thecapitol | [open] CATCH ALL

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Who| ALL Y'ALL it's a ho down
What| A catch-all reaction log for the plot developments. Saves you from making 5 logs each tbh.
Where| All around the place
When| During and post lock down, 3am~ sunday onward
WARNINGS| Panicking, talk of murder and violence. Singing the songs of panem.

When things like THIS and THIS are going down it's probably a good time to touch base with one another. Face caressing, crying and meaningful stares abound as the Tributes and Staff drag their knuckles hopelessly in an effort to figure out what the fresh hell is going on.

Make your own prompts, feel free to make them closed to specific people.

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Albert had gone off almost right after the Peacekeepers hauled Terezi through the door, though it was not in pursuit. When someone pulls a gun on you and you're unarmed (and not a cyborg), you don't follow. It's hard to help people when you're dead. What he does do is go to yell at the liaison to little effect.

When he returns to the suits he's not exactly certain why other that his still undirected rage has only abated slightly and there's nothing he can think of to do for Terezi or anyone else they've taken.

He slams the door behind him, looking a fright. The skin around his eye is blooming reds and puffy and his lip doesn't seem to want to stop bleeding from where the butt of the rifle impacted and sent him sprawling. He puts his hand to it and looks at the slick red it leaves on his fingertips with a curse before he even notices the man lurking nervously in the common room.

"Are you alright?" It should be a greeting but in this situation, well being seems to hold precedence over introductions and other niceties.

Bruce is tense. He can't go to bed, and he couldn't stand the crowds, so he just went back to their floor to digest all the information given to him.

But no, peace is never something to hope for. A man comes trumping in, looking like he's been beaten to a pulp. "Better than you are, apparently."

Bruce can be very blunt when he's stressed.

"I'll grab something to stop the bleeding." He slips away without waiting for an answer, coming back a moment later with a small hand towel wrapped around ice.

"It's fine, it's just superficial," though the impact had rattled his teeth and the blossoming black eye is none too pretty to look at, the reds slowly starting to turn sickly colors around the edges.

"But... thank you." He lets his anger go just a smidgen, enough to accept the ice and put it gingerly against his lip. The eye is still to painful to touch, even with ice, but his lip at least he can care for before it gets too swollen. "You're new, yes?"

"I just got here this evening. I'm guessing you've been here longer."

Bruce takes a moment to look the man up and down, gauging his wounds. He's right--it looks largely superficial, but he would still be pretty tender. "You should probably put ice on your eye, too. It's going to swell up." And it might swell his eye closed if he doesn't do anything about it.

"Too long," he responds dourly, taking the other man's advice and carefully pressing the cloth just right of the bridge of his nose, having to grit his teeth. Maybe it's a little more than superficial, but he's not about to announce that to someone he hardly knows. "A little over six months."

He's quiet for another moment, taking the towel away to see if there's blood there too and then replacing it, mollified that the butt of the rifle that had connected with his face hadn't broken the skin. "I'm Heinrich, Albert Heinrich. What should I call you?"

"Six months?" That was unnerving, that they had had people for six months. "Just how long have they been grabbing off-worlders to play gladiator?"

Bruce rested his back against a counter, instinctively in a position where all exits were in view. He crossed his arms, as if that would protect him from all the awfulness that was unfolding around them. "I'm Bruce Banner. You can call me Bruce, Banner, Dr. Banner--whatever you like." There was once a time he would have gotten snippy if a stranger called him anything other than Dr. Banner, but his priorities had significantly shifted since then.

"Some have been here longer." No use in lying to the man. Albert sighs and adjusts his makeshift ice pack.

"I'm not sure for how long. Years, possibly. And this is the mild sort of punishment for dissent." He indicates his bruised up face. "But it's not entirely hopeless."

He just can't talk about that openly when the Capitol's eyes and ears are everywhere. "Doctor of what, if I may ask?"

"I'm a doctor of theoretical physics."

He decides not to pry more about the 'dissent' and 'not entirely hopeless' comments. It didn't take a paranoid genius to know that everything was probably being recorded right now.

"But I've been providing people with medical care for the better part of a decade now. I'm not a licensed medical doctor, but I can work in pinch." More than just that. He has a lot of experience dealing with a variety of diseases and wounds; just don't ask him to deal with specialist things like neurology or oncology.

"Interesting." It really is, even if Albert's tone sounds more like he's humoring Bruce. Forgive him, his face is throbbing.

"Field medicine is going to be very helpful to you here, as you might imagine. Theoretical physics not so much." A sigh escapes him and he adjusts his ice pack, wincing unhappily. He's in much the same boat with his passion being useless but his life experience keeping him alive. There's not much call for writing music when you're in a death match something like once a month, but a lifetime of fighting will certainly give you an edge.

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