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Who| Signless and Beck | Signless and OPEN
What| Signless has a chat with the new D12 stylist and does his best to stay occupied.
Where| Around the Tower
When| Arena Week 2
Warnings/Notes| None I can think of!

A. For Beck | D12 Stylist Area
Stylists are, admittedly, not Signless's favorite part of the Tower staff. He doesn't like being fussed over and prodded and put in outfits that are more impractical than they are comfortable. It's incredible how much he misses Cinna and Cinna's understated style, even if the stylists that have been looking after Twelve since Cinna left have been giving him increasingly more and more freedom in what he wears. There are some perks to seniority, he supposes.

It's therefore with only a little trepidation that he steps into the domain of Twelve's new stylist, an as-yet mostly unknown entity to him. When she introduced herself over the network he was still steadfastly ignoring his communicator and so he has no idea what to expect from her. These tattoos aren't going to update themselves, though, and she's the best place to start.

"Miss Scordato? May I come in, or are you busy?"

B. OPEN | Tower Commons
A new rack of Celebrus is always something to at the very least take a glance at. Most of the time Signless just hopes he and those he considers his have been overlooked, but it seems this time he hasn't escaped a mention. Frankly he's surprised there wasn't more of a focus on him given his connection with the Initiate, but he's grateful that connection wasn't mentioned or, god forbid, the focus of a whole tragic chunk of an article.

No, they chose to talk instead about the time he thought providing a mercy kill as someone who'd never killed before was a good idea. They chose instead to focus on a relationship with the Psiioniic he doesn't actually have (wrong quadrant, still very much up in the air) instead of the relationship he does have and has had for months. It's not really that bad but he knows his small but dedicated group of fans are going to have a field day about what they see as confirmation of their 'ship'. Panem humans are weird.

"At least cloaks are finally in fashion," he mumbles to himself, flipping idly through the pages.

C. OPEN | Around the Tower
If there's one thing Signless has noticed about Capitol fashion, it's that male humans seem to wear an awful lot of dresses. He may be somewhat biased by the large amount of drag queens on staff, but he still feels as though that might be something he should get in on. And why not? Leggings are 'feminine' clothes (apparently?) and those are perfectly serviceable and comfortable. The right dress should follow the same principle -- and, furthermore, should show the Capitol that he's making an effort to adapt to their norms and lifestyle.

Alright. So it's possibly a little flawed, as plans go, even if it comes from a good place. It doesn't stop him from talking with Beck, and it doesn't stop Beck from making the dress or setting him loose on the Tribute Tower with it on. As expected, the dress itself is quite comfortable -- he asked for one that wasn't restrictive and that showed off the floral tattoos on his arms, and that's exactly what he got. He doesn't even mind the makeup, simple black eyeliner and red lipstick; it's no worse than any of the other makeup he's been put in and for once it actually suits him. No, the real problem is the heels.

Signless doesn't like shoes at the best of times. He's worn heels all of once, a pair of low chunky blue things that were part of his disguise during the first jailbreak. These heels -- bright red, fairly tall, strappy -- are an entirely different beast. When he's not wobbling around like a baby giraffe he can be found sitting on the nearest flat surface giving his feet a break.

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The books of matches he takes and tucks away into one of the few functional pockets in his outfit. The cigarette, though, he is more cautious of. He takes it, of course -- that's polite -- but doesn't yet attempt to actually put it anywhere near his mouth.

"I don't smoke, no, though I know a few people who do. I've never had the occasion to try it myself."

Linden's wryly amused by the way Signless accepts what might as well be a calling care for the Firestarters Not-So-Anonymous Society.

"No time like the present," he suggests amicably. "Don't let me pressure you into it, though; it's a relaxing habit for people who probably aren't going to live for much longer, nothing more."

He takes a deep drag on his own.

"...if you're going to, though, start soon, it'll burn down to ash otherwise."

People who aren't going to live much longer. Well, that's certainly true in some way or another. Either he'll die in the upcoming war -- he's still convinced there's going to be one -- or he'll die not long after. For trolls, blood color corresponds to length of life. He doesn't know what he mutated off of but his blood is at the very bottom of the spectrum and that can't mean good things for his lifespan.

"I ought to at least try it."

At least he gets the cigarette the right way around. He's seen Nill and Roland smoke enough to know which end goes where, and of course Linden is demonstrating right in front of him. Deftly avoiding one rookie mistake doesn't stop him coughing, though. He has a feeling that's not supposed to happen.

The answer seems to surprise Linden, but he gets over it quickly enough, and he's clearly impressed with the Victor's adventurous spirit. Signless is doing everything right in regards to the notoriously cantankerous Mentor, even if it's not all for the better and some of it borders on being downright self-destructive.

Welcome to Mentorhood, in other words.

"That's normal," he's quick to assure him when he starts coughing after his first drag. "You want to take shallow breaths at first, until your lungs are used to it. Or... whatever you have instead of lungs," he offers with a shrug. "Karkat's frequent references to Troll anatomy don't actually give me a very accurate picture, unfortunately."

Shallow breaths, right. He lets out a wheeze of acknowledgement, shakes his head, gets his wayward lungs under control. As it turns out, lungs are one of the few things trolls and humans most definitely have in common (unless they're a seadweller, but Feferi isn't here right now).

"I'm assuming it gets better once you're used to it," he says. "Like any other vice. Alcohol took a while for me as well."

Seems that Linden of all people is probably exactly the Mentor he needs advice from. Which... isn't necessarily a good thing.

"Much better," Linden confirms. "At least, while you're young... older people who have smoked for their entire lives are frankly disgusting, but that's not something I'm really worried about."

Deep inhale. Deep, smoky exhale.

"What about alcohol? Do you drink? Do you want to get a drink?" he asks, suddenly very interested in leaving behind the burning trash can and heading toward something even more flammable.

He doesn't ask why Linden isn't worried about it. Anyone who knows anything about Linden knows why -- because Linden intends to run his body so ragged it breaks down long before he reaches anything even approaching 'old'.

"I don't -- not often," he amends. A social drink at parties, certainly. Maybe two if there are reruns of the arena playing.

"I'll drink with you if you'd like. I've been led to believe it's more enjoyable with company."

It was certainly fun when he drank over half a bottle of wine in one sitting and wound up drunk as a skunk because his body had no idea how to deal with so much alcohol after a lifetime of virtually none at all. At least then he'd had Roland to steer him back to the tower and keep him out of trouble.

Linden nods; he thinks that Signless' evaluation is probably accurate, even though he's fairly used to Capitolites distorting how much they actually drink, exaggerating their moderation and their indulgence because some atrophied sense of shame digs in at their hedonistic lifestyles in occasional barbs of self-awareness.

"Definitely more enjoyable with company," he says,"and between us, it makes company more enjoyable as a general rule. There are a few people in this Tower I only tolerate because I drink... not to imply that you're one of them," he adds blithely, turning and starting in the direction of the floor's lounge and bar.

"I hadn't assumed," he responds, following after Linden. He'd like to think he hasn't made so much of a fool of himself that even someone he's barely interacted with before feels the need to drink just to tolerate him. That would take more prowess at fucking up than even he has.

"But I know what you mean. I don't think I'd like Leo half so much if I hadn't been tipsy the first time I met him." It had made him funny instead of incredibly awful.

It would take a lot of prowess, but to be fair, Linden's standards for annoyance and dismissal are on a slightly different scale than those of many others. He's less tolerant and less patient as a general rule, taking control where he can even if it is petty and childish and ultimately pointless. It's stunningly common for Victors, but Signless passed some arbitrary and slightly demented test by burning the magazine, and it's actually pretty impressive considering who he's walking alongside.

"Leo? Leonidas?" He asks, squinting and choosing his words carefully as they round a corner with brisk paces. "I feel sorry for him. We have something he wants, having played the Games and won. It makes it slightly easier to be kind... in addition to alcohol, of course."

"Oh, of course. I understand why he's..." Bitter is the word, but it doesn't feel quite right to use it here. "Why he's as prickly as he is. To spend your entire life working toward something and then have it taken away from you is never easy; I'm familiar with that feeling myself."

He knows that he in particular is an affront to what Leo wanted and was denied, considering he's an offworlder who not only had multiple chances to win but was crowned by sheer luck of the draw. Even with Linden he's aware that their experiences are wildly different -- Linden grew up knowing he might one day be reaped. He had to watch children die and know they weren't going to be revived in the tower a few days later. He lives with an entirely different kind of trauma; no wonder he's trying to slowly kill himself.

Linden's overlarge, round eyes blink twice at the admission, which sounds unexpectedly personal given the brief time they've spent together.

"Are you familiar...? I confess that what I know about your life was picked up as a result of attending your Crowning, and I confess I wasn't in my most clear and present state of mind."

I had to be carried back to my suite, but we don't have to discuss that now.

They're at the bar, now, and he slides into a seat and gestures in a way that is a clear invitation for Signless to sit beside him.

"Let me buy you one, and if it pleases you, you can tell me what you worked toward and lost. I'm told that I'm a very good listener."

"I can, if you'd like."

He'd forgotten that some people probably wouldn't know. He's so used to feeling as though his entire life is on display at all times that the idea of someone who hasn't seen it smeared across the back pages of some gossip rag is a strange one. But then -- of course Linden wouldn't know. He doesn't read those magazines, he burns them.

The drink he orders is probably disappointingly tame, but he's made it his rule to not touch the harder liquor. This is both so he doesn't make an ass of himself in public and because until he came to Panem he never drank. He has no tolerance. Even wine used to be too bitter for him to have more than a few sips, even if he's used to and quite fond of the taste now.

"It's a long story, and a lot of it is wrapped up in troll politics and culture. If I get distracted on a tangent, feel free to rein me in."

He's well-aware that the endless deluge of troll-centric explanations can be as grating for some people as it is fascinating for others. Much as he wishes that weren't the case, he's the minority here and his culture is the alien one.

Another thing that Victors enjoy and frequently bond over is being given options. So much of what they do is required, part of the job, at least strongly implied mandatory if it isn't blatantly ordered. In this circle, even good friends tend not to give each other even playful commands. Even if it's just mocking and make-believe in this country, if all concerned parties agree to pretend, in a way a thing becomes real.

"I know some things already. Karkat's in my District and he will talk forever about the subject if you let him. Why don't you assume that I know or can pick up certain concepts based on context? I'll stop you and ask if there's something I can understand better with help."

Linden orders his own, which is a whiskey double.

"Please do."

He falls silent for a few moments, looking down into his drink. He knows where to start -- there's nowhere else really to start but the beginning -- but he needs a moment to gather his thoughts all the same. It's a story he has to be careful telling because it's a story of revolution, something it can't sound as though he supports in Panem.

"I was hatched a mutant with an abnormal blood color in a society where blood color defines everything about one's life, including one's right to live at all. I should have been culled for my abnormality the moment I hatched, but instead I was taken in by one of the attendants of the brooding caverns. We lived in the wilderness, only ever passing through settlements for supplies, but that was enough for me to see the injustices that ran rampant in troll society. Lowbloods used as slaves, worked until they died, considered disposable because of their numbers and short lifespans. Our Empress's focus on war and conquest led to a culture designed to mass produce soldiers, and the most effective way to weed out those unsuited to serve in the fleet was to encourage the culling of those weaker than oneself -- and lowbloods, with no right to defend themselves against those higher in rank than them, made easy targets. It produced a world where it was safer to lash out, to push people away, to attack first even without threat because the threat was automatically assumed.

"All I wanted was to change that. Not to upset the social order, not to overthrow the Empress, but merely to dispel the hate and fear that hung over her people. I spoke of compassion and unity, of using the vastly varied skills and talents of the different castes to work toward a better whole. People began to listen. I thought I was getting somewhere. I thought I was making the world a better place, a place where even mutants like me might find some way to contribute to the Empire such that everyone might benefit."

He's twisting things a little, of course. In the end he did want to do away with a lot of the system in place, or at least change it significantly. But the core of it is truth: he wanted a better world for everyone, highblood and lowblood alike.

"And then I came here and learned my own future. If I go back to Alternia, I will be executed for my philosophy and all those who followed me will be murdered or exiled. Hundreds of sweeps in my future, the descendants of those followers will try to rebel with violence and hatred, not against the flawed system itself but against the highbloods they think are the only trolls who perpetuate it. Not only did everything I worked for come to nothing, but it inspired an army of zealots to do the one thing I actively fought to prevent."

He shakes his head minutely, as though trying to clear it. He's dangerously close a tangent, he can tell; time to rein himself back in.

"So. You can see why I'd rather stay here. The purpose I had on Alternia is meaningless now, but Panem needs people who believe in unity and peace. If I can do my part to facilitate that, then I can still do good."

He hopes Linden might be able to read between the lines a little. He hates spouting what sounds so much like pro-Capitol drivel, but it's safest. No one can say he isn't trying.

From the very earliest points in the story, Linden hears how it could be construed as problematic. There's actually a lot there that a Districter can relate to; being downtrodden, killed indiscriminately, kept beneath the heel of those higher and therefore better. His own District in particular comes to mind, where long shifts in factories wear out bodies and rampant drug use speeds the process along.

He listens, not drinking but instead stirring his whiskey with its straw. It's the kind of story that actually doesn't make him want to drink himself senseless, and those are rare.

"Good, indeed," he agrees quietly; even drunk, he's sharp enough to catch the gist without blowing what Signless actually means. "Whether or not it's meaningless in your world, I agree... this one can benefit from such a philosophy and those who are willing to practice it."

Hopefully it sounds like pro-Capitol drivel. They're both trying.

"For what it's worth, I don't think you're a bad Victor, for an Offworlder. I don't think your win was the fluke that so many make it out to be."

"That's kind of you to say," he murmurs, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knows his victory came down to luck and to the help of his allies, but he's made peace with that. All he did was stay alive longer than everyone else -- which is what everyone who has ever won the Hunger Games has done.

"I think it matters less how I came to be a Victor than it does what I do as a Mentor. It comes back to the same thing -- I want to do good, by my Tributes and by the district that's been so kind to me. I've been around long enough to have been on a District Tour, you know. I've seen Twelve, and I remember how well they treated us Offworlders even though they had so little to give. Winning for them, no matter how I did it, was an honor."

None of that is drivel at all. Even if he's not a native of Panem he feels a deep connection to Twelve and its people, and seeing them in person as he did profoundly changed his view of his place in the Games. It was like walking into a lowblood slave camp. It was like being home.

Linden shrugs; whether it's kind or not, it's honest, and not something he says lightly. As far as he's concerned, though, Signless has passed the hazing process, at least as far as he's concerned. Most Victors owe a lot to luck, and only the most ambitious of Careers pretend this isn't the case.

"Being a Mentor is one of the best jobs in Panem," he says, "but no one's claiming it's not one of the most difficult. Even your best might not be good enough, especially in the outlying Districts... but your sincerity will come through. A lot of people here aren't used to it, so they notice it instantly. Your Tributes will pick up on it too, even if you're all from different places."

"I hope so. My sincerity is all I can really offer." He isn't trying to be humble or self-deprecating. He's just being practical.

"I know how to run and hide, how to hunt small game, how to stay alive as long as someone who won't kill can. Things most tributes dismiss, or can learn in other places without having to rely on their Mentor for guidance. But if they know that someone genuinely cares for their wellbeing, wants them to succeed, that has to count for something."

He looks over at Linden, his expression thoughtful.

"Doesn't it?"

Linden averts his eyes, seeming reluctant to answer right away. It all sounds very elegant and novel, being spoken now from someone it might be freshly or recently occurred to. But Panem's Mentors have cared, too, wanted their Tributes to succeed, if only so they wouldn't have to send another little corpse back to their home District.

"I... really wish that I could answer that definitively," he finally settles on saying. "I hope so, at any rate."

He doesn't think it's noble or novel so much as he hopes it's true because he can't bear the thought of being of no help to the tributes that are under his care. It's abhorrent to him. He'd rather be back in the arenas, frankly, than sit around twiddling his thumbs.

There are things he can do, things he has been doing. He's been going to socials, talking up his District, trying to keep hold of the support that the back to back win he and Tony managed brought them. Maybe that's the thing. Maybe by the very nature of the games, nothing he does will ever really feel like enough. It's a sobering thought and he doesn't dwell on it long.

"Mm. Me too."

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we can probably wrap this unless you had anything else?