Tell me anything you want to tell me, I have nothing to say

[carnagecarnival]

Who| Initiate and OPEN
What| The Traitor returns as a new servant.
Where| Around the Tribute Tower
When| Forward dated: around the 20th/22nd of May and onward.
WARNINGS| Avoxing/Avoxes, references to the conditioning process (torture, drugs, stripped personhood), references to Avox mistreatment and purchasing.

Corridors

It feels to have been long. He knew tortures. One of the first tasks assigned to him on enlistment back when he was six sweeps was to preform one. Several. More than he'd counted. No mercy or you'll be put in their place. Keep going past their breaking point. Keep going past yours. Let the screams become a symphony and will guide you through the fray of war. They're a traitor to the Empire and they have earned the price they pay. You can feel their fear, so bring it to life...

He knew that things could always go worse, no matter how bad it seemed. He knew, but it wasn't long before that knowing was scrubbed out from his thinkpan in the settling haze, pushed further and further back with the rest of him. All along his pan that wire mesh has dragged and dragged and he is so far beyond not wanting to feel it that he simply doesn't any more. Drugs, pain, orders, drugs. Has he been gone a week? A month? Sweeps? He doesn't have it in him to know or begin to guess. Time doesn't have much meaning but for getting tasks done in a timely manner.

He can't remember what went first, his will, his paint, his tongue, or his tokens. He is only aware of the fact that they are once again gone. He doesn't miss them. The attention they would bring is unbearable to think about. He wishes they would saw off his horns again so they wouldn't obtrude so much as they do. Let them break off all his claws, grind down his teeth, tear off his fins, do whatever they had to to make him slip further into the shadows. He was good at that as a Troll on Alternia, but it's harder here where the world is bright and the people are alien.

Still, he does his best. He doesn't project an aura so much as he creates an inverse of one. Do not look at me, I am not here. He walks the corridors this way, not a sound from him, not even from his steps. He blends with the wall, dodging past the bodies of others, and not once does the thought occur that he's finally returned to this place.

Commons

He was turned into a villain. He'd always been, but now the title Initiate Fraysong was everywhere, muttered in hushed whispers full of venom, and jubilant shouts at a rebel downfall. A variation of the latter took place here with cheers to follow. The drinks clanked together with a pleasant 'ding' and the sure slosh of spilling alcohol followed.

So caught in the celebration were they, they didn't expect his appearing to clean it up. More spilled before his kneeling place and he paused his cleaning for just a moment to get that new spot. He heard the laughs. He failed to react to them.

If he had it in him to care, he would've guessed by now that this would not only be a commonplace event, but one sure to be topped with worse things. When he's finally done his duty there, he makes his way back to returning the materials to their place, only to spot a magazine featuring his name and picture. The magazines are all scattered and will surely need re-arranging and so he bends to fix them into a proper pile. He hesitates on the one with his face, however. He lifts it up and goes to turn it face down, so that the non-person is hidden. He's not sure which wins out, the conditioning or himself, but sure enough he's turning it back so it's facing proper.

The only sign to show he's noticed the presence of another is the tiniest flick of those goat-like ears.

The Training Center

The Initiate used to paint here. This is not the case now, but since his first arrival to this place many have taken up making murals upon these walls. The place is constantly stained with color. This should be a beautiful thing, but he's far too distant for the revelation.

He's brought his cart, not full of paint but of cleaning supplies. It is time to strip this all down to the very last trace.

Avox Quarters

There is no company like the last he was Avoxed. Cecil is gone, Starkiller, Justin-- all people he'd known and could have comfortably associated with. Well, maybe not Justin alone, but if Cecil was there... There's no more Holly, one of the few other faces he might have recognized. She's long dead now. Many more lost in the explosions in the foodcourt that arena, but he never knew them. Only one Avox here can make him glance up; a woman with red hair and a face that looks like it was meant to be stern. It's as empty as the others, as his own, which should be just fine but the wrongness of it speaks to him still. He avoids her and so avoids the feeling.

The other Avoxes recognize him however. It's not camaraderie. That would require something more, something beyond what they were capable of like this, but it's the closest thing. It's the lack of panic that comes with association as is never so among actual people. This is the one place where he can breathe something close to easy.

Sleeping however remains a struggle. He's gotten used to the lack of sopor. He can keep from roaring awake with his daymares. He can sleep on all manner of uncomfortable thing and be fine. What he doesn't know how to do is sleep like a human.

He's pulled the cot out from it's locker just as he's seen the others do. He has the pillow and thin blanket retrieved from the part atop. But now he stares at it. He can't fit upon this, there's no certain way. He thinks he slept some time through the conditioning process but he can't remember how. He should sleep like the others, simply rest his head upon the pillow and throw the sheet over him. He doesn't. Instead, he balls up the blanket and shoves it with the pillow, making as much of a pile as he can upon that cot. He curls up upon it, small as he can make himself and closes his eyes.

Only to have his horns bumped and tapped mere moments later.

Other - (Pick a place to find him!)

When the night falls and the Tributes head off to sleep, sometimes he is called out then to clean the kitchens for the coming morn. He’s been called onto cooking duty, but not near as much as some of the other Avoxes. He’ll be sent out to deliver the orders on occasion though, usually for tower staff or Tributes who merely want it waiting and ready on their return, as opposed to being given to them directly. He’s called often to clean up messes left behind. Through this he sees what was almost home for a little while there. Through this he falls into a numbing rhythm that buries his attachment to it all deeper and deeper.

He’s high prolific, generally confined to the tower. Just as well; there weren’t many right now wanting to risk his purchase just yet. The few that tended to be looking less for service and more for a venting of aggressions. It was harder to obey buyers like that when they were looking for anything that could be considered wrong. The fear of disobedience was greater than anything they could inflict. Or so it felt.

He’s heard whispers of being put among the Avoxes working beneath the city, hidden from view and light, but even he knows that won’t be until the hysteria, anger, and celebration in the Capitol dies down, if ever. He doesn't have the capacity for wanting either which way, but if he had, he's not sure what he'd prefer.

[Feel free to PM or plurk me to discuss any other options.]

Comments

Other, because I'm a horrible person

[seestheman]

Clara didn't eat with her Tributes tonight, and hasn't been much of a presence in their suite since the late afternoon due to a dinner meeting that turned into putting in an appearance at a few parties to find sponsors for the upcoming Arena. She comes into District 10 late, long after midnight, and is quiet and tries to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake her sleeping Tributes (and tries not think about those late nights at home when Alex would get in late and try to do the same so as not to wake up her and David).

Instead of heading back to her room to take off her make up and change into her pajamas, she beelines for the kitchen first, wanting to get some water and a (completely unhealthy and she knows it) snack to help with the alcohol in her system. It's only when she starts making her way over that she hears someone in the kitchen, assuming that someone couldn't sleep and strides in, carrying her heels in one hand with her purse dangling from her shoulder.

"You should be in-" she stops, noticing who it is, feeling the words get caught in her throat. Instead of finishing her sentence, she just stands there, staring at him for a moment. "Oh my god," she whispers, struggling to reboot her brain so she can say something, anything, other than that.

yesssss

[carnagecarnival]

He could always tell the difference in the kitchens, and not just because of the labelled floors. Although by all rights they were made to be identical, the Kitchens tended to show signs not just of the Districts they belonged to, but the things left behind by the Tributes. For them, everything was constantly cleaned, kept spotless. For Avoxes it was the opposite, always so lived in. Alive, until they made their way through.

The types of messes, the things left behind. The decoration upon the walls indicating this was the District of livestock. Even in the late hours like now there's usually something.

And now there's a someone. He stops scrubbing at the cabinets immediately, putting his cleaning supplies back upon his cart and shifting it so it's out of the way. Then with it tucked to the wall, he stands there as well, awaiting any order that might come with his arms held at his sides and his eyes kept down.

[seestheman]

Clara isn't sure which is worse, that he's in here as an Avox, or that all she can think of is the last time she was in here with him and how happy they had been back then.

The next few moments almost feel like an eternity as she tries to think of something to say, not to mention saying it without almost falling apart on him. "It's okay, you don't have to..." she trails off, looking at him and trying to find a way to say 'look so subservient' without using those words. "How are you?" She feels like a moron for asking it, it's not like he can verbally answer, and even if he could, she can imagine the answer would be good.

Training Center

[futilecycle]

Upon learning Kurloz would be assigned to strip paint from the Training Center walls, Sigma made a point of watching Tributes from the Gamemaker perch as often as he could afford. It was a necessary, if unproductive, part of his job - Gamemakers spoiled for the theme of the next Arena liked to predict which members of their roster could excel regardless of their score. Keeping these lists varied over time maintained audience interest in the show and, most importantly, kept ratings high; thus, no one suspected anything sinister of Sigma's interest in his observation slot.

Zero settles in for another morning watching the Initiate clean the wall, occasionally feigning interest in the actual combatants. In the time it takes him to enjoy a cup of coffee, the corner of the trolls' mural has begun to ebb into obscurity. In spite of the gulf between them, there was something cathartic about being near Kurloz, in knowing he could keep him safe inside the sedated prison of Avoxhood. It was not what his boy deserved, but it was all he had left to offer him - making sure Kurloz lived a comfortable, if servile, life until the war was another duty he had taken on in his new role. As another bright line of paint is lost to the wall, he wonders if the Initiate will be able to remember it, if he would have the capacity recognize what it meant, once.

The caffeine in his drink is corrosive to overworked nerves. His bones ached with guilt at night, though he blamed his insomnia on the stress of his new job. Each sleepless evening he would order a hot meal to be sent to his quarters in tandem with a prayer that he would find his son's face behind the doorframe. Whether by chance or design, he was perpetually left disappointed. Now he was through with prayers. With an authoritative wave, Sigma summons the perch's Avox to his side with the knowledge that there was little she could deny him.

"Bring that Avox to me," he orders firmly, eyes trained on the Initiate Fraysong. Though several heads turn in his direction, not one of his astonished cohorts attempt to put a stop to his request.

[carnagecarnival]

The colors comes off and in some distant part out of his reach, it seems faintly symbolic. The scraping off of his self, his spirit. His soul stripped from him the first time they cleaned the paint from his face, and so now he steals the soul from the walls.

Yet these are his orders. It's a steady rhythm he can fall into. A swiping of color with each breath, inhale, exhale. A rightness. He doesn't want to stop, at least not before it's over.

The other Avox can't call his name, doesn't reach out to touch him, doesn't even look at him. They're trained to be attentive and so he is aware of her, even despite her non-presence. He stops his work with very little outside to show for the way it twists his guts. He has orders for this wall. Who could possibly override them?

With reluctance, he sets his cleaning supplies down. He turns to follow her, led on to his new station. It wasn't common for specific Avoxes to be requested save in out-of-tower jobs, but they're prepared enough that another Avox is quick to take his place as he's summoned away.

And then he finds out the 'who' to his question. He's brought before Zero.

There's no change in him from the outside, but within him that tenseness grows only worse. He can't look up into his face, but he knows it's him. He can see the rest of Zero, recognize little features. He can just feel it. The other Avox abandons him with a quick step back into her place.

Other: (Training Center okay? )

[andrastian]

Sebastian was told about the fact that the Avoxes were servants who were here to help if he needed it, and, right now, he did find himself needing a bit of help, even if it felt a little inconsequential right now.

"Excuse me please?" He asked, beckoning him closer with a crook of his finger, a royal behavior he'd not exactly gotten rid of...ever. "I...was hoping someone might point me in the direction of more..." He held up the jar he had been carrying. "Nut-butter? We seem to have run out on our floor."

And then he got a good look at the man, how EMPTY he was, and fought back a bit of horror that threatened to overcome him. It was like looking at a Tranquil. Did the horrors here never end?

Totally cool!

[carnagecarnival]

One of the few things that could override the need to finish task at hand and assigned to an Avox was this. A direct command, a call for attention. It's like the sinking of a hook in his gut turning it more from every second he wastes not simply letting himself be reeled in.

Sure enough, he's standing before him. His eyes are empty and set firmly down, but he's attentive. There's a faint lift to those goat-ish finned ears to show he's listening. Nut-butter. Yes, of course. He recognizes the brand too, there were plenty more in Avox stores.

There's a flash of memory. He and Punchy sneaking down into Avox stores, tense grins upon both their faces as they dug around for candy-coated crickets. He blinks it away.

There's still a problem and that's what floor. He's not sure he recognizes this Tribute and that puts a panic in him. How does he find out the man's District? For now, he reaches out for the empty jar, careful not to touch the Tribute's hands.

Commons

[justoutrunyou]

She's been resisting this for what felt like a week.

Every time she caught sight of him she would hide, her stomach churning and heart breaking. They'd broken him, the most wild and passionate and craziest friend she had.

Who did she have left? Tony tolerated her sure, and Peeta and Katniss did everything they could to prepare her but she wasn't sure how much faith they had in her. Pruna was gone, Mindy was gone.

Shepard? Was that really how many allies she had left?

Deciding this was a bandage that needed ripping off she prepared a picture in her notebook, a slightly cruder drawing then her usual abilities but she needed something vague enough the peacekeepers probably wouldn't shout at her for it.

Then she found him, tidying up while people either ignored him or scowled at him. Sandy swallowed hard and hoped she wouldn't run into any Capitolites who would openly abuse him like some Avox. She wasn't sure she could contain herself if she saw that.

Taking a seat nearby she set her notebook on the table and pretended to make a few finishing touches before digging a bag of individually wrapped taffy out of her pocket. This was by far the most risky part of her plan and she prayed it would not backfire.

Unwrapping a sweet she casually tossed the wrapper onto the floor and popped the sticky chewy candy into her mouth while she continued her sketch of what was clearly herself and Pruna wearing fluffy black wigs and brightly colored facepaint, running around a circus. Pruna had a pair of eyeballs on a stick and Sandy was holding a bottle of soda. They were smiling with brightly colored sparkles around them while simple black stick figures performed in the back round. One stick figure was noticeably taller then the others.

If the first wrapper wasn't enough to draw him closer a second, then a third wrapper would fall. A little out of character for the usually thoughtful girl but maybe that would be dismissed.

[carnagecarnival]

The magazines are set right and straight. All done motherfucking rightly are they to up and motherfucking be. But from cleaning up spills to this, there's always being something new to be done.

There's a certain carelessness that comes normally from new Tributes or Capitolites almost exclusively. He has no room in him to judge this any which way, he doesn't. Rather, it is simple fact. Like expecting a child to make a mess or a person at a bar to want a drink.

He's aware of the presence but he's not looking to see who it is. Not with the first toss of wrapper that is brought around to a garbage. He doesn't even with the second so much as he catches sight of her on the way to it. Sandy. The Sand sister.

For a moment, he feels guilt. It weighs on him harsh and heavy. He left her alone. But... that is what criminals do, is it not? They hurt people. And he hurt people when he was one. He's not a person anymore. He can't hurt her anymore. That brings him as close to grateful as he can be. But not for long as a third wrapper has fallen. Eventually it becomes clear. To keep this place properly clean, he must stand at the ready.

Corridors

[tookthewheel]

"...Initiate?"

Bucky hadn't noticed him at irst, which is saying something. He's constantly alert except for when he manages to sleep. His ability to keep track of his surroundings comes from high level training, mixed with survival instinct and a constant paranoia in this place. That paranoia has only increased with what happened at the end of the rebel mission with the other Tribute's, when Steve and the Initiate had been captured.

It's rare for him to be out now, given how badly he took that news. Bucky's been knocked back some steps in his recovery, looking more like a shadow of a man. He's lost Steve, first and foremost, but what happened to the Initiate stung too.

Only when they are next to each other does Bucky realise the troll he's seeing. He wonders how he could have missed him before, as no one else has his friends height. Yet... the paint is gone, the smile is gone and so is the voice. Everything about him seems changed, broken and Bucky realises with dismayed certainty that there will be no vocal reply from the other.

[carnagecarnival]

It's his title. Or rather, it's the title of the person he used to be. It makes him pause in step, faltering, because even now he's still not sure if he's required to answer. An Avox is meant to be attentive but an Avox is not a person and non-people don't have names, let alone titles.

And thus it's with hesitation that he stops there in the hall, turning to face Bucky. He hopes it's okay. Please let it be okay to have answered to that. He'd pray if he could.

His eyes are down and his hands are held loose but ready at his sides. There's those thoughts again. So distant and dark and illicit. They're hardly more than ghosts. But Bucky isn't and that ghost of that is a gladness for that. Another is that he's let the man down.

At least he was already being punished.

He awaits an order, anything, his ears keeping from their flick. That would show too much liveliness from a serf.

Training center

[metalicarus]

He hasn't been here as often as he used to be. After Sam shook some sense into him, he'd fallen into a pattern of constant activity to keep himself going. Now that it felt like his little group had taken huge chunks out of it, he found he'd get too tired to be as active. Returning to laying around from time to time was just easier.

But it wasn't as bad as it used to be, he still found things to fill his time and his favorite one was painting in the training center. It reminded him of Initiate. He knew he ought to be more careful, considering the climate these days, but he hadn't been able to stop himself from painting faces this time. His old team was up there with little symbols around their detailed faces of things that reminded Jet of them. Ballet shoes for Frannie, a frying pan for Chang, theater masks for G. B. small things that meant a lot. Below them was his new team, not just what was left of it, but the parts that were missing too. Bucky, Terezi, Sam, Venus, Initiate and Felicity. Al he left off because he already had a place among the faces of the family long gone. Jet was just finishing coloring in a few little music notes near Initiate's face when he heard the sound of someone coming into the training area. For one second, he panicked thinking it might be someone less than pleased with his art of 'traitors' but the sound of a cart took the panic away. An avox...he supposed that was best, he'd been planning on finding one of them sooner or later so he could clean off the wall before anyone saw it. For his own sake, sooner was likely better.

Jet waited for the sound of the cart to get closer before looking over, once he did he found he couldn't look away. Wide eyes ran over the person in avox's clothing. The resemblance was almost untraceable between the person there and the person on the wall. The Initiate on the wall was bright and vibrant, he smiled and his hair ran wild around his face which was covered in it's usual pattern of paint. The Initiate in front of Jet was blank, empty and missing everything Jet loved about his friend. He almost couldn't look at him.

But it had been a full month since Jet had seen him. How could he look away?

"I-Initiate..." the name 'Kurloz' almost made it out instead, it was a name he'd been associating with the memory of his friend more and more recently, ever since that asshole had come along claiming it. He didn't get to have it, in Jet's opinion. But he'd never actually been given permission to call Initiate by that name either and something like that wasn't something Jet would just take. It was too important.

Jet's hands itched to reach out to him, his mind screamed to say something, but nothing seemed to be working right. Finally, slowly, he reached out a hand.

[carnagecarnival]

The thing with being made an Avox was that you didn't forget. Good times, bad. Faces and names. The memories all remained, lingering behind the lines. The matter was how far back they were pushed. How little they mattered in the wake of the fear and orders that would make abating of it.

When he enters the Training Center, his cart rolling ahead of him, he still recognizes Jet, sitting there just a short ways away. Closer and closer with each step. They painted together more than once. They were friends, family. They were all the things that he couldn't be for Jet now.

He shouldn't have to, but he thinks he braces for it anyway, the moment when Jet turns around and realises it's him. There's no reaction upon his face. It's just that clear familiar stirring of panic in his gut for having gotten someone's attention when it was his job not be seen, a presence everyone could simply look through. Everyone but Jet right now.

He wishes Jet wouldn't stare. He wishes people wouldn't call him by anything at all when a name was so strongly rooted in identity and was something he couldn't have.

When Jet reaches out though, he absolutely freezes then. He doesn't reach back. He doesn't dare move at all.

Training Center

[pythianjudgment]

It's been a while since she's been here. After the way the mission went, Terezi couldn't bring herself to come down here. She didn't want to smell such a vivid reminder of her matesprit's place in her life. There were so many good memories of him down here, and she doesn't want those to fade even a little by making new ones. But she sorely needs something to do, and the stations at least give her something productive to take her mind off of things.

What she finds instead nearly stops her heart completely.

"Kurloz." The name comes out, and it's only a minute later that Terezi recognizes her own voice. She didn't even know that she had remembered how to breathe, let alone speak. For a moment, she imagines grabbing him and running. This is her chance, now that she's finally found him again. Now that he's standing right there in the same room as her.

But she knows she won't get far. She doesn't even know where to run. They wouldn't last an hour, let alone the week that they did before. And at the end of all of that, the best that she could hope for would be for the Capitol to execute them together. And that thought is more painful than all of the rest.

[carnagecarnival]

He's prepared his cleaning supplies already, the cleaner in one hand and brush in the other. This one thing is so practised by this point they didn't even have to teach it to him in his conditioning process. He's good at this. At breaking off the good.

What he's not good at is knowing what to do when he's called in that particular illicit way. Titles were tricky enough. A name held so much more identity. A name was dangerous. A part of him wants to pretend he didn't hear it, like he didn't pause in his work.

He knows that voice immediately, without looking. And he doesn't dare look. That voice it meant... it meant... quadrants, pity, friendship. It meant a reason of worth, of all this being worth it, even beyond a punishment deserved.

But that was last time. He's not sure what it means now. He's afraid to find out.

Commons

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Sam hasn't been avoiding Kurloz, specifically. He's been avoiding almost everything, moving from his room to the training center to the rooms of his friends and nothing in between, sinking into numbness and trying to shake himself out of it at the same time.

But he knows Kurloz's fate, he knows that he's out there. Knows that at some point, he's going to run into him, and he's been bracing himself for it.

Or at least, he thought he had. But when he spots him in the common area, straightening some magazines, catches that little flick of those ears, he realizes that no, no he hasn't. That there's absolutely nothing he could have done to brace himself for this, for the grief and guilt and anger curling in his chest, stealing away his breath and choking up his throat.

But he can't leave. He walks over anyway, forces his hands into his pockets so he doesn't reach out instinctively for a hug or to push at his shoulder or something.

"Hey."

[carnagecarnival]

When they first took him in, he had a list of names. He knew it would happen, it happened before, but he dug his teeth into those names and held them there in his maw until they were quickly ripped away, pulling some of his teeth along with them.

A list of people he hoped got out. A list who needed to stay safe. Growing small as those he had looser grip on were pulled, going right down to his very closest and most desperately held. He's never been good at letting go, but he's not really any good at properly hanging on either.

He knows distantly that Sam was on that list. He still is. But he doesn't know where that list is and if he can get it back. His mind was scraped clean, but at the same time it felt too full for anything but fear and the tasks that would alleviate it.

Sam was here and safe. That meant something, before.

The stacks all set right, he hears Sam's voice. His back goes straight and he stands attentive, stepping out of the way in case it is the couch that Sam seeks. He waits for an order.

Corridors

[biiowiired]

Psii didn't accost him first thing, like he suspected others might try to do. The first day, he simply watched him from a distance. His lips pressed in a thin, furious line over his fangs. He wanted to yell or punch a wall. Instead, he channeled his energy into making note of the Avox's tasks. Psii prepared to cover for any lapse in duty, lest punishments fall. He'd done this before for others, long ago. Perhaps something in him feared (hoped?) that he was still the unstable, wily clown he took him for, and that he would suddenly drop his broom and run to Signless's block.

The Avox performed his tasks to the letter.

On the second day, Psii approached him. Psii eyed him as he drew closer. He wanted to scream at the sight of him, much like the time they first met, but not because he was a Subjugglator. He wondered how to even speak at all, but he had little time to waste. What Psii had stolen would be missed soon.

"Can you do thomething for me?"

His words rushed out, tumbling over each other as his pump hammered in his chest. Trembling fingers closed tight around the small object in his pocket. Opaque paint was an essential tool for the dramatic makeup his stylist liked. Psii only chanced stealing the white. He could very well be punished for this, whether his stylist raised a fuss or someone watching the cameras didn't approve of this. However, at this point, a public whipping was just an inconvenience to the already scarred troll. Psii never ranked his own well-being very high on his priority list anyway.

"I need your help with a project. Whatever time you lothe, I'll make it up. I'll do the tathkth you mith. I know them all."

[carnagecarnival]

He'd noticed the Psiioniic the first time. It was his job to be attentive. However, as the Psiioniic had said nothing to him, done nothing to direct his attention, given no command, he'd had no reason to engage. The Psiioniic didn't need him like others did.

At least, that had been the first time. There's a brief and distant thought;of course it would be the second time. But that's all there is.

He stops there in the hall, having been at last called to attention. It's such a strange and offworlder thing to ask. An Avox didn't need asking to do things, they simply did as commanded. Even when said commands were panic laced and hard for the average person to follow. This was something very urgent.

His back had already gone straight in wait of an order, but not it is more so. He is stiff and at ready. He can't show much more to say that the Psiioniic just needs to tell him what to do, so he hopes it translates clear in the silence.

Though, the Psiioniic seems to have totally missed that an Avox needs no time made up. There were no tasks missed for his duty was to the people. He might wonder what could be so severe that it would get the Psiioniic so worked up like this.

Corridors

[crabmunicator]

The sight of him is fresh lemon shoved in each bullet hole.

No matter what aura the Initiate might be trying to project, the moment Karkat's eyes alight on grey skin and horns like spires is the moment recognition clicks. There's no paint and no wild hair, but who else could it be? It's not Gamzee, it's not the Beforan Kurloz, and there's no other option left.

It hurts.

The kind of hate is different than what he's leveled at the human Kurloz, too. That there is sharp and bitter, too petty and suspicious, bright as flame. This is ashes and embers, lava black on the surface but still molten within. One is warning, and the other the leftovers of what disaster has already wrought.

"What--" His throat is tight. "--the FUCK--" His eyes are stinging. "--are you doing here?"

He's forgotten where he was going, and he doesn't even care.

[carnagecarnival]

He's frozen on the first word, tugged to a stop by threads tied around him, an invisible hook caught around his bones. There's no helping it. He couldn't run even if he wanted to.

He doesn't want to. That would be disobedient. That would be drawing attention to himself. But he knows he doesn't want this either.

He keeps his eyes down, his hands steady. He keeps his breath even.

And he waits for something because he can't answer the question like Karkat no doubt wants.

Commons

[69problems]

This is the first time since Sigma's broadcast that the Signless has ventured lower than the fourth floor of the tower. After days of silence interrupted by occasional hushed talking, the sheer sound off the commons is almost distressing. He's here under the theory that if he doesn't force himself back into the real world it's never going to happen at all, but it's still abundantly clear from the way he sits drawn in on himself and quiet that he doesn't want to be here.

He eyes every passing Capitolite who looks as though they might even potentially be a media representative, repeating his rehearsed story in his head. He had no idea the Initiate was lying to him and the rest of Panem. He's angry that he was deceived. He's saddened that someone who could have had a good future would throw it away for something so foolish. Of course he wouldn't have supported rule under an Alternia-style government controlled by a highblood, haven't you read his biography?

For a moment he thinks he's finally started cracking up and seeing things when he spots horns -- those horns -- out of the corner of his eye, but a furtive glance sideways tells him no. Those horns are real and so is the body attached to them. Signless's mouth goes very dry. The urge to run to the Initiate, to hold him, to try and find some sign that he's still there is so strong. He can't, he knows, especially not where so many are watching. He can't let on that any of the love he may have had for this troll is still within him, because that will lead to questions, and questions will lead to him getting his tongue cut and his head shaved and then they'd be a perfect pair, wouldn't they?

Instead he settles for stiffly rising from his seat, approaching the magazine rack as though he's interested in browsing the latest gossip. It's only the incessant sideways flick of his eyes that shows what he's really after.

[carnagecarnival]

There was some irony in the thought Signless had. If they'd been Avoxed together there would be a lesser distance than there is now. They could touch, communicate, even stay by one another, if only in their most private hours, when it was time to sleep. There'd be no jams in piles, no protecting one another, not sorting things out and making a calm, that'd be more touch than is able, but it'd be more than this. Funny, he still wouldn't want it. He wouldn't wish this of Signless. He's fairly certain such closeness would have them brought in for reconditioning anyway, over and over again.

Their position right now is a dangerous one. If there was one person in the entirety of the world right now how could pull him out, it would Kankri Vantas, his brother best. But what would that do? It would damn the Signless, set him up as being on an Avox's side. And for himself, reconditioning.

But he misses him. He misses his brother so bad. He misses everyone horribly when he's mustered the ability, but it's different with Signless, with a moirail, someone who can unwind all the twisted bits, smooth over the hurts, quiet the noise and the fear and everything. It's a need and it's the one thing the other avoxes can't relate to.

It's not just his side either. Being a moirail is a duty and devotion. He's failing that. And Avox cannot afford failure. He follows his brother's silent direction, moving over to the rack as well, taking the time to carefully neat each and every little thing he can for as long as he can.

commons

[reassures]

Nill understands better than many of the offworld tributes in Panem that the slightest interaction is all it takes to ruin any sort of trustworthiness you might have gained. It's why she has tried to keep her presence in everything minor, why she didn't take a more dangerous role when it came to the fates of the Initiate and Steve Rogers; she was too afraid of losing the other people she had, of endangering them simply by having loved them. She is not as brave as she likes to think she is, and she certainly isn't as strong. Nill's not sure it would be possible for her to hate herself more when she saw the last spoken words from Kurloz over the network, but she manages it when she spots familiar horns on someone in Avox clothing. She had wished him dead rather than suffer through another Avoxing, but her horror is nearly overwhelmed by relief at the sight of him. (He's alive, he came back, what did they do to--)

Nill knows how dangerous everything is, but she still waits for a good opportunity. Instead of approaching him immediately she pretends she didn't see him until she bumps into him. It's barely a nudge against his arm, but she still drops her notebook, loose papers and a few writing tools falling to the floor at his feet. She immediately crouches to start gathering them up, more slowly than would be strictly necessary.

If the Avox thinks she looks a little desperate when she glances up at him then surely it must be his imagination.

[carnagecarnival]

He'd feared a second Avoxing. He'd feared the loss of his tongue, his voice, the drugs that filled his veins and got into his head, the torture. He'd feared losing himself in it again, he'd feared it being worse than last time, bother because last being a rush job and this time having been the last of his chances burnt to ash.

But there were things he'd feared more. There were things that would have him chose to face his Avoxing than to go through with those. And for all it is so damn near impossible to feel grateful in this state, that is what he is. If maybe not exactly in this moment.

There's a jolt of fear for having touched a Tribute, for being so careless and clumsy and sure to receive reprimand. Then her notebook falls, all her things, and it's in a matter of second that he's on the ground helping to pick them up.

He slows only as he starts to register who it is. Nill.