thecapitol | (OPEN) at least he's not dead now

Entry tags:

(OPEN) at least he's not dead now

Who| Karkat and whoever runs across him.
What| Now that he's out of the mini-arena, Karkat's exploring the place he has to live.
Where| All across the Training Center.
When| After his death in the mini-arena ~ a few days after. Anywhere around then.
Warnings/Notes| Karkat is pretty foulmouthed and irreverent, but nothing else. Feel free to use prose (whichever tense) or action; I'll adapt with you.

Of all the ways Karkat would wish to be welcomed someplace new, this was not one of them. Thanks to the arena, which they'd shoved him in with only minimal explanation, he'd suffered his second death in as many days. Wasn't it enough for Jane to fork him before he showed up? Did he really have to get...

He didn't want to think about it. Maybe it was better that it was something from the arena rather than a fellow tribute, but it didn't make being killed by an oversized, animatronic cartoon beast any better.

Even after, being alive was strange. Back during Sgrub and everything else before Panem, at least there were countless mechanics to explain why someone might revive. Here he didn't know what they did. Something technological? It wasn't unthinkable when they'd brought him here from another part of reality, and while he was glad to not be dead permanently, it was unsettling to think they had such technology at their disposal.

Now he was... not free, but at least somewhere safe. Not subject to the current edition of the Hunger Games, at any rate. He learned his district and what that meant. (District 6, transportation, here's your floor and your room.) He learned that the tower was host to tributes and the various mentors, escorts, stylists, and whoever else served part of this entertainment machine. Night would bring curfew, but days would be relatively open, giving him the chance to feel out his surroundings.

A.
One place he'd definitely find himself was the actual training center, the floor from which the building got its name. Being here would mean needing to be in shape and on his game, and while he had skills still left over from Sgrub, they would do no good if left unpracticed. If he could find a sickle amongst the weapons provided there, he'd be practicing with that. Otherwise he might check out the other stations. Learn knots? Sure. Learn edible plants? Worthwhile. And then there was regular old relief of frustration: he may not have been a fistkind user, but that didn't stop him from taking things out a punching bag.

B.
Night of course would leave him confined to the District 6 area. Unused to a bed, lacking sopor slime, and still rattled from the arena, he didn't sleep much. It didn't help that his species was naturally nocturnal, but even during the day he sought little rest. At least the common area had a TV and games to play, and the kitchen helped for hunger or thirst. It wouldn't be hard to spot the look on his face: tired and grumpy, with perpetual bags under his eyes.

C.
During the day again, he more than once found himself up on the roof. Here the atmosphere was less stifling, with fresh air and an actual sky to see, unlike the darkness or the void or luminescent shapes of dream bubbles back on the meteor. It wasn't his sky, not the one he knew from Alternia, but if it had been he wouldn't have been able to stand the sun. This was tolerable - relaxing, even - and it gave him a space from everything else.

D.
But beyond the rest, he wandered. The tower was big, and he knew well enough that people he knew had to be around. He'd heard mention, or seen a flash of horn in the arena he couldn't stop long enough to identify, and he had run into Eridan while he was still in there. It meant teammates or friends were here, and these above all else he sought out, carrying him through common rooms or the lobby or across hallways and elevators throughout the tower. Feasibly anyone could run into him; though short, most people weren't grey with horns, and it made him stand out.

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Stephen wasn't limited by the curfew, a fact that he usually tried not to shove in his Tributes' faces. He tried to get back by 11, he really did. However, he'd been out visiting family, and had lost track of time. He pushes open the door to the D6 rooms a little after one, glancing around to see if anyone was still up.

He sees one of the new trolls -- or, well, one of the old trolls, but at the very least a new version, since he's been reassigned to Stephen's district, and it's hard to tell with the stubby-horned ones anyways because there are usually at least two of them -- still awake, playing some kind of game.

"You're up late," he says mildly. Stephen hasn't spoken with Karkat -- any Karkat -- much before. He hadn't had time to do more before the mini-Arena than work out a publicity angle; there had been no room to get to know Karkat socially.

(One last thing Karkat might notice: half-hidden by the glittery suits Stephen Reagan always wears, on one of his wrists, is a plain metal cuff that marks him as someone who has committed an offense against the Capitol.)

Curfews are stupid. They do nothing but coop him up and leave him restless, and that's part of why he's playing a video game now. It may pass the time, but taking out enemies expends frustration, enough to take some of the edge off. It doesn't mean he's happy, though.

But with the hour late as it is, he's not expecting anyone at all to come in. He hears the noise, impossible to miss, and the voice that follows up. His posture stiffens at the sight of the suit.

It's not the cuff, really. He wasn't here for the whole prison thing and he hasn't had them explained before. It could be an accessory for all he knows; human fashion is weird in general, but especially that of the Capitol. And it is the Capitol he assumes this man belongs to, with material that sparkly.

Pressing a button pauses the game, though he keeps the controller in hand.

"My species is nocturnal." His tone is measured but defensive. He hasn't tried to leave, and while this man might not sound displeased, there might be some stay-in-your-own-room or must-be-in-bed requirement he hasn't heard about.

Edited 2014-11-14 03:52 (UTC)

Stephen rubs his eyes (it is only thanks to long practice that he doesn't smear his shimmery eyeliner) and waves a hand vaguely in Karkat's direction.

"Relax," he says. "I'm not about to throw the book at you." It's at this point that Karkat, if he's familiar with that kind of thing, might realize that Stephen is buzzed. It is an old buzz, one that is working itself out of his system, but this is a man who is about halfway through the process of sobering up. He is able to focus clearly enough on Karkat, though, though it takes him a second to bring the troll's name to mind.

"It's...Karkat, isn't it?"

Karkat pointedly does not relax. This man is a Capitolite, and by principal he can't trust them, not when they're part of the whole reason he's here. It would mean something different if he understood the cuff, but for all he knows this man is loyal as anything. He's in the tribute tower, isn't he? He's not even one of the consumer masses out in the buildings beyond, and he's certain he wouldn't have made it to District 6's floor if he were no one important.

The fact that Stephen is buzzed registers only mildly on the scale of things. He recognizes it after Rose and the addiction she grew into, but human soporifics are beyond his interest. He has no reason yet to think Stephen would have a problem; even if he did, he has no reason to give him concern.

In all, it's good to know he won't be shooed back to his room, but he doesn't know what this guy wants.

"Yes," he answers plainly. His shoulders sit tense, not quite hunched. "Who are you?"

Stephen drops his jacket carelessly over the back of a chair and crosses to the sink, getting a glass of water. "Right now I'm tired and trying to cheat a hangover," he says, turning back to Karkat. "But in the morning I'll be Stephen Reagan, Escort to District Six."

Give him a second. He's going to knock back half of this water in one go.

Gulp, gulp, gulp.

Escort to District 6. Sounds important, and once again Karkat finds himself frustrated at how hectic his introduction to Panem has been. Maybe he would have been told this earlier if he'd arrived before the mini-arena, but so much for that! If he got told in the aftermath, the sheer weight of everything else has pushed it out of mind.

"I know I'm asking something I probably should know by now, but what's an escort?" The game sits forgotten; though the continued music plays softly in the background, he's set the controller aside as he looks over the back of the couch toward the kitchen.

He's at least trying for politeness. Time will only tell how long it lasts.

"No, it's fine," says Stephen, lowering the glass and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Escorts are basically managers. We work with Mentors to promote you and net you sponsors during the Arena. But while it's the Mentor's job to give you advice on what to do in the Arena, it's up to me to help you get around outside of it. I apologize in advance," he says, spreading his arms in a shrug. "I'm going to be taking you to a lot of places you probably won't want to go. Parties, events, interviews."

Here is about where, several months ago, Stephen would announce that he was also here to help, and that if Karkat needed anything, Stephen would do his level best to get it.

Here is where, three months ago and sober, Stephen would have been on his very best by-the-book behavior, giving Karkat no slack whatsoever.

But he's buzzed, and he's tired, and he's been keeping up this follow-the-rules thing for months now. He's kind of sick of it, and Stephen isn't in the mood to make an enemy of one of his tributes for the sake of keeping his cover.

Stephen takes another drink of water, and when he speaks, it both echoes in and is muffled by the glass. "I've been called a babysitter before. It's not entirely wrong. But if I can't keep you away from trouble, I'll do what I can to help you get out of it."

Karkat has met Linden already, so when Stephen mentions Mentors, there's nothing to question there. It means the explanation goes through smoothly, illustrating well the difference and purpose given to his role. It doesn't stop him from a grimace at all the things he's going to be dragged to, and apology or no, he mutters a defeated, "Fuck."

At least the man's aware of the inconvenience he's imposing, and it earns him a point or two, bolstered by the last glass-distorted words. For all Karkat wanted a better, respected status for himself when he was still growing up on Alternia, a celebrity out of a death game isn't what he angled for. Threshecutioners had a more noble purpose in his mind, a more badass one, but this place is a heap of indignities and undeserved suffering.

He sinks in his seat, head turning away from him.

"For reference," he says, "my species has grubs, not babies. And I already avoided trouble over something I didn't start with help from another tribute."

It's not a refusal of what Stephen says he'd do, but he's not going to trust a Capitolite that much just yet. The points he earned are a foot in the door, not a warm welcome.

The hostility runs off Stephen like water off a duck. If he got worked up over every grouchy Tribute he talked with, he wouldn't still be in this job.

"Then you're off to a good start," Stephen says evenly, putting the empty glass down in the sink. "Some Tributes get into trouble they can't get out of their first week here." His tone is even, his face is neutral, and nothing gives away just how much he cares about everything that's happened since Penny's assassination. The arrests, the jailbreak, his own implication in it, the new rules, the disappearance of several of the culprits... The world is spinning out of control and people he cares about have been hurt and killed, but Stephen Reagan is good at keeping a straight face for the cameras.

It may be his only marketable skill.

"I know it's late," he says, "and if you want to get back to your game, that's fine. But if there's anything you want to know -- about the Capitol, about the Games, about the Tributes, or the things that have happened recently -- well, I've been doing this for a long time." Stephen's tired, it's true, but being a Tribute is hard enough without a slacking Escort. He should at least give Karkat a chance to ask questions, especially if he hadn't even been told what an Escort was yet. "If you've got a question, I've probably got an answer."

Your information-giving NPC is here, Karkat, and the menu of topics to ask about is at the bottom of the screen.

Hostility? That's mild for Karkat. If Stephen ever really gets him mad, he'll see the difference, but he'd prefer to avoid having that happen. The incident he just mentioned was bad enough; he'd hardly like to see the consequences for going off on an actual Capitolite, much though he'd like to scream and shout at more than a few for the situation he's in.

He hasn't the faintest clue how much Stephen actually cares.

"Late is relative," he says as, reminded by the mention, he turns back to the TV in order to exit out of the game. "My species is nocturnal, and I'd be out doing other things if not for the curfew." That task done, he moves to put the controller back in its proper place.

He sees your floating menu, but the real question is where to start. There's a lot he wants to know, a lot of things he'd like to demand out of him about his situation and why it's happening, but if he went off on one how long would it be before the rest spilled out? Is he even allowed to ask why the Hunger Games are happening?

Perhaps it's a moment too long that he stares at the controller he just put away. He turns back around.

"Tell me about sponsors," he says slowly. "Obviously they have to be some kind of important, but what for? What all do they do, and how do you earn them?"

Stephen crosses the room and sinks into a chair near Karkat; it'll be easier to talk that way. If it were earlier and he were completely sober, he would be leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, attentive and bright-eyed. As it is, he's slumped and slouching, but not in an irritated way. His body language is open.

"Sponsors send you gifts in the Arena," explains Stephen. "Useful things, usually: food, water, weapons, medicine, things that will give you an edge or save your life. Sponsors buy these things through Escorts and Mentors, who control when they're sent down to you.

"Now, people sponsor Tributes for all kinds of reasons. Usually it's a matter of personal preference: everyone has their favorites, the ones they want to see win. Other times, though, people bet on a Tribute they think is likely to win, and then send sponsor gifts to help that along. Therefore, there are two main ways to get sponsor gifts: you show that you're likable, or that you're a good bet."

Karkat doesn't mind that Stephen's not acting all perky to serve him. It feels more honest this way, somehow--though he doesn't know if this is his usual manner or not. It's hard to guess what he'd be like sober.

He listens well, nodding along, but by the end of the explanation a frown has settled on his face. "Well fuck. Unless people buy into the asshole shtick or something with my friends gets them to like me, I'm screwed. Because I can tell you right now I won't be going in looking to murder senselessly."

His tone is firm there. While if it came down to it he could kill, he's seen too much death to think fondly of it. He's been killed before. It's not a fun thing to deal with. In his own mind, his best bet seems to be trying to stick it out until the end and seeing what he can do then.

"You've got the alien thing going for you already," Stephen says. "It would be better if there were fewer others, but it does make you stick out. Plus, there have also been versions of you here before -- that helps," he advises, with as much thought as his sobering-up brain can muster. "You're coming into this with a fan following."

"Fan following?" he repeats back, eyebrow raised. "From what I've heard of it, past me was an asshole who got into weird relationships that are beyond me to fathom now. Besides, I don't even know what my supposed 'fans' like about me." He mimes the quotation marks. "I don't have any memory of what past me has done, only hearsay, and limited at that."

"I know you don't," says Stephen. "That's how it works. Sometimes people just come back, and they don't remember you, and that's how it is." He gives a casual shrug, like it doesn't matter to him at all and has definitely never happened to him before.

"But apparently, being an asshole works for you. So unless you'd like me to try and help you reinvent yourself this time around, the only advice I have for you is to be yourself -- as publicly as you can."

"Fuck no, I'm not reinventing myself," Karkat answers almost immediately. "I've been an asshole all my life and I'm not changing it now. Especially not for this."

That's about as much as he'll say to that, given where they are. He doubts the Capitol would take kindly to a more open statement of hatred for what he's been thrust into. And for the warnings others have given him, he doesn't want to make their efforts useless.

Still, it's strange, and a faint hint of amusement enters his voice. "Some advice that is, though. Keep being a dick and the people will love me? At least I'll be able to blame you if it doesn't work out."

Then again, with as many people as he considers friends, he's not completely wrong.

"Absolutely," Stephen says, waving a hand. "If your sponsor gifts aren't up to par, lodge a formal complaint after the Arena." His tone makes it clear that this is sarcasm, full-of-shit sarcasm.

Then, though, he sobers. "In all seriousness, how involved do you want to be in this? I have Tributes who mostly want to be left alone, whose public appearances I try to minimize, and then there are the Tributes who play to win, and who come up with their own plans for self-promotion. Marketing, advertising deals. Your face is going to be on merchandise whether you like it or not -- I'm sorry about that, but it's something the Capitol has always done with its Tributes -- but you can either take control of it or pretend it isn't happening, and I'll support you either way."

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(OPEN) at least he's not dead now

B -- let me know if this is all right!

yep, no problem!

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let me know if bringing this up isn't okay and I'll change it!

it's fine!

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