thecapitol | [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

It seems like a lot because it is a lot, and if Linden noticed Karkat's frown, he wouldn't have had to say anything at all. But Linden doesn't notice, swallowing a few round white splinters of oblivion with another gulp of liquor and leaning forward onto the heel of his hand.

"I might live in the Capitol a good part of every year but I'm not stupid," Linden says blankly. "You're obvious enough, at least to me, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. You're both Tributes, and it's therefore technically allowed."

Unlike anything between Tributes and Mentors. The rumors are more than embarrassing in that situation, they can ruin everything.

Karkat's frown lingers as he downs the pills. The answer he gets is not the least bit surprising, though. He might not have gone blabbing, but he hasn't gone to great lengths to hide it. He cares about her; he wants her safe. He'll put subtlety on the line for that, if not do away with it entirely.

He knows full well what goes unsaid, too. Nill's told him about them (and made the rule clear), and Linden is obvious in his own way.

So he sighs, and for clarity states, "I'm her moirail. I'm there to put sense in her and remind her that she needs to look after herself too, and that's what I'm going to do here."

He may have what Linden can't, but he is at least keeping in separate territory. He has no desire for something flushed with her.

Suffering has a way of not wanting to be quiet. For all that Linden tries to be gallant, understanding, and patient, knowing that Nill feels the same way he does is actually worse than an unrequited situation. If that was the case, he could will himself to stop thinking about it and move on, knowing that it was foolish to ever expect or even hope for more.

"Morel, kissing sister... whatever you call it, you're in a position where you can talk about that and make people see that you're earnest in your intentions. If you can make me believe it, you can make them believe it."

At least his frown isn't about the drinking anymore.

"Moirail," he repeats, pronouncing it clear and slow as if it pained him to hear it misnamed. "I don't kiss her for anything, and she's not my sister, whatever you mean by that."

His hand comes up, forestalling any expected complaints. "I get the point of the rest, so don't go harping on me for that, and yes I am going to spare the sponsors the details because I cannot for the life of me fathom the cranial fury that would descend upon my hapless panmeat if I tried to educate them all. You, on the other hand, I actually care enough about that I will harp and harp like a particularly stubborn and ugly bard until you get the term right if you're going to go calling it something particular at all."

He looks serious, too. Never underestimate Karkat's ability to be pedantic about actually important cultural things that he is tired of people brushing off, misunderstanding, and dismissing. Being an alien in another culture sure is fun.

Linden's stare is withering and weary. "Kissistertudes? I heard the term at a party. I guess it's a thing," he shrugs. "Not that I'd know, which... again, is really my point. Most in the Capitol don't grasp it and nothing short of long-winded and tedious explanation can change that. Probably even then, highly inadequately."

He seems even wearier when Karkat uses caring about him as a rationale to subject him to what he considers a type of torture, but... well, he supposes he appreciates it for what it is. Karkat's pedanticism as a form of affection explains a lot, but it's still pedantic as hell.

"Kissmesissitude," he grinds out. "Which is black romance, hate-based, and not remotely what I feel for her." He groans, almost a growl, and thumps his hands on the desktop in exaggerated frustration. No harm done, though; it's not even hard enough to rattle things.

"Just, if you're going to understand anything about it: consider it platonic. I'm there to stabilize her, to give her guidance, to make sure she remembers to care for herself too. And I could wax poetic on the subject, but I'm not here to drip my sap over you when you're not the one I need to court for sponsorship. I just want you to understand what the basic thing going on is," he explains.

She's free to love you. I won't take her from you. These are what he can't put to word, but he hopes they come through. He's here to hold her together so that she'll be around to be loved at all.

The word gets something like a truncated groan out of Linden, but to his credit, he doesn't interrupt.

The word "platonic" should comfort him, be some kind of reassurance that there's no competition for Nill's affection. But it's actually the least of his worries; it hurts, but he's a Mentor, she's a Tribute, and as scandalous and tantalizing as the rumor of their involvement is, it could cost Linden his job and more if it was taken too seriously. Even if they were careful, very careful and covert and absolutely perfect in every way, just being seen together too much could spark an investigation and tear down everything Linden can do for the Rebellion with his status and connections as a Mentor intact.

Whether or not Nill is free to love him, she knows how dangerous it is for both of them to even begin to act on it. It's no small part of why Linden can no longer get through the day without some kind of alcoholic assistance; alone with those thoughts for too long, they get loud, insistent and demanding, and it's a hunger he can do nothing but numb for awhile.

"I understand," he says, mumbling the words into the heel of his hand. Those pills are kicking in fast.

Karkat holds his stare for a stretch. It's a plain answer, short, but in the end it says all it needs to - at least under circumstances like this. He can see some kind of change in him, too, though he can't really put his finger on it. He doesn't know the details of human drugs. They're not sopor, and his drinking isn't like Rose's, either.

"That's all I have to say, then." He steps back from the desk. "Unless you've got anything else you need to say or ask, I'll see you around."

The change is difficult to put into words, but it's undeniable. Linden seems unwound and compliant, resigned to easing rather than arguing. Though not as pronounced as the effects of Morphling, it's small wonder that this is how Snow prefers him. Numb people don't startle, cry or complain when they're stabbed; at worst, there's a moment of shock and disconnect, is that blade buried in my flesh? My body?

"No there's nothing else. Not for now," he says, using his bony arm to prevent his head from resting directly on the surface of the desk. "Stephen will cover anything I might have missed."

Seeing Linden like this is uncomfortable in a way he can't put his finger on. If he were dopey and lax the way Gamzee got on sopor, he could, but this is docile and soft in a way wholly different. It feels wrong, but he doesn't know enough, and it's still not his place to interject.

He nods slowly to him at the end, and without another word turns to leave, with care to close the door behind.

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

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