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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"That's what you're angry about?" The comment just kind of... slipped out. Felicity had been at a nearby table, nursing an ice cream float while she waited on her uncle the mentor, but all her focus had gone to the troll when he strode on in. It was Karkat! Who had died. And now was very much not dead and probably seeing that footage up there for the first time.... welp. Can't take it back. Too late. So she pauses to take a very purposeful sip of her drink and continues.

"If that were me, I'd be more ticked off about the lightning."

Who the hell is this? Karkat turns, spotting to see this whoever-it-is sipping her drink like it all doesn't matter. He is 5'2" of grump and his expression hasn't changed.

"Do not," he intones, "mistake my singular yells as indicative of the whole. My rage is a burgeoning, frothing mass unable to be constrained by the mere bounds of language alone, especially when my tongue is tied and bound to the limited expression of the English language. Of course I'm mad about the lightning! It didn't even strike me, and yet I end up dead just because I was near that grubsmear?"

He glances back at the screen, frowning, but the commentary has moved on.

"I knew I was going to die early this arena, but I didn't expect it to be like that."

Were all trolls fascinating to talk to? There's almost a poetry to his anger. There was always a lot said about Karkat's beautiful fits of rage, but getting to see one first-hand... wow. She's so lucky! "Ohhhhhh...."

She twirls the straw around in her glass absently, then abruptly snaps out of her reverie. Gotta say something! "That's a pretty negative attitude. I mean, it did kind of not pan out, but it wasn't really your fault. And! Uh, and at least nothing worse is going to happen to you?" She doesn't exactly expect to cheer him up, but she's gotta at least try to be optimistic.

Edited (wait wording) 2015-05-27 02:31 (UTC)

Linden's absolutely been watching the Hunger Games; that's part of his job as a Mentor and to neglect such a necessary duty would be highly unprofessional. Therefore, he saw Karkat's early death, and while such things can hardly be helped or planned with any real reliability, he's extremely unhappy with the outcome.

The deal they had was that he would send an unreasonable number of sponsor gifts to Karkat, and he would share with Nill, so as not to draw attention to the conspicuous attention 6's Mentor was giving a 9 Tribute. Obviously, that can't happen now, and Linden is scrambling to figure out another way to keep her alive as long as possible. He's been up all night over it, which is a major reason he is in no mood for Karkat's yelling today.

He wrenches the door open and gives Karkat a healthy glare. "I know, and what's more, I have a premonition for who's going to be," he says icily. "What the hell happened?"

The question he's asking isn't so much the one he means. That's more along the lines of why did you let it happen?

"You'll get it back." Beck is in what she thinks of as her Stylist costume; high Capitol fashion, revealing and dramatic, all in blacks and glowing reds for District 12. She's on duty, scoping for Sponsors as best she can, but Karkat catches her eye, and she can't resist someone in need. Her eight-inch heels whispering on the carpet, she crosses over to him, giving him an encouraging little smile. "I mean, it looks fixable. Even if you want it on the same chain, your Stylist ought to be able to replace the clasp."

It's hard to find something to say to someone who's just died, particularly when you know there's no way to understand exactly what you're going through. After a moment, Beck falls back on an old standby: "You don't want to stay here too long. You'll be mobbed. Do you want to come up to the suites? I'll make you something to drink."

What is this chick's deal? Karkat squints at her now, looking back at her ohhhhh to catch her straw-twirling.

Of course she's trying to be positive about stuff, but he's less appreciative to the effort when (he presumes) she must be a Capitolite.

"Are you kidding? That sucked sweaty taint. If I'm going to die a stupid death, I want it to at least be my own fault, or something unavoidable like that arena collapse in the one arena. This was stupid. I don't even know what he did to get struck, but I have to die just for standing near him? Wasn't it enough that the Cornucopia was set to go up in flame?" Once more he turns to the screen, a glower on his face, trying to gather anything useful.

"Besides, me being here means I can't help anyone else. I didn't expect to win, but I would have liked to make sure those assholes were surviving alright."

Oh, fun. As much as Linden isn't in the mood for his attitude now, Karkat is pretty much never in the mood for the one he's getting presently.

"You tell me! You're the mentor, right? Seriously, what could I have done to avoid that? I only happened to be next to a douche when he got struck by lightning, and I'm soooo soooorry I couldn't just magic my sponge clots back to functioning or keep my organs from drastic failure," he snarls out. He's slipped easily into hostile and defensive, and his fangs snap off each word.

"You think I'm happy about it? You think I like dying on someone's back after something that lame? I had things I wanted to do, people I wanted to help, and I couldn't even get my prongs on the sickle."

Karkat turns to glower at whoever-the-fuck-this-is, and finds no reason to change it once he spots her. Capitolite, definitely, and entirely too fancy. Maybe a stylist? They tend to show off, but then there's those who treat looking awful like a religious obligation. He'd have to ask to be certain, and frankly he doesn't care that much.

It's the concern that instead unbalances him. Mobbed? Sure, maybe; he's not expecting reporters to ignore him after this. But the offer is a strange one still.

"Who are you? And what kind of drink?" he asks. His glower settles down to wariness. "I generally don't drink anything more complicated that opening a bottle or pouring in a glass."

"You don't sound dead," Stephen quips, a little wearily. His voice also comes from behind Karkat; it is pure luck that he stopped back into the suite now. The beginnings of Arenas are always hectic: gifts are cheap, excitement runs high, and attending watch-parties and meeting sponsors is more than full-time work.

He's in the subdued, less-glittery clothing he's taken to wearing recently: classy, understated, sharp. It's a little less sharp and more wrinkled now, though, just thanks to hours and hours of wear.

Karkat jolts; he wouldn't have knocked on the door if he expected to find Stephen behind him. When he turns, though, it's pretty clear why he's there. The man's been busy, and it shows in every wrinkle, including the one in his tone.

It's enough to ease him back from his poor mood, just a little.

"I was dead," he amends. "I take it you must have seen it, huh? What the fuck was that? Random lightning strikes now? And that one didn't even hit me directly, just some douche off to the side."

Since his own Victory the Signless has spent quite a bit less time in the training center. With no incentive to train and not much to teach his tributes that the survival stations can't handle on their own he's had almost no reason to. In the quiet of a tower almost entirely devoid of tributes the training center is different, strangely comforting in that it's a place he spent most of the past two years. Instead of bustling with activity it's more often than not completely empty and therefore a good place that isn't his own room to wander ghost-like and think.

Someone is here now, though, and he almost considers leaving and coming back later before he sees who it is. He hasn't been avoiding Karkat, not entirely, but they haven't talked since Karkat left him sitting on the roof weeks ago. Maybe now is the time to extend a hand and make up for that silence. He's in what could be called a better place by someone who was being particularly generous, and he's missed his descendant's company.

He knows what this is about, too. He remembers very well the last Karkat and how he was always bemoaning the lack of sickles. Missing out on the first arena that actually had them has to be at least part of why Karkat is making that dummy's life so miserable. He isn't going to begin sympathizing until he's sure his presence is welcome, however.

"Hello, Karkat. Do you mind if I watch you practice? I wouldn't want to distract you."

Karkat's attentions are focused. While real training takes its own efforts, a lot of what he's doing now is plain relief of frustration. It's easy: beat up something inanimate, close off the rest of the world, and get it out of his system. There's no real risk in it so early in the game, either, when much of the time there's only one or two people here besides him, if anyone else at all.

Which is a long way of saying that when Signless of all people comes up and says hello, Karkat yelps, loses his grip on his sickle, and smacks forward into the dummy while the weapon clatters across the floor.

"Ow, what?"

He draws back, turns, and faces to see that this is exactly who it sounded like. His shoulders drop out of their startled tension.

"Don't sneak up on me, alright?" His tone is awkward; it's been a few weeks since their talk on the roof. Then stepping around the dummy, he bends to retrieve his dropped sickle. "Do what you want, I guess, though I don't know why you want to watch me now. Are you that bored?"

"I was thinking hot chocolate. Or coffee, if that's more your thing." Beck shrugs, holding her hand out (well... down, given the height of her heels) for him to shake. "Beck Scordato. I just took over as the District 12 Stylist? I dunno, I just thought... well, hey, it can't be easy dying. Thought you could use something to drink, kick back and bitch about it to someone for a while. And, no joke, I'm pretty sure if I have to hang around here for another five hours, my feet are going to fall off. These shoes? Not made for long-term wear. You can trust me on that, 'cause I made them."

Just like that, this woman wins him over. As much as an unfamiliar Capitolite from another district can, anyway. His posture relaxes further, and while not as at ease as he would be with a real friend, it's better than she was getting at first.

He passes her shoes a glance. "Consider yourself to have won a preliminary chance. I won't have loss of Capitolite limb on my hands, no matter how dumb the cause."

Finally taking her hand, he gives it a shake. "Karkat Vantas, District 6, but I'm probably identifiable enough already." He lets go and makes a half-turn toward where the elevators lie. "Hot chocolate is fine. My floor?"

"Sure." She smiles brightly at him, adjusting the glowing red strap over her shoulder, and starts towards the bank of elevators. "I can take a preliminary chance. As for dumb, hey, tell me about it. But you have to suffer to be beautiful, you know?" She says it almost dismissively, like it's something she's repeated so many times it's lost all meaning, and presses the elevator call button.

"It's a shame," she says, as she waits for the elevator. "Going out that way. I thought you were in with a pretty good chance, myself."

Signless winces in sympathy. Well. So much for not being a distraction.

"Well... yes, though it isn't just boredom. I was hoping now that we've both had some time to heal we might be able to start spending time together again. I don't expect all of your pain and anger to be gone -- mine certainly isn't -- but I'm ready to talk about it now if you need."

If he can lie to Karkat, he reasons, he can lie to anyone. It will mean saying things Karkat wants to hear, which means he won't lose the regard of one of the people he cares about most in Panem. Even more than that it will mean saying things he needs to say convincingly.

Karkat rises, sickle in hand, and for a long moment just looks at him. It's an awkward way to approach things, and an awkward time for it too. Couldn't he have knocked on his door or something? Or sent a message on the communicator? Sure, he's down here at a regular time each day, but it seems like such a strange place to bring the subject.

"No." He turns, looking to the dummy now and the condition it's in. "We can spend time together, sure, but we're not talking about that. There are way too many sore spots to trip over and I am not going to be the douche who runs in with hooves pounding over all of them." His tone is solid, neither sharp nor defensive, and holds no sign of wanting argument.

Edited 2015-06-02 06:18 (UTC)

Karkat's eyebrows and mouth curl. "Beautiful? Have you looked at me? I am five foot two of fugly, nubby asshole, with eyes like sleep is a myth and teeth like a garbage disposal. I am the mayor of frown town, and I have instated permanent residence because elections are for tools who can't frown as well as I do."

He is not near so bad as he describes himself, but he's never gonna be pretty. Mostly he just hates himself loudly and aggressively, and his dark circles defy all but the strongest makeup.

He looks away as the elevator arrives, and steps in to press the button for District 6. At least the other topic is easier.

"Why you care when I'm not in your district and never met you before, I will never know. But I will tell you, if I had got that fucking sickle I would have threshed shit up royally. The last two arenas I've had to figure out how to manage with a knife, and you just can't do the same things with them. You use a sickle right and you can sever all these tendons and muscles and crap, or even take off a limb," he explains, gesturing at the crook of his elbow with a curled hand. "Of course you can just go for the soft spots or whatever, but that curve is a tool, and I know how to use it."

This chick's deal is that she's nosy as hell and prone to stuffing her foot in her mouth, mostly.

She stifles an amused snort at the words 'sweaty taint', and needs a moment to fight a decent look back onto her face. "Sometimes this sort of stuff just happens. That's an arena for you. Always kind of been like that. It's not ever really about fair or enough or stuff. It's about what someone thinks the audience'll find fun." At least she is managing to look sympathetic as she says it.

"Aaah..." The latter bit is pretty understandable, too. She gives a slow nod before speaking again. "...technically, you kind of can. Talk up the right people and they'll totally send your friends all kinds of swag. I mean, there are totally people who think you're awesome and sympathetic and you can milk this!" She knows. She frequents all the proper fan forums and discussion groups. They do so love their shouty troll.

He makes a sound halfway between sigh and groan, and reaches his hand up to rub over his face. "Of course it is," he grumps in agreement. "That's why I got that stupid train in the space arena."

She's at least winning points for sympathy, and a whole pile add on as she tells him that. His eyebrows raise up.

"What, really? I thought it was just... you know, Mentors and Escorts who could lobby for that, and the rest was what sponsors happen to like you." And of course there are people who like him; much as he's baffled, he's run into enough that he can't deny it.

"This Arena is meant to put Tributes who have powers at a disadvantage," Stephen explains, sympathy in his tone. "You got caught in the crossfire. Wrong place, wrong time. Odds, favor." He waves a hand -- you know the line, it says.

"I trust you on that," Beck says with a smile. "You mean like...?" She hooks her own arm with a crooked finger, the long acrylic nail digging up against her skin. "Must be a hell of a skill, though, to do that when someone's trying to avoid it. I wish I'd got to see you go at it." That's only half-true. She watches the Games avidly, and always has, but there's too much of a chance, if he'd got that far, that it would have been one of her Tributes on the receiving end. And that, she always hates to see.

Now they're out of the lobby, she bends down to unfasten her shoes, sighing with relief as she steps out of them. She can walk in those shoes for hours, dance in them for hours for that matter, but that doesn't mean it's not a relief to be barefoot again.

"Maybe you'll get another chance at it next Arena?" she suggests, as the elevator slows to a stop.

"So that's it? Jegus, I didn't even realize they gave back powers this arena." He rubs a hand over his face, a noise of frustration leaving through his nose. "The odds are crap."

His gaze turns up again. "Not surprising, though. After that clown got turned out for the traitor he is, it makes sense that they would want to discourage that kind of thing. You would think the Avoxing would be enough, but why leave room for any doubt, right?"

Karkat looks over her arm. "Kind of. Less digging the point in than catching it with the curve, but damage is damage. If you do it right you can lop off a limb entirely."

Things like this are why he admired the threshecutioners back home so much. They were skilled, the deadliest in the empire, and well-respected for it. It's what he used to want, before he realized how hopelessly unattainable it was for someone like him - never mind the whole end of the world business.

"Bluh, I doubt it," he answers next. "Everything I've heard says sickles are a rare commodity in these things. I'm going to keep up my knife skills because that's probably what I'll get stuck with again."

Stepping out of the elevator, he motions for her to follow, though he's sure she'll know where the kitchen is.

"The Capitol," Stephen says blithely, "is many things, but prone to half-assing is not one of them." He lets the mention of Fraysong go without comment; it's safer that way.

"How much downtime do you want?" he asks, bringing the conversation to business. "With the Arena still in its first week, it'll be easy to keep your public appearances down for a while."

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

A - Tower Lobby

I looked through her icons and oh my god her face is too cute help me

I love the ridiculous icons the most :D

B

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well this took a sad left turn

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