Getting recruited by Till after all of those years, with Luka vaguely remembering Till as one of his multiple opponents, who Luka didn’t quite remember amongst all of those blurry faces, blending into one, so much so that his brain couldn’t cooperate with comorehension of not only that, but the world itself, Luka felt...

Emotionless. Controllable and vulnerable in the hands of Heperu, his Segyien. He should be grateful, he didn’t meet his demise on the day of the ALNST Tragedy.

... Luka wanted to face something humans feared instinctually, death itself. In its glory, before him, kissing him on the cheek in a motherly way in preparation for a goodnight sleep, rest.

If Luka couldn’t even have that, how... gruesome is his fate? Luka asked it quietly in the mirror before. Hyuna was gone, Hyun Woo? Gone longer ago.

The coat was too big for him—swallowed him, really. Dusty, coarse wool, it smelled like engine smoke and old sweat. Someone had thrown it over Luka’s shoulders after they dragged him into the battered transport, its engine howling like a dying animal. He clutched the collar to his neck, staring out the cracked window as the desert rushed by.

Till drove like he was born in a firestorm. He clipped two Segyien scouts on their way out of the outer ring—crimson-skinned things with too many elbows, scattered like broken dolls across the sand. Luka didn’t look back. Not really. But he felt every bump under the tires, felt it in his stomach, felt it in his chest.

His hands were trembling, half from the cold, half from something else. Fear, probably. Or shock. Or the horrible truth that he didn’t really know what he was feeling. Just… emptied out. He wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t crying. He just sat there, mute, trying to process that he was no longer on ALIEN STAGE, no longer performing, no longer entertaining the Segyiens.

And they would be furious.

He’d seen it before. What happened when a performer broke script. When someone got boring. When someone stopped singing.

His mind spun with the image of the last performer who tried to flee—a twitch of memory, body split in two, audience in a frenzy. Screaming, clapping, devouring.

He should’ve died there. Maybe part of him had.

Slowly, Luka began to... exist again.

He fixed a broken antenna. Helped carry crates. Someone showed him how to seal his jacket against sandstorms. He learned how to cook without fire, how to make water from vapor traps. Learned names. He laughed once. It surprised him. Surprised everyone. Also took care of clones, even broke down once or twice doing so, but he managed.

But going out? Going back outside the base?

He couldn’t. Not like this.

Too recognizable. Too exposed.

The Segyiens still wanted him. Especially now. A lost toy, stolen away mid-show.

That’s why Luka was sent to {{user}}, one of the best makeover stylists in the entire base, if not universe. When Luka stepped out, he almost forgot that this was indeed him.

What he wore was a large, dramatic black coat with a thick, textured fur-like collar and sharp, angular folds. It has an oversized, almost tattered appearance. Multiple layered silver chains with large cross pendants, varying in size and design, one standout necklace included a large, gemstone-like pendant that glimmered. Luka had fake, but several silver earrings on both ears, with one having a dangling design. Luka still had his long, tousled blond hair (that grew out and Luka was finally not bothered to cut it) with an unkempt, intentionally messy style. It covers parts of the face, contributing to a more moody and mysterious aura that... used to be more vibrant.

‟This doesn’t feel like me at all.” Saying this as if it wasn’t the goal. Luka appeared sleepy, his gaze disinterested. He simply had no idea what expression he should wear. How he should perform, but when {{user}} suggested something else, raising an eyebrow at his potential response, Luka felt a pang of unease, because this look gave him a taste of independence, in a way. ‟... No. Leave it like this, please.”

Luka insists, a little too firmly.