It wasn't even the violence that bothered Psii. Even in the wild away from institution and tyranny, trolls were violent to each other, and Psii would rather defend himself than emulate Signless's pacifism. It was the way those Capitolites in power decreed that some should suffer more than others, and the ones who suffered were conveniently not them.
Psii failed to save his District's kid, Irri. He hadn't been able to find him before his demise. This sort of thing was the stuff of Psii's daymares. He hadn't even known the kid, but he felt like he should have done more, somehow. How the hell could he call himself one of Signless's rebels if he couldn't even save one wiggler from the injustice of Panem's caste system? Maybe he should have used his mask constantly to fly around looking for him, dangerous as the resulting fatigue might have been.
For now, Psii was on foot brooding and foraging. His "weapon" was little more than a piece of metal sharpened against a rock and tied to a stick, and his sack was cobbled together from torn cloth. He hadn't gone for the Cornucopia, preferring to pass up that bloodbath this time around. This was his largest arena to date, and like many trolls, he instinctively sought the safety of solitude.
Imagine his surprise when he spotted another of his species in the distance, and it wasn't Karkat.
The Shit! about to escape from his mouth was cut short into a series of rasping throat sounds and fruitlessly mouthing lips. He'd had occasional trouble speaking (and even moving) since he breathed that stupid gas. It was definitely some neurological weapon designed to impede his brain functions. The fact that it still affected him weeks later frightened him. He, the one who always warned people about arena deaths being a dangerous gamble, almost wished he'd hurry up and die stupidly so he could be revived and not have to think about the long-term implications of this disability. He wished he'd learned sign language from Nill when he got the chance.
Perhaps his silence in this moment was for the best; after all, he didn't know if this really was Initiate. It could be a trick to make him call out and subsequently get culled by something disguised as an ally. The Gamemakers had a track record of playing with Tributes' emotions like that. Psii decided to keep as quiet as possible and watch him. Psii could do stealth passably, but he was never a professional Laughsassin. His was the informal schoolfeeding of hard knocks. On his way towards cover, he rustled a few leaves.
i wanted to do more with the nerve gas even though i'm on slowatus tl;dr i'm awful
Psii failed to save his District's kid, Irri. He hadn't been able to find him before his demise. This sort of thing was the stuff of Psii's daymares. He hadn't even known the kid, but he felt like he should have done more, somehow. How the hell could he call himself one of Signless's rebels if he couldn't even save one wiggler from the injustice of Panem's caste system? Maybe he should have used his mask constantly to fly around looking for him, dangerous as the resulting fatigue might have been.
For now, Psii was on foot brooding and foraging. His "weapon" was little more than a piece of metal sharpened against a rock and tied to a stick, and his sack was cobbled together from torn cloth. He hadn't gone for the Cornucopia, preferring to pass up that bloodbath this time around. This was his largest arena to date, and like many trolls, he instinctively sought the safety of solitude.
Imagine his surprise when he spotted another of his species in the distance, and it wasn't Karkat.
The Shit! about to escape from his mouth was cut short into a series of rasping throat sounds and fruitlessly mouthing lips. He'd had occasional trouble speaking (and even moving) since he breathed that stupid gas. It was definitely some neurological weapon designed to impede his brain functions. The fact that it still affected him weeks later frightened him. He, the one who always warned people about arena deaths being a dangerous gamble, almost wished he'd hurry up and die stupidly so he could be revived and not have to think about the long-term implications of this disability. He wished he'd learned sign language from Nill when he got the chance.
Perhaps his silence in this moment was for the best; after all, he didn't know if this really was Initiate. It could be a trick to make him call out and subsequently get culled by something disguised as an ally. The Gamemakers had a track record of playing with Tributes' emotions like that. Psii decided to keep as quiet as possible and watch him. Psii could do stealth passably, but he was never a professional Laughsassin. His was the informal schoolfeeding of hard knocks. On his way towards cover, he rustled a few leaves.