towerofanimus | Glamour Failure

[When America had woken up again, early in the morning, and England hadn't been there, America had panicked all over again, falling out of the pod and crying in a corner for fifteen minutes. But he got up, eventually, and realized that England had to be somewhere. So he'd gone looking.

The Tower wasn't the same one he was used to. He'd taken cautious steps down the staircase until the eerie unfamiliarity of everything made him run for the elevator (so much technology he couldn't comprehend, so many many many years ahead). He started from the bottom, then. And then he came to floor five.

The viewfinders were still there. England had said that their bodies weren't real, that--things weren't real. So if this was real now, then he had to check.

America climbs up onto a stool, ignoring its electrical pulses, and, frightfully, like a thirsty gazelle hoping the crocodiles in the river had already eaten, peers inside.

The pain strikes his soul in a literal sense, and he grips the viewfinder enough to press the metal into his palms. In a few moments more, his palms are bleeding (violet, not red), his nails scraping uselessly against metal.

It hurts. It hurts and it's still there and it's real, it's real, he's gone, he's dead, everyone is dead, it hurts and it hurts and it hurts and he doesn't look away, can't, even though he's never hurt this much in his life, even though it's like the pain of being crushed a thousandfold.

It's real. He stares into the void and the void of reality stares back. His palms drip violet fluid onto the table, and still he grips harder.]

[[It had taken a lot of comforting to get her to finally leave her corner of the library and start wandering around. She wanted to help too...even though she didn't know how. But she wanted to try, to give back what others gave to her. And that's when her wandering brought her to the viewfinder floor.

She'd only ever looked into the ports once, quickly forgetting this place existed as best as she could. She didn't understand what it meant, but it didn't look like it was a good thing.

Today though, there's someone small here. She's not positive who it is just yet, having a really hard time figuring out who was what and what was who, but whoever it is they're small like her. And at first she doesn't think anything is really wrong - they're just looking into the port - but then she notices a little bit of violet dripping and she worries.]]

U-um...excuse me. Are you okay...?

[America doesn't look away from the viewfinder, but he recognizes the voice. The girl who'd comforted him when he'd wanted to go home.]

No. I'm not.

[Home is dead. His voice is distant and older in an unnatural way.]

...I...I'm sorry. [[She's not sure what else to say. She walks over to him, tugging lightly on his arm.]]

You're hurting yourself...you should stop.

[He's single-minded in his search for America, to a point where it's almost frightening to watch. While he usually tries to be considerate of others in crowds, if only so he can minimise contact with his person, England barrels past people on his way down the staircase with very little regard for who he might be shoving or how they might feel about being so rudely shoved.

Finding America is the only thing on his mind. Or, rather, he's forcing it to be the only thing on his mind. Less than eight hours ago he felt closer to death than he'd ever felt in his whole life, and that's including the plague epidemic of the 1300s. And then he woke up alone in the pod, entirely unprepared for the idea that he might have to track America down in this chaos.

So he's pushing everything else aside, both metaphorically and literally. He just has to find America. He'll find America and then he can attend to all the other emotions clamouring for his attention.

It's easier to search the floors when the glamour is turned off, so England doesn't have to do much beyond glancing into each floor as he passes it on the staircase. He makes the long trek, all the way down; even if he could take the elevator, which, considering the circumstances, may not be possible at present, he would miss out on some of the floors that he needs to check.

He continues down like a missile seeking its target until he reaches floor five, where he finds America (or, the petite violet humanoid that somewhat resembles America). The relief he feels is only momentary, a fleeting precursor to the panic that sets in when he sees what America is doing, what he's sitting at.

Those things — those fucking godawful instruments of torture — they're real. America is sitting on film, and he himself is still a purple mess of wire shapes, but the viewfinder is as solid and defined as ever.]

America!

[England actually stumbles in his haste to get off the staircase, but soon he's rushing across the floor proper and throwing himself down beside the stool, his hand coming to rest on America's back.] America, my boy, look at me.

Edited 2013-06-02 06:32 (UTC)

[America doesn't move. He doesn't seem to acknowledge England at all at first. He keeps pressing his palms into the viewfinder and violet liquid keeps seeping out of those palms down the machine. Something in him shivers and cries and screams for comfort from England, and something else can't reach that part of him, and it's frightening like everything is frightening and he doesn't understand why.

He's shivering quite violently, though.]

I didn-didn't know-- [His voice is shaky, a confused mix of frightened humanlike child and nationlike, defensive detachment when neither of those options can protect him from this reality.] These are real.

[England sets both of his hands on America, then, and tries to gently tug him away from the viewfinder. They're shaking with his panic (and rage, because he's quickly realising that the elevator wasn't enough, he wants to tear down every part of this tower that's real), but England isn't worried about hiding that from America.]

I didn't know they were real either. [But they're on his to-do list now that he does know.]

America, look at me, please.

[America doesn't have the strength he's supposed to right now--England tugs him away. His hands are completely stained violet, even over the film.

After a moment, he looks over at England. It's so hard to read England's face this way, with only the slightest impressions of his face, but he does as told.]

[It's painful not to see familiar bright blue eyes when he looks into America's face, but England forces himself to keep eye contact. Or, what he's fairly certain is eye contact.

America is too young to understand it, but England knows what he's feeling — what most nations would be feeling right now. What England himself is feeling. But America can't feel that way. It's— it's not right. And it's so confusing for a child; it's confusing and unfair, but even still, England hopes it remains that way, if only because coming to understand it is irreversible and America isn't equipped to cope with that.

(Truly, England isn't equipped to cope with it either. The previous night was proof enough of that.)

So, as much as it twists his stomach to do so, as much as he knows that the case is completely the opposite, England lies.] It's all right— you'll be all right.

[There were many things about this whole "glamour failure" thing that Czeslaw didn't mind in the slightest. Actually, he was downright pleased with it, but one thing that was not ok was what he found on floor five. It shook him to the core.

A child. A child with their face pressed to the viewfinder, digging their palms into the metal so tightly that they had already started to draw blood. This? This was not ok. To drive a child so young to do something like this to himself was unacceptable.]

H-hey! You're hurting yourself!

Edited 2013-06-04 19:55 (UTC)

Glamour Failure

floor 5 | open

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