Thicker Than Blood Start

[gamemakers]

For Tributes with keen eyes, they'll notice that Peacekeeper presence seems increased and yet infinitely more ineffective in the last few weeks. Peacekeepers seem harried, as do the Stylists, and most of the Escorts titter and plot without alerting the Tributes as to what, exactly, is so exciting. They simply say that this weekend they'll know.

And so it happens that on the weekend in question, the Tributes are woken by their Escorts early and brought to a restaurant for a hearty breakfast. The restaurant is nothing spectacular, although they seem to be trying to make an impression on the television cameras that float around. The sleepy, cranky meal goes by and then the Tributes are led back to their Suites for a mandatory meeting.

Sitting on couches and the floor, in chairs and on windowsills, standing off to the side - people from the Tributes' homes are waiting to greet them in each District Suite. Some are confused, some accepting, some frightened and some elated to see their beloved. Either way, it should be an eventful reunion.

Comments

Initiate, Kurloz, and Gamzee | OTA (for any of them)

[carnagecarnival]

Finding so many new people back in the district might have been enough to stop him on its own, at least for to give pause and ask who the fuck all these people were supposed to be. But he sees two pairs of waving goat horns, two face with paint on their countenance, tall and thin as rails with curling black hair. This doesn't just stop him, it straight up motherfucking winds him. He knows who they are.

This is his flesh and blood. This is his vein and bone. Living, breathing, walking before, apart from him. His kin and legacy. His family. They wear his face and yet they wear them different.

The one smaller boy looks positively dazzled with everything. He wanders the room, maw agape, body slouched and lax, half-lidded eyes lit up in wonder, his face painted on as a smile. He mutters and honks, drawling "Daaamn", "Shiiit", and "Fuuuck", then peppering it all with sudden laughs over nothing. This was it. His descendant. The product of some motherfucking thing of his future what all he ain't even able to comprehend, whom he'd never meet and never know otherwise. The one talked on and motherfucking talked on with no thing ever made clear.

The other he catches looking around, taking note of every little detail without moving from his spot, before that gaze settles on him, eyes wide and smile stretched, both going wider on spotting him. And all at the same time, he just knows if all they had voodoo, he'd be feeling this one's now. This one with his legs delicately crossed, heals on his feet, clean paint, charcoal lined eyes, and lips sewn the fuck shut, them black lines over his lips definitely not being paint but thread. Mute. This was him. His alternate. His own motherfucking self from the life before.

His alter unfolds himself carefully, rising up slow. He's shorter than himself, made all of bone and nothing the fuck else, the slight off-color at one section of his alter's horns giving tell that at some point the fucker stopped giving a shit, namely about food. His hands and arms are still thin as twigs, the way his were before he grew into that mutation of his. He might think this one as almost 'elegant' if the thought wasn't entirely damn impossible to comprehend.

The rise of his alter alerts the other look-a-like to turn, his descendant-- a near perfect reflection of his own self in his youth, only faint little differences in the lack of scars, the short hair, the face and paint...

"Whoa," the boy-- Gamzee, that was his name-- says. "Motherfucking ganderbulbs be all getting done on at duplechoes visual up on as what to be seen at to me, only on motherfucking threes, yo." This is not the strangest thing he's heard --what used to be-- his own voice say, but the fact something is being said at all surprises enough. Gamzee adds, "Brother, you is to getting having a whole lot of motherfucking hair you is." He laughs to himself and gazes off into an entirely different direction.

That's all his alter needs to step forward and start frantically moving his hands around, so fast its nearly impossible to keep up. Perhaps his alter had hopes he might understand. He most solidly does motherfucking not. He throws his hands up.

"AIGHT! Enough!" His alter immediately, obediently stills, hands folding. Gamzee jumps nearly a foot and stumbles, looking at him with wide eyes and shrinking down at the same time like he's afraid of being attacked and maybe if he gets small enough he might gain approval that way. Oh Messiahs what has come before him.

They brought his motherfucking descendant. His Messiah foresaken alter. He can tell the fuck already he ain't going to get a word one way or other out of either all of them as is. But it's said enough, the capitol did this to taunt. Bring in his motherfucking kin as all to mock his own self. Bring in this mute malefactor on to speak what could be done to him.

"HE AIN'T SUPPOSE AT EITHER OF YOU KNOW WHAT ALL YOU BE INTO? Or who all I am to be?" He says, lifting a brow. His alter's head tilts, looking expectant. Gamzee responds, "Uuuh... no? I mean, I was guessing at you is to be a dream. Like. A dream other me only all biggerlike and not like the other what be being here on sidelike but if that's not ain't being what you're to be, that's chill too."

Oh Messiahs. What tests will be of this?

"TIME FOR A MOTHERFUCKING SCHOOLFEEDING. Follow him," He commands, and he leads his blood to a corner away from everyone else. Of course, it ain't so far away he couldn't be bothered by anyone passing by.