thecapitol | [open] They're mopping up the butcher's floor

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[open] They're mopping up the butcher's floor

Who| Brock Samson and YOU
What| Brock gets over himself and goes to the zoo
Where| Training Center (D8, gym, roof, commons) and Capitol Zoo & Aquarium
When| Weds., Jan. 14

a. TRIBUTE TOWER.

After the Arena, Brock spent a little over a week being as reclusive as one can in a world where one has been foisted into Kardashianing against one's will. He spent a large amount of his time in the Training Center -- specifically in the gym.

Today is really no different. He's in the gym, stabbing training dummies and hitting the heavy bag and climbing the rock wall. He has a lot of aggression to work out, and this is the best way to do it.

Still, it's been over a week. It's time to buck up and get over it. It's not so much that Brock's mad he lost -- he didn't really care to win, and, to be fair, pretty much everyone was cheated out of a fair fight because of several circumstances -- but rather that his death disturbed him more than he'd care to admit. And the best way to deal with things he didn't want to admit, in Brock's experience, was to distract himself to the point where he didn't have time to think about it. But there is a thin line between healthy coping mechanisms and being a little bitch about something, so he makes a concerted effort to move the hell on.

Midday, he's up at the rooftop garden, idly looking over plants as he smokes a cigarette. Which is probably not a great combination, but screw you, just try and stop him. Occasionally, he leans over to touch the plants, frowning, before he moves on to the next planter.

He can also be found in the District 8 Suites and in the Central Commons, though he doesn't stay in either place for long, only passing through.

b. CAPITOL ZOO & AQUARIUM

As the day winds down, Brock heads out into the world. He's usually at the zoo every week, every Wednesday, a quirk he's not sure the Capitol has picked up on yet, judging by the lack of paparazzi following him here. But it's not like there aren't cameras everywhere anyway, he muses darkly, as he looks over giraffes and monkeys and other things on his way to nowhere in particular.

Or at least that's how he's trying to appear: he's going nowhere in particular. He always winds up by the polar bears as the sun begins to sink down, then upstairs to the otters and sea lions and other aquatic mammals. He lingers here awhile, maybe waiting for someone, but then again, maybe these are just his favorite animals. Either way, once it's dark enough, he moves on, glancing at a few more exhibits before he leaves.

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Occasionally, a girl just needs to get away from it all. Away from the Tribute Center, away from the bars and restaurants and the people. And Porrim's learned that a pretty good place to get some solitude is the Capitol's aquarium. She enjoys a leisurely stroll through every now and then, enjoying being surrounded by walls of water, and darkness, and silence, the fish silent shadows moving alongside her. Every now and then, she pauses, watching the great white Beluga whales swim-dancing, strangely graceful in their bulk, and that's what she's doing when she spies a reflection in the glass that indicates she's not as alone as she imagined.

The Escort turns, appraising the man briefly, before smiling slightly.

"So we meet in person." Her voice echoes a little in the tunnel-like space with its dark marble floors.

Brock has actually found it a little surprising that the Capitol has something like an aquarium. It seems a little too academic for the regular sort of debauchery that the Capitolites like to engage in -- you can't really have a glow-stick orgy against a dolphin tank. Or maybe you could. He doesn't really want to think about that.

But he's thankful for it. The animals remind him of his family, of taking the twins to see educational crap like this because, frankly, homeschooling could only get you so far. They needed to get out in the open every now and then. The irony doesn't escape him that now, here, he's out in the open but still very much contained and closed in.

It takes Brock a second to place her when she turns, and he blinks at her before an acknowledging grin creeps across his face. "Porrim, right? Winding down after a super-exciting Arena?"

There might be some sarcasm in his tone. Maybe. So super-exciting.

"Astonishingly thrilling," she quips dryly, not missing a beat. A school of those tiny orange fish swims close, and Porrim lifts a finger and presses it to the glass, winding it in figure-eights and watching the fish follow it around and around in formation, like they're hypnotized. She glances sidelong at Brock, her little smile widening.

"How was outer space? Cold, I'm assuming." She's not trying to be an asshole; she's always found it easier to try and make light of the Arenas when speaking with Tributes, rather than making everything sad and somber like a goddamn funeral. There are no funerals, when they're doomed to die over and over. It wouldn't be appropriate to act like one.

Brock watches her play with the fish, though to be honest, he's more interested in the angle of her wrist and the delicate arc of her finger. He appreciates the way she's joking about it, anyway; he doesn't trust the Capitolites as a matter of course, but the more self-aware they are on an individual basis, the more he'll let his guard down.

"Oh, yeah. Freezing. Especially when they turn the oxygen off." The way he died is a little fuzzy and he hasn't watched the tape -- he doesn't want to. But it's a little cathartic to joke about it instead of moping around.

"But, you know, it's winter, right? The next one'll probably be ice castles."

"I bet," she remarks, dropping her finger and watching the little school of fish scatter now that their amusement is gone. Porrim turns to face him, then, leaning a shoulder against the cool glass of the tank, silent shapes gliding past behind her.

"Please," she snorts. "Give us a bit more credit than that. We may love our blood sport, but we've got taste." Is that a hint of cynicism in her voice? Or is she merely being ironic? She has to hope it comes off as the latter. The escort takes a step or two nearer. "I hope this doesn't sound like a line, but--come here often?"

Even Brock, who sports a mullet and regularly stomps around in jeans that are too short for his inseam, has to doubt that the Capitol has anything remotely resembling taste. He's smart enough not to let his doubt show, though, interpreting that remark as irony. Porrim is pretty and she isn't treating him like he's some kind of curiosity, but that doesn't mean he trusts her.

He stays put when she comes closer, the corner of his mouth curving up as his brow levels. "I wouldn't mind it if it were," he says smoothly, but decides to give her the answer she wants. "Weekly. More or less. Unless I'm, you know, being forced to kill people..."

His answer makes her smile despite herself, and she pauses at a distance that's not cautious, not too intimate--a friendly distance. "Fair enough." Her smile widens. "It's not a bad place to spend your time, in between Arenas."

Porrim waves an airy hand. "I come here a fair bit myself, when I need a moment to myself. I've found it's pretty good for thinking." She pauses to watch a shark pass overhead. "The fish are pretty good about being non-judgmental."

Turning her gaze back to Brock, she inclines her head toward him. "How are you settling in? Finding yourself in need of any escorting?" She's teasing, referencing the last time they spoke.

Brock glances up at the shark, too, though he's thinking less about the permissive habits of fish and more about how easy it would be to kill a guy with a shark. If not ice castles, then maybe they'll be shoved into some kind of aquatic Arena. It's a bit of a morbid thing to think about, so he doesn't mention it, but he's always considering the possibilities of next time. Maybe that's why the downtime is so nerve-racking for some; the unknown looming in the distance.

"Ha," he says, catching her reference, and he leans casually against the railing in front of the glass. "I'm not dumb enough to turn down an offer, if that's what you mean. But, nah, I'm still getting used to... all this." He gestures vaguely in the air. "Separating the private from the personal. Tough juggling act."

Casually, as if she owns the place--and really, her parents have donated enough money that she might as well--Porrim pulls herself up so she's perched on the brass railing, supported by her hands on either side.

"I suppose it'd be a lot to get used to," she muses, "having everything you do in the public eye. Me, I get to stay out of it for the most part, but you all--every move you make, they're watching you."

Unless you're fortunate enough to find a blind spot, she almost says, but doesn't.

She doesn't have to; he's thinking it anyway. He's almost certain he's found one in the zoo itself, where there's a waterfall that he thinks makes it impossible for bugs to catch anything but white noise. He hasn't been proven wrong just yet, but he knows as well as anyone not to put all his spy eggs in one basket.

"That's the messed up part," he agrees, looking up at the ceiling. "You never know just how private anything is. I figure there's even cameras in the bedrooms."

Oh, she can't help but smirk at that, not even bothering to hide it.

"Naturally," she replies. "Didn't you know? We're all voyeurs, here." She's teasing, mostly--she can't resist an opportunity to tease. And besides, she's not even sure of the answer to that question herself.

He's surprised at how easily she takes the accusation -- involved in the extensive bugging or not, Porrim is still a Capitolite, still one of them -- but then again, he's getting more and more surprised by the Tribute staff all the time. Trey's not as much of a hedonistic asshole as Brock originally thought, Porrim has an actual sense of humor...

The surprise that was clear on his face quickly gives way to a smirk of his own, and he gestures vaguely in the air. "Sure. Not that I have anything to hide."

She eyes him almost lazily, swaying slightly where she's perched--fingernails tapping lightly against the railing. "No, I don't imagine you would," she remarks. "But in all honesty, I have no idea whether or not that's true." Porrim chuckles.

"I suppose you'll know once all your truly dirty laundry comes out on national television."

Brock laughs. "Yeah," he says, fishing in his pockets for a moment and coming up with a cigarette. The lighter is platinum and has his name engraved on it in fancy script -- Swann's idea, not his. "I guess I'll find out along with everybody else. That's what makes it fun."

He lights the cigarette with a clink of the lighter, turning his head to exhale smoke away from Porrim. Pocketing the lighter again, he gestures vaguely at her.

"Let me ask you something. Professional question."

Porrim laughs, a light and airy thing that echoes faintly in the enclosed space of the aquarium, and slides down from her perch atop the railing, watching him light his cigarette with curious eyes. She's not sure it's strictly allowed in here, but she also doesn't much care, so she says nothing.

"Ask away," she replies, with a little nod of acknowledgment toward Brock.

It's probably not allowed, truth be told, but nobody's stopped him yet. The Capitol may have the Tributes under their metaphorical heel, but there are certain perks to being a de facto celebrity.

Brock watches Porrim hop down, not moving away. It's less a desire to invade her space and more to make his question more salient. "Fraternization between staff and Tributes," he says, eyebrow lifting subtly while the rest of his expression remains impassive, eying her curiously for a reaction. "Allowed or no?"

Porrim's brow lifts noticeably at the question, though it's less scandalized and more interested a movement. "That is quite the professional question," she echoes, more than a little sarcasm in her voice. But she gives him an answer, her mouth just a fraction of an inch away from a smirk.

"Not strictly forbidden," she goes on, "not in writing, anyway. Frowned upon, perhaps, but as it stands there's no specific rule against it." She lifts her chin toward Brock, almost daring him with her gaze. "Why do you ask?"

Brock doesn't answer immediately, taking a second to drag on his cigarette, exhaling smoke out the corner of his mouth. He meets her gaze steadily, noting the challenge behind her look and appreciating it; too many of the Capitolites he's met have been vapid and all talk, so to interact with a woman of actual depth is a nice change. Maybe even exciting.

"Oh, you know," he answers after a beat, angling his wrist to the side to flick ash onto the ground. "I like to keep my options open."

"Naturally." She angles her chin up and to the side, under the guise of watching the octopus that has attached itself to the side of the tank and is creeping toward them curiously, but lets her gaze slide back down to Brock after a moment.

"For what it's worth, if you ever decide you're in the mood to break some hypothetical rules..." She turns her head back to face him. "You know where to find me."

He was hoping she'd say that. Porrim is attractive, sure, but she's smart -- and Brock can imagine just how fun breaking the rules would be with her.

"Good to know," he says, the corners of his mouth slowly curving up. "Offer's mutual."

He takes a final drag off his cigarette and then drops it to the ground, crushing it under his toe as he exhales the smoke. "I guess I should extend the other thing, too. Not that I got any expertise that'll be interesting to you." Unless she wants to know about killing guys? Maybe. "But if you have any questions for me..."

Ah, yes. Perfect. They're playing the same game, here. It's good to know that everyone's on the same page. "Lovely," she says softly, watching him exhale his last bit of smoke. She inhales lightly--the smell of it is something like comforting. Nice, in the way that cigarette smoke only is until it's stale in your jacket.

"I'm sure you could show me a thing or two, don't worry," she assures him. "I'll let you know if any questions arise." She's seriously wondering if there is anything she could glean from him. But she doesn't want to stray his focus too much, so she leaves it at that. Porrim pushes herself away from the railing and gives him a smirk.

"See you around," she tosses over her shoulder as she goes.

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[open] They're mopping up the butcher's floor

aquarium!!

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