Can I get an amen? For all the bleeding and the prayin?

[carnagecarnival]

Who| Initiate and Open
What| Milling about the arena
Where| spaceport upper levels
When| Week 0 to the end of week 1
WARNINGS| body horror (missing horns), violence against aliens? talk of death. Language.
NOTES| Explanation of how the chucklevoodoo/Fear power works can be found here.

Xenomorphs

The doors snap shut ever so fast. He starts each time. Even though it feels long now as though it's been since he was Avoxed, the flinching ain't yet all gone. Especially when Terezi or whoever else gets caught on the other side of where they's meaning to be, and he has to reach on through with the holy chucklevoodoo, tell them to meet him wherever all else, quietly keep the fear up and around both himself and them so they ain't got to face no beasts unexpected. 

On the flip side is Terezi, her seer visions showing him them most feared dead ends, allowing him to find by default what's best. They avoid the worst of threats that way. It won't last forever though. Her fear builds and he knows almost before she does that his death is coming swift and there ain't being no ways what to claim avoidance of it. 

As though he can somehow prove her visions wrong, when all ever the Xenomorphs come, he wastes no time in dispatching them. It's almost a relief, in the oddest sense. That Alternian part of him is still there, for all it's been broken and buried. That Alternian part of him wants the cull what no other part will give, except for when it ain't being neither tribute, capitolite, or otherwise being a person. When it's the Xenomorphs, he can let his own snarl out and tear the beasts to pieces. There's no holding back because the fuckers is strong. It just so happens, he's stronger, and so he grins at them as they circle, growl rumbling over his breath, proving, that for all he looks it without his horns, in the dark of space, he ain't human. 

Star Watching 

When all strifes get to end, when he finds himself with all broken bodies around, his eyes turn to the windows. Grand and expansive, he takes in the sight of the stars, the dark abyss of space. This was to be his future, when he was old and damn near ready to plough into the motherfucking rot bliss, to become old and damn near decrepit. The result of total Alternian war, of thousands on thousands of his kind put to waste and the Empress's command that no more would an adult troll grace the gruff of Alternian soil. 

He looks at the stars and decides they're beautiful. Beautiful just as they are sad. He can imagine himself growing cold out here. He can imagine it right the motherfuck now. 

It's an incredible sight, them all feeling so close and distant at the same time, but... "Ain't worth it."

Chucklevoodoo 

His energy leaves him fast with the ache in his skull, rooted up in his missing horns. It has him drifting, either sleeping by the wall, or otherwise losing himself in some sense in the swath of fears, nightmares and daymares, what mill about him. In those latter times, he navigates the world on two planes, eyes all a-flash as he seeks and searches out them what he knows, just seeing if there are things what need be said, or simply to see if they're alive. 

Then there were them other times, when he grew too tired to carry on, and too tired to hold the fear in. So used, is he, to simply letting it all roll out of him. And so it does. It creates a miasma thick in the air of voodoo. It infects those motherfucking unfortunates what stumble to near. It digs in, hungry for them dreams, and leaving mares in the wake. It makes every corner one worthy of double-take, every movement worthy of twitch and flinch. 

In his presence, paranoia runs high. 

Zero Gravity

He was... he was almost dreaming pleasant. He's had a good dream just once before in his life, even as he fretted about, waiting for his voodoo to take over the dreamscape. The crowning of Enjolras. He saw Sigma in the form of his younger self. He'd danced with Terezi and talked of a place after death, a waiting bit before the Carnival where those dead could go into bubbles of dreams. 

He felt, on some level, almost certain he'd just about reached past the minefield of endless daymares, horrors unspeakable and terrors unceasing. His finger tips had just grazed the edges, touching upon it, before, suddenly, he was ripped away.

And when he awoke, he found the ground far as well. 

He makes an exclamatory noise, flailing helplessly in the air. No gravity. No motherfucking gravity. This was ridiculous. How was he supposed to get anywhere, he couldn't just swim, there was no traction.

"NO. No. YOU KNOW THE FUCK WHAT? Fuck this. FUCK SPACE. This is stupid."  He huffs and tries as best as he can to reach some solid surface-- a wall, a ceiling, a floor even, anything he can propel himself off.

Comments

Zero gravity fun

[metalicarus]

Jet was having fun in the zero gravity. He could peacefully float along, propelling himself using the jets in his legs and even avoid the aliens that floated into his path. It was about as peaceful as an arena got and it didn't last long.

He supposed he should be heading back to base where Venus and Albert were bound to be less than pleased he hadn't returned before the gravity got turned off -they worried too much, he was going to bet it was kinda hard for people to kill each other when they couldn't reach each other- but a little bit longer out wouldn't hurt. Call it more exploring.

His 'exploring' got cut short though when he turned a corner and saw another alien floating around, this one more hostile towards the surroundings than towards him. He couldn't help it, he laughed, it was funny to watch Initiate try to flail his way towards one surface or another.

The gentle hum of his engines and the smell of ozone preceded him as the cyborg slowly made his way down the hall. "Hey there, you look a little stuck."

[carnagecarnival]

The Initiate's head lifts up. In that instant, his eyes flash, indigo to pink and back again, glowing bright. But then it fades. Just Jet. Jet won't hurt him. (Probably, the old Alternian of him whispers, but it's at least not as loud as it would have been arenas ago.)

He folds his arms at Jet. "NAW BROTHER. Got your ass being all kinds of confuted now. I AIN'T STUCK. I'm motherfucking floating on is what I'm doing. OPPOSITE OF STUCK IS WHAT IT IS." And by that time, he's gone to being upside down and flippedways, frowning.

"YOU'RE BEING ALRIGHT THOUGH AIN'T YOU? Glad to see them parts done mettalic is all motherfucking working good on for your ass," He says, only a little dryly. "PLUS SIDE AT FOR ME TOO. No horns to get caught up in piercing through nothing. MIRACLES HOW THAT UP AND WORKS."

He can just see it. Crashing through the floor and getting stuck. Or better, rising up to put a hole in the ceiling and suck out all the air. That would be just perfect.

[metalicarus]

It takes a valiant effort not to laugh at what he can hear so clearly as teenage pride speaking for him. When Jet was younger, he was the same way -still could be at times, if he was honest with himself. But right now, it was Initiate who was upside down, not Jet.

He hovered where he was and let the tiniest bit of a smile poke through. "Yeah, I got my normal cybernetics back, makes some things easier. You...uh...sure you wouldn't rather be 'floating' somewhere else." Somewhere not in the middle of some random hall or at least in a place where he could hold on to something.

Although, Initiate had a point: if he had his horns like normal, he'd probably be a lot worse off.

[carnagecarnival]

"Most motherfucking certain, I hear at the waters as of for District five is being motherfucking nice this bit of time passaging done. SURE WOULD BE GREAT TO BE FLOATING THERE. What a shame."

He flips the bird, a universal bit of signing what passes all and on through every culture and planet there is. But Jet is chill enough that he won't take it all on too personal. So he figures.

But then, rather futilely, with that look of consternation upon his face, he's reaching for Jet. He just needs the right moment. He can totally reach.

star watching; sometime late week 0

[crabmunicator]

It's been one hell of a week. It started off about as bad as it could, with injuries to the point he could practically pass out at the Handmaid's feet, if not for Feferi finding and healing him. Now, he's still hurt - the bruises haven't healed, and he's picked up other bumps and scrapes with the monsters here - but he's not liable to bleed out our drown on his own blood. She bandaged him up, too, but he's shed those by now for lack of clean replacements. There's a prominent hole in one leg of his suit, and an odd scab on the skin. Dried blood clings in the little crevices elsewhere, particularly in the front below his face. The white outer suit is gone; he's stuck in pink.

But beyond that first chaos at the Cornucopia, he's survived well enough - even if he did get separated from Feferi early on. It would have been useless if he'd died, but he did manage to get a case, and he's put it to good use. Namely the pocket knife - he doesn't want to waste the taser early in, and his eyes do well enough in low light that he doesn't need the flashlight often. The gel he hasn't figured out yet.

The rest is plain caution. He keeps an open ear and a wary eye, and he doesn't let himself sleep. His steps are careful whenever he's on his own. He's gotten used to the ache of his body enough not to hiss from it. It's why he doesn't head down this corridor until after he's heard the chaos of fighting fall silent.

He just didn't think someone would still be there.

He doesn't recognize him at first. The horns are such an instant identifier that even to see the familiar, dark curls and ashy skin doesn't click until he hears the voice behind it. Suddenly what looks like a product of poor lighting can't be anything but troll skin, and simple dark hair is the wavy style of a Makara. But the horns--where are the horns? He sees no cracked off ends like Equius had, and there would have to be some sign if that's what had happened, wouldn't it? They wouldn't break off so near the skull, not without greater damage, but he can't even see a glimpse of orange from here.

Forgetting himself, he ventures a step closer and asks, "What the hell did they do to your horns?"

[carnagecarnival]

It's one thing to be so off and distance that he misses an approach of another as it is. Each little part of him cries to attentiveness, all for different reasons, so it's just a testament to how distracted he's at to be.

More so, when the voodoo is upon him, there to allow his sensing of those approaching before he even sees. To only be alerted by voice is indolence.

He starts, back going straight and breath sucking in fast. His eyes go to flash, making light trails as he whirls around quick. His claws are ready and his teeth are bared and it's all a bluff but it's a damn good one.

Then he sees Karkat and the glow leaves his eyes. His hands go loose, his shoulders drop. It's Karkat. Keep calm, keep steady. Maybe don't motherfucking look on at him. Answer like all would be done up on any other. Yeah, that's it.

He turns back to the stars, settling against the windows edge to lean on it, and allows himself a little laugh. "An oh so generous motherfucking favor," He answers. "THE ALTRUISTIC BENEFACTORS OF THE CAPITOL HIGH PAID HEED TO HIS PLIGHT OF DOOR AND HELMETS AND ALL THE MOTHER FUCKIN LIKE. Thinking it'll be a new gimmick. LOSE MORE FOR EACH ROUND GOING ON. Start with an eye, then a tongue, horns, and then next he shall lose a limb entire! JUST A LITTLE SURGICAL MOTHERFUCKING PROCEDURE DONE ON BY OUR KINDLY DOCTERORRISTS."

Perhaps he ought not joke about it. Could lead him all to having it actually done.

[crabmunicator]

Well isn't that freaky as hell. Karkat jerks back a step or two when the Initiate turns with glowing eyes, what the fuck, with teeth and claws and oh god he's made a terrible mistake. Should he raise his knife? Should he fumble for the taser? Should he just fucking run?

But before he can parse what to do, the other is calming, glow leaving, and... and he answers, easy and without fuss.

What the hell.

He near wants to ask what all that was about, but whatever freaky indigo bullshit he's got going on is nothing he wants a part of. Still, a haze of nervousness clings to him for the display. He doesn't want to die yet. He got close enough once already.

Still, at the end he's no more hesitant to blurt out, "They did what? They just... took them off? But they didn't take anyone else's, not that I've seen. I know mine are small, but even Feferi had hers." He adds a little gesture with the hand he has the knife in, like a horn sticking off the skull.

It's not avoiding him to ask, and it's weird to start up a conversation, but it's just so damn striking still that he can't ignore it. They took his horns. That's not a mild gesture.

chucklevoodoo, cw: gore. Lemme know if you need more to work with

[silberfuchs]

The only dreams Albert ever has that he remembers are nightmares, likely because his nightmares always take the shape of memories, terrible things past in literal ways. He and Hilda shot to death at the Wall, endless endless surgeries and pain, pain of the body, pain of the soul, pain at watching Jet fall twice, his own heart shatter twice, blond hair matted with blood and viscera and so far away through the television screen that he can't do anything but watch in horror.

He has the last one a lot, these days, as much as he ever dreams. It sets him sitting up gasping, choking on his own rage, disgust, and abject terror. Sinew swaying gently from between Kevin's needle teeth, dripping to the ground...

It's harder to keep such things at bay in the Arena, but with Jet beside him it's doable. Curled around his partner protectively with his nose against the other cyborg's neck, he can almost believe he can keep the other man safe, that none of the evils of the world will be allowed to touch him again so long as Albert is there. He rarely has nightmares when Jet is there to shine his light to scatter the shadows.

But there are times...

Times like now, with the fetor of Initiate's uncontrolled power curling unseen through the hallways and air ducts, seeping into Albert's stressed psyche and sending it into overdrive even at rest, letting the shadows turn loose to play their wicked games.

[carnagecarnival]

The easiest way to get up into a thinkpan is if he's already been there. Voodoo infects like a parasite, lingers all the fuck around like one, waiting for his eventual return and greet most gracious. A little part of himself left behind, a gift of exchange for the fear of theirs what he's swallowed down.

But to get in there in the first place is to start just like this. He slips in quiet through them backdoors, a little jimmying of a loose fit lock, and he's in as easily as if he had the keys. Sometimes, motherfuckers just forget to get it on lock, and upon the waiting wings of horror and carnage, his true homes, he falls right on in without even fully meaning.

He ain't a troll here. Now without crafting that form deliberate off of one what would fear that all. Instead, he's shadow, he's feeling. A wisp of wraith is he, black, pink, indigo. The only proper consistency is the mask like shape of his painted face.

He swims the blood, sifts through the viscera and static of screen. His wispy claws are the teeth of Kevin's jaws. His dark is the swallowing void Jet descends into. It swirls around Jet, gains itself a fearsome maw, lining it all the way down, a thousand little razors ready to shred. The rockets of Jet's boots sound like the shriek of crashing planes. All before Albert me might see his own reaching hand, the way the metal creeps higher and higher, from fingertips and up. All up his legs, higher and higher until it makes to swallow, ripping through flesh as it goes. The sound is drowned only by Kevin's laughter, from void what winks.

And then quickly shifts and becomes a singular form. The Initiate's shadow. It writhes and churns, like a licking flame, but the form is still all simultaneous. He knows clear who this mind is now, and if the visions are sharp enough to rouse him, perhaps he can rouse Albert also.

ALBERT... Comes the sounding voodoo, a thousand echoing layered voices all demonic in their sweet chorus. ALBERT, WAKE UP.

[silberfuchs]

The world morphs and changes, darkness swirling black and red and indigo, Kevin's teeth elongating to claws and a wordless cacophony of voices permeates the sudden cavernous void. There's nothing to see even if the impression of a hulking, long armed form is still there, dragging what reads as black blood over an even darker surface with sibilant scraping. It's the primal fear that sends Albert's mental presence whirling, his face more youthful but still careworn beyond his years, his body more bulky than even the Capitol's so obvious cybernetics.

He turns left, right, eyes darting everywhere at once as he raises his right arm to aim ineffectually at the unseen threat, the scrabbling in the dark and the dissonant chorus of voices that rise and fall at random with the swirling deep color.

And then the Troll appears.

Only Albert doesn't recognize him, not as a hulking bulk with sky-scraping horns and wicked teeth. The facepaint echoes the dead, a mane of untamed black framing death's head smeared in places with a myriad of colors, flickering like sinister bacchanalian light.

WAKE UP

He can't. It's a command but he can't and instead he turns his right arm in a wavering arc and... doesn't fire. Something keeps him from firing despite the monstrous form before him, dripping entrails from disproportionate claws.

ALBERT

It knows his name. He can't fire. He knows one of the voices, hard to pick out in the riot of sound, but he knows it and so he cannot fire.

"W...who...?" His voice is different too, lilting and afraid. Childish, despite his appearance of 30 or more.

Ugh, they're all so good. Okay, how about Xenomorphs, for starters

[earthborn]

There was a comfort in the old spacer's paranoia, the check-check-recheck of seal and location, of every exit and every bulkhead. The way silence became deadly without the white noise of life support. When it sharpened, she didn't notice right away, only checked and rechecked, eying the thick porthole glass and the stars beyond as if they would open up and devour her. Suck her lungs dry and leave her a frozen, choking husk.

Out among the stars...

Shepard only realized what was happening when the adrenaline hit. She'd felt fear before, imposed from the outside like a Reaper aura-- Kurloz Makara was hunting here, somewhere nearby. And that was when Shepard heard the hissing battle-cries of the xenomutts. Self-preservation made her cautious, but a lifetime of sticking her nose where it didn't belong pulled her forward. He was surrounded, too engrossed in the targets in front to see the ones come from behind: the decision was easy.

Shepard gathered the muscles in her back and the eezo in her blood answered neurological impulse and long habit. Gravity responded in a shimmering wave of blue fire, producing a long corridor of nul-gravity between herself and her target. The ugly little bastard never saw it coming, and when he struck the wall it broke like a wet sack, spewing acrid blood across the bulkhead. So much for invitations.

Sorry for the lates my friend :c

[carnagecarnival]

The Xenomorph is shredded in his hands just as he feels a force, solid and powerful sweep past him. Blue casts light upon his face for the shortest second, before the beast is splattered gloriously. The sheer motherfucking destruction of it is beautiful.

As is she, still. Which is what takes him from staring at her in shock to turning his eyes down, frowning at the floor and avoiding eye contact. Ignoring what eye contact he had otherwise gained, the first proper in some time.

Furiously, he rips through the last of the mutts and crushes what's left. It's simply duty done. There's no venting of anything, there's no protecting of her. Not at all.

Finally, he's standing straight again. He mutters, without vitriol, "Thanks."

[earthborn]

Her corona was unruly, a cloudy flare of light around her hands and wrists, twining through her hair and shoulders, arcing to turf itself against the wall twice before she sighed, and let it go. The silence, the darkness, was sudden and absolute. The small sounds of a living station resumed their prominence and she regrets, in the sigh after the fury, that they never fought like this before. They might've made a hell of a team.

"Sure."

She closed her mouth on the rest; looked like you could use a hand was too close to needling, too likely to grin and prod. He had looked it, and he probably could have managed, but...

Well, she'd never lied to him, despite all intentions to the opposite, "You know me, always sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."

Star watching

[affluenza]

Dandy spent a lot of his time looking out at the stars here, too, but in his case it was because even getting to the moon was still over a decade away from his perspective and he never dreamed he'd get to be this close to them. Or, rather, this close to a simulation of them, but he didn't know that.

He didn't seem bothered by blood or corpses, or by being here at all really, even though he was just new. Likely because he hadn't been injured yet and he still thought himself all-powerful and the inevitable victor.

"What isn't worth it?" he said, looking out a different window, just far enough away to keep his distance.

Super super huge apology for the lateness of this tag :(

[carnagecarnival]

"ADVENTURES MOTHERFUCKING FAR INTO THE ABYSS OF WHAT HEEDS NO MOTHERFUCKING RETURNS," He answers the visitor. "The stars are beautiful but they are not but distant suns, eager to scorch, and all between awaits a dark to black to see."

The paint-faced trolls turns to Dandy, tilting his head in a faint wonder of how he feels no fear of the blood and beasts off him. Someone who's perhaps seen worse, most likely.

"A NEW TRIBUTE?" He queries. "So placed were you by this arena. OR HAD HE BUT MISSED YOUR VISAGE BEFORELIKE?"

It's okay, busy-ness happens!

[affluenza]

"That's very thought-provoking. Space is always so fun in the movies, I hate to think even it would be dull in the end," he says, trying his best to ignore the troll's numerous vulgarities. He just isn't used to the amount of cursing some of his fellow tributes do.

"Yes, I'm new. I was thrown in after all the decent supplies were already taken, so I assume I got here late," he says.

chucklevoodoo! let me know if any of this doesn't work

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Sam's nightmares don't come often these days, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't remember them, that they aren't almost as familiar to him as some of his waking moments. He hasn't dreamt since the arena started, not that he remembers, but that couldn't last forever.

It always starts off like this, like flying, wind billowing around him and the beat of his wings and Riley's voice in his ear over the commlink and exhiliration - and then the whistle of the RPG, the explosion, the smell of burnt flash and metal and that exhiliration turning quickly to fear and desperation, to the absolute helplessness of being frozen in the air, watching his best friend plummit to the ground, hearing his screams.

They'd told him Riley died in the air, soon as the RPG knocked into him, but every time he hears him screaming anyway, even over Sam's own voice shouting Riley's name.

Riley turns to Steve, falling to the ground as Sam desperately tries to go after him, but he can't and he can feel the pain and the panic as one of his wings is ripped from him - it hadn't hurt when it'd happened, not really, but his back always twists and shreds in his nightmares, as if the wings had been a part of him.

He wakes up with a fist shoved in his mouth, because he knows he's not in a place safe enough to scream, even as his mind is still caught up in paranoia, not quite out of the nightmare just yet.

This is good ovo

[carnagecarnival]

It's almost-- no, it is. It's sad. It's sad the way things can start off so motherfucking good, he can take part in the dream and for a short moment, he can feel so alive and free and he can know the dreamer's feeling it too, even if he can't feel it. Not the way he can fear.

It's sad, because no matter how good it makes to be, on his appearance, all things crumble and come apart. If he enters a room of dreaming unconscious, that room is quick to melt away like something of rot and burning. He is poison. He is flame what swallows.

And it makes him start, a little, smelling the burn, remembering it on his own flesh that one time. Reading of it upon the Signless and what tortures were to be bestowed. The sensations fear brings shudder through him, as they always do. He feels the echo of ripping wings.

It's all so fast in his witnessing, it happens without his even meaning for it. It ain't just that he creates fear where he reaches, he's drawn to it, and it can suck him in just as easy. He feels it when Sam is shocked awake and it takes him with it. It ain't just fear simplistic. It's trauma. It's a memory. It's a sort of thing what he could rip up with a vengeance and recreate an individual's personal hell. He's done it before.

And maybe it's the memory of it what pushes him to speak, wanting to keep Sam-- which he knows, he knows now this is him-- from being anything like his victims past. He doesn't want Sam to be someone he's hurt, of at least not someone what he would mean to.

SORRY, comes that echoing voice, layered and terrible. SORRY. WASN'T MEANING TO MOTHERFUCKING PRY. WASN'T MEANING TO HARM NONE. PROMISE.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

He’d started his 7-11 breathing almost automatically, trying to stave off any more panic. Normally, it’s such a habit that he doesn’t even need to count, even in his head, but here he feels a greater sense of urgency, to calm himself down quickly and quietly.

In-2-3-4-5-6-7, out-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11, breathe with his stomach, repeat.

When the voice comes, he almost thinks it’s another part of his nightmare, a new twist for him, and he has to double check that he’s actually awake.

But no, he definitely is, and he’s actually pretty sure he recognizes that speech pattern, through the echoes and the fear.

“...Initiate?”

Early Week 1 | Star Watching

[helpmeguideit]

Charles had heard of him. Carlos had mentioned him after his first arena, when they had spoken privately. Still, Charles didn't particularly trust that there was a place to talk without eyes on them. So he waited, hoping that maybe there would be an arena that would come up when he would have his skills return to him. Even if only briefly. When he set foot inside this one, he felt them. He felt the others.

Most of the early days had been spent moving quickly and keeping himself hiding away from others. He didn't want to lose a chance to speak. So he sat, watched, and listened. He waited for the perfect moment.

He was cautious, two fingers placed on his temple and reached out with his mind. Just a brush - careful not to intrude. If they were to be on the same side, best not make him an enemy. There were a few words attached to his reaching out - Carlos told me to speak to you.

huge apologies for the tag wait :c

[carnagecarnival]

He starts when he feels the brush. It's careful, but all the same unexpected. There weren't many who could reach back telepathic. Nill could, but this ain't Nill. This is a new 'voice', and one who'd been given reference by Carlos.

An ally of rebellion.

He grips those words and traces the trail, until he's got fear to hold. He wraps himself of in it, and forms his own words right back.

WOULD BE OF AIDING TO THINE MOTHERFUCKING REQUEST WERE THIS BROTHER KNOWING WHO YOU BE.

it's okay, i've clearly had a lot of stuff going on :x

[helpmeguideit]

Those words came through hard. He blinked a few times and then he regained his composure. Your left. He stepped out from where he was hiding and let his hand drop to his side. He looked, overall, harmless - average. No different from any other human, which helped his case most of the time. Of course, if he stood out here, more people would probably root for him and send him sponsor gifts.

falls in here months late with an entire 50 gallon fishtank of starbucks and some star watching

[69problems]

"Worth what?" Signless asks. His voice is low and slightly fuzzy-- he's been dozing, taking advantage of having not one but two other trolls around to indulge in the luxury of rest without worry.

pbbb

[carnagecarnival]

He starts upon the voice and turns to see Signless, waking from his rest. He can feel it, the difference in fear from waking to sleeping, not that he's aware of it being a thing. He smiles found and kneels on down by Signless, making to settle close to his moirail (and all the warmth the motherfucker offers).

"DECIDING I AIN'T WOULDN'T BE A FAN OF SPACE. Not all for long time as could be done," He says, which is true. "HOW WAS YOUR SLEEP BEING, BRO?" Like he couldn't feel it all.

[69problems]

It truly is fortunate that the Initiate has managed to become palemates with a cuddly space heater. Obligingly Signless settles in against his moirail, eyes slipping closed again.

"Good. I always sleep better with company." Always has, always will. Having someone he trusts close to him is a better sleep-aid than any drug could ever be.

"I could never imagine going into space even if I had been able to. I like the feel of real ground under me too much."