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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Morphling, when abused for long periods, did strange things to people's eyes and skin. Darker complexions yellowed, lighter complexions started to look like bleached bone. Eyes hollowed, and pupils dilated, giving users a perpetually hungry visage. Most of them were hungry, desperately so, but didn't know it. Every twinge and urge could be soothed with one little pill or needle.

Linden had none, tonight. While he could doubtless find Morphling if he left the tower, curfew made it hard to leave unnoticed, especially for something that he was supposed to be weaned off of. This left him with alcohol which was, while inferior, certainly better than nothing.

As the Troll waved away the Avox, Linden's glazed expression fell slightly; he liked Avoxes, enjoyed that they were alive yet undemanding. It was like being social without being social, hanging around them, and knowing that his parents were Avoxes admittedly led him to personifying them more than most Panem citizens. He quirked a brow at the unfamiliar term, thermal hull, but stood amiably aside so Karkat could make his way to the appliance.

"Karkat Vantas, right? You got kind of a raw deal, arriving so late before the Games, but don't worry. District 6 in general typically gets a raw deal... most of us don't even learn how to use a weapon until we're reaped, and by then you know it's too late."

Karkat either failed to notice or care about the fall in expression. If they weren't going to need the help, there was no reason to leave the Avox hovering around. Instead, with Linden out of the way, he took to examining the contents of the fridge.

The words snapped his head up from his task.

"What? Who are you?" He slammed the door shut, quest for a drink forgotten as he turned back to face the man. "Have you been studying me or some shit? I'll have you know I do know how to defend myself, thanks."

Still, his hand felt empty for want of a sickle. It wasn't just being recognized, but being recognized by this man. He didn't look like someone from the Capitol. Those were easy to place with their wild hair, overdone makeup, and fashion that would make Kanaya balk at how over the top it was. For all he knew, Linden was no more than a regular tribute brought from another world. He didn't need someone paying him that much attention with the threat of more arenas looming overhead.

Linden seems momentarily perplexed that Karkat isn't aware of his identity. It's true that they haven't been formally introduced, but as a Mentor he's been fairly prolific. Then again... he's been less prolific than previous years simply by merit of his rough condition, and Karkat is very new. He clears his throat with a swallow of District 6 liquor.

"I'm Linden Lockhearst, Victor of the 63rd Annual Hunger Games, Mentor," he rattles off, automatically in a monotone. It should demonstrate fairly adequately the fact that Linden doesn't even have to think about his introduction anymore, he's had to say it so often. "It's customary for Mentors to study the Tributes they're responsible for... I mean it would be terrible if there was something that would benefit you immensely in the Arena but I didn't know enough about you to procure it from a sponsor, right? That's kind of my job... getting you sponsors and getting your parachutes to you in the Arena."

He might recognize him if he'd had more of a proper introduction to this place - had more time before getting shoved in the death game - but as it stands Linder just looks like someone strange and offputting. Fortunately for him, though, it only takes the first sentence for things to click.

"You're that guy Nill told me about," he says, posture perking up. The description feels inadequate in retrospect, but no matter now. "Okay, I retract my hostility for at least the time being."

While he's not glad to be stuck in this situation and all that entails going along with it, he'd rather not get on the bad side of someone who's meant to help him. He's kind of heard of sponsors, though the particular significance of parachutes escapes him. He hopes deeply he won't be forced to do anything that requires the life-saving kind.

"Here's a tip, though: try asking me questions directly if you want to be helpful and not give off a hole-dwelling creeper vibe." He speaks as he turns back to the fridge, reopens it, and digs around for a bottle of juice. "How much do you know about trolls, for starters?"

As it stands, Linden is someone strange and off-putting. Being reminded of this isn't great for his ego, but he kind of gave up the right to have a massive ego when he started chipping away at himself habitually, mentally and physically.

"Nill told you about me?" he sounds mildly surprised and strangely pleased; if people are talking about him, it means that he's having some kind of meaningful impact on events, or at least that he's seen as having the potential to. That isn't something he's ready to give up or let go of. "Good things, I hope."

He doesn't really think so, but hope is harmless, right?

"And I thank you for retracting your hostility. It means there's no need for me to make use of my own... which would be better for everyone, really. Because I'm here to help, and I don't mean that the way most people do." The creepy hole-dwelling comment seems to roll off him like water off a duck's back, but it probably helps that he's taking another drink of that hard liquor. If Karkat spends much time around Linden in the coming days, he'll come to recognize it as his default way of dealing with most unpleasant things.

"I know that you're grey-skinned and you have horns, and that you don't necessarily value the same things humans do or consider the threshold of morality along the same lines. Killing isn't treated the same way, but killing friends might be."

Edited (typo) 2014-11-18 01:29 (UTC)

The look Karkat gives him as he draws back from the fridge, drink in hand, is measured and lingering. "She said you're odd but mean well, and that you're from this world, and explained what a mentor is. That's about it."

He opens the bottle of juice and takes a drink, then shuts the door.

Frankly, Linden's likely to seem strange to him for a long while. Even the bare concept of him is kind of odd: people who've won this giving advice for how not to die. If he were someone else he might be more wary, but as it is he's not sure what to make of him. From this world but put through the Hunger Games, and he won... He has to wonder the precise methods, the attitude he had. At least so long as he's a mentor he doubts he'll have reason to fear for his life.

Maybe. He hopes. He doesn't know how to gauge that hostility comment yet.

"Basically," he says. "Attitudes about killing vary drastically depending which version of the universe we're from, but seeing as I'm from Alternia we can go with the direction you're probably already on. Even then, it's complicated, depending on things like circumstance, respective relationships and societal ranks, and the reasons of wanting to do so. We're a lot freer about it than humans, or at least the humans we were aware of, but that doesn't mean this is an easy prospect for me to consider."

Linden very nearly chokes on his drink when Karkat spills Nill's opinion of him so candidly. He stifles coughing laughter with the back of his bony hand. "She's honest. Honest people are hard to come by, so value her advice and observations." Still immensely amused by the description, he leans against the kitchen's island with the heel of his hand.

Even in Panem, Linden is considered strange. Some pity him, some think he's mad, some think the games changed him irreversibly. None of those people are wrong, but the thing uniting them in rightness is the fact that he is so very weird, for any world or reality. But to someone outside of Panem's rules and history, Mentors really are bizarre and take some getting used to. If Karkat wants to know more about Linden's games, he can always watch his tapes that are, to Linden's chagrin but helplessness, readily available to any who might wish to view them.]

"It doesn't sound like there's anything easy about it, but I follow, so far," he replies. "I take it you know Initiate and Terezi?"

Karkat's eyebrows raise without a word at that first reaction, not exactly worried, which proves right when all Linden is doing is choking out a laugh.

"She's been helpful enough," he says. Stopped him fro getting his face beaten in by the Initiate, for one.

Speaking of which.

"Ugh--Yes, technically I know them both. Terezi's a teammate of mine, but I want nothing to do with that other asshole. He's got some shit against me because of what past me did here and can't take the stick out of his ass long enough to explain. Nill had to stop him before the peacekeepers hauled us off, and I still don't know what his problem is. And I'm not calling him by that title."

There's a long answer behind the reasons, but the short of it is troll cultural stuff and a lack of respect. One Initiate plainly lacks for him in turn, but as he said, he doesn't know even the start of the story behind that.

"There's some more of us running around too, but obviously we're hard to miss in this sea of hornless apes. You can figure it out yourself if you run into them."

Most of the time, when Linden displays an emotion that's considered normal or human, it comes across off somehow. Amusement is probably the weirdest, even when he isn't interrupting pickling his insides to express it; the mirth never quite reaches his glassy eyes.

"Helpful's one way to put it. People aren't actually that helpful unless they're broken in some way, but benefiting incidentally from that kind of situation probably isn't something to feel bad about."

He sounds like he's talking to himself more giving Karkat reassurance the young Troll never even asked for. He gnaws on his thumb for a second before replacing it in his mouth with the tip of his thumbnail.

When Karkat starts going into more detail about his relationships with both Terezi and Initiate, it's Linden's turn to raise his eyebrows. "I don't dislike either of them," he says carefully. "Terezi is interesting and the one who has a problem with you plays a good game of chess, but I can attest to the fact that grudges can take a long time to fade. It's not fair to hold you to what you don't remember doing, but... if you keep your distance for now, he could come around."

He pauses, taking another long drink.

"What are you good at, Karkat? As your Mentor, I should know these things so I'm aware of the kinds of things to send you in the arena."

"What are you talking about?" he asks, in the way that suggests he means no sincere question. Nill's been helpful just fine, whether or not she's "broken", and he'd hardly be one to judge if she were. Besides which, he never asked for comfort about it. It's a strange, presumptuous thing to be told.

Fortunately there are other things to talk about. It doesn't stop him from giving Linden another skeptical look as he alternate gnaws his thumb and thumbnail. But there--substance.

"I'm already intending to keep my distance, but I doubt he's just going to come around, and I don't care enough to want him too." He's had his fill of clowns and then some.

His interest picks up at the last topic, though, and it shows as his expression turns more serious. "Sickles. There's this big, complicated game me and my team played a few years ago that had us fighting different monsters from small on up to gigantically huge, and the whole time I used sickles as my weapon of choice. Enemy size doesn't matter; I got good at using them on all of them because I had to. It all lasted about a month, during most of which I barely ever slept to keep from being snuck up on."

There's blood issues that factor into that as well, but he feels no need to mention them. His being a mutant hardly has meaning anymore, least of all to a human.

"I'm also an accomplished leader, but how much that will matter in a situation like this isn't clear to me. I'm not going to go after my teammates and I'm not compromising on that."

"Relax... when I say that, all I mean is that to be really empathetic, you have to have a concept of suffering, and I believe that she does. That's it." It's also, incidentally, why Mentors are former Victors and not just Capitol citizens like escorts or stylists. The games have a way of stripping people of their empathy, but the last sting to go is the one that comes from watching other people go through the same ordeal, and knowing that surviving is in no way winning.

He shrugs amiably at Karkat's determination that spending any willing time around Initiate just isn't in the cards, idly turning the bottle where he rests it on the counter top. "So you're good with a sickle..." he says, giving it some consideration. "I'll want to see you using one, of course... partly just to ascertain that you're as good as you say, and partly to figure out alternatives if a sickle isn't an option. Sometimes sponsors have to settle for the next-best thing, but I can at least try to make sure there's one in the Cornucopia for you. As for being an accomplished leader... I guess you'll have a lot of time to prove that one. Do you know about alliances? I'm not just talking about the people from your District."

Karkat pointedly does not relax. He has reason enough himself to think Nill's gone through at least one bad thing, but it's not his place to discuss with someone like Linden, particularly when she's not even here.

The other topic is better, and he's glad enough when Linden doesn't press anything about the Initiate. He nods to the request. "Okay, but what's the Cornucopia? And if you want an alternative, something close range and bladed would be the best option. Maybe a knife or dagger or something? They won't work the same without the hook to them, but I'd have a better idea what I'm doing than if you tried to give me a bow or even a sword."

He's not opposed to learning other things, but here at the start it's going to work best if things at least stay close to the main weapon he's used to.

"If you want to talk alliances, a teammate I hadn't seen alive in three years helped me first thing last arena without me having to ask. I still died, but he helped me get past the initial freakout when whoever the fuck is in charge here decided I could go off just a tiny explanation before I got shoved in," he says, with a vague upward motion. They're probably listening somehow. "I have friends and other teammates, and like I said I won't go after them. If they need help, I'll give them help. And I don't know Nill much yet, but she's been kind enough to me that I'd pay her back in the arena."

As someone with a long history of holding and being the subject of grudges, Linden knows when to leave well enough alone. He doesn't pursue the matter concerning Initiate, and decides that if he's ever curious, it might actually be better to ask the other troll about it. Perhaps over another game of chess.

"The Cornucopia is usually in the center of the Arena," he explains. "It's generally a large structure that you'll see when you first enter; Tributes are customarily arranged around it, evenly spaced, in a circle, and your options are really to either go toward or away from it. You'd want to go toward it for a few reasons: food, weapons, and survival supplies are all stockpiled there. You'd want to run away from it for some very good reasons, too... the first deaths of every Games happen there, and it's usually referred to as the 'Bloodbath.' Some years, over half of the Tributes have died in the Bloodbath. So... the strategy I really recommend for District 6 Tributes has always been to run away because you don't have much of a chance against the trained Careers from Districts 1 and 2, but since the new Games are such a mixed bag... I mean if you have combat experience, it might be worth the risk to get your hands on a sickle early on."

He brings his bottle to his lips again. Getting to sleep tonight, like most nights, relies on a certain level of intoxication.

"It sounds like your priorities are very..." he grasps for the right word. "Unselfish? Selfless? Gentle..." he still hasn't found it, and gives up for another drink in rapid succession with his first one. "Not that I don't applaud it, but... that strategy can only work so long, and most people have to turn on their allies sooner or later. The new Games make exceptions sometimes, but there can only be one winner, in most cases."

As Linden explains the Cornucopia, Karkat figures the lack of one in the mini-arena must be another quirk of the unusual setup. He saw nothing like that there. Had there been one he might have wound up dead sooner. Near the end his eyebrows shoot up - he doesn't know the real difference about the old games - but he doesn't have a chance to ask just yet.

"I'm not gentle," he snaps first, shoulders bristling. "I'm a leader who's seen his friends die too many times for too many reasons that I'm not going to be the asshole to instigate this round of the murder party. I know we can't all win, I know the game won't allow it, but I'm not going to turn on them. I won't." His voice is firm, sharp, just this side of angry but holding back.

It's something he honestly hates to think about. It's bad enough having to run and escape and try not to die and survive all this madness. He doesn't know what to expect of a normal arena yet, or how the course of things would go with so many people stuck together being urged to fight and kill. It's shockingly Alternian in overall effect, but with less explanation, and stranger still for being instigated by humans.

It scares him, really, and it draws up the old need to look anything but weak.

He swallows and presses on. "I have experience. You've never even seen the things I've fought."

Giant monsters with the powers of all sorts of creatures, but he still got killed by Jane's fork.

"A friend of mine use knife wounds like greetings and I got by fine after those."

There's going to be worse than knives about.

"I'll judge it when I'm in there. I'm not going to know what's happening until then, am I?" But it feels weak on his lips, however true it might be. He's died two, three times depending how you count it, and he's not eager for the experience to happen again.

There's chairs in here, though, and he moves to settle himself into one. He still has the other question in mind, and he asks it now to distract himself. "What's this about the old and new games, though? No one ever explains this shit enough."

"I'm not a wordsmith. I wanted to give you the idea despite not being able to find a proper descriptor," Linden replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. His words are starting to slur slightly; he's a thin man, to the point where it's more than a little concerning, and it makes him a cheap date. Alcohol, especially the common, strong swill he's throwing back like it's water, goes to his head very quickly. It'll be a little while longer before he's incapable of carrying on a logical conversation, but he's at the point where it's inevitable at some near point. He's relaxed, at least, allowing him to weather the sharpness of Karkat's tone without flinching or even blinking. Whether Karkat looks weak or not is not on his mind, but he senses that the young troll doesn't want to, which he can admittedly relate to. It creates a twinge, actually, one that's more than a little painful and he's anxious to drown.

"No, I reckon I haven't seen the things you've fought..."

It goes without saying, really. Though there are certainly groups and cliques who hail from the same place (witness Karkat, Terezi, Initiate and others Linden has yet to speak with, a native of Panem like Linden has no reason to know, or guess. This makes him helplessly ignorant, and also a little more suspicious of incredible-sounding claims. With no way to verify fact or identify fiction (he supposes he could ask Terezi), he can't take either at face value.

He clears his throat, accepting gamely that troll culture is a brutal and strange thing and that perhaps for these particular individuals the Hunger Games aren't as shocking or devastating as they are for most.

"You won't," he confirms. "Each Arena is different; there are rumors in the days leading up to the start, of course, but the truth of those rumors is based on pure conjecture. You don't have any idea until they dress you for the Arena... if you're wearing... like a wetsuit, it could be tropical, heavy coat, you're probably dealing with colder weather. You get the idea..."

He pauses, staring hard at the counter surface at Karkat's question. "I'm not really sure what you already know about all this, but the Games have been going on for three quarters of a century. Before they started there was an uprising... the Districts all rebelled against the Capitol and basically got their asses whipped. So each year, for 74 years, the Districts have all had to offer up a male and female young adult Tribute, to fight to the death in the Capitol until only one remains. Every 25 years, there's a thing called a Quarter Quell, which essentially means that something's different. For the 50th Hunger Games, twice as many Tributes were reaped, which obviously hit the Districts pretty hard... and for this latest Quarter Quell, a pretty significant change was made. They've started bringing in people like you to fight, and the differences are that you weren't born here... this isn't your word... there are more Tribute in each Arena, there are more Arenas per Game, and the deaths aren't permanent. Whether that's better or worse, I can't tell you, but usually, when you new Tributes die, you come back. The old ones didn't. Also..."

And this is hard to talk about, because Linden isn't quite sure if he's bitter about it.

"...from what I understand, it is possible for more than one person to win, now. There are bonus arena Victors. It didn't used to be like that."

He tilts his head back for an especially deep drink.

Edited (UGH) 2014-11-27 04:18 (UTC)

Karkat's prickly demeanor softens as Linden settles into giving more info. It's not a total thing - there is most of the time something of that manner that clings to him - but it's better than it was. He nods in places. Though it's disappointing to know he won't have any real hint before the game is nearly upon him, to have any is better than nothing.

It doesn't explain the costume he had last time, but that doesn't really matter now.

But it's when explanations turn to the older games that he's struck with what Linden really went through. Not in detail, no, but in spirit. It makes clear that Linden was far from the only one to have been through it from this place, and it puts to scale just how brutal the Capitol is. Endless entertainment from cyclical cruelty, ramped up now with their presence in a likely effort to make the old "fresh". With people left to stay dead, or brought back at random, surely the unpredictability has to appeal to someone out in the audience. At the least, it artificially instills drama, something that didn't sit right with him before but feels even worse now.

The mention of bonus arena victors floats past. It's unimportant at the moment next to all he's just been said, and he can't blame Linden for the drink he takes.

"... Shit." His hand curls before his mouth. It's hard to know what to say in this situation. "Obviously I knew things were crazy, but I didn't realize..." He shakes his head, starts again. "It's hard to believe it's all humans that have been running this. This is something trolls would do. Aren't you all supposed to be... softer? Less aggressive? You pack your romance all into one simple, soft kind, and you use different words for enemies and friends. But they put you all through this, and now they're doing it to us.. I'm not going to complain about not being dead, but I don't even know what to say."

As the conversation wears on, both of them seem to be relaxing their guards. Linden, while not exactly prickly bordering on hostile, is distant and detached, and as he drinks more and delivers the requested information, something clicks, is set in motion, and slowly starts to bring him back. Though he often gives the impression of being very absent, in mind and spirit, he's wholly present now, and it is painful.

He stares at Karkat, taking in his commentary and questions about human beings. The preconceived notions and oversimplified assumptions about his species' nature make his dark eyes go wide before he tilts his head and sets his bottle aside. This time, he will not pick it up again. Already on the edge of oblivion, he can't push himself over and topple in reaction to questions like that.

"I don't know what you've been told about humans..." he replies softly, "but you're wrong. Some humans are 'soft,' but that just means they die sooner. Overtly aggressive ones get locked away, so it just has to be sneakier and more covert. And romance..." he rubs at one of his dark eyes with the heel of his hand. "Romance is messy. And strange. And brutal. My life would be better if I'd known this, before my Games, but there you go. Humans lie. Humans are cutthroat. Humans will use anything to get ahead."

Perhaps it's better for Linden to set the alcohol aside. While Karkat's not as knowledgeable about addictive human substances, he knows it's at least a soporific, and this means a more firm focus on what's in front of him.

But as he speaks, his frown keeps in place. These aren't the humans he knows; this isn't the Earth he saw; and while he's accepted that already, it's Linden - someone who actually grew up here and went through the worst - that really hammers it in. He doesn't want to believe it of humankind as a whole.

"No, no, look, we--" he starts, then cuts himself off. He doesn't know how much the Capitol knows, but why give them anything more? "There was another Earth where I was, and it was different. They didn't pull things like this. I've seen their movies, all kinds of them, and it never suggested something like this. Their romantic messes were simple, not complicated by who might get stuck in the murder game."

It feels like he's not coming through right, and his meaning is getting lost. How should he put it? His overbite presses into his lip as he thinks.

"The thing with trolls is we're brutal. We're meant to fight, meant to weed out the weak. You could have been culled for almost any reason back on my planet if you just weren't good enough in some area. Genetic anomaly, disability, improper social respect, whatever. We have a whole category of romance based around hate, and another subcategory for pacifying assholes who don't know when to calm the fuck down. If my life had gone different and I'd been thrown into this kind of thing, I would have expected it. But it's just... weird. You guys, you're not like the humans I know or saw in your media or anything. This is ridiculous." His hands splay out as if they can somehow make the word have more impact. "Even after you told me the history of everything, it's still hard to wrap my pan around how your species came to this."

As Karkat protests, Linden stifles a humorless chuff of laughter into his sleeve, making it sound like a cough, but it's probably not wholly or effectively disguised. He looks at the young Troll with something between sadness and sympathy as he describes movies, what he knows of human culture and the world he's seen. If it exists, it's as alien to Linden as the planet the Trolls hail from. He sighs deeply, running a hand over the ugly scar crossing his throat.

"Maybe it used to be like that. Centuries ago, but even then... humans have appetites for things. Socially acceptable or not, tasteful or not... the heart wants what it wants, and we are selfish creatures. What you see on the surface... in media... it's just the most socially acceptable fantasies our race could design, so... probably not reliable. Sorry," he says, smiling brokenly. "But whatever was, this is the world now. This is humanity now."

Karkat's lips press together, a stubborn frown of disbelief. He doesn't want to accept it. The humans he knew weren't like that, and their lives seemed easier, even amongst the more unusual members of the group. He hated it at first, but he got past it and made friends and learned about them and their culture, and it seemed nice. Weird, but nice. And the way things work here may not be actual troll society, but it's just sad to think about, that this could be all human hands that made it happen.

He rests his face in his hands, each cupping either side of his face. "I don't know what to say. I really don't."

He wants to protest that they can be better than this, but Linden put it perfectly: this is humanity now. No manner of complaint will fix what it actually is in the present. And what can he do? He doesn't know where to start in working against this place, no matter how much he wants to, and he can't even discuss it. It's never safe enough to try.

"I feel like a heel for asking about something depressing and then dropping it, but can we talk about something else?" It's either that or he leaves, but something feels even ruder about that.

Linden answers Karkat's admission with a shrug of his own, eyes lingering on the bottle of liquor though he doesn't reach for it. "That's all right. Sometimes, there's nothing to say... nothing that will change anything, anyway."

It's not the first time he's seen a Tribute in this state of mind. Even in Panem, where the Hunger Games are broadcast yearly entertainment throughout the Capitol and the Districts, a lot of it doesn't sink in until the Tributes are here, standing in their District's suite, listening to a tired, washed-up junkie telling them why he had no real power to save their lives.

He stares for a second at nothing, seeming lost in thought after Karkat asks to drop the subject. He finds himself, returning, making himself again present, though the effort seems to take nearly everything out of him. "Sure," he says quietly. "Knock yourself out, kid. Tell me about Troll romance, that sounds interesting."

Tolerable might be the real synonym of that word, given Linden's tone, but he's about ready to fall over anyway. It's difficult to tell what he means, because he is losing his battle for sobriety.

Edited (what a difference a word makes) 2014-12-15 18:21 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(OPEN) at least he's not dead now

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FINALLY TAGS BACK enormous apologies for that wait jesus

:D

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