thecapitol | (no subject)

Who: Clint and Open!
What: Clint settling in
Where: mostly at the tribute building but if you want to meet him around town that's cool too!
When: whenever you want
Warnings/Notes: None so far

Clint doesn't like being out of control. He's spent most of his life ensuring that he will always, always have a choice. Even SHIELD, with as much stability as it brought to his life, was something he had multiple exits from, a dozen different ways to disappear if he needed to.

He doesn't have any of that here, and that...

Well, that's more than a problem.

So he spends most of his time doing things that free up his mind to think.

He sits at the edge of the roof, looking over the city, burning the layout into his mind, making what deductions he can from the architecture, the streets, the people he sees down there, going about their business.

Or he goes down to the training center, to the shooting range. What difference does it make now if people know how good he is? Let them know. Let them see him hit bulls-eye after bulls-eye after bulls-eye, dead center perfection every time. Just like Trickshot taught him.

Or he wanders around the city, learning what he can about the people here and their lives, learning how to blend in if he needs to. (They like purple almost as much as he does.)

Or, when he doesn't want to leave his floor, he sits in the lounge area, watching the games. Tony's still alive, and he can't help wanting to know how the man is getting on. It helps that he knows Stark won't stay dead if he dies, but only a little.

[ooc: Feel free to catch him wherever/whenever but please indicate it in the subject line.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eliot had gone down to the training level to unleash his anger and frustration on the dummies and punching bags down there. He'd hoped for more than a few hours respite from the city. Instead, he'd been injured by a kid, killed by someone who'd tried to help him, and now they'd brought his pseudo-little sister in, too. He looks up at the sound of an arrow hitting a target but doesn't say anything yet. He glares at the punching bag and unleashes another round of hits at it.

Clint is aware of the other man in the room, but it hardly matters that he's there. It's good actually. It gives him something to block out.

He shoots through the entire quiver and then goes to retrieve the arrows, moving back to the line to shoot through them again, faster this time, shots coming in rapid succession and arrows landing one on top of the other, dead center.

Eliot steps away from the punching bag as the other Tribute retrieves the arrows. He brushes his hair out of his face. "You're good." It's an honest compliment. He might be an expert with a gun but he's never seen an archer this good.

"Yeah, I know," Clint says. It's not exactly smug, more matter of fact. He is good. He's the best. Said so on the posters.

He nods toward the punching bag. "What'd he ever do to you?"

Just like Eliot was the best in his field. It wasn't something he needed to brag about. And it wasn't like he could actually work here.

He looked back at the punching bag and smirked. "He's there and he's not alive."

"Good enough reason, I guess," Clint says with a smirk. "It's way more satisfying when they punch back, though."

Eliot couldn't help the laugh. "This is true. But I doubt any of the trainers could keep up with me and that would defeat the purpose."

Clint arches an eyebrow. "That good, huh?"