His arrival is quiet. Almost peaceful. The look in his eyes makes him anything but, however. There are lines in his face, telling and worrying, lines of exhaustion and hunger, lines of a man who has gone too long indulging and forgetting to take care of himself. He's sure there's a capital sin somewhere in his actions, greed or gluttony, perhaps, killing and shedding the blood of others just because he could, just because the virus creeping in his brain invited him to go, go, go and never stop.

But now he has to stop. That's what he tells himself, looking for supplies, looking for a means to rest and recharge. He's still human - though the implants in his arms and eyes and the virus have made him something more repulsive than that - he is still mortal. It's time to focus on that, he thinks. His own mortality, instead of someone else's.

How wrong he is.

Hyperion's steps are taking him closer to the hidden tributes until he passes right by them, more curiosity than any wariness in his eyes or in the way his hands close into soft fists by his sides, searching the premises for any sign of movement, of a presence. He is making no effort to be sneaky, not exactly - just careful. Discreet.

He hears another sound, from the distance. A loud pop, probably debris collapsing into itself, with no one around to witness the destruction, making him look with a wild alertness in his eyes. The sound calms him down, however, and after another moment, Hyperion returns to what he was doing before.

(If there's someone here, he'll find them. Or they'll find him. It doesn't matter.)

The effort to keep the humanoid down is visible in the way his arm trembles, knife still placed very carefully and readily against his cheek. He could cut Karkat's eye out if he wanted, make him feel a little something before deciding where to move on next.

"You could say hello back." Idle talk. Hyperion prefers the sound of his own voice, anyway. "Were you trying to kill me?"

Hyperion's eyes follow the trail of Karkat's gaze, swift and and wary like an animal. He's looking for someone else. Which means there won't be just one death today.

They need to stop grouping together. It's a very bad idea.

"That was a big mistake, buddy." His lips stretch to show teeth, neither a grin nor fully a grimace, pulling back the knife to drive it into the stomach, pushing and twisting, his face close to the creature's, almost capable of picking up his scent. It's never a pleasant one. Hyperion can't say his is much better - there's so much blood on him already.

(It's neither a grin nor a grimace. It's just teeth.)

The knife pulls out and slits the feeble throat. The other inevitable death would have been slow. This is quick. Effective. Clean at first, a mess shortly after.

"Aren't you going to say goodbye to your friend?"

Silence is starting to set it. But he doesn't mean Karkat - he's waiting for an answer.

Hyperion is looking straight at where Signless should be.

"It was either me or him."

That's the truth, but Hyperion would gladly have taken his life, with or without his initial intention to attack him first. Hyperion gets on his knees, then on his feet, knife by his side. He wipes the blood on his clothes.

"Sorry you had to see that."