thecapitol | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who | Kieren and open!
What | Kieren decides to actually try to train
Where | Training Center (sublevel 2)
When | After the arena
Warnings | tbd

Kieren didn't know why he was bothering to work out. He didn't plan on fighting, after all, but maybe it would still do some good to learn how to actively survive, rather than wait for death. As he looked around the training area, one section peaked his interest more than any other. The area set up to practice camouflage. It was art, basically, and Kieren knew art, it was just...focusing on a different sort of canvas.

It took a bit of practice, of course. His body was a very different canvas than he was used to, and he had to adjust to working with the fact that he couldn't see all parts of himself. Still, after a few hours he felt like he had it down pretty well, and after a bit of admiring his tree-bark appearance in the mirror, he washed up. Of course, with this washing up he also removed his cover-up he'd been wearing, but since he wasn't really trying to hide what he was in this place, and he'd grown to accept how he really looked, he figured he'd leave it like that for the time being. Granted, he ran the risk of panicking people, but they would get used to his appearance if the reactions of those who had seen him so far without the cover-up was any indication, and he was done trying to deny what he was.

After that, he went on to practicing climbing the netting. This was a bit more challenging to him than the camouflage, but he seemed to be getting it...until he got too comfortable, and didn't pay attention to where he was putting his hand, and soon found himself slipping free and falling to the ground.

A moment later, he was rising to his feet again, letting out an embarrassed groan as he stood.

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"Are you all right?" Trust a doctor to get involved, right? Joly had been tossing knives at a target, or trying to, when he heard the noise and hustled over at the fall and then the groan. That was what had him a little worried. Sure, people fell all the time, BUT...

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just frustrated."

At least, he was assuming it was the sound of his fall that worried the man and not his unnatural pallor.

The sound of the fall had alerted him, yes, though, now that Joly got a look at him, he was frowning intently. "You seem to have lost a bit of color." he said, in full doctor mode now, as he glanced him over. "Unless..." How to put this? Joly was never actually sure. "Is this natural, perhaps?"

"It's natural. Or...normal is the better word for it, I suppose." There was nothing natural about Kieren, after all. "I'm essentially a reanimated corpse."

Which also meant there wasn't really much to worry about when it came to his health. Perhaps it was a bit blunt to bring it up so quickly, but it wasn't something Kieren had ever tried to hide, and the question of why he was so naturally drained of blood and color would be bound to come up sooner or later.

"Ahhh." Joly had seen enough footage of various survivors of things like that, and he was aware, from his work on the medical side of things, that the Capitol HAD been working on a method to lessen those effects, should anyone wish for that to happen.

"A...zombie of sorts then? Or...it's the language I have heard at least." He added, lest that be offensive somehow. "I've read a bit about that, here. We've nothing so complex at home, but the records here...it really is remarkable, how many people have been drawn here, from such different places." Whatever else he thought about the Capitol, and Snow, that much was very true.

"Ah, I'm Joly by the way. If there IS anything in the way of medical help that you could use, please do not hesitate."

"Yes, exactly." Zombie may not be the most polite term in his own world, but even in his own world, someone intending to be offensive was far more likely to use the word 'rotter' than 'zombie'. Besides, he'd used it several times himself, both here to get people to understand better what he was, and back home, because that's what he sometimes thought of himself as.

"My name's Kieren," he said, "and there's really no need for any medical attention at the moment, although even if there was, it would be more like patching up a corpse than dealing with a living patient." The lack of bleeding, the fact that pain wasn't really an issue...

"Though maybe if there was a doctor or scientist with more experience with the undead, it might be worthwhile to discuss how one might make neurotriptaline. It's...something that keeps us from going rabid. Might help the worlds where the undead aren't quite as civil as I am. And...well, the capitol has their way of keeping me from going rabid, but I'd rather not have that much control entirely in their hands."

He nodded at the answer, since 'zombie' was the way he best knew the condition here, and seemed to fit what was going on. The difference in worlds made a few concepts rather difficult too. His grandmother had told him of the bokors, sorcerors who could control the risen dead, and that they collected souls as well, to add to their energy or to sell to others for that purpose, but those stories were far different from any of the zombies he'd met here, and he had not made the connection at first. The risen dead had never been a favorite bedtime story for him, so he hadn't asked many questions, and he'd put the idea aside long ago, when he'd really started to study science and what happened there.

"Perhaps I was wrong, then." He said, looking a little sheepish when he realized he'd actually spoken. "My grandmother told me stories about great magicians who could raise the dead, but I never quite believed that there was truth in them. Perhaps I've been a little blind."

At least to the goings on in his own world, although now, he did feel as though something SHOULD be done to help. After all, should any of his own world's undead be REAL... It was not a nice thought.

"Kieren. It is a pleasure. And that is an interesting thought. I can certainly pass the idea on. I am not sure what they might do with it, if they find their idea better but there are many scientists here who may be interested enough to take a look. It hardly seems right to leave you at that sort of mercy."

Was he being listened to? Maybe. But Joly couldn't quite care right now. He wasn't, after all, advocating for something radical. "Each tribute here SHOULD have the right to be safe and the means to make themselves that way. It seems quite worth pursuing."

Kieren nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

He didn't know if anyone would be able to do anything, but in a place where they had managed to suppress his tendency to go rabid entirely, it seemed like a very real possibility. If he was back home, he'd have probably wanted to focus on something a bit more permanent, but now he wanted the reassurance of something familiar, to be certain that it would work as expected.

"No trouble at all." Joly assured him. In a way, it was interesting, really. The people in question were already dead, technically speaking so there was no chance of contracting an illness due to exposure to a body or anything, and the whole concept of death and living again was...well. Kind of fascinating.

And to be at anyone's whims like that? No. They were already at so many whims that a line had to be drawn somewhere, even though it must not look like a line when he sold it to them. "It is only right, besides." Not that that might get him far but he would try the argument.

Zed wasn't even sure why he was poking around the Training Center. He didn't have any qualms with fighting, but he was also both lazy and self-assured enough to decide that he didn't need any training. His explorations led him to wander into the area where Kieren was washing up. "What, they got face-painting stations in here?" He was more amused by the idea of getting into makeup that would have to be washed off in the guise of combat training than anything else. Kieran's complexion didn't make him bat an eye. He'd spent most of his life surrounded by nothing but Shadow Monsters. Looking deathly pale was nothing.

"Of a sort, yes. It's supposed to help you practice camouflage. Blending in and hiding out, that kind of thing. So far it's the one thing I'm actually good at, which doesn't say much for my chances of surviving one of these arenas."

He was unwilling to hurt people, after all, and even if that wasn't the case...well, his aim was likely atrocious, and aside from mauling people and eating their brains as a zombie, he didn't really know how to fight in general, either. He supposed he'd do much better if he actually tried, though. It wasn't like he didn't remember how he'd subdued people as a rabid, he just didn't want to do that.

"Oh? Hiding?" Zed considered the idea. "Sitting it out while everyone kills everyone else?" Well, yeah, that did sound survivable...he considered it. "Probably get really boring after a while. You really just want to sit around that long?"

"I don't care about boring, I don't want to kill anyone. Not when I'm aware of what I'm doing. Besides, I'm a corpse. Sitting around comes naturally to me." He paused, thinking about what the guy said. "I suppose you're on of the ones going around killing people in the arena, then?"

"I guess it's easier to wait this sort of thing out if you're already a corpse, yeah, even if it's still a lot of lying around and waiting." Zed doesn't seem bothered at being told he's speaking with a corpse; he's just rolling with it. He's seen weirder. "I suppose I am going around killing people, even if it's kind of a pain." Zed shrugs and doesn't seem at all upset to be called out as being some sort of killer. He's talking about it more or less like he'd be talking about the weather being annoying rather than it being something important.

"Kind of a pain?" he asked incredulously. "I'm sure it's a bit more of a pain to the people you're killing. Honestly, my problem with killing people isn't that it's some sort of inconvenience. I don't want to murder people." It was bad enough remembering when he used to eat people, after all. The fact that this guy spoke as if though he might as well have been asked to clean the gutters or some other irritating chore was disturbing.

"Honestly, you shouldn't be this casual about it. You are talking about cold blooded murder, after all."

Was this supposed to make Zed feel bad? It did not appear to be making Zed feel bad. He gives a lazy shrug and goes to lean against the wall in an equally lazy fashion. "So? They bring people back." He paused and looked at Keiran kind of funny, because it seemed like they just hadn't quite managed it all the way there. Oh, well. Whatever. "It's just part of whatever game they've got set up here." And he laughed. "Such an awful lot of darkness for a shiny place like this."

He supposed it made sense, thinking of it as a game, thinking of it as just pretend when the other person showed up again right as rain after killing them. Kieren still didn't think it was right, still wasn't going to be a willing party in it, but at least he understood why this man was speaking of the matter so casually. It sounded like he wasn't even acknowledging that it was real.

"Yeah, it does seem like a pretty stark contrast, seeing all the fanciness and luxury between being forced into the wilderness and made to kill each other. Still, I can't really think of it as just a game when the pain and blood and murder are real, even if they don't last."

"Well, sure, if you want to let that stuff get to you." It was easy for Zed to brush that stuff off as a nothing. He was a creature of darkness, he'd had minions going out and spreading pain and fear in order to give him power, and as a result, he was somewhat lacking in the compassion department. "Easier to just have fun with the luxury of it all."

He grinned. This place just agreed with him on some level. Dark, but with a superficial level of shiny he could handle. That couldn't hurt him. Enough for him to play with to distract him from never being able to attain the real thing. "Not a whole lot different from how things are everywhere, I'd imagine. Some suffer, some don't, and there's still all that darkness going around." And he wondered why any light of his own constantly eluded him.

"Just because it's everywhere doesn't make it right."

And that was an opinion he wasn't going to change.

"And it doesn't mean it can't change. In my world, over time minorities get more rights, for example. The undead used to eat people, until a cure was developed and that changed. Because people weren't okay with things, things got better. And honestly, I don't see how anyone could care about luxury with so much death and darkness behind it."

It just made it too depressing to enjoy...well, that and the fact that he was already dead, so couldn't taste, nor feel in the same way he once could, so was less likely to enjoy certain aspects of luxury regardless.

"Well, yeah, eating people might get kind of messy, I've seen that before..." Not that he really seems willing to go into any sort of detail about that. "But worrying about darkness?" The idea made Zed throw back his head and laugh like Kieran just told him a really great joke. "The darkness is the last thing I'm going to worry about."

When he looked at Kieran again, there was sort of a weird glint in his eyes. A sort of look that most might find unsettling. "What, you're scared of the dark?"

Kieren shook his head quickly, "No, not the literal dark, I meant the figurative dark. You know, like realizing you'll be murdered soon, or expected to kill people, or might end up being forced into a situation where you'll end up losing control and going rabid again. That sort of thing. Of course I'm not afraid of the dark dark."

That would be rather ridiculous for a zombie, after all.

Edited 2015-03-28 04:30 (UTC)

"Sometimes, there's not a whole lot of difference between the two." Zed grinned at that. It wasn't exactly a grin that suggested he was playing with a full deck. "Figurative dark isn't anything to worry about, either.

"But it's good to know you're not afraid of it." Because surely such information would come in handy if he ever got his powers back in an Arena, certainly.

"Right. I'll keep that in mind." No, he probably wouldn't. However, he suspected this guy was crazy, though if he was in a place like this for any length of time, Kieren couldn't blame him. Still, he doubted he'd be able to convince this guy that death and murder were bad, regardless, or that he should be worried about the figurative dark.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, but I should probably get back to training. I'm considering trying to survive for a bit in the next arena," he said. Sure, he might be unnerved by the unstable grin this guy had, but that didn't mean he had to be rude about it.

"Right, right." Zed laughed again. "Waiting it out...man, that's still gonna be boring!" He turned to leave. "And I'm gonna go find something that's not boring...probably even shining!" Yeah, something with glitter. Glitter sounded good right now.

"Yeah, sure," he said, looking at Zed like he was mad (mostly because Kieren was certain that he was completely and utterly mad), and said, "Find all the shiny things you want."

Kieren was going to go try climbing that climbing net, and already began walking toward it.

No one points fingers. It’s never his fault, even when it is. That’s the worst part. They’re never angry with him despite his missteps and failures, despite his absences when he was needed most. But he is, because someone has to be. Every bone and sinew in his body pulses with that feverish, purposeful intensity when he enters the training centre and snatches a machete off one of the weapon racks, his vision honing in on the waiting dummies. Then he swings, imagining walkers as he rips the blade out and brutally slams it into their bodies again and again. And though it isn’t the same, though the dummies don’t have the pulpy give of decaying flesh, he can suspend his disbelief long enough to release his wrenching, violent fury, his helplessness in a place away from his worrying friends. The targets take all he has to give for what could be minutes or hours, everything and more until his shirt sticks damp to his back and his hands tremble and buzz like they’re jacked into electrical outlets.

He almost misses the thud and the groan carrying across the room, sounds half-drowned out by the thundering of blood against his eardrums. Almost. But it breaks his trance and he turns to see someone sprawled over the floor. Hurt bad, for all he knows. Panting, he considers the situation a moment before jamming the machete back into the sheath strapped to his waist, making his way over.

“Hey, you o—“

Within ten feet he gets a better look at the guy’s face. See, there’s sickly-pale – he’s seen it before, the waxy flesh and shadowed eyes of someone given the death sentence by way of lurker bite, slipping away a little at a time with every struggling breath. And then there’s long-past-the-expiry-date pale. Something he had been surrounded by every day of the past few years, before Panem. Something he'd never forget.

“Shit…!” There’s a twist in his gut as he backs up a step and snaps a hand over the hilt of his machete, his eyes fierce, locked on the body.

Edited 2015-03-22 18:29 (UTC)

Kieren looked up, and he saw the look on the man's face, the way his hand went to his machete. That, too, was a look Kieren saw before...more often when he was still rabid, of course, but he remembered it. He knew what it meant, but of course, his own reaction was likely something this man had likely never seen someone like Kieren do before. He took a step back and held his hands up defensively.

"Now, don't do anything rash," he said in a crisp, British tone. "I'm not rabid."

And he hoped, desperately hoped, that the only reason this man was reaching for his machete was because he assumed Kieren was rabid. After all, simply having that much of a dislike for the undead was not unheard of, and if this guy was unaware of the existence of undead folk who were aware...well, let's just hope his conclusion wouldn't be to deal with him the same way he was used to dealing with the partially deceased.

He expects raspy snarling and hands straining for him, teeth gnashing furiously. Blank, milky eyes and mindless hunger. Not this.

Hesitation gets people killed. But when the walker raises its hands and those words come like a slap to the face, he locks up, chest heaving, his fingers clamped around the machete hilt. And he just stares, his brow screwing up like he hasn’t seen another living thing in years. Thoughts jostle around his mind like a panicked crowd trapped in a suffocatingly small, pitch-black room, desperate to find an exit.

“…what the fuck?” He pants out after too long.

The guy was confused. If Kieren's suspicions were correct, and this man didn't have neurotriptaline in his own world, that would make perfect sense. He was sure the people back in his own world would have been surprised if one of them had just started talking.

"There's a treatment in my world. Makes us more like we were. You know, before we died. Not alive or anything, but able to talk. Think. Not eat people, or anything at all for that matter."

And not a threat, which was what he was really trying to emphasize.

Some small part of him struggles violently, rejecting this explanation, rejecting the existence of this sentient corpse that goes against everything he's come to know. Those who turn - friends and loved ones - don't get to keep their minds, their memories, their self-restraint and inhibitions, no matter how fiercely one might hope for an exception to the rule. Except Luke has seen this before.

Not at home but here, in video clip after video clip he had reviewed on Jennifer Blackwood's recommendation. There had been R, that poor kid who had been deader than dead -- and who had taken the blandly ordinary act of drinking coffee and made an incredible spectacle out of it. But it's one thing to play and replay footage, squinting at the screen of his communicator in wonder, and another for a lurker to speak to him. To reason with him, appealing to his sense of understanding and compassion, just like a living, breathing human being. Only that it isn't.

Luke's quiet for a beat longer, his body primed for a decisive, brutally efficient machete-swing -- and it takes everything he has to tamp down the instincts the last few years have honed sharp. "When people die for any reason, don' matter how... do they turn?"

Edited 2015-03-23 22:02 (UTC)

Kieren sees the tension. He's not surprised by it, of course, considering what he is, but it does make him wary. Still, as long as this guy is more intent on asking questions than seeking to harm him, he figured he'd be fine. He just had to keep an eye out for anything that might indicate that things could take a turn for the worse.

He shook his head. "Not anymore. No one turns anymore."

Did this guy's world have one continuous, perpetual rising going on? Well, maybe, maybe not. Maybe they just didn't get as far along as his own world had, and all he knew was that those who did rise had no specific pattern to how they died. There were going to be no new undead rising, though, no matter what sorts of strange cults rose up trying to change that fact for God knows what reason. The walking dead that were were all that there ever would be.

"But when we were still rising, it didn't matter how you died. That's never had anything to do with it, no matter what theories or superstitions people might have."

Like the people who thought they'd turn into a zombie if they were bitten, despite the fact that there had been absolutely no correlation.

Slowly, carefully, he lifts his hand away from the hilt at his hip and lets it rest at his side, still keeping a wary distance while wrapping his mind around the fact that this is really happening. His mouth presses thin, skews.

“So you're sayin' everybody started turnin' for no reason, an' then they jus’... stopped?" He cocks his head. "Jus’ like that?”

"That...pretty much sums it up, yeah. No one knows why it started, no one knows why it stopped."

Even if people had their own beliefs, the fact was, no one really knew.

He gives the answer the chance to sink in, fumbling uselessly for non-existent threads of logic. “What about bein’ bit or scratched by a lurker? You mean that don’ do nothin’ anymore?”

That much can be inferred -- but to hear it makes it more concrete, realer, though no less easy to grasp. Would that it could be the same way back home. And maybe it would be, some day. Maybe the virus – if that was what had set the domino-collapse of the world into motion – would eventually be overpowered by the body’s defenses the longer humans were exposed and carried it in their bodies. Adaptation. But lasting long enough to scrape one’s way a little closer to the end of an age of fleshly decay and peaceless death is the rub. For all that a cure could fix, could save, too, there's so much that it can't.

"It does nothing," he confirmed, but then added, "Where I'm from, it's always done nothing."

He was quite adamant about that. He didn't know if it was more than a silly superstition or rumor in this man's world, but he knew in his own that being bitten never made a person rise. It wasn't like the movies.

"Being bitten or scratched won't make you rise. Never did in the first place."

Not that you wanted to be bitten or scratched, since that meant a rabid was eating you, and they were relentless in their pursuit of brains.

Luke’s expression doesn’t transform into disappointment. It settles into it, having been ready to, as the smallest flicker of hope that they might occupy different places and times of the same world is shot down and goes up in flames. He’s been in the dark for years, they’ve all been, with no sense of how widespread the infection is. No sense if, across the ocean on the other side of the world, any survivors had made headway in finding a cure. He's no closer to knowing now than he was years ago.

The stiff line of his shoulders softens carefully.

“There was somebody like you ‘round here before,” He says after a long time. “Didn’t know the guy myself, but I saw what it – what he looked like. Was lurker through an’ through… but it could do things I ain’t ever seen one do before. It could talk; it could think. An’ then after it took them meds given by the Capitol, it was – he was human again. They cured 'im.”

He can detect the disappointment, and wonders if it is because it's clear that they're not from the same world. Of course, he can't know that for certain, and it would be unfair to pretend things were the same when they weren't. Then he heard about the cure, and he stood there, thinking.

"He could talk, you mean," Kieren stressed. He might not be Simon, but he certainly didn't want people thinking of him, or anyone like him, as being an 'it', especially not when they were treated. Aware. Still, his attention was brought to what the man was saying, even if he didn't like the use of the word 'it'.

"There was something that happened like that in my world, once. A friend of mine came back from being...like me. No one had the chance to figure out why or how, though, because as soon as it happened...someone murdered her. Her heart was beating, though, and she bled and..."

And the blood was red, not dried and black like Kieren's own. His voice cracks a bit, while talking about Amy and her death, which had been completely and utterly senseless, and the worst part is, the person who did it...she had to know Amy was alive again, or else why would she kill her by stabbing her in the heart? As for a cure...he was certainly not adverse to being alive again, but he didn't trust the Capitol.

"Back in my world, we take medication on a regular basis to keep us from going rabid. Somehow the Capitol is able to stop that even without the regular medication here. The thing is, I don't trust them, because that's a switch they could turn off at any moment, have me go rabid, just like before. Being human again, that might take that power away from them, but I'd want to know for certain that they wouldn't be able to just...take it away again."

He doubted they'd make him human again out of the goodness of their hearts, after all, and he wouldn't give them that leverage until he knew more.

"My name's Walker, by the way. Kieren Walker."

Maybe knowing a name would help keep this guy from thinking of him as an 'it', in case he was, like he did with the other guy.

It has been as close to black and white for a long time, the concepts of ‘us’ and ‘them’. Because he couldn’t let himself look at lurkers long enough to try and guess at the names of the people they were, their dreams and day jobs once upon time, and the ones they had loved and who had loved them in turn. Not anymore. But there had been gut-clenching moments in time when the line drawn between the living and the undead had blurred; even Jane couldn’t always maintain that disconnect. Because it’s different when that shambling, brainless thing straining and eager to rip a chunk of meat out of you has a name you know, one tied to memories burned into your brain. It’s different when it’s your neighbour, your family, your friend you had walked alongside and talked to only a few minutes ago.

Kieren is none of these things. But while he struggles through a memory, the pain leaking through his voice, almost palpable, Luke feels a gut-stab of sympathy. It’s hard to think about human life and such raw emotions being trapped in a prison of corpse-flesh.

“I’m Luke.” He offers in turn, only lifting his brows slightly at the irony of that last name he’s given. In a better mood it’d have warranted a snort, maybe a flatly incredulous, ‘really?’. One hell of a mind-fucking coincidence if he had ever heard one.

There’s more to say, there always is, but he decides against weighing in on the Capitol and Kieren’s situation. If what Kieren has said is true, the day would come when the Capitol wouldn’t keep his more savage impulses in check all for the sake of entertainment. This is a disaster waiting to happen. He knows it in his bones.

“Heard you fall or somethin’.” He shifts his weight, his pulse still thrumming briskly in his throat.

Edited 2015-03-28 15:24 (UTC)

Of course, Kieren was well aware of that, as well. He wished he had neurotriptaline for when that time came, to take his control into his own hands, but there was no way to get that here. As for his fall...Kieren glanced toward the climbing net he'd fallen off of.

"Yeah, looks like I don't quite have the coordination for that. I'm fine, though. Don't feel much, anymore."

For the moment, the conversation suddenly felt...well, surprisingly normal. Well, there was still some tension, some discomfort...he was the walking dead, after all, and he was talking to someone who, until that moment, didn't know that there were any risen who could talk. Still, it felt a little less uncomfortable to discuss the net than the fact that he was undead and could still possibly go rabid someday, if the Capitol wished it.

He knits his brows. “…Right.”

An awkward pause soon hangs heavy between them as he’s left unsure as to where to steer the conversation. It’s enough to take in for one afternoon – and now there’s something else he’d need to bring to the attention of his people sooner than later, for their own safety. It’s one less surprise they’d need to deal with.

The unease throbbing in his chest is a hard thing to attempt willing away and he’s ready to turn back and put that much more distance between them. But something about Kieren tugs at him, refusing to let go just yet.

“Look.” He sighs through his nose. Wets his lips, holding his gaze steady. “There’re more than a few people ‘round these parts who ain’t never met a – met somebody who looks jus’ like a lurker who ain’t bad news. So if I were you, I’d think about maybe puttin’ a video out there an’ introducin’ yourself to other tributes, if you haven’t already.”

The guy didn’t seem like he minded being noticed, seeing as the training centre is the furthest thing from a low-traffic area.

“I stopped –- but some people, they’ve lost too much to be willin’ to take the chance that first time they see you." His voice drops low, its wary edge softening. He doesn't expect Kieren to understand. "S’jus’ too risky.”

"Right."

He didn't want to risk someone mistaking him for a rabid and killing him, especially since he wasn't sure if they'd be brought back if it wasn't in the arena. He thought of Jem, thinking she was seeing a rabid when really it was Henry, drunk on sheeps brains. Maybe it would be best.

Still, that didn't stop him from letting out a sardonic snort.

"Can't imagine how that'll go. Hello, I'm Kieren Walker, and I've been administered neurotriptaline in the last...well look at that, it's been weeks, but I've not entered a rabid state, so let's just hope that keeps on keeping up, shall we?" He shook his head. "Better than getting killed on sight, though. I'll give it a go."

At least this guy wanted to avoid Kieren getting killed. That was certainly more concern than he could expect from most people who had survived something like that.

The world being what it is, it feels like it's rarer than ever when a solid balance can be struck between prioritizing the well-being of his people and showing a measure of sensitivity to others. Their lives have been defined - shaped - by sacrifice and loss. But no one has to lose now. No one will.

If Kieren went through with that video broadcast, his friends would be able to put a face to the description he’d provide them with - hopefully before they met Kieren in the flesh – and this without Kieren having to suffer for it. The exposure would do the kid more good than harm, or so it seems.

“…A’right then,” He says. “G'luck with it. I'll, uh, be keepin' an eye out for it.” A breath – one he didn’t realize he was holding – slides out of him slow and heavy and then he nods to himself, backing up a few steps before turning around and making a beeline for the exit, unstrapping his machete and slapping it onto a table along the way.

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