(OPEN) at least he's not dead now

[crabmunicator]

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.

Comments

[dead_black_eyes]

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."

[crabmunicator]

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."

[dead_black_eyes]

"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.

FINALLY TAGS BACK enormous apologies for that wait jesus

[crabmunicator]

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."

:D

[dead_black_eyes]

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."

[crabmunicator]

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."

[dead_black_eyes]

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."

[crabmunicator]

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.

[dead_black_eyes]

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.