thecapitol | OPEN

Entry tags:

OPEN

Who| Mickey Milkovich, OPEN
What| Oh god is someone not happy about being here
Where| Lounge, Training Center
When| Sunday evening
Warnings/Notes| swearing and anger issues

Lounge
Mickey is cleaner now than he probably has been in months. The anger from being grabbed and scrubbed clean still hasn't abated and, really, he's driving himself crazy. This all seems way too complicated to be something his father cooked up for punishment and Mickey thinks he's been punished enough but who knows when Terry will leave him be, if ever. But this place is driving him mad, everything is too shiny and new and clean. He doesn't need to look out the window to figure out that he's not in Chicago anymore, not even Northside, this is some place much nicer. He hates it.

He automatically cases the place, locating doors and windows, figuring out exit strategies or what piece of furniture would be best to duck behind if a gun fight broke out. And damn does he feel naked without a gun and knife somewhere on his person. He's not defenseless, god no, he fight just as well with his hands but it's nothing like the security of a gun.

The best he can do is find something heavy to hold on to, blunt force trauma would work just as well as a gunshot when everything was said and done. He doesn't know what it is he picked up, some stone thing probably worth more than his life, but it'll do.

He makes his way out of the room slowly and finds himself in some sort of lounge. There are other people mulling around and instead of jumping in and causing a scene like he would usually do he decides to side step in, lean against the wall, and watch.

He wipes his thumb against his bottom lip, a cigarette would be great right about now.

Training Center
Eventually he makes his way to the training center. After a quick look around where he realizes there are no guns around for him to nick he heads towards the knives. He picks one up and feels its weight in his hand, it's not the type of knife he usually keeps on him but it'll do just fine. As a test he throws the knife at one of the set targets, it doesn't hit where he wants it to. With that placement it would slow down and enemy but not kill, the target wasn't even fucking moving. That wouldn't do.

He picks up another knife and tries again.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If there's one thing Howard can spot from a mile away, it's a smoker. Aside from booze, nicotine was Howard's bread and butter back in the FAYZ, back when drug-dealing was the only way to get food (if you could call it that) on the table. Fourteen months of preying on anxious, lonely kids only about his age, only in middle school too, has given him a keen eye for which people can be wooed with a pack.

So, sitting in the corner of the lounge, reading a guide to edible plants and people watching, he notices the way the new guy's fingers seem to be missing something, the way they seem, perpetually, to move towards Mickey's mouth, even just to wipe away spit or pick at stray skin.

For his part, Howard's done well for himself since the last Arena. He's put weight back onto his starving frame, bringing him up to a grand total of eighty-six pounds. He no longer has to wear clothing that his stylists pad so he doesn't look like he'll collapse if he's patted on the back, so he's curled up on his chair in an oversized sweater and a pair of size 2 jeans. He chews at his lip as he reads, then, after a while, tucks the book into a messenger bag he's been carrying with him. Like all things in the Capitol, it's a little too gaudy, with rhinestones and shiny gold print spelling some shit out in latin. Howard hasn't bothered to ask anyone what it means.

He gets up and walks over to Mickey, leans against the wall a few feet from him, and says "no smoke detectors on the third floor balcony." He taps the pack-of-cards-sized bulge in his pocket.

[Let me know if this is too infomoddy!]

Mickey has lived on a steady diet of smokes, alcohol, and frozen foods for years and to go without any of those actually makes his skin crawl. It doesn't matter how nice a place it is, he'd rather go back to the Southside (even if he hates himself for thinking that). Although, he'd rather go back with pockets full of cash from all the stuff he could pawn. Seriously, who brings a criminal into a room full of nice stuff?

He pauses with his thumb on his lip, ready to wipe at it again. Shit was it that obvious that he needed a smoke? It must be if that's what this stranger chose to address first.

"Yeah? You gonna bum me a smoke then?"

"Sure am." He flicks his eyes up. "No smoke detectors on the roof, either. Come on, I'll show you."

Howard, for his part, is trying to make those small connections again, the little ones with people where he doesn't have to feel close to them but that might make them pause in the Arena when they have the chance to kill him. This kid gave me cigarettes. This kid showed me around the place. Sentimentality with no strings attached, and no sense of betrayal if he gets killed anyway.

He gestures with his hand to the elevators, the other hand in his pocket folding around some stolen jewelry just to make sure it's there. He really doesn't know yet how many similarities he and the new guy have.

Mickey shrugs and follows after him. Part of him knows that this guy could be leading him into some trap or something but Mickey's sure he can take him. Besides, he's itching for a fight almost as much as he's itching for a smoke, really either one will do at this point.

He rearranges his grip on the stone thing he picked up earlier, he could probably get it out of the building but he didn't know this city like he knows Chicago. For a moment he considers asking about pawn shops but figures that's a conversation for after the cigarette has been handed over, no need to get himself in trouble any sooner than that.

Unfortunately that doesn't stop him from asking, "you got anything stronger than tobacco on you?"

The elevator from the first floor always feels like it takes forever for Howard. It's not like he's claustrophobic; it's not the tight spaces that bother him, it's that other people are in them too. He's actually quite fond of tucking himself into nooks and closets and other places where inanimate things pressing in on him make him feel protected.

But people? Fuck people, man.

Howard raises an eyebrow and twitches his mouth to the side slightly. If he were a dog, his ears would perk. "No, not at the moment, except alcohol. But give me 48 hours and I can probably set you up with something. For nerves, obviously."

The elevator doors open to the roof, where the starlight is blazing above them. Howard can't see the pricks of light without thinking of laser targeting on rifles.

Mickey just stood on the other side of the elevator. He didn't have any problems with it or anything he just doesn't like touching other people when he doesn't have to.

He agrees, fuck people, they're more trouble than they're worth. It's that kind of mentality that makes him such a loner, but that's fine by him.

"Yeah? What you got to drink then?" Ah yes, friendships born from mutual vices are the best type (as long as you don't like lend them money or some shit, you'll never get that back).

For a moment Mickey looks up at the stars before snapping his head back down to his feet. He doesn't need to think about Ian, about how he insulted him and asked about shooting stars because fuck him they were only fucking not dating. He didn't need this.

"How 'bout that smoke?"

"Everything you want, around here. I mean, I can make my own, but why bother when they've got booze coming out their ears? Just use your little watch communicator thing and tell an Avox you want something hard and cold."

Howard hops up and sits on the rail that goes around the roof. He knows he can't fall, because of the force field, and it puts him on the same plane of vision as Mickey. He slips the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket with a magician's sleight of hand and pulls one out for himself, then tosses the pack to Mickey. The lighter emerges from seemingly nowhere as well.

Howard doesn't have a smoking habit; he never could afford it in the FAYZ, where cigarettes had a finite quantity and the nic addicts were willing to shell over even food to get it. When you're starving, little indulgences like tobacco fall to the wayside. But he did used to smoke when ditching school when he was thirteen.

It's comforting, to be able to fall back on an old habit from before the world went to hell.

"No shit?" he raises an eyebrow, "what's the catch? No one is just going hand over free booze."

Mickey leans on the rail and looks over the unfamiliar city. It's weird not being able to recognize the skyline, he's never been out of Chicago before and he knew that skyline as well as he knew his own name. Hell, he could probably tell you every time the L was due to pass by at any given spot.

He puts the cigarette between his lips, cups his hand around the end and lights it before handing the lighter back and taking a long drag. Shit it was good. He never figured himself to be addicted to them or anything, it was just one of those things everyone did. You smoked and drank before you even knew you weren't supposed to until a certain age.

"Fuck that's good," he says, blowing the smoke at the city.

"Well, the catch is that they throw you in a giant snow globe, shake it up, and have you kill a bunch of other people. I figure that kind of work's at least worth booze, right?" He's not much of a fan of drinking, personally, but he's started doing it a bit more since he got here.

He nods, taking a drag, then laughs wryly. "Feels like home." His legs swing from the rail, unable to reach the ground from here, like a little kid's on a swing.

"What's your deal?"

"Sounds like every fucking day back where I'm from. Only the booze ain't free." He takes another long drag on his cigarette and taps off the dangling ash. His entire life has been about surviving and if that meant killing people who got in his way then sure. The only thing that would bug him is that it's for entertainment. His life isn't something someone would want to sit and watch on television, fuck no, it's private and unhappy. Even he doesn't get any sick enjoyment from watching actual murder.

"Go fuck yourself," he says casually.

"Yeah, and obviously I come from fucking Disneyland." Howard rolls his eyes. If they want to play 'my hometown is shittier than your hometown', Howard's got a pretty good hand to start with. He rolls his eyes and takes another drag, holding it in his lungs before letting it out slow.

"Pretty sure that's not your real name, Go Fuck Yourself."

"Never said you did." Mickey is well aware people have it worse than him. He's never been homeless even if he's been hungry, he's never been taken away from his home by the state. Sure, he's been beaten and bruised and shot and assaulted in all different ways but you won't catch him complaining. It's just the price of living.

"Ah, you didn't ask that," he shakes his head, "name's Mickey."

"I like 'Go Fuck Yourself' better," Howard muses, twirling the burning cigarette between his fingers like a tiny baton. He can't help but twitch and fidget. "Mickey. You probably heard all the mouse jokes by now."

He doesn't offer his hand to shake, although he does park the smoke firmly in his lips. "I'm Howard."

He hardly responds, by now he expects that type of reaction. He just gives Howard the middle finger and keeps smoking his cigarette, quietly mourning the fact he's going to finish it soon and he doesn't have his own to chain smoke.

"Make a mouse joke and I'll cut your fucking tongue out."

Yeah, in Mickey's world that's hardly responding.

"Cute. You know we got tongueless wonders around here?" He blows some smoke and stares out over the skyline.

Howard's been threatened with worse. Doesn't mean he isn't on edge, though.

"Yeah? Who they piss off?"

"The powers that be." Howard tries and fails to blow a smoke ring. He props up his foot on the rail and rests his elbow on his knee.

"Fuck them then." He stubs out the end of his cigarette and toys with the butt for lack of better things to do with his hands.

"How long you been here then?"

Howard hops off the rail to stomp on his cigarette, then kicks the butt off the edge of the roof. It makes a sizzling sound and catches on the force field. It lays in midair on a transparent surface, a reminder that death isn't an option for escape right now.

"Half a year, maybe? Little longer? It gets hard to tell time."

Mickey is a bit startled by the force field thing but he kind of likes the whole the sizzling thing so he tosses his butt as well to see if the same thing happens.

"Shit, man. Sucks. Besides the whole," he waves his hand for a second but then stops because that could be seen as gay, "death match this. This place better or worse than wherever the fuck you're from?"

Mickey's butt, too, sizzles.

"Oh, this place is way better. Food, running water, electricity." Howard pulls out another cigarette, then offers Mickey another. "No complaints."

He gratefully takes another. Sometimes a smoke is all it takes to get on Mickey's good side.

"Heh, no fucking bills and no fucking family here. Don't seem too shitty." He nods towards the carton of cigarettes, "where you get those?"

Howard glances over his shoulder, making sure they're along on the roof. "Boosted 'em."

"Where from? Gotta hit them up myself."

"Places. Nothing on the main street, those are all like that electric cigarette crap. Side streets."

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