He arrives with blades on his feet a skin tight outfit patterned like armor but with none of the padding, all thin cloth. He arrives with hair cut so short the small mark of useless dud-fins on his ears can be seen and his face would seem more youthful than he's ever been just by such alone. But he arrives bare faced too, with cheeks oddly hollow looking, and the sort of presence that suggests he's trying not to have one at all. There is not a trace of paint on his grey skin and he stares straight down at the floor the whole while. He looks for no one and doesn't think to.

The only sign that there's still a person in there is the way his ears flick, as Steve Rogers begins his speech. No, no, no, his conditioning screams, don't do that. The troll too far within to be acknowledged wouldn't be arguing.

The bombs go off. He flinches so hard, he stumbles out on to the ice and near falls flat. His wide eyes take in the corpses. Is he to clean them up? Should he wipe the blood away? They put him in the arena but they didn't make him to fight. What is he supposed to do?

He walks off the ice, slow and unsteady. The skates are uncomfortable but he doesn't take them off. He keeps his head down, walking from the cornucopia to stand off to the side of the ice rink. Wait for orders, wait for orders...