thecircus | Epilogue Meme!

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epilogue meme

Epilogue Meme!

Twenty years have passed since the first Arena of the 75th Hunger Games. Many things have changed. The Arenas are gone, replaced by monuments to the fallen. The Rebellion is over; the Capitol has been replaced by a more progressive government. The Girl on Fire, Katniss Everdeen, has married the Boy With The Bread, Peeta Mallark, and have two young children. All over, Panem and its Districts are slowly, but surely, being rebuilt for future generations untainted by the Hunger Games.

But one thing hasn't changed: your presence here. You are still here, even all these years later. During the last battles against the oppressive Capitol, the very technology which brought the Tributes to Panem was destroyed. Though some Tributes managed to return to their worlds safely, the majority of Tributes were not so lucky: they were trapped in a world not their own, perhaps for the rest of their lives. Some have managed to regain some powers, at least between those who had any; others have remained stubbornly without them, even without the Capitol's interference.

Yes, many things have changed since that "Never-Ending Quell". Including you, the Tributes. But life must go on. After all, there are worse games to play.

Post here, use a prompt if you'd like, and respond to others.
Any character is allowed in this meme, even if they are not in the game. Perhaps there are characters who wish to test their characters for The Games.
This takes place outside of The Games game canon. Anything that happens here does not necessarily carry over into the game.
Since this takes place in the future, some things are definitely different. Characters may have jobs, injuries, got married, had children. Perhaps characters who regained some powers have become stronger since then - or are even using those powers, for good or ill.

~Prompts~
(But anything goes if you don't want to use these)

*Its been a long time since your character has seen someone from the Games, so your character's going to visit them.

*What you've been doing since the Games. Where is your character now?

*Something impossible has happened - someone who returned to their home world has found a way back. But it's only been a few weeks or months since they've left, at least for them...

*So you've decided to return to your home and time. You've woken up either exactly as you were before you left, or totally different, it all seems to vary. But one thing for sure is different; somehow or other, someone else has managed to come with you.

*For some, Panem has become their no home, but not for everyone. There are many who will be returning back. Is it time to say goodbye?

*Psyche! the games didn't end and the worst came to worst. And that worst is...

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The rebels had given the regime's plans a few hiccups, but it was not long before the Games were back in full force. And with that, a chance to rework the time-consuming and costly method of picking up bodies by air. Now, instead of bulky aircraft maneuvering itself down noisily between trees, one person-sized unit was airdropped into the arena to clean up. Avoxes were used for cleaning up bodies in the Capitol anyway, so the idea was not too much of stretch. Plus, this Avox could fly.

The doors of the plane opened for the Avox clad in a jumpsuit with no parachute. The Avox only truly felt alive when he was falling from great heights, wind in his ears drowning everything else out. He was dead inside all other times, heavily conditioned and reconditioned for this task since he was captured. When he wasn't being used as a weapon of mass destruction against the Districts, he was on cleanup duty.

Only when he reached a dangerous velocity did he release the bit of power the Capitol had restored to him. He slowed to a float, surrounded in a glowing layer of alternating red and blue psi. He landed quietly, just feet away from the Tribute's body. On the mark, as usual.

Before he could hoist the corpse up with his mind and rocket out of the forest, his digital goggles pinged, alerting him to the presence of another. He turned quickly. He must hurry, or risk punishment for interfering with the Games.

Her Imperious Condescension's Helmsman was plotting her next course when it happened. Pain, air, light hit his nerves and stung his eyes. Maintenance never felt like this. Desperately he tried to ping the parts of his brain connected to the ship's distress signals. Nothing. He had no bearing, no star chart, no commands to follow. The light blinded his eyes. He shrieked and writhed on the medical table, and they had to sedate him.

He always had the hull of the ship to protect him, the system to fill his vision with stars and his ears with electric lullabys. He always knew where he was in the galaxy, even what sweep it was back on Alternia. So many lifetimes since his installation, and he had still operated at full capacity. Now, he couldn't even bend a spoon.

After much discussion, he was sent to an Avox rehabilitation center, where he sat in a wheelchair and saw stars in the corners of his vision. He politely begged to know where the Battleship Condescension was. When no one could answer, he gave up and simply asked where he was. "Panem" had a familiar ring to it, though it was nowhere on the maps he'd memorized. The name assaulted him like his dreams of fighting in arenas and having friends. The concept was so foreign to him, he dismissed it as a memory malfunction. He thought it unfortunate he only experienced these glitches upon coming here, or he would have purged them long ago.

Memories from before Panem did not surface. He'd thoroughly buried those himself for fear of betraying the people in them.

He was an emaciated shell of his former self, with patches of healing skin where wires and the goggles had been. He worked to regain movement in his spindly hands first of all. He, like the other severe cases, was not allowed a computer, so he resorted to drawing his star charts by hand. Since he wasn't allowed access to much information (yet), he hoped that someone would recognize his stars and tell him where in the galaxy he was. Great pieces of butcher paper covered the table as he worked tirelessly. They had to give him medicine to force him to sleep.

He remembers this, the way he looked each time he returned. Scars lacing him like a star map of their own, and there, the ones around this eyes from the Helm goggles-- which is so hard to look at now. Legs emaciated and weak, all of him weak, and only able to move because the Capitol usually took extra in "repairing" him before with each return to life. But not this time.

This was Avox rehabilitation. Mituna shouldn't be here, if he remembers. There are so many reasons but none of them good. Maybe he does remember and all this time he'd been taken as an avox. But without him knowing? He doesn't think so. All that remained was whether he remembered Panem at all. This isn't his Mituna. But he is his responsibility.

He moves silently and seats himself just the same. Just as he was conditioned. His eyes stay down and he brings his own paper, not daring to interfere with an Avox's ord-- with the Helmsman's star charts. He starts writing slow, hands shaking, because every little letter in trying to communicate is like raking claws against his pan.

helmsman
she can't reach here

Part of him hopes he'll be recognized. Most of hopes he never is.

He looked up, saw one of his own, a troll, but his elation was cut short when he caught a look at his eyes. Indigo. He jumped, but being weak, he didn't rise much in his chair. He grit his teeth with the effort it took to bow as much of his upper body he could manage. He could speak, unlike most Avoxes, but he was broken in other ways.

"G-greetingth, highblood," he stammered, gasping for breath that would be better drawn if he were upright. "That ith correct. Communicationth with the Fleet have been completely thevered. Mobility, interthteller travel...." his voice faltered. He was the helpless organic component of the ship, and he was useless without his power. The useless had no place being alive, but, "Permithion to cull mutht be granted by Her Imperious Condescension only. Apologieth."

He flinched anyway, expecting to be struck by this troll who looked uncannily familiar. He'd look up again to make sure, if he wasn't so afraid that staring would incite punishment.

His breath comes in sharp when he's called highblood. It takes him a second to remind himself that was common atribution to all highbloods, not just the one that took "His Grandness". Pointing out that he lacked cull rights didn't help none at all.

But the good thing about being an Avox was that he was trained to not show pain. He draws on that, even though it makes the pen even more unsteady than it was.

don't want no cull right

How does he do this? How does a not-troll explain to another non-troll that he's more?

a friend.
won't hurt you.
you're free
promise

He forces his shaking hands to turn those words to the Helmsman again. His eyes aren't lifted either, even though he knows logically the Helmsman might be the last person to hurt him, to punish.

He adds one more bit.

you have friends here.

He didn't question the Initiate's muteness or the way his shaking hand made his words harder to read. He had no right to question him at all. "Free" did not compute. He had no business being free. He did not remember ever being free.

"Helmsman doethn't remember friendth."

He dared to look up at the troll who called himself a friend. Yes, definitely familiar. He looked like that highblood who got tangled up with him, the mutant, and the rebellion here in Panem. He couldn't believe that he would do these things, so he didn't. It hurt, these dreams—hallucinations—whatever—because they called up some old feeling, something he couldn't place. He'd done this before, and the mutant was there, too. Where, when? Helmsman pushed the thought away. Helmstrolls had no place having deja vu, yet here he was glitching out. He truly was a broken piece of pissblood shit.

"Helmsman apologizeth. Helmsman doethn't remember. Pleathe input your title or name," he said mournfully. His hands shook enough that he couldn't hold his pencil. It clattered on the table. "Permithion to pauthe thtar chart compilation?" he rushed his request belatedly.

mituna
name

He falters. Naming himself is giving himself pure identity. Something he's not allowed to do, except he is, he is, this is what rehabilitation was for and wasn't Mituna worth it? He was. He needed to push this. As far as he could make things go he needed to push.

is kurloz. There's another note of hesitation. A servant can't grant permission. A servant can't grant permission, he can't-- pause granted.

He breathes deep. His presses his hands flat to the table to force them steady.

you are mituna.
remember?
try. won't hurt you.
no decommission process.

That's part a lie, he realises belatedly. It wasn't physical hurt, but he knew the feeling that came with disobedience. An inherent wrongness enough it caused internal cataclysm. It was hard. So hard. But it could be worth it, sometimes. He hopes now will count for that.

A permanently installed helmstroll was only decommissioned one way. His whole body shook now. He didn't want the airlock, he was trying, oh God please let him try to be useful. He couldn't stand the shame of being culled because he was a broken battery. He called upon his training, his programming.

"Y-you don't have permithion to change Helmsman'th dethignation—fuck—I mean—Helmsman meanth—"

Fuck. He put his face in his hands. He couldn't do this. Who the hell is Mituna? His words dissolved into senseless gibbering. He was going to be culled because he couldn't change his title for a highblood. He was the Helmsman and no one else.

"Kurloz," he managed to repeat in some semblance of obedience. It felt so naked without a title, but the highblood hadn't deigned to give him one. "I'm thorry—Helmsman apologizeth. Where are we? Thtarth don't match, Panem.... gameth. Helmsman liketh gameth—No I don't—" He wrapped his arms around his head as a headache bloomed. He remembered why people were brought here. He didn't want to fight. He couldn't, not now when he was a cull-worthy invalid. It was all kinds of messed up, throwing a de-powered battery too frail to walk into a lion's den. It was almost.... funny.

His hand slid down to his mouth as he tried to choke down a succession of unstable giggles.

The faltering is hard. He knows it is, he knows the feeling. But with it comes hope. It's a frightening thing, something he ain't sure won't destroy what's left of him, but he clings to it desperate.

He hears his name and his breath catches. He's not heard that voice say his name in a long time. He swallows hard.

games are over.
war is over.
safe here.
no strife.

By the time he's finished though, the Helmsman is laughing, and not in no way what's good. So he lets his message sit and he waits, with one hand stretched just a bit across the table. Just in case.

He peeks up in concern, then quickly drops his eyes back down. Just wait.

He wasn't here to fight. He wasn't here to pilot a ship or interface with technology. He could barely plot stars. What good was he? He went from laughing to shaking hands and heaving breaths.

"What do they want me for?" he begged hoarsely, forgetting his syntax again.

His eyes beseeched the one called Kurloz to stop being so damn cryptic. Just let him do whatever work was required of him, and he could rest assured he wouldn't be punished. Being "safe" simply meant being held in the capable hands of owners, and their temperaments were as fickle as Helmsman's moods (when he was allowed to have them).

He knows this panic. The fear that comes in having no task, in thinking surely, surely there was something, there had to be something to do, it was a trick, he had to... The way it swallowed whole, needing and wanting so bad just something to do. When one starts to hope drinks will be spilled and glass will shatter because then there's a job to do.

He can't look the Helmsman in the eye for lone. It's too hard. He tries but glances done so quick again it's hardly meaning anything.

He wishes so bad that he could help.

to heal.
to be okay.
to stop serving.
live.

Psii had had enough publicity, first as a Tribute, then as Signless's right hand troll as they careened into rebellion. Now that things were more or less settled, Psii was finally living the dream of nearly becoming a hermit. He still had the internet of course, where he enjoyed his hobby of anonymously whistleblowing and occasionally hacking security systems to leave behind porn. Keep them on their toes.

However, most of his time was spent tending to his bees. They were not as intelligent as the Alternian bees that produced mind honey, but they were still hard little workers. Psii surrounded his plot with high fences and nasty signage. In contrast, the land bloomed madly with flowers right up to his doorstep.

His best efforts still didn't deter some visitors. He saw someone in the distance and put down his bee smoker.

"Didn't you thee the thignth?" he yelled peevishly as he stalked over. "They thay 'KEEP OUT', 'PR♊VATE PROPERTY', and 'GUARD BEE2 ON DUTY'!"

Edited 2015-03-20 19:52 (UTC)

When all was said and done, it was just too painful for Feferi to sit still, like if she stayed in one place for too long, she'd become too keenly aware of the gaping holes in her own existence. People she missed, things she had missed out on. She was too determined to keep it from getting her down, so she fills her days with wandering. She stops where she wants to, and stay until she feels the tug of wanderlust again, and then she's off.

Sometimes, though, she runs into familiar faces. Not often, but every now and again. As soon as she sees the signs, she knows exactly who put them up, so she finds her way in through a small hole, and starts looking around.

When he approaches, she's actually stopped to stoop over a flower. Her horns have grown since he saw her last, but her hair is shorter. Her smile isn't as bright when she looks up, but it's still earnest, and her eyes, now fully lined with her blood color, are wide as she spots him with his little... smokey watering can.

"Yes, some guard bees you've got here! Very vicious!" She points to the bee perched on the flower she was looking at, a big pink one. It chooses that moment to buzz away, and she watches as it goes. "Wow, he sure showed me!"

He picked up his bee smoker again. Damn wild animals making holes in his fence for wild trolls to get through. Damn them.

"For your information, she'th a she. All worker beeth are female. Altho for your information, humanth are very thcared of beeth, tho the thignth do work. Motht of the time."

He finished picking his way through the flowers, careful not to step on any of them. He gave Feferi a withering look, and half-heartedly pumped the can. A small bit of smoke puffed out in Feferi's vague direction.

"What are you even doing out here at thith hour? Only humanth, diurnal beeth, and crazy beekeeperth are awake at thith time of day."

"Oh! Well I hope that she doesn't mind that I named her Humphrey." In fact, she did not really name the bee, but even if it's been a long time since she saw a Captor of any variety, hassling comes back to her naturally.

She's never had to justify her habits before, so she shrugs, straightening out her slacks and shirt while she tries to think of a graceful way to skirt the truth. "Well, I got used to being awake during the day when I came here. And then after..." She pauses, hesitant to even so much as mention the Games again, and decides to reword herself. "Then, for the past few years, I have been going around to help humans where I can. And since they're all awake during the day, so..."

She shrugs. The truth is, she's awake when she feels like being awake. Sometimes it's during the day, sometimes it's at night. Sometimes, it's for several days at a time.

"Well, what about you? What are you doing, besides trying to tame Earth bees? Sorry, I meant beeth."

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Epilogue Meme!

Psiioniic (threads nested because idk how many prompts i'm doing)

Psyche! the games didn't end

Back from home world as Helmsman

you knew this was coming, you basically baited me

no i'm just inherently horrible, have a nice day 8D

rood tbh

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Bee farm

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