[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.

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.

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)

[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.

[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.

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?"

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland's hand, reaching to put the first couple knives away, slows. His head turns toward Karkat, and if Roland wore glasses he'd now be peering over them. He might even give that impression, regardless. He stays that way a good few seconds, trying to divine anything from that face which might tell him about Karkat's state of mind now.

"Aye, I can tell you that too," he says and starts putting the weapons away again, his voice slow and his hand even slower. "So long as you tell me anything going on here that I ought to know about." Such as whether Karkat is in the process of some kind of mental break. Roland turns back to face the boy, tries to pin him with his eyes. "You will, won't you."

[crabmunicator]

It's almost funny, too, to be asked that. He would have been glad enough for Roland just to go along, to take it normal and teach him whatever it is he might need to do, but it's that concern that trips him up. It's not really helped by the pause it took him to answer at all.

Something goes weak in his eyes, and his gaze slides away, no matter how Roland's pinned the rest of him. "I just need to get through the arena." He's quieter, hardly like himself. "If I can get through the arena I'll be fine."

If he had just asked plainly what he wanted to know about bones for, he could have blustered and squawked and shoved him off with all his hot air. He can't do that next to real concern like this, not when his heart's a mess with worry and there's a life on his hands.

"Just teach me what I need to know and I'll be out of the steel wool you call hair, alright?"

[voiceinthephone]

That explains the...oh no, Phil's heart weighed ten tons on his chest as he tried to reconcile that Maglev and Cable were the proverbial first loves of each other. Like Karkat, he'd read enough romance books to know that they were headed down that tumultous road of discovering themselves and finding happiness with each other. That was probably what happened to his crab troll friend and his own life. The Capitol has made sure that the odds of that happening were slim to none.

But now? Now Phil had to step up and be the mentor he's supposed to be, "We can't dwell on the what-ifs right now, Karkat." There was a tremble to Gray's voice but this had to be said, "Right now, we need to focus on how we're gonna help Maglev, and make sure she has the best chance we can offer. I can train her but you need to be there as her friend and comrade in the Arena. She needs to know that she's not going at this alone."

District 6 will not bow down to the Capitol's wish to watch their own children get slaughtered.

[ka_sera_sera]

Karkat's eyes might move away but Roland's don't. He sees and hears all he needs to know with Karkat's first quiet statement. He even opens his mouth after it finishes, but- no. One of his men, one of his gunslingers back in those ancient days, he could tell one of them that it'll never really be over, that they have to prepare themselves for that. For this cruelty, and the next, and the next. But a boy? A very capable one, but a boy all the same, struggling to endure those cruelties as best he can?

No. Roland shuts his mouth. After the arena can take care of itself.

"I don't want you out of it," he says, plain and matter of fact while he slides the last dagger in its place. "I'd rather you stayed close just now. But alright. If this is what you need to know, I'll teach you. The first thing you'll need to know is how to cut a limb from the rest of the body - in the arena, you'll need to do it quickly. Signless has plenty of experience with butchery, if anyone can teach you that it'll be him."

And if Karkat does go to Signless for help with this, Signless might get an opportunity to talk to him. That would be no bad thing.

"Would you rather have a demonstration? It'll take time, and we may have to beg a favor from a few restaurants until one is one's willing to give us a leg or two, but it may help."

[crabmunicator]

Karkat does look back then, eyebrows pressed in unspoken question at the reply he gets. Why should he want him close? Is it more of that concern? Still, Roland has mind to teach him, and that's all he needs for now - at least of the things he can safely ask for. There's probably not much Roland could do for for the state of Panem.

"Mm," is all he answers to the mention of Signless.

"I'll do fine without a demonstration. I probably won't go for anything big. So long as I have the theory down, I can figure it out on my own and practice the rest when I have something in the arena to work with." He doesn't really want to practice at all, but if he has to, he might. Maybe it will cover some of his oddness if he takes small bones from whatever beasts might roam the next one. He's not sure yet what he'll do.

[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."

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.

[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.

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland nods, leans back against the wall, and thinks a moment. "So long as you can clean the bone well enough you don't need to worry about preserving it. The only difficult thing is that cleaning takes time, and depends on what kind of arena we end up in. Do what you can with your hands and any knife you might come across, then if you can find an anthill or something like it, and can find some way to cage your bone so nothing should run off with it, that'll be your best bet. If not, try to keep it soaking in something. Preferably water, but I know how rare that can be in the arenas. Keep it warm, refill it with clean water when you can. It'll smell, and strongly, so be prepared fight anything off that tries to follow that smell to its source. If you're lucky, either method should just take a couple days. If not, you'll have to bury the bone instead and come back to it when you can. That'll take a couple weeks, at the quickest."

"It's a risk, Karkat. You'll have to either stay in one spot for a while or draw some attention to yourself with the smell. But if this is what you need..." He shrugs. "Only remember who your friends are. If I'm near, I'll try to help you."

[crabmunicator]

He didn't come to Roland expecting anything but a solid answer. He's honest and thorough, and as he goes on, confirming the time it would take, Karkat comes to frown. There's so many variables to account for already. He doesn't know what the environment will be like, what resources will be available, or if he'll even be near if (when) Maglev dies. What if whatever killed her is still near? What if he has to fight--and who says he'd survive? He and Nill went down together against the saber tooth, got his throat bit out. It could be a person, a mutt, a trap of the arena. And even if he did get a knucklebone to save, the risks...

What would the Capitol do, too, to see him emulate a tradition told by an absent traitor? If he left it for ants or whatever, the gamemakers could easily take it when he was away, and it likely wouldn't take much with all the tricks they can pull.

How could he guarantee he'd have it still, after the arena? That they would return it to him? They already punished others for honoring tributes past. They wouldn't be in this mess if not for that.

He looks almost defeated as he admits, "It's probably not going to work." He sounds little better. "Fuck--forget it. I'll... I don't know what I'll do, I'll do something else." He can't refuse her some honor, some apology of gesture, if it comes down to that end.

Rubbing his nose to stem back whatever emotion might slip out, he asks, "What about broken bones? You mentioned those, and I should have learned what to do with those a long time ago."