Look, Alois isn't heartless. He sighs, mellow for the moment.

"Not all that long. And I admit I've been quite lucky." (For once in his fucking life.) "For some people, it happens really fast." He's not trying to be mean; he's speaking as gently as his pride will allow. "It does happen to everyone, but that means folks don't usually look at you too funny."

"Everyone?" Lars can't even conceal his panic, now. He sits up with a nervous, rigid posture, flattening a palm against his chest. "What if I leave now?! I only came to this dumb
place cuz I was feelin' stuck! I'd rather be a nobody back home in my normal body than stay here lookin' like a freak!'"

Lars groans, raking a hand down his face as he mumbles angrily. "Like I ain't got enough problems with my body."

Listening, close to patient, Alois folds his hands behind his back, and rocks back on his heels a bit. Then he goes up on his toes, and raises his shoulders as well. The gesture is birdlike and oddly meek. Lars' panicking hits a little too close to home.

"You have one, right? A contract?"

Lars's shoulders sag, his expression falling again.

"Ugh, yeah..."

Petulantly, he plops his chin onto his palm. "Was hopin' I could bail regardless, but I guess with magical bullshit involved, of course it wouldn't be that easy. Stupid rigged ski ball got me into all this..."

Quite prim, and suddenly gone from a wary deer to the picture of nobility, Alois lifts his own chin, and looks down his nose at Lars. Again, it's not that he lacks sympathy... but sometimes he can seem it.

"You shouldn't break a contract in the first place." He's firm in this. That said, he hates the Ringmaster's methods...

...That said... well, Alois has some secretive but very personal bias here.

Lars looks taken aback, then scoffs loudly, brattishly crossing his arms. "Yeah, well, maybe contracts shouldn't omit mutating into a hideous carny goblin—or have rigged games in the first place—then I might consider that advice." Lars puts the word advice around some air quotes, rolling his eyes. "I gotta say, ain't nothin' been done to inspire any loyalty in me for this crazy bag."

Edited 2016-11-09 04:40 (UTC)

"You don't need to be loyal; you just need to be pragmatic." Alois probably doesn't seem like the pragmatic type, but at least he can intone it in the correct way. He's quite placid, even in the way he tosses his head to the side, hair falling over his forehead; he's even pacific in how he breathes, in through nose, out through mouth, seconds-long spaces in between. This is a technique he learned from his butler, who despite being (ostensibly) a Victorian gentleman, was quite ahead of his time regarding all knowledge of panic and anxiety (and how to instill and quell it equally in Alois).

His eyelids have gone low, and his eyes have gone lower, angled off in a random direction, not for shame but for deep consideration. Then, abruptly, he flicks them back over to Lars' face, and smiles in a small way, still mellow.

"You just have to get through, that's all."

"Yeah, like I got any other choice," Lars grouses, flopping his chin back onto his palm. His anxiety and panic are still present, but as only semi demanding background noise. His heart is racing with fear, but it's passing as Lars processes and begins to shift gears, now having adequate information regarding his impending fate.

"Good thing nobody I know is here. I don't know what the heck I'd do with myself if they saw me turning into some freakshow." Especially...er...those he sometimes engaged with in an intimate, physical sense. Recalling versus the context of his situation, Lars feels a deep wave of mortification despite it only being a passing, hypothetical thought. He groans miserably, dropping his head so that his face is in his hands.

God, and he's been trying not to think too much about home—and especially not her. A familiar surge of despair moves in, now, the grief and anxiety of possibly never seeing loved ones again. Too many emotions!! why must he be this way. why is he such an emotional boy

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, fronting irritation over his sudden, stinging loneliness.

"Ugh."

From one emotional boy to another, Lars' reaction is uncomfortable for Alois because it's so familiar that Alois can nearly see himself. Different reasons, perhaps, everybody's got their own garbage going on, but the way it manifests... This particular brand of awful feeling...

Frankly, the heart sucks. Alois is tired of being bullied by his own, and it doesn't feel good to see someone else in the same position, either. He sighs thinly, shifting from foot to foot and wringing his fingers together. He rubs a thumb over his gold and ruby ring, an anxious gesture, and wishes he had somebody to come and cover his mouth for him.

Instead: "There will be people here who take you as you are. Weirdly enough. I can guarantee you that. So don't..." What is he even supposed to say? What would he want anyone to say to him? Stuff that might come out as lies, perhaps, because Alois is a special sort of delusional; but despite his own propensity for lying, he's not quite cruel enough to tell Lars that everything will be okay. Alois swallows. "So— Well. It feels less bad, after a while."

"As I am?" Lars parrots incredulously, lifting his head with an indignant sniff. No one accepted him as he was even when he wasn't a hypothetically freaky monster person. He scoffs, a single note half laugh. His charms are thin and only appreciated by an extremely small margin—some of the time.

But fuck if Lars is gonna lay out his weaknesses like that to some ponce he's just met, even if he's—now being weirdly nice, almost?

Oh, wait, hell no. Is this kid pitying him?

"Whatever," Lars grouses bitterly, unfortunately sour on Alois's reassurance that had almost worked. He does appreciate he isn't being lied to, though—nothing would be more infuriating right now than false hope. He scrubs his palm against his eye to run away the accumulated moisture. Fuckin' embarrassing. "More like everyone gets beaten down and accepts what they've become, right?"

Edited 2016-11-15 21:56 (UTC)

That stings—not the bitterness, Alois understands that, but it feels like a blow to his own ego, this idea of acceptance. It's one thing to bide your time; another to grow... quiescent. Alois has done both, but the latter leaves a terrible lacking in the heart, devoid of any warmth or even any struggle. That lacking heart is cringing right now, which translates into Alois making an ill-natured face, scrunching up his nose and twisting his mouth. "I didn't say that," he snaps, and he snaps because he's feeling defensive. Then again, he wasn't not saying it, either...

At least he has the grace to look away. Whether Lars is crying or close to it, Alois figures he might not want to be stared at like a sideshow right now. (Alois makes frequent crocodile tears, and he loves being looked at when it's like that, but if he's crying for real—no, get away.)

...

"I'm just saying." His voice is crouched low, coming forth from his mouth only reluctantly. "Nobody's given me a licking yet, so you shall probably get on fine yourself. When I say—as you are—just, there are some folk who talk a fine show of being well, if nothing else."

"How's that supposed to make me feel better? People're good at fakin' that they're okay?" Lars blinks uncomfortably and irritably, his eyes feeling properly dry again, and he scowls. He takes a moment, gathering himself a little bit as he comes down from his onset of an emotional spiral—grateful he can do so. He's been staring at the brink of the dam breaking, he thinks. He can feel it already, which is embarrassing. It's been two days. It can't happen right now. He crosses his legs so that his ankle is on top of his knee.

"Well, good for them, I guess."

He pauses, then lifts his eyes back to Alois, staring him in the face.

"Are you one of 'em?"

Through the scowl and all of it, Alois smiles. His smile is small and practiced, but it looks sweet on his face. He isn't smirking, at least. But, because he's such a liar, he lowers his eyes in a way that seems demure, when Lars looks at him head on.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says on the edge of a laugh— "Or, well, maybe I did. But come on, like any coveys you've ever met are really..." Now he is smirking, just a little, and his voice goes sing-song. "O-kay. You don't seem such a cake, so you ought to know that, I'm sure."

Teen angst plus the pessimism of one too worldly for his age, basically.

Lars slumps forward further, his posture worsening as he melts down the bench petulantly.

"Yeah, well, I ain't no liarmouth."

Total lie. Or, okay, partial lie. He is an avid denier of his own feelings, especially when put on the spot—but he does less direct shitty lying to people to manipulate them and...garbage like that. But, it's still bullshit regardless.

"I at least have the decency t'not pretend to be—" Lars lifts his hands to do airquotes. "—cake."

"Oh, you think it's decent, do you." If Alois still feels any sympathy—well, he does—regardless, he's doing his own liarmouth thing, shuffling it aside in favor of acid-tinged playtime. He makes a V-sign with one of his hands, loose and casual, and waves it lazily at his own side. "Do, do, please do teach us some of that decency, I think most of us are a little bit lacking."

Lars scoffs, rolling his eyes. His closest friend—and... lover? sometimes??—was also guilty of forcing herself to be nicer than she really was. Plenty of people did it. Things were simpler without the pretense, he thinks.

"Yeah, right, and you can be my teaching assistant—cuz there clearly ain't nothin' for me to teach you."

Alois, by now, is more comfortable with this topic: how shitty people are, in whatever way, and how shitty he is as well. Things come easier to him in a conversation like this. If he can insist that everyone else is lying about whatever they want, he is perfectly justified in all his own lies as well.

So, like this, he seems more pleasant, more pleased in his own skin (which is a lie on its own; his own skin is terrible, so far as he sees it). There's nothing strained in his face, no surface tension, while he crooks his knee and taps the toe of his boot against the ground, hands folded behind his back in mock dainty manner.

"Of course, I am quite decent, and lovely, and wonderful. Anyone would tell you so." He laughs. "Well, it might depend on who you ask." Meaning: he hasn't found it easy to make friends.

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all jobs is bad

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IGNORE THAT I BASICALLY REWROTE A TAG

swaddles you

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