[open] late one night, sorrow come round

[crabmunicator]

Who| Karkat and OPEN
What| Rattled crab tries to deal with the aftermath of the interviews.
Where| The tribute center and around the Capitol.
When| The first few days after the interviews.
Warnings/Notes| Nothing particular.

After his interview Karkat felt solid, confident, like he had done the right thing and made his point - pulled it all off without a hitch, even. It was hard to miss when others didn't fare so well, either by the sounds of the audience from beyond the stage, or what he might have been able to see after.

The final announcement, in turn, came like a bullet to the gut. If there was one thing he's been glad for in his time here, it's taking the pressure and fear and death from the native children of Panem, and now he doesn't even have that. Maglev has been reaped--Jackie, her nickname, called after by a boy he's sure must have been Cable--and he hasn't been able to keep her from mind since.

He's glad enough that there's no school Fridays, but even across the other days of the weekend he gets no sleep. He doesn't feel much like he deserves to try.

A1 D6 / A2 roof

There are letters he got back from his pen pals, one each from Maglev and a Capitol boy called Drusus. It's with these that he sits around the tower, either in his district or up on the roof, thinking and writing and rewriting. Drusus's takes long before he can even put pen to paper, but Maglev's takes draft after draft. It's hard to miss him when things derail: pen scratches across paper in frustrated scribbles, or descends into nothing but swears he echoes verbally, or stops entirely when tears overtake him. He takes to stuffing tissues in a pocket, and tries to scoot off somewhere private when it happens, but it's hard to miss the pink tracks down his face.

It's been hard enough trying to win on his own, and he doesn't know how he'll get her there.

B1 the lobby / B2 around the Capitol

At other times when he can't focus, he slips downstairs or outside. There's media enough that wants his attention after the interview, and it's easy to find him chatting to some reporter, forcing himself to draw up the vestiges of the attitude he had then to comment. Yes, unity, yes, Panem, he's here for all of it. Some try to ask about Maglev, which is harder, but unity stands there still. He'll be there for her, he promises. He'll do everything he can.

Other times he sits in a daze, staring blankly over a sandwich he's ordered, or a pastry, or whatever else. The first floor restaurant or out in the Capitol, there's places enough for him to space out until something grabs his attention.

C the training area

Still, other times comes anger. That's the worst thing beneath the hurt of it all. He feels impotent without any way to strike back at the Capitol that did this, so his blows turn to practice targets, given with knife jabs or strikes of a sickle, or even in frustrated, aimless punches at a punching bag. Now and then an open growl rips out of him from frustration, or a shouted swear, and he's quick to fire off a glare at any who might look at him funny for it all.

Comments

A1

[voiceinthephone]

The Capitol broke their word and in the most brutal way possible: not only did they return to the old Games with children that would never come back...but with their own. What sort of government does that?! What sick bastards decided their own children could be next after God knows how many years of blind devotion?

For a day, Phillip feels dead inside, truly so and does not come out of his suite. Linden warned him that there would be choices he would not be ready for, and sending two children to their deaths, after everything that's happened? He couldn't do that. He could train the two children, he could ask, no beg his Tributes to keep them safe. Karkat had laid the groundwork well for their stance in unity, they could get away with that course of action.

And so Phone Guy's gone to work, throwing himself into this full throttle and preparing a plan of attack. He's in the middle of getting his third cup of coffee when he spots movement in Vantas's suite. He knocks out of politeness but there's no presence of a Mentor about Phil...he can see these letters hold importance to the troll.

"Karkat?" his voice, once warm and welcoming, is drained of all energy for the time being.

[crabmunicator]

The movement was his arm, a failed start at something tossed in a crumpled heap at a wastebasket close enough to not need it. His other hand has his head propped up, and even from behind he carries the tiredness that stress and emotion bring.

He knows that sound in Phil's voice; it's the same as the one he answers with. "Hey."

He's not feeling much for visitors, but he pushes out from his desk and turns his chair to face him anyway, every movement seeming to take an effort. From the front he looks little better. His hair is even more of a mess than usual.

"I'm going to tell you one thing right now, and that it's that I can't save both of them." It comes heavy, decided ahead of time in the kind of inevitable it's-just-how-it-is of life. The Hunger Games might take multiple victors on rare occasion, but he's certain they won't this time. "I'm--I've been writing letters to one of them in the youth program. Maglev." Again his head finds his hand, half his face covered by the spread of his fingers. "It's not even a choice for me right now. I have to help her, Phil."

And though his Mentor hasn't said a word to it, he knows that has to be what's on his mind. With Linden gone (and all the worries and hopes that brings), it leaves their new Victor in the sole spot to watch over these new kids, to try to do what he can. He wishes he could offer more, wishes he could do more, but he feels as helpless as he sounds to admit he can't.

[voiceinthephone]

Phil took a seat beside Karkat, as he sighed, "I figured as much, one Victor rule a-and all that. I was going to talk to you about that, a-about the native children..."

The children who will inevitably die and join the thousands of names in the list of fallen tributes. But Gray doesn't want these two, or any of these children to be just another statistics; he wants them to grow up and start families of their own, without fear of another reaping. This was probably the straw that broke Panem's back.

"Tell me about her, Maglev. You're gonna protect her, I knew that. But I need to know her through the eyes of a friend," he gently asked, "And tell me how I can help her. I can ask Nux or Sansa to help with what they can."

Karkat didn't have to shoulder that much weight on his shoulders.

[crabmunicator]

Karkat nods slowly, more for acknowledgement. He'd have to, sooner or later.

"She's 18," he starts in, thinking back over their letters. "Her birthday was sometime around July, and she has my sign in your weird human astrology system. She started working in the factories a couple months ago. She was worried about losing her hands, at first, but she's kept them so far." His voice falters there. It's not the first time he's thought about what the arena might bring, let alone the D6 tradition Linden related to him about the knuckle bones of the dead.

"She's--Her nickname is Jackie. There's a story behind it, some little kid calling that when she found an injured jack rabbit--hare--whatever once, and it stuck, and--" He swallows hard. "The voice that was calling that when she got reaped, that was Cable. He's... her friend, I guess. They..."

His voice chokes in his throat. It's one of the thoughts that keeps coming back to him, that they might never see each other again, that even if those two sort out their feelings it might still be for naught. And worse still, that she's not the only one like that. All these kids have their own lives, their own families and friends and hopes and dreams, and here even if one of them miraculously makes it to victory, that still means several dead.

He digs the threat of tears from his eyes with his knuckles, spitting a fuck like it's a fight.

"They remind me of myself and a friend I had," he finally manages, but with a voice still rough.

[voiceinthephone]

Phil doesn't rush Karkat as the troll paints a picture of a young woman in District 6 who was starting to live an adult life...who probably had affections for someone, and wanted to see the world. But the thought of the other children, each taken from their parents' hearth once more, it was soul shattering. Now they both had to keep Maglev alive for her folks and have her live as long as she could.

"Who? Was it before coming to Panem?" he asked as he rubbed his forehead. From the sound of things, Karkat was going through twice the trauma, not just the friends here in this world but from his past.

[crabmunicator]

"Before Panem. Doesn't matter who." He rubs his eyes a bit more, then puts his hands down. He doesn't look much happier. "She's not here now anyway. The point is that I was the social equivalent of a locomotive device crash and every failure in our interpersonal dealings was my fault on some level. But I could see what Cable was doing wrong, what he probably was trying to do by acting the way he was..."

He misses Terezi, still. He might have screwed over any chance he had at her quadrants, and he's long since come to terms with that without any left over longing. But she was his friend, and now she's off in District 13 believing the best of someone she considers a liar and a betrayer. Even if he knows it's that, rather than a death he suspected to be his own indirect fault in the mini-arena, he can't help but find fault with himself just the same.

Now these two bring up the echo of it, and he's left wondering how much his good his advice will even do. Is there a point when she's set for the arena? When they don't know if she'll make it to victory?

"I thought they could have been something. It's--It's obvious they care for each other, you know? The way they act and talk, something Cable crossed out in his letter but I could still read. They could have dated, maybe, and done a better job than I ever would have. Now they... Damnit."

He snatches a bundle of tissues, smashing them to his face. He's been teary enough without them coming in the middle of a conversation, been brought to it too many times in this place, and he's sick of having it happen time and time again.

B6; First floor restaurant

[itscalledfashion]

Cassian approaches Karkat quietly, surprisingly capable of not being a one-person parade when he puts his mind to it. Though he's far from sneaky, Karkat doesn't seem to be paying much attention. Cassian quickly places an order for food of his own, and as the waiter goes scurrying away, the vividly colored stylist sinks into the chair opposite of Karkat. And, more surprises yet, doesn't start nattering away immediately.

Instead, he stares at Karkat's food in contemplation, unsure of what to say, really. It's not that Cassian would have had a problem with a regular reaping--Any other time, he would have been totally fine with it. A new reaping, throwing some new blood in! Once again mixing old with new! It would have been fantastic. But Cassian has been targeted, and somehow, that changes things.

"I have a cousin," He tells Karkat quietly, fingers playing with a bit of lace on his shirt. "Named Aurelia. She's 16 years old. They're going to put her in, too." And then, finally, his eyes dart up to try to meet Karkat's. "I'm sorry about your friend." And that sounds just as genuine as all the other times that Cassian has tried to help Karkat, but this time, there's something behind it--an understanding. Empathy, not just sympathy.

[crabmunicator]

It's not until Cassian slides into the seat that Karkat notices him, but the flare of colors that bright can only be one person. He doesn't say anything. He's not in the mood, and he knows that if he opens his mouth first thing nothing good will come out, and he can't afford that at a time like this when the Capitol has done something he hates so much.

But in taking his time to gather up his will, Cassian takes his as well, and it leaves him wondering. What's got him so stopped up? The other times it's practically been a fight to get away from his blabbering gab. What's he going to do, steal his sandwich if he doesn't take a bite? He very nearly puts a protective hand over it, but is stopped the moment Cassian starts to speak.

"W--what?"

He's quiet, soft, reserved, anything but the usual, and the blabber about a cousin (what the fuck is a cousin?) comes to a point at they're putting her in, too. It clicks then. He hadn't stopped to think before now about the last part, about the relatives of Stylists being the pool for District 3's tributes, not after the first announcement stole up his attention and put fear and hurt and anger in its place.

He's never even mentioned Maglev to Cassian, but maybe there's some mention in an interview he's seen, or maybe it's just plain obvious from his manner. There are too many people obviously affected by the current things to go unnoticed.

But for his part, he can't be mad anymore. It's weird: Cassian has never been welcome, but for all his misguided, Capitolite fancy, he did try to help last time. He was too panicked and distrustful of the Capitol to give it much value then, but now that and this put together form at least a layer more than he expected out of him.

Karkat releases his breath, and his shoulders fall with it.

"I'm so sorry." And from the soft set of his eyes, the loose frown of his mouth, it's plain that he means it.

His gaze drops to his sandwich. "I came down here to eat, but I haven't been able to focus on anything after... after everything. Fuck, what kind of... what kind of arena is this?"

It's only hitting him now. It was bad enough to think they would take from the Districts again, but from true born Capitol stock? What are they thinking? He can't ask it anymore openly, but it has to be understandable still that the people would be surprised by all this.

[itscalledfashion]

"It's never happened before. Not in 75 years. No Capitolite has ever gone into the arena." Cassian all but whispers it, like this is some kind of sacred knowledge he's passing on the Karkat. Except the thing is, it's not sacred knowledge, it's as common as the sky above Panem. Everyone knows: The districts participate in the Arenas because they rebelled. The Capitol is safe. Even the lowliest citizen can know that their children will never be a part of it, because they were loyal, because they were good. Because they were Capitolites, and they were above it all.

"We can get punished for treason, just like anyone. Avoxed or jailed or killed. It's happened, but only if you're stupid. Only if you say the wrong thing and there's a camera around. Which, I mean, the cameras are almost everywhere." He imparted that last bit of knowledge with a careless wave of his hand. Everyone is video taped. Everyone is watched. It's not just the tribute tower. Privacy is for the very few who can afford the bribes, and even then, it draws unwanted attention. If you have nothing to hide, it's not a problem. "But my family was careful--I was careful."

His eyes flick up to Karkat's, and he's wretchedly sober and he's hopelessly confused. "I don't understand. We've always been good citizens." He wants to say loyal, but loyalty is a relative term. Is someone following the rules because they don't want the punishment loyal? He's starting to wonder. "I don't understand why they're doing this. They're saying it's an honor, but...she's going to die. And she won't come back like you guys." His smoothie arrives just then, and Cassian takes it, staring into it like it might have the secrets of the universe written on it.

The other kids could say the same, couldn't they? But it was different, because they were Districters. They had rebelled, they could do it again, if they weren't reminded. The Districters deserved the Hunger Games, it kept the peace.

When did that start sounding so hollow?

"...It doesn't feel like an honor."

[crabmunicator]

Cassian has plenty to say, but for once Karkat listens. It's worth hearing this time, worth seeing him think beyond the lie the Capitol's sold him on for however long, worth letting him feel things uninhibited. He can't be cruel about this, not even a little, because what holds true for his cousin is the same for all the District kids: one life, and one only. It's this or nothing.

He doesn't stop to comment about the Capitol's watch. The cameras are a constant thing on his mind, and he knows, too, that it's not absolutely - only almost. But who's he to talk of blindspots? Cassian only hints, and Karkat guesses he would know more, and used them for more heretical things against the social gospel. Careful is what Cassian claims; he has no reason to doubt it.

But it's that which makes everything stand out more. If the Capitol would punish even the well-behaved of their own city, what does it mean for the future? Are they desperate? More and more people keep slipping out, joining up with District 13, building the rebellion that would take them down. More and more unease builds. Karkat's tried to keep careful, but what good is watching for missteps against cruel caprice?

"Watch your tongue," he cautions at the end in a voice unusually soft. It won't help him any to draw a larger target.

"I don't think there's anyone who isn't surprised by all this. That's... That's a bunch of kids. Twenty-four? Plus all the offworld tributes still around. I mean... some, some said shit they shouldn't have in the interviews." He hopes, prays, that his wasn't part of it. He got a good response, but this has knocked his already minimal trust of the Capitol right off the bottom rung.

"They have to be making a point. They always do, whether it's seeing a traitor executed or avoxed or... Or this, now."

He wishes he could tell Cassian why it has to be him, but the thing this place has taught him is that this kind of power can't exist without reminding the people of what they can do with it. It could have been anyone, any offense, and that must be their message.

C

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland's going to spend a little more time in the training rooms from now on. His reasons are similar to Karkat's, although not the same. There's no anger, at least none that needs to be turned toward the training dummies before it goes somewhere it oughtn't. What drives Roland is only a dim sense that keeping his skills honed is the best thing he can do, and the only thing. He does not think too deeply on this fact. Won't do him any good.

The sight that greets him once he gets there isn't surprising. There's a lot of anger in a place like Panem, not only from tributes, and this is the safest place to show it. In fact the last couple times he's come here there's been someone angry enough to use one station or another in ways which, he's sure, were not really intended when this room was built.

He watches Karkat a moment, thoughtful, and then settles himself at a station very near the one the boy is currently destroying. Nothing complex, only as usual throwing daggers, and as usual throwing them with his right hand. He trusts the organic machinery of him to keep running far more than he does the metal and gears sitting on the end of that right hand. It needs constant checking.

The fact that this is so routine to him that he can easily watch, from the corner of his eye, the efforts of anyone near to him - well, that must be a coincidence. It's not like he's watching on purpose or anything.


(ooc: I can change this if you need more, I just figured since you said karkat would approach roland if he saw him that this could work)

this works fine!

[crabmunicator]

He can make himself sore and tired, can put hurt into his knuckles by punching a target all he wants, but it's not enough. It doesn't fill up the aching spot they cut from him with this, the one he feels preemptively as if Maglev's already dead. He wants to save her, wants to keep her safe, and would die himself to do it if it took that in the end, but what guarantee can he really offer? He's one person, one who's never won, who only ever got close by the aid of better people and too many deaths to save him. Jane, Terezi, Nill, and he wouldn't have made it past the Cornucopia that time if not for Feferi's healing. Every other time has been cut short no further than mid-arena, often earlier.

He's pondering slamming his face into the bag out of pure pent up frustration when he spots Roland. There, out the corner of his eye, but unmistakable. You don't confuse a face like that for anyone else.

He draws back from his target. He breathes, rubs a thumb lightly over a sore hand, and turns to watch him. Knife-throwing, a good enough talent. Not one he's ever stopped to learn, though, when he does better with a knife in hand.

It's not far from there to fall back to one of the other thoughts he's had. There's the tradition Linden told him about before he disappeared days ago, back before the speech he gave in the Youth Programme, before the mini-arena, before he was tortured. The one some people in District 6 have about knuckle bones.

He waits for a pause in Roland's throwing, then approaches. "Hey. Could you help me with something?"

[ka_sera_sera]

"'Course," Roland says, pulling the last couple of knives from the target and turning toward the boy, not looking surprised in the least to be addressed. "What do you need?"

[crabmunicator]

Roland's lack of surprise doesn't particularly surprise him either. It's not the first time he's come to learn from him, and it's just plain Rolandish of him to have already expected it.

Karkat asks, "Do you know how to preserve bones? I figure it... might be useful in the arenas."

It's about as indirect and vague a description he can put to it, but he doesn't trust himself to lay out the reasoning straight.

[ka_sera_sera]

The phrasing does give Roland pause. It's probably from living in this city for too long, but Roland's first thought is that Karkat is asking to learn how to preserve bones once they've left a body, keep them looking fresh for use in decoration. Even as he raises his eyebrows, his mind is already digging up the procedure for how to do it.

"Mending broken ones, you mean?" Roland's already shaking that other topic, as well as the fact that he was nearly ready to follow Karkat into it, from his mind in favor of something more reasonable. "And letting them heal? Mhm, walk with me while I put these away and then we'll find a place I can demonstrate."

"Trolls don't often need that, do they?" He heads toward the place he'd gotten the knives from and doesn't look at Karkat as he says it. It's a casual way to bring the topic around to just why Karkat is asking - or not, as Karkat is not Signless no matter the resemblance, and may not want to speak on the matter at all. "Signless has told me a little about how much more damage your bodies can take."

[crabmunicator]

Funny he should think that.

Karkat opens his mouth when he asks, but Roland's moving before he can put out an answer, and he has little choice but to follow. He could interrupt, sure, but Roland's done him help enough that he doesn't feel inclined to here.

Instead, once he has space to speak, he clarifies, "No, that's not it. I mean, it wouldn't hurt to learn that too for if it comes up, but if it's what I meant I would have asked about broken bones. What I mean is--" His lips press together and his eyebrows draw in. "Bones outside the body. Bones left over. How do you preserve those so they don't get all gross and fall apart?"

A2

[shiningeyes]

The roof is the traditional place to go when you're feeling upset and out of sorts, isn't it? That's certainly why Gritta had decided to come up here. What happened isn't sitting well with her. What happened feels the slightest bit her fault. And if it's her fault, if she did wrong, then it sets back her plans. With no real idea of where to go from here and no ideas other than to wait for the other shoe to drop and then improvise madly, she'd rather just get some air and some light and take in the view.

What she ends up taking in, too, is Karkat, trying to write. He wrote so much, didn't he? Back in class, that was. She'd been too preoccupied (or too sluggish-feeling) to go to much bother with that pen-pal business, but that seemed to mean something to him. Especially if the state of upset that he's in right now is an indication. Worried, she makes her steps as light as possible, and stops a short distance away from him before calling out softly. "Karkat?"

[crabmunicator]

There's no real missing Gritta when she comes around, but it's not until she speaks his name that Karkat looks up at her properly. He looks tired. He hasn't been crying this time, but the shadows under his eyes are darker than usual.

He saw what she and the others did. There wasn't much missing it, nor the connection between it and the consequences. His lips tighten, but only for a second; he can't blame her when it's clear which party intended what in this situation.

"Hey, Gritta." His voice sounds about like his looks: exhausted. "What brings you up here?"

He folds his notebook shut, then gathers discarded pages together. He has a way to go yet before he finds what he wants to put down, but wringing his brain out again and again produces drier and drier results. Trying more just now won't do him any good.

C

[needlebearer]

Arya heads straight for the Training Centre when she feels this conflicted and upset, but for once she doesn't have it in her to beat the living daylights out of the training dummies. She's not sure whether to be more outraged that Bison had been reaped, after she'd spent so long writing to him in Ten and knowing that he of all people didn't deserve the horrors of the Arena, or whether that was outweighed by the horror and guilt that a relative of one or other of the stylists was to be blamed for her actions at the interviews, even if she couldn't feel too sorry that a Capitolite would have to experience what they delighted at putting Districters and Offworlders through. There was the gnawing inside her over Sansa too, knowing that she wouldn't be able to protect her in there - and what if the Capitol decided not to bring her back after she died in the Arena?

She sits hunched over in one corner of the training area, hunched over with her arms around her knees and her head buried in the nest they create, sulking and trying desperately to think of a plan to help them all. As Karkat grows louder and begins to shout, she can't help but glare over at him.

[crabmunicator]

There's only so many times a person can swing a sickle at a fake torso before he has to admit he's not really practicing anymore, and it's as he outright smacks the thing against the would-be chest (with another curse) that Karkat finally catches on. He's mad (obviously) and frustrated (also obviously), but he knows little better what to do with himself in a situation like this. He has no focus for calmer hobbies, and he's dreading more media.

In any case, this isn't working. He steps back, but he can hardly cast around for a better target before he spots one small pair of eyes boring a glare into him. The face is one vaguely familiar; he's seen her casually as a classmate he doesn't talk to, and on family trees at Tony and Black Tom's Crownings, but it's not someone he's taken much note of. Ironic, perhaps, now that Sansa's in his District.

He returns the sickle to its weapon rack, then stalks over to where she's hunched.

"The fuck are you gawking at?"

B2

[69problems]

It's been a while since he and Karkat have really talked. Signless has always believed in giving Karkat space, but there are things he needs to say to his descendent before he's off to the next Arena that can't wait. He doesn't want to take the risk of Karkat not coming back.

A warm cafe with good coffee and pastry seems as good a place as any. He makes his way over to Karkat's table with a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate with a croissant on it balanced atop the mug. Karkat, he thinks, looks as though he doesn't know why he's here or what he's supposed to do with what's on the table in front of him. Not that he could blame the boy much. It's been a long week.

"May I sit with you?"

[crabmunicator]

It's too often lately that Karkat finds himself in a daze of thought. It happens on his own, easy as a change in the wind, and next thing he knows it's been ten minutes since he sat down and someone's there talking to him. His head jerks, and it's only now that his ears catch up with his eyes and realize who it is.

Signless. He's avoided him since the last post from the hacker, preemptive and self-defensive after the exchanges he had on there. He didn't need more than a glance to see his ancestor's positive response to the Initiate, and that told him all he needed.

He did, however, go out of his way to mention him in his speech. There's other things of even greater import that came with that show, too.

"Sit." He indicates the chair across from him. "I'm not going to waste time over with oh, it's been a while, how have you been, because I've been shit that a rabid barkfiend ate up and shat back out again, which explains my much deteriorated ability to pay attention to anything in front of me for any stretch of time at all."

[69problems]

"I wanted to talk about your speech, actually," Signless says as he sits. The mug and plate clink softly as he sets them down. "Anyone with eyes could see how you've been."

He doesn't mean it in an accusatory way, just... Karkat wears his emotions very plainly. Even not interacting with the other troll directly, it was easy to tell by looking at him that he wasn't faring so well. It's even more obvious now that Karkat is right in front of him.

"You did incredibly well, Karkat. I'm proud of you."

[crabmunicator]

His speech, he says, and that's enough for Karkat to pay more attention. Part of him did wonder what he might think of that; it was impossible not to after the trouble of including him in it. He takes no accusation from the remark to follow, and finally resigns himself to laying off anything too prickly for the compliment Signless deals at the end.

He kind of wanted this. He didn't put him in the speech for that, no, but it's more the after-the-fact realization that hits him. He missed this, missed being able to talk, missed feeling some kind of value from his ancestor, for all their separation was imposed by Karkat himself.

He presses his lips together, features shifting like he's building his words carefully on his tongue. "You mean it?"

He doesn't think his ancestor one for empty praise, but he wants the confirmation still.

[69problems]

He nods. He can recognize, at least on some level, that Karkat really needs a sincere affirmation. Signless is more than willing to give him that.

"I mean it. It was a good message delivered in a thoughtful way." He can't outright say that he saw all the rebellious undertones that Karkat so cleverly hid, but he hopes he can hint at it enough that Karkat will know what he means.

"And it was brave of you to say it so publicly, instead of spending your interview talking about your love life."