teach me the way to be humble and good

[void_whereprohibited]

Who | Cecil Palmer and YOU
What | There's a new Avox in town! ...Well. There are a lot of new Avoxes in town. This one is now a Tribute for District Three, no longer a radio host, and not keen to be reminded of why this is the case.
Where | Around the Tribute Center! See below for prompts.
When | A few days after Penny and Cruentus' broadcast.
Warnings | Threads will likely include mentions of torture, brainwashing, etc.; everything that comes with Avoxes and Capitol retribution.

PROMPT 1: CORRIDORS

The Capitol had gone to a great deal of trouble to strip Cecil Palmer of both his previous identity, and his human dignity. He could have told them, had they allowed it, that very little of it had been necessary - all it would have required was taking his voice.

They'd taken that, and removed every cosmetic change he'd made, as well. No more moving tattoos, or extra eyes, or scales, or neon tints. Even the color in his hair is gone, back to the sandy blond that even he hasn't seen in years. Of course, they'd also made sure that he wouldn't miss them - the mere thought of failing to blend, of standing out, makes Cecil's stomach twist and his palms start to sweat. Just standing next to particularly colorful people is stressful, as though flamboyance could be contagious.

Luckily, it's easy to avoid with his eyes leveled at the ground, and that's where he keeps them as he walks briskly through the corridors, on the way to his next errand.

It's as he's passing an open door that he hears it-- someone's got a radio on. Someone's listening to Messalina Baker's program. Four o' clock on Friday afternoons, every week. Hello, hel-lo, and wel-come to your Capitol afternoon with--

The pause in his step is completely involuntary, as is the swing of his head to look. There is not a single part of him that means to engage with the sound in any way-- and he stifles his reaction quickly, of course, schools his expression and drops his eyes and picks up his pace--

--just in time to sidestep someone whom he had, in his distraction, completely failed to notice. It's a near miss-- too near to be remotely conscionable. Too near not to be noticeable.

PROMPT 2: DISTRICT THREE SUITES

Among Cecil's current host of difficulties, some are more immediate than others. The lack of his voice is, of course, the most pressing, the one he thinks about most often, the one that the mere act of existing is most likely to remind him of. But next to that it was almost easy to forget, when he was first taken to his new home under the Tribute Center, that he's lost not only his voice but his citizenship - that he is now not only an Avox, but a Tribute.

He enters the District Three suites for the first time because he's been given a cleaning shift there. It's quiet when he comes in - he can take a second to stop, to look around the place he technically (only technically) belongs.

There's no one present when he halts beside a set of pictures on the wall - a bright, artfully-lit arrangement of landscapes. District Three landscapes. Cities at night, spread out circuitlike next to aerial views of rain-soaked forests, interspersed with waterfalls (some with turbines at the bottom of them and some without). It occurs to him that none of these places exists anymore. That the turbines have fallen silent. That the circuits are broken. That he, a person without a citizenship, will die fighting for a District that does not actually exist. He thinks there was a time when he would have found something beautiful about that.

A minute later, he's still staring, cleaning cart forgotten beside him, head tipped up to look at every picture in turn. As if he's forgotten where he is, and that he has a job to do.

PROMPT 3: AVOX QUARTERS

It's been less than a week, and already the Avox quarters feel like an oasis. Cecil thinks that this is probably strange; they shouldn't, right? They should be the worst place in the Capitol to be. The cruelest reminder of where he is in relation to where he was. Maybe it's just that misery loves company. Or, rather, that misery cuts less deeply when in the company of similar misery; misery averages out across a miserable group, rather than accumulating on an individual level. Cecil has never been a mathematician, but he thinks there may be something to this.

When he returns in the evening (almost as late as he had been known to stay at the radio station, once), he wants nothing more than to sit down. He trudges to the banks of pull-out cots, and is pleased to find one both unoccupied and with room to hang his feet over one edge. He sits; stretches; winces at the pull in his still-aching jaw. Ugh. Cruel and unusual municipally-sanctioned cordectomy, right?

With a sigh, he lets himself slide off the metal cot to lean and tap the nearest Avox on the shoulder. He can't think of a gesture for Have they sent down that shipment of painkillers they promised yet, and if so could you direct me to where they're keeping them?, so he just points at his mouth and winces expressively. Eloquent.

[ooc: If you'd like to discuss a specific thread prompt, PM me or hit me up on Plurk!]

Comments

[privilegecheck]

Kankri has a wide assortment of bruises and sore muscles from the past few days' training sessions with Shepard. It's thankless and miserable, and she's a ruthless taskmaster, but every time he wants to just give up he thinks about the people who were brave enough to lose everything they had. It doesn't make it easier, but it makes him more determined, at least. He can bear this, because he has to.

There's nothing more in his mind than taking a shower and curling up in the D5 commons as he walks down the hall, and so he only realizes he's nearly crashed into someone because he sees the flicker of movement as they dodge. He looks up with tired eyes. "Sorry..."

It takes him a few moments to recognize Cecil. He looks...different, without all of his flashy decorations. It makes him look flat and lifeless compared to the Cecil Kankri knew. Nevertheless, once the connection is made, he's instantly focused on this meeting and only this.

He reaches out, touching Cecil's shoulder, the motion tentative as if he thinks touching too hard will break him. "Cecil? Oh, my goodness, I was so afraid for you...I'm so glad to see you."

In the days that had elapsed since Penny told him that she planned to bring Cecil back into the Tribute Tower, he'd been terrified that she'd changed her mind and killed him instead. She seemed like the kind of woman who would think nothing of doing something like that. His skin crawls just thinking about it.

[void_whereprohibited]

Oh, no. Oh, this is even worse. Had it been someone he didn't know, Cecil could have just ducked out of the way with an apology on his face and walked away as fast as his legs would carry him. The worst that could have happened would have been a reprimand for clumsiness, and he would take that a thousand times over what's actually in front of him.

He flinches at the touch, pulling back with what looks like every muscle in his body - but there's little indication on his face that he's registered what Kankri is saying. His expression is carefully, pointedly blank, and he doesn't make eye contact - takes a long step back and lets his gaze drop to the ground between them, the closest he can get to an apology for almost having run into a Tribute.

There's the barest flicker of a glance in Kankri's direction (not seeking recognition, but a reprimand); but in a second it's gone, replaced again by that dull, terrified blankness.

[privilegecheck]

What have they done to him?

There's horror on his face for a few moments, and then he forces his revulsion back down. Cecil is going through enough, he doesn't need to see that. It's for the people - the monsters who would do this to someone and then go on with a clear conscience. And the society content to simply ignore and forget those unfortunate enough to be pulled into that.

Kankri is so sick of all of this. Why should he have to be reminded every day of the awful things the Capitol does in the name of stability, while they get to live in comfort and pretend everything is fine? It isn't right. The Capitol's totalitarian government keeps its crimes to the shadows, but in that moment Kankri decides he's going to find some way, any way, to drag them into the light.

But right now that's not a concern in comparison to Cecil, terrified in front of him. "Come with me," he says at last. He knows Avoxes can't refuse orders. Maybe it's him taking advantage of Cecil's situation, but his patience has worn thin for today, and if it isn't him then it'll be someone else, right?

1

[formersurgeon]

Joan is keeping her head down as she moves through the corridor purposefully, not for any particular reason other than that's now her default for moving through public spaces. The less notice she attracts, the better.

The Avox doesn't register until he runs into her. "Hey," she says, stopping to steady him, making a point to look him in the eye face, like she did with all Avoxes. "Are you..."

...okay. The word dies in her throat as the man's face clicks.

He's plain and pale and drawn and harried, but it's him.

[void_whereprohibited]

This they have in common - both walking with the same purpose in different directions, both seeking not to be noticed and, in concentrating only on that, noticing each other. A critical backfire.

She can look him in the face, but not in the eyes. His gaze is on Joan's shoes, but his heart is in his throat. She frightens him more than most. Her presence reminds him with horrifying clarity of what he did, of what he dared to do - her associates her with disobedience and sedition and secrecy, and those are words he's terrified even to think.

He lifts one hand between them, palm out-- It says I'm sorry and I'll keep my distance and Please, please keep your distance.

Not for her protection. For his.

[carnagecarnival]

His mind runs in plans and instincts. His vision is no longer colors, but a constant search for anything, anything that he can use. He is tired. But in some way there is relief that he ain't the only one. No one asks him why, no one thinks it out of place. Not even on someone bloodthirsty as he, no one has the energy.

His heart works in small sparks. Little patches like starbursts, that blink out fast and leave one blind, but for a short second they're beautiful. Who cares if some of those starbursts are just lost ships in the night sky?

This one doesn't. He stops before the Avox-- he knows the signs too well now, between his alternate, Kurloz, and every other Avox he watched before and after-- and observes as he finds a starburst of his own, which he picks out seconds later as the crackling static of radio. His head tilts listening for it. And that's when he figures out who this must be, his eyes going a little wider.

Hadn't Carlos said this motherfucker could be an ally? One what couldn't be shared much, on fault he had too much fear. But apparently, that was not the case. Cecil had been underestimated greatly.

When Cecil turns, he looks at him directly. He gets straight to the cull before Cecil can even flee. "IS IT PROHIBITED OF AN AVOX TO SPEAK TO A TRIBUTE? Yes or motherfucking no, nod to me. ANSWER."

[void_whereprohibited]

How he could have missed seeing this Tribute, Cecil doesn't know. He should have seen his shadow, at least, the tallest shadow in Panem. Almost walking into him is like almost walking into a wall, a great gray-and-black wall, and even without touching him Cecil nearly bounces back, almost stumbling over his feet to put sufficient distance between them.

He would have fled, had he been given enough time. He isn't given enough time. He takes the question in, staring wide-eyed at the ground. It's an ugly conundrum - the taboo against communicating is clear, and the conditioned fear of it is already pounding through his veins, making his throat feel thick. But he was told to reply, and in the end the fear of disobedience is the fear that wins out.

First he shakes his head-- No, I can't, I can't speak at all and much less to a Tribute-- but then he realizes belatedly that he's misunderstood the question and turns it hastily into a nod, --I mean, yes, it's prohibited, I can't. Yes, I can't. Has he made himself clear? He probably hasn't. Oh, no.

The Capitol clearly doesn't intend to underestimate Cecil again. They've given him fear, taught him fear, drowned him in fear, and in his weak, indecisive reply there's not a trace of the bravery that drove his final broadcast.

2

[pythianjudgment]

Terezi hasn't been too keen lately to come back to her district. It's too depressing, being around the places and people that remind her that D3 is dead. But that knowledge doesn't change the fact that she lives here now, or that her things are here. Eventually, she has to come back for some reason or another, and it's then that she finds Cecil.

At first, she doesn't recognize him as anything more than an Avox. She catches them around more often than one might otherwise see them, given the strange hours that she keeps. But this one... His preoccupation with the pictures has her taking a second sniff at the human, and it's then that she realizes who it is.

She's not sure how she feels about that... A known traitor being assigned to tasks in District 3's suites. Half of their tributes are rebellious enough that she's paranoid for a moment that they might be planning on wiping out the whole floor. But that would be silly.

The structural integrity of the nine floors above them would never hold out if they tried to firebomb the suites. She's pretty sure that's the only reason they're still standing at this point.

"See something you like?" she calls from behind him, crossing her arms and lifting a slim brow in his direction.

[void_whereprohibited]

Cecil startles hard, and inward-- every limb curls in, protectively, as if against an oncoming blow. Immediately, he turns, his expression already shifting from stricken to terrified-neutral. He reaches one hand toward the cart beside him, pulling it closer as though he could pretend he were just about to start using it the entire time.

He knows Terezi only by sight - he's seen her compete in the Games before. (Well-- they're on the same side now, technically.) But they've never spoken, and maybe that means she won't expect him to speak. Maybe she'll leave him alone.

He doesn't nod or shake his head at her question. That would imply that he has an opinion about any of the pictures on the wall, and officially, he doesn't. Officially, he can't. So, instead, he begins rummaging through the cleaning cart; that's all the reply he needs to give, right? Doing his job.

Prompt 2

[splendid_roman]

Ian came out of his room into the common room to find Cecil there. He didn't recognise the stranger looking at pictures at first, until he remembered the broadcast and put it together with the clothes. "It was a beautiful place," he said wistfully, from the doorway.

[void_whereprohibited]

Cecil turned completely around, guilt in every motion and every line of his face, as though he'd been caught doing something far more heinous than looking at pictures. (Of course, in his mind, he had - he'd been caught not working while on assignment, which was among the more terrible things he could think of.)

Almost in the same movement, he snatched at the cart beside him, making it rattle, and grabbed the first thing he found - a sponge, for disinfecting high-traffic areas. With two steps he was kneeling beside the table and beginning to wipe it down-- Look. I was working. I'm still working.

He couldn't help giving the pictures one more glance over his shoulder - the closest thing to a reply he could offer without outright acknowledging Ian. He felt guilt settle on his shoulders. He'd never seen District Three before its destruction. Not once.

3

[deafscythe]

The boy flinches away from the contact, before realizing that it's just another Avox and relaxing slightly. Justin still doesn't make eye contact, choosing to keep his eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Cecil's chin. He shrugs, a quick, frightened movement.

Then, after a moment, he mimics the man's gesture. He would also like to know where the painkillers are.

[void_whereprohibited]

It takes Cecil a second, but then he recognizes the other as another new Avox - one of the ones conditioned at the same time he was. Justin is the name his mind kicks up, a memory from before, when he'd watched this boy compete on screens-- it's one of the few names he knows down here. For obvious reasons.

His expression turns apologetic. He'd thought he'd found one who'd been here longer, one of the ones who had been helping them since their terrified, swollen-mouthed arrival.

Unfortunately, this conversation (for lack of a better word) doesn't seem to be beginning very productively. He thinks he was understood, but he isn't sure - does the repetition indicate a Yes, my mouth also hurts, or a Please repeat what you tried to say, but this time intelligibly?

He takes a quick glance around (and it's a relief not to be quite as afraid of catching anyone's eye), and his look settles on another Avox, one who's been here longer. (No telling exactly how much longer, but he was here when Cecil arrived, and here, that's enough to count as seniority.) He glances back at Justin, and then at the other Avox with a questioning lift of his eyebrows, inviting Justin to follow his look-- One of us could ask him?

3

[sithcretapprentice]

The times in which he can get away to the Avox quarters are some of Starkiller's favorite times. It's really stressful, being up in tribute tower, having to wait on people hand and foot, especially when the people he knew like to try and talk to him and the fear he feels when they try is so overwhelming. He's broken the rules far too many times, he knows he's bound to get caught one of these days and get into trouble. But it's not himself that he's worried about, for the most part. It's everyone else.

Cecil's tap causes him to tense up, the way he does whenever someone touches him, and he shies away from it, turning around. Ah. It's the new Avox, recognition dawns on Starkiller's face and he relaxes a little. He feels a bit more at ease interaction with him, considering they both can't actually talk to each other.

It isn't long before the meaning becomes clear; Starkiller had dealt with mouth pain in his first few weeks, as well, so he knows exactly what Cecil's referring to, and he still gets a little uncomfortable in the mouth every now and then. He gives a small nod, but reaches into his pocket and produces a couple of the pills. Starkiller keeps him on his person in case he has a flair up of pain, but he doesn't need them now for the moment.

He holds them out to Cecil, before moving to get a cup of water for him as well. It's more of a gesture of thanks towards the man for having the courage to do what he did, rather than his Avox training, at this point. Once he's poured the water, he extends that to Cecil as well.

[void_whereprohibited]

Cecil realizes that he's going to have to find another way to get people's attention down here - he hates being touched as much as any of them, but it's difficult to think of another way to alert a specific person to one's presence without resorting to a sound that will draw the attention of more. (The attention of Avoxes is less intimidating than most other attention, but he still dislikes the idea of too much of it being focused on him at once.)

The relief is evident on his face as he takes the pills and the water. It takes him a moment to navigate swallowing them - his throat is swollen and the ache is sharp - but the relief is almost immediate, and his face relaxes as the pain recedes to a more manageable distance.

He enjoys the sensation for a second before he turns back to-- ah. He recognizes this one. Names aren't common knowledge here, but this is someone he knew of before. This is the man who tried to break the Arena. (He finds the thought simultaneously terrifying and thrilling - a clash between what he felt when it happened, and what the conditioning tells him he should have felt.) Recognition dawns briefly in his expression before it vanishes back into careful neutrality.

Cecil pauses as he considers how best to show his thanks; he can't think of a gesture that communicates that, exactly. In the end, he decides to take what feels like a step almost heretical in its boldness: He smiles. It's brief, and weak, and concentrated mostly at one corner of his mouth, and he lets it vanish almost immediately, half-startled by his own bravery. But for a second, it's there.

2 for reasons

[shenunigans]

Dave doesn't particularly like to mill about other people's districts, but since the little outbreak that occurred the last time he'd waited for Terezi out in the open, he's taken to meeting her in her suites. He's early, of course. He's always early. He feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb even though nobody else would really care about him waiting here for the moment. Standing means he's standing out, so he slips into the seat of a table with his bottle of apple juice and starts to nudge it around the table despite it still being half full.

When Cecil walks in, his little rhythm of back and forth with the bottle is broken and it tips onto its side and all over the table. "Sh- nope- fuck." He knows by now that Avoxes are here to clean shit like this, but hell if he wants to let Cecil do that. He lets out a grunt, arms folding over the spill as if that will help cover it at all. He can't do much about the fact that it's dripping over the side of the table as well, seeing as how he's already soaked in apple goodness. What a waste.

[void_whereprohibited]

It's second nature to scan the room as he steps in, to see who to avoid as he works. A distant part of Cecil is surprised to see Dave. This isn't his District, he knows that. But, well, that doesn't matter - he's going to do his job with or without someone else's presence, even if that someone else is--

--going to spill an entire bottle of apple juice while Cecil is looking directly at him. Wonderful.

Cecil's expression offers no judgment whatever of Dave's clumsiness, or any apparent notice of his attempt to mop up the mess with his shirtfront. Within half a minute, he's beside the table, sponge and cleaner in hand, and getting onto his knees to mop up the apple juice that's already pooling on the floor.

Corridors

[dotsanddashes]

Rosalind has been in a really bad way since the Arena. Seeing "Robert," then seeing him go murderous - having to kill him herself, even realizing that it just wasn't him, that it really was all part of this stupid game; it all weighed upon a mind too heavy already with the thoughts of too many worlds, too many universes.

She'd been drinking a lot more than she should be, avoiding talking with anyone, and generally indulging in her vices instead of facing facts. Between her and Robert, she had always been the more avoidant one. She was always the one who used work as an excuse to bury herself away from having to be social. Now she didn't have Robert, she didn't have her work...she had to make distractions.

Alcohol worked for the time being.

At present, she's half dressed as she storms down the hall, struggling with unsteady hands to fasten the top she was wearing. Corsets OVER clothing or built INTO clothing - not something she's used to, but she doesn't feel like sticking out right now by dressing as she normally might. Most people would just dress in their rooms, coming out when done...but she's impatient, and the sooner she's out of this stupid tower and at the bar, the better.

Cecil sidesteps her - but she is already a bottle in, and not as sure of her footing in these strange shoes. Slipping, she knocks right into him, barely wrapping her arms around herself in time to catch the corset before it falls away.

"Pardon me," she breathes, her tone half-dead. "The fashion here isn't made for actual LIVING in. Would be better off naked."

[void_whereprohibited]

Cecil looks up, and his eyes go wide - it takes him a second too long to school his expression back into neutrality, to get three feet of distance between them and his eyes pointed back at the ground where they belong. He has no opinion to offer on on the merits of nudity versus Capitol fashion, and isn't sure how he would communicate that even if he had one. So he keeps his eyes averted and his hands between them, the closest he can offer to a reply of No, pardon me.

It's a trick of being an Avox, to keep one's head down and one's eyes averted, and yet to be cognizant both of everything going on that might require one to stay out of the way, and everything that might require one to assist. Cecil has taken in Rosalind's problem (...problems, rather), and finds that it presents a dilemma - on the one hand, this looks like a situation best avoided by everyone, Avox and non-Avox alike, but on the other hand, his job is to take care of the Tributes, and she doesn't look very well taken care of. For lack of a better word.

His response is to hover, indecisive, just out of arm's reach - clearly out of the way, should she decide to sweep by him, but more than close enough to duck in and take care of a wardrobe malfunction, or do up a shoe-strap, or even just act as a silent support, should she find getting all the way where she's going difficult. She just... looks like she needs help.

1!

[arosewiththorns]

Rose never had the pleasure of meeting Cecil before all of this, so his lack of... well everything "wild" and "wacky" about him isn't what catches her attention. In fact she was going to walk straight past him, something she's found herself doing with all Avoxes she's seen. Not out of any sense of snobbery but for their own good. She clicked in soon enough that they were supposed to be isolated from other, and that contact will only end with one person punished.

And she knows that person will likely not be her.

So she had intended to walk on by until Cecil pauses like that, catching Rose's attention and she can see for a second how shaken he is, their shoulders almost bumping as he almost steps into her and Rose finds herself curious now. She can hear the radio prattling on now, but there's nothing that jumps out at her, and she knows she can't exactly ask him what's wrong.

But she can give him a little break, something she assumes he'll need and she goes to catch his attention, chin raised and trying to seem disinterested as if he's nothing to her.

"Excuse me? I could use some assistance and since you're around..." she drifts off, one brow carefully raised as she studies him for his reaction.

[void_whereprohibited]

Honestly, Cecil is relieved. It doesn't show, except in that he looks no more frightened than he did before-- but he hasn't been reprimanded. This Tribute doesn't seem offended, and so maybe there won't be consequences for this.

He doesn't look directly at her (not after his original startled glance, when he'd almost walked into her); he stays two steps back and keeps his gaze just below hers, not quite on the floor but somewhere in the air between them. The radio goes on in the background, but he's no longer listening, guiltily allowing the sound to move around and past him without touching him.

All of his passive attention is on Rose, waiting for her to tell him what to do next.

hope you don't mind a late thread

[silberfuchs]

It's early when Albert comes back to 3. He's been sleeping one floor down, in the room his fiance is assigned despite Jet still being in the arena, but Albert can't sleep up here. Not with the oppressive melancholy and malaise of death that hangs about the suites like a shroud. He'd rather sleep with his face buried in his fiance's pillow than toss and turn to Jessica's weeping. He'd go to comfort her, but more often than not that other mentor is there, Barbie, and he seems to help more than Albert can.

Even with the slightly calmer situation downstairs, the dull ache of Jet's absence is still enough to keep Albert's attempts at sleep short and so the sun's not even up fully when he returns to 3 and finds Cecil standing there, staring at the pictures on the wall in silent meditation. He knows he's not supposed to speak to the former host, but at this early hour with the common areas still dim and any sounds of the tower still muffled in sleep, Albert finds he needs to express what he doubts anyone has just yet.

Quietly, though not so much as he can't be noticed by the shuffling of his feet on the carpet, Albert approaches Cecil and brushes a few fingers lightly against his arm as he passes. It's a brief gesture, could have been an accident for all the view of any prying peacekeepers can tell, but what the German hopes it conveys instead is a sense of gratitude and appreciation for what the man has sacrificed to do what he did.

not at all! thanks a ton for waiting!

[void_whereprohibited]

Avoxes aren't meant to be noticed, and so it's in these out-of-the-way times that they come to clean; hours when most Tributes have no reason to be awake, when even the city outside sends up only dull white noise instead of its usual frantic roar. Cecil isn't expecting anyone to join him, and when he hears the sound of feet on the carpet (which he hasn't even begun to clean), he flinches-- ducking his head and raising his shoulders as if against an oncoming blow.

At the brush against his arm, it's all he can do not to move away from the touch-- but even through his conditioning he can tell that the gesture is meant to be surreptitious, that pulling away would make this somehow worse. He draws a sharp, voiceless breath as Albert passes, and though it's fearful, he manages to stay where he is.

He follows Albert's passage with his eyes, though he keeps his head down - he recognizes him. Another Tribute of District Three. Another technical ally. He feels the twist of guilt in his gut-- here's someone to whom District Three actually might have meant something before it disappeared.

That flash of guilt is all that shows in his glance, though, the only sign of anything other than an Avox's normal dull fear-- that, and the fact that he hasn't yet moved away from the pictures.

Forever late - 1!

[polyturtle]

Who had he run into? Well. Don had to admit, he had not been expecting Cecil. In truth, he probably should have, all things considered. Seeing Cecil reminded him of certain others - others who he'd trusted, but who had fallen, as a result.

"Oh..."

He barely knew Cecil. It took Don a moment to realize that it was Cecil. But it didn't make this random meeting any easier. Cecil had risked his own life, and the Capitol naturally took advantage of the irony for all that it was worth.

"...Hi."

forever later! sorry for the delay!

[void_whereprohibited]

Cecil, of course, did not reply. Cecil shrank visibly, his hands up awkwardly between them, apologetic-- only for a second, though, before he dropped them to his sides again. Apologizing, even wordlessly, was far too forward.

He glanced up only long enough to see who he'd almost run into. A name surfaced - Donatello - remembered, vaguely, from his months watching the Arenas. Someone he might have found fascinating a few weeks ago. Someone to whom he might once have had a great deal to say.

Now, he fought to keep any hint of a reaction off of his face and out of his posture. He ducked his head and tried to be invisible; he stepped back and waited to be rebuked.