thecapitol | [open] and the stains coming from my blood tell me

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[open] and the stains coming from my blood tell me

Who| Karkat and anyone currently around the Capitol
What| Died like a loser at the Cornucopia, now back in the Capitol. At least his leg's fixed?
Where| Tribute Tower + out in the city
When| Evening the day after the start of the arena + the following days.
Warnings/Notes| Mild wound reference/description, but nothing big planned.

God damnit, really?

It's been about a day since Karkat's untimely death post-Cornucopia, and he wastes no time lingering about the cold room he wakes up in after every death. He's whole and hale again, his leg free of so much as a scar to hint where he'd been shot, and it feels good to be able to walk around without hurting. Doesn't hurt after his death, either; whatever that was, it sure wasn't a comfortable way to go. Speaking of, how did he go? His memories are jumbled and vague, and he mostly remembers a bang and then being carried somewhere by Shepard. Where, he doesn't know; he doesn't think he made it that far.

A. Tower Lobby

He makes a stop in the lobby, not planned, but because he catches the answer to his question. There on one of the various screens playing this arena's games is his own body, rushing on up to the pyre that served as the Cornucopia. There's others around him, some familiar and some not, and is that the douchebag he ran into at last Crowning? He looks different without all the glitter and LEDs, but he's positive, and--

Holy shit, that is lightning. A commentator rattles in the background, explaining how the charge radiated outward, hitting not just Gary but a number of nearby tributes. He sees himself laying there, and--wow, yes, this is about him, huh? Because the footage sticks on him as Shepard comes up, telling him to hold on and how they're gonna move, and how he better not puke on her. To his credit he didn't, but man, he really couldn't move, could he? And he couldn't hear a word. But she walks, carrying him somewhere, and...

"Are you kidding me? I died just like that?" He gestures at the screen, as if whoever is blathering about the moment can hear him. "That is the lamest, most watery nooked excuse for a death I've ever been through! Even worse than that time with the fork! Didn't I do anything? There were sickles that time, come on--"

The camera zooms in as Shepard, having realized his death, now fishes for the necklace he wore as token. She grips it and gives a hard yank.

"She broke my fucking necklace!"

B. District 6

It's after he's vented his anger at his arena performance (and gotten away from whoever might have found him there) that Karkat finally hauls up to his district. He's grumpy still and not real keen to be back, but he wants to change, and he figures he'll need to talk to some people. Which is to say, his mentor and escort.

It's after he's switched into something comfortable and familiar that he heads out. If any other tributes have the misfortune to be here already, they might spot him, but otherwise he makes his way to bang on Stephen and Linden's doors.

"Guess who's dead!" he shouts through the barrier by way of greeting. He hopes they're around. He is not in the mood for an untamed honkfowl pursuit.

C. Training Center

It's in the later days that Karkat gets back to training. With his body fully healed again, he's able to actually work at it like he wants to, and make up for what he missed after his return from jail. Well, maybe not 'make up' properly with the way bodies reset around here, but it feels like it anyway, and he's glad to be able to work out again.

In a way, he feels like he owes it to Shepard to keep up with the regiment she put him on. So for all she's still in the arena, each morning bright and early he brings himself down to train. Running, practicing forms, and generally keeping at old habits is part of it, but another is honestly a good chunk of angry sickle training.

He's really mad he didn't get to use one in the arena. He's going to stay mad. His training dummy, innocent and sweet, takes the brunt of this anger.

D. The Capitol

The best thing by far (apart from the healed body sweet mother grub hell yes) is that with his return from the arena, Karkat is finally free of the tower arrest that kept him cooped up after the mess with the Initiate. Better yet, that second point means he can go out and walk to his heart's content. He downright refuses to stay in, and he goes everywhere, from parks to that favorite pastry shop he hasn't visited in a month to just random paths down the streets. In a rare sight, he can even be spotted talking animatedly to fans, bitching to them too about how unfair it is that he died in such a lame way. They are sympathetic to his plight, and a good few are eager to hear him boast about the sickle skills he could have shown off.

But whether his path takes him to restaurants or bookshops, gardens or city streets, it's not hard to find him somewhere.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Beck pauses long enough to pick up her shoes, then follows him, letting the heels dangle from one hand. "They're rare," she agrees, "but if you're lucky, the Gamemakers might decide it'd make good TV for you to have one. I mean, it's a shame to have someone here with a skill like that and not use it, right?"

The suite is laid out the same, but the contents of the cupboards aren't. It takes her a little bit of searching to find the hot chocolate, a little more to find mugs and teaspoons. As she starts to mix their drinks, she offers Karkat a smile. "At least you've got the suite more or less to yourself for a while now?"

"Considering my impotent rage itself is a marketable trait, they might as well do the opposite and never, ever let me have one," he grumbles as he slides into a kitchen chair. "Why stop there, even? Give a sickle to literally every tribute but me, then punish anyone who so much as mentions the possibility of giving theirs to me. Death to anyone who actually attempts it. I am never going to get a sickle, Beck."

If nothing else, he's not going to get over his delusion that the many and various forces of reality are out to persecute him for existing. He's very devoted to that mindset, and things like this do so well to reinforce it.

Shrugging next, he says, "I guess. It's a shitty consolation prize, and I don't intend to hang around here much as it is."

"Why not?" It's a genuine question, and it sounds like one; there's no hint of judgement or disapproval in it. "I mean, I'd stay in the suite, if I didn't have to go and court Sponsors all day every day. Especially in your position. Curl up with a mug of something hot and sweet, set myself up with a blanket and some trashy music, and get some R&R in." She laughs a little, stirring hot chocolate into the milk. "Then again, I'm not the tough sort, so what would I know?"

Why not? Karkat looks at her, but from face and tone there's no reason to believe she doesn't mean it. His lips purse. Had she seen certain announcements from about a month prior, it may have been obvious, but she did say she's new to her post. Still, she can't have escaped the main scandal that went down.

"I was stuck in the tower for about a month leading up to the arena," he says, deciding to skimp on the details. "With reason enough then to relax, sit around, and get my requisite pair of R's in. I am rested up to the point I am well tired of it, and I refuse to sit around my district more than I have to now that I have the option to get out of this tower again."

Trashy novels are more his speed, too, but he doesn't correct her on that.

"Oh." Beck worried at her lip. "I forgot you were one of the ones who got brainwashed. Sorry, I should've thought." She wasn't sure how much of the official story of that scandal she believed - for a Capitolite, she had a possibly unhealthy level of suspicion when it came to the government - but she was more than willing to swallow it as fact for now. In any case, it didn't affect the point, which was that he'd been trapped inside.

She couldn't exactly fault him for not wanting to stay that way, when her response to being trapped alone inside was to become a prostitute.

Turning back to him with a smile, she offered him a mug and perched on the sideboard to drink her own hot chocolate. "At least that's over now. And at least you don't have to stay in the Arena. I mean, I know that there's pride in it, and I know you want to win, but I still can't help thinking it looks horrid."

"All I'm going to say is, fuck that guy." And he says it emphatically, but no more than that. He fully believes that he was brainwashed, ironically because he was brainwashed into doing so - something that played all too well with his past issues and resultant prejudices. The Capitol couldn't have found a better tool for the message if they tried.

He takes the mug with a murmured thanks. She won points just for that, and she wins more for her sympathy.

"It sucks," he agrees. "I wanted to stay for my friends, and to at least make an effort for my district, but I am not going to sit and lie to you that it's a pleasant lawn meal for all involved." He pauses for a sip. "That was probably the easiest death I've had here, even if it was insultingly lame."

"You tried," Beck says encouragingly. "That's what matters, really. The people in your District will be able to tell that you tried, even if it was kind of unfortunate how it turned out. And there's always next time." She gives him a warm, gentle smile, wrapping her hands around her mug - a bizarrely domestic way to sit, for someone as thoroughly dressed up as she is. "I did think it was sweet of Shepard to try as hard as she did. It must be nice to have friends like that."

Always next time, though plainly meant as encouragement, sits strangely against his ears. She's a Capitolite. Even her quaint, simple way of holding a mug can't disguise that. While he can't fault her as much as someone who would use it to put him in his place, it's still hard to take comfort in.

He hates the Capitol, he hates the Hunger Games, and he hates that he even has to worry about his friends like this.

It's consequently a bit flat when he answers, "Yeah."

He takes his mug and drinks long from it, then turns his attention to the next topic.

"The first time I met her, she burst in on me and another tribute I don't know the name of and died in the process of saving my life," he starts in. "She knew me, but I didn't remember her, because apparently memory crap or alternate timelines or something are fun for the whole endless line of Karkats jostling in after each other."

His gaze dips down into his cup. "After that arena, she's been training me regularly. She is an absolute hardass who demands my presence whether I want to be there or not, but thanks to her I'm not a complete flailing pusnugget when I go into these. She said she'd carry me this time if she had to; I just don't think either of us expected it to end with me dead that soon."

Edited 2015-06-09 00:51 (UTC)

Beck is quiet for a long moment, idly stirring her hot chocolate and looking down at the swirl of milk and cocoa in the cup. She always objects, in some deep-down unspoken part of her, to the word 'end'. There's a sick finality to it that doesn't gel with a Games where few people die for good. It hasn't ended. He isn't dead. She's spent enough time around the Games to know what an end looks like.

But she's not about to say that to a Tribute. She has slightly more self-awareness than that. Shaking her head, she looks back at Karkat with an almost apologetic smile. "She sounds like a hell of a good friend," she says, after a moment. "So I guess that's the good news. Because now you're out, and back here, you can help her in ways you couldn't in the Arena."

Karkat's life, on the contrary, has taught him that endings are relatively. Rarely is there a death that sticks permanently, and even after death is the afterlife and its timeless, sprawling expanse. But even then, that too had its end.

He's died four times here, and three of different kinds in his own world. Each was the end of something.

He nods back to her. "Yeah. Her and other people. She's skilled, though--she'll probably last a while if she's careful."

He has things to sort out later, talks with sponsors and thinking out how to make his appeals before he has to do it. He has his own image to boost along the way: he needs to build up his credibility as compliant and loyal to this whole grueling machine of a society. He can't leave any doubt after the Initiate.

For now, though, he'll take the moment of downtime. He moves on and asks, "So what do stylists do during the arenas? It's too early to bet on the victor, and our costumes for going in are done."

"Walk around in heels higher than they should ever have designed, and try to sound so confident about how they'll design the Crownings for their Tributes that sponsors believe them." She laughs, rather dryly, and adjusts the complex straps of her outfit, which are slipping dangerously. "Honestly? Don't tell anyone, but I'm making it up as I go along. When I was in the back room before, we just got the Games off. Don't need a full Stylist team just to look out for the Victors. But I can't take the time off if I'm the public face, so I figured it was time to do some down-and-dirty schmoozing."

Karkat lifts an eyebrow, slightly at first, then higher as she goes on. "As if people would believe an offworld tribute about a Capitolite stylist for another District. There's logically no reason for us to be talking at all - neither one of us has anything to game - and yet here we are, in defiance of convention and in lack of obvious point. Which is not me complaining about the hot chocolate; that I have taken without remorse." And he drinks from his cup again to prove it.

"So were you a stylist before, then? You did say you took over 12 recently."

She laughs at that, sipping her own hot chocolate. "If you were complaining about it," she says cheerily, "I would have to conclude that you were a hopeless case, and then I'd have no excuse not to get back to work." Then, taking another drink, "And I was, yeah. Five years under my belt. I did makeup a lot, and some close-pitch design. That's when the Head Stylist can't make it," she adds for clarification, "and they delegate it down to one of the other stylists for ideas. It's actually way harder than it sounds, because you have to make it fit into an idea that already exists and isn't yours. It's fun, though."

He snorts a laugh of his own. He would have refused it anyway if he'd found reason too, but she seems genuine enough about the offer, and that's all he can ask for in a place like this. It doesn't hurt that he has a sweet tooth.

What she says is kind of interesting, in the way of something that would never interest him but still makes for good conversation.

"Sounds like a pain in the ass, but if you enjoy it, then good for you," he says about as amiably as he can. "Trolls don't do fashion the way humans do, let alone like the Capitol. I used to wear copies of the same out every day, and I liked it like that. Same with most of my friends."

He thinks of Kanaya, though, and misses her. It's not remotely close to the first time that he's wondered what she would think of all this. So many colors and designs and trends... What would offend her? What would appeal to her? Could she convince her Stylist to let her design her own things? Would she want to? But as much as he misses having her around, he hopes deeply that she never comes here. It's better to be left missing her than for her to have to suffer just for the chance to meet.

Beck shrugs, looking down at herself. "To tell you the truth, I wear practically the same outfit most days when I'm not workings. Different colours and fabrics, but it's amazing what you can get away with if you call it your signature look." Hoodies and jeans have never really been chic, but that's the point, really. If you wear it with confidence, and go against the trends, it doesn't really matter what you wear. Somebody, somewhere, will call it fashion. Just look at some of the styles that have come out of Tributes.

She doesn't say that, though, not least because it sounds a bit rude phrased like that. Instead, she shrugs again, almost dislodging her precariously poised bodysuit, and takes another mouthful of her drink. "The high heels and costumes are just that. Costumes. Once you realise that, it all gets a lot more fun."

"Different from what I mean," he says. "I mean the same shirt, same jeans, just different copies of it. No different colors or fabrics. I still don't really understand why humans like it so much, but it is less effort for me to shrug and go along with is and save my ire for the times my outfits are especially dumb."

He follows with a massive shrug for the costume comment, then downs the last of his hot cocoa.

"Says you. I am not a guy who cares for costumes, and yet here I get stuck in them no matter what I wish. You at least get to pick your own outfits."

Beck shrugs again, licking chocolate off her immaculately made-up lips. "I guess I do," she admits, with a little smile. "It can be fun, though. Seeing how far you can push things. Like, you've got clothes, and they're meant to be practical and keep you warm and let you move, right? But then you've got fashion, costumes, and their whole point is to be fun. To turn you into someone else for a bit, make you look like how you're feeling or how you want to make other people feel. And you can play around with colours and fabrics and all that stuff. But if you're not into it, you're not into it."

He listens, but his eyebrows draw in and his mouth forms a frown. "I just don't get it - that's the problem. Like I almost do? I dressed a certain way because of certain personal style choices or... socio-cultural troll stuff, let's call it, and it wasn't for the sake of being fun."

He keeps it vague, but he wonders if she might know. She said she was the stylist for 12, and that means his ancestor, whose recent victory can't have spared details about his mutation and the movement he lead.

Moving on, he says, "I had a friend into all that fashion stuff, bright colors and fabrics and everything, and good for her. But it can't really make people do anything."

"I've gotta disagree with you there," Beck said after a moment's thought, finishing off her chocolate. "Maybe that's true where you're from. But my experience is, how you look can definitely make people do things. It can make guys get a hard-on and throw money at you, it can make girls get into bed with you, but it can also... you know. It can make people want to follow you. It can make people be scared of you, or want to be friends with you, or respect you, or feel like you're on their level. I mean, sure, I'm biased. But fashion, how you look and how you act and how you talk... all that shit can make people feel things. And when you make people feel a certain way, they act a certain way. You wear something that makes you look like a hardass, people move out of your way. You wear something that makes you look cute, people buy you drinks. Or send you sponsor gifts."

She considers for a moment, realises that she's just given a full-on speech, and laughs, putting her face in her hands. "Sorry. Didn't mean to lecture."

He draws back, reddening a little at her first choice of effects to list. He is still a teenager, prone to easy embarrassment when it's brought up like this.

The rest is easier to listen to. His eyebrows drawn in again as he thinks. It's true that certain positions draw certain types of dress on Alternia, but it's always more restricted than for humans. He waves off her apology, not minding.

"Maybe, but it just feels fake to me. If it's something that fits the role you're in, whatever, good for you, but otherwise it's all empty and false. I can dress like something else, but I'm just some asshole in a bunch of clothes in the end." He's frowning some, trying to wrap his head around it in spite of himself. "Any lie I had in my outfit was for survival. If I was going to be badass or whatever, I'd rather prove it through what I do than just wearing something different."

"You're talking like you can't do both." Beck puts her empty mug to one side, letting her hands drape loosely over her knees. "It's something I don't get. You talk like dressing up is lying, but it's not, not any more than doing badass things just to be badass would be. We're what we make of ourselves, right? So why not make yourself someone who looks the part?"

After a moment's thought, she shrugs. "I mean, that's how I see it, anyway. I guess it's pretty different when someone else is dressing you."

His mouth quirks, but her phrasing catalyzes an understanding, a way to phrase it.

"Because the action stands no matter how you're dressed. If you dress like the part then, it's fine, whatever, it fits, but otherwise you're pretending and someone's going to call you on it sooner or later. Just because you put a uniform on doesn't mean you can play the part, you know?"

He leans forward, putting support on his elbows. "I think it's because on Alternia, everything was about survival. If you tried to look awesome and intimidating, it would only go so far until someone tested it. Anyone who's all look would go down and get laughed at because they walked straight into it. But if you dress the part that actually fits--Our Empress was awesome as shit in every department, with these towering horns and a mile of hair, and this clingy bodysuit and more gold on her than you could bother to count. But she lived up to it. She's had that spot since before my ancestors hit the planet, literal thousands of sweeps, and she earned it every step of the way. You follow me?"

"I follow," Beck agrees, genuinely interested. "You think people who try to look like something are inviting a challenge, right?" It makes sense. She knows it does. If you dress like a Peacekeeper, people will expect you to defend the Capitol and follow orders. If you dress like a Victor, you'd better be able to back it up.

At the same time, though, she can't help feeling he's misunderstood a little. "Thing is, you can't not look like something. There's no such thing as a neutral outfit. Not here, anyway. Dressing out of fashion here says I know fashion better than people who follow trends, or I think my style's better than what's in fashion, or, I mean, sometimes it straight-up says I don't want to be here." And that can be very dangerous in a place like the Capitol, as Karkat no doubt knows. "So you've got to pick what you want to say with your outfit, and, yeah, people're going to challenge it and test the limits, but that's better than making them hate you or think you're easy pickings." She's quiet for a second, looking down at her long acrylic nails. "It's still about survival here, that's what I'm saying. It's just that you've got to treat survival differently, when you're a Tribute."

"Yeah," he says, nodding to the first part.

As she goes on, however, he sets to frowning again. It is a very legitimate concern, and he's glad to have someone who knows about fashion to tell him such. He still might not care for the particulars, for the trends, but it lays in more seriously than he considered that he needs to pay at least some attention to what's going on. Enough to poke at his stylist to keep him with it, especially now that he's going to be actively marketing himself to sponsors.

"Ugh. Alright, point taken. I'll look into it, alright?" Better to play it as mildly annoyed but convinced, rather than scared into it by the survival aspect. He knows too that he can't afford to look like he rejects Capitol culture after his time in jail. "Maybe if I work with my stylist I can work out something that looks good enough to you guys without being too objectionable to me."

"If your Stylist's any good," Beck says encouragingly, "they'll be able to figure something out. Doesn't have to be high-key or anything, and, I mean, troll style's still pretty in, so you can probably figure out something that's a bit homey in some ways, right?" She's a big believer in fashion fitting the wearer, where possible. Sometimes, that means you have to go a little bit outside the lines with offworld tributes.

She gives him a warm smile, pulling out an emery board from some hidden pocket in her barely-there outfit and starting to file away a loose little tail of skin she's just noticed on one finger. "It must be weird as all hell to come into a place like the Capitol from where you've been. I've never lived anywhere else, and sometimes all the style changes and how much people follow them gives me a headache. But you'll get used to it, I'm sure."

[open] and the stains coming from my blood tell me

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FINALLY caps this off, jesus christ, sorry for that wait