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.

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"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."

He shrugs at her. He doesn't follow the trends beyond seeing what changes in what he's told to wear, and he's not the one designing everything anyway. Though he does not and then choose a few things of his own accord. There's nothing like a t-shirt that reads FUCK OFF in big, bold font.

"I've been here over half a year now," he says. "And I've lived with humans before. Some of it I'm used to, but I can't pretend it's not a process. Alternia was way different from Panem. Do you know how weird it's been just having to adjust to a diurnal schedule? Just having a sun that's not dangerous to my eyes is strange."

"I know a bit of it, I think," Beck says slowly, frowning. "I mean, not about the sun. But when I started working here, it was like time didn't mean anything for, like, months. Before that, I went running at 5pm and then worked until 3am, did all my sewing and stuff in the small hours of the morning. So when I started..." She shrugs. "I mean, it's nothing compared to what you've been through. That's why I'm so impressed by you all and how... resilient you are. I'd go a little mad, I think." She laughs, only a little falsely.

He nods some as he listens. The same in an opposite direction, minus the obvious. But when she goes on to call him and others resilient, he bursts out with a surprised laugh.

"If you want resilient, I've died... six times," he says, looking up as he thinks back over them. "Seven if you count the time with my dream self." He looks back. "And here I am, still going, actually mad I didn't get to go struggle more this round will all the attendant crap the Gamemakers put us through, and looking to do it again next time. If you ask me, I'd say the closer term is panfucked crazy, but resilient sounds more appealing to the media."

Beck's quiet for a moment. At last, she says softly, "I guess it's all about the angle. Maybe panfucked crazy is the same thing as resilience." Then, with a half-smile, she adds, "Hey, you should take that to your Escort. Panfucked Crazy would be a great name for a Tribute-sponsored perfume line, I could hook you up with some people..."

Perfume line. Perfume line. Karkat stares at her, then pinches the bridge of his nose - rubs his tumbles - pushes a hand through his hair -

"This is really what my life's turning into, isn't it?" He's still not looking up. "Sell myself all but directly with every tool available. Perfume. Do I look like a troll who would care about that, much less starting my own line? What would it even smell like? Blood and the sickly reek of failure? I'm not sure you're allowed to do that when you're District 12 and I'm 6, but here I am nonetheless considering going to Stephen about it. Sign me the fuck up. Lost dignity is always in vogue! I might as well dive headfirst into the stinking chemical pit left beneath the discarded skin of my shame. My raw, burning skin tells me it's working."

His eyes meet her again, caught somewhere between helplessness and the broken look of someone who knows better than hope. He hates himself already, so that part's not new.

"You got any other rocks for me to beat myself against, or should I go track him down now to start the wake for my fractured pride? I need to get my husk used to it if I'm going to do this the whole arena." And the thing is, metaphor or no, he's honest. He'll take what advice she has.

Beck is quiet for a long moment, then sighs, running her hand back through her hair. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "Selling yourself is how we all get by around here." Take it from the ex-sex-worker. It's never been a huge problem for her personally, but she's seen enough to know that not everyone's that lucky.

Straightening up, she looks towards the exit. "You're right. I shouldn't be helping you out. But it's not like I'm giving you an edge in the Games themselves, you know? Don't take it as professional advice. Take it as someone trying to do you a favour." Looking down at herself, she makes a few minute adjustments to her strappy outfit and slips back into those ridiculously high heels. There's a slightly sharp note in her voice when she adds, "Anyway, it's not selling perfume that's losing dignity around here."

Karkat doesn't know her past and couldn't begin to guess at it, but the phrasing of her reply holds just the same. There's so much marketing in this place that it's inescapable. He eases, though not completely, stubborn frown still stuck on his lips.

"Just don't go handing out favors too generously," he advises, "before someone takes advantage. But if we get started on the real losses of dignity I've been through, we would be here all day."

He slips off his chair and straightens his shirt hem a bit. "I'll see you around. You're in my ancestor's District, so it's bound to be unavoidable."

And with that, he moves to leave. He's got sponsorships to look into.

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

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