Karkat Vantas ♋ carcinoGeneticist (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crabmunicator) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-12-29 11:03 pm
crabmunicator) wrote in thearena2014-12-29 11:03 pm
Entry tags:
then I woke to coil and shiver
Who| Karkat and Terezi
What| Running into a friend, talking, and then a mishap.
Where| A random corridor in the spaceport.
When| Mid week 2.
Warnings/Notes| Death, traumatic amputation, Karkat's filthy mouth.
Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this place. Karkat's hatred of being stuck in the Hunger Games has not had the chance to slip into resignation but has festered as a wound for the drag of the weeks and the course of events. He has been through fighting and pain and having to struggle on despite it. He was beat to what should have been death at the start of the Cornucopia, and even after Feferi saved him and healed him to something liveable, he's been struggling.
Sure, he's done remarkably well for himself. A pocket knife might not be a sickle, but a blade's a blade. A taser is nothing he's used before, but he's pulled it out a time or two to shock something off him. He's a troll and that means hardiness, for all the pain and injury and sheer weight of exhaustion pressing increasingly down on him. He doesn't dare sleep, not if he can help it.
But it's hard still. He misses food. He misses not fighting. He misses knowing what the fuck he's supposed to be doing, because he expects no win; he's just fighting to not die yet. He hasn't killed anyone - hasn't even tried - and he wonders why he should still live for that. Someone else died to save him just earlier this week, someone he'd never met, and the guilt of it lays thickly on him. A scatter of burns dotting him and the loss of his case - he abandoned it to take the knife and taser, leaving the blue gel he never used and the by now dead flashlight behind - doesn't equal the loss of a stranger's life.
And he can't relax about any of it. The whole incident was a harsh warning for letting his guard down, and it leaves him jumpy now and he trails through the station. Many of these paths he's been down by now, but growing familiarity doesn't ease his nerves when there's always something to look out for. A monster, an alien, a turret, a tribute--he crouches down and to the side as he hears movement now, waiting to judge which one it is.
It's when he spots short, conical horns that he's moving again. "Terezi--Terezi, wait," he calls as he heads after her, voice harsh and low between the desire to be clear but not loud enough to draw something else.
What| Running into a friend, talking, and then a mishap.
Where| A random corridor in the spaceport.
When| Mid week 2.
Warnings/Notes| Death, traumatic amputation, Karkat's filthy mouth.
Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this place. Karkat's hatred of being stuck in the Hunger Games has not had the chance to slip into resignation but has festered as a wound for the drag of the weeks and the course of events. He has been through fighting and pain and having to struggle on despite it. He was beat to what should have been death at the start of the Cornucopia, and even after Feferi saved him and healed him to something liveable, he's been struggling.
Sure, he's done remarkably well for himself. A pocket knife might not be a sickle, but a blade's a blade. A taser is nothing he's used before, but he's pulled it out a time or two to shock something off him. He's a troll and that means hardiness, for all the pain and injury and sheer weight of exhaustion pressing increasingly down on him. He doesn't dare sleep, not if he can help it.
But it's hard still. He misses food. He misses not fighting. He misses knowing what the fuck he's supposed to be doing, because he expects no win; he's just fighting to not die yet. He hasn't killed anyone - hasn't even tried - and he wonders why he should still live for that. Someone else died to save him just earlier this week, someone he'd never met, and the guilt of it lays thickly on him. A scatter of burns dotting him and the loss of his case - he abandoned it to take the knife and taser, leaving the blue gel he never used and the by now dead flashlight behind - doesn't equal the loss of a stranger's life.
And he can't relax about any of it. The whole incident was a harsh warning for letting his guard down, and it leaves him jumpy now and he trails through the station. Many of these paths he's been down by now, but growing familiarity doesn't ease his nerves when there's always something to look out for. A monster, an alien, a turret, a tribute--he crouches down and to the side as he hears movement now, waiting to judge which one it is.
It's when he spots short, conical horns that he's moving again. "Terezi--Terezi, wait," he calls as he heads after her, voice harsh and low between the desire to be clear but not loud enough to draw something else.