thecapitol | These Pants Are Optional

Entry tags:

These Pants Are Optional

Who| OPEN to Lyle and YOU; closed to Lyle and Brainy
What| Vegan acrophobe wakes from death-by-falling to leather pants. NOPE.
Where| Suite 10, the elevator between Suites 10 and 8, Suite 8; Brainy's room
When| Week 4
Warnings/Notes| Swearing, out-right refusal to wear pants. Anything else TBA. Put where you find him in the subject line.

Lyle woke as he always did in stressful situations: instantly alert and betraying no sign of having done so other than the jack-hammering of his heart in his ears.

This time, it's flavored with distinctly more panic that he's used to.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.

He doesn't...feel injured, though. Which he should, because ohgod nope, not going there, not thinking about--

Lyle rolls out of his (really soft) bed and into a defensive crouch, looking around for signs of a threat. Seeing no obvious ones, he makes for the door, scrubbing a hand over his face to make sure it's completely under his control.

Okay. Not dead. Good job step one. Step two: find Brainy. He'd said he was representing District 8. Surely there was going to be a sign somewhere indicating where to find the District 8 rooms.

...what the sprock was he even wearing?

The shirt was fine (sleeveless, high-collared, black, clung to him like a second skin), but the (black, fitted) pants were weird. They almost felt like they were made out of the same material as Brin's jacket, but the texture was slightly different. He'd felt this before, where had he felt this--

--Oh. Oh yeah.

"Ew!"

Lyle had never gotten out of his own pants so fast, and he'd had to strip down due to hazardous chemical spills before. On the other hand, he'd never found himself wearing pants made out of actual skin!

On the upside, there was a clothing dispenser in here. On the downside, the only pants in it were also made out of skin, buttery and smooth and as black as Darkseid's soul. The selection of boots likewise appeared to be made from skin as well.

Fine. Lyle was a grown man, he'd worn less to the beach more than once. His underwear (well, "his" underwear in the sense that they were the underwear he was wearing, because the death match and the skin pants weren't creepy enough) was also black, so at least they kept the theme.

Lyle strode out of his room; face impassive, feet bare, and utterly sans pants. Bring it, Panem, Lyle Norg was on a mission.

Hey, elevators. That looked positive.

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Brainy was being presented as more of a fluffy kitten-petting type so they'd opted for more stiff-looking clothing rather than leather. Grey and black shirts and pants with crisp lines and high collars. Right now he was all in gray, sitting on the edge of his bed, his communicator out. A prompt was already up as if he was about to make a call. Not that they had the frame of reference but at the moment, someone from 21st century Earth might have made a comparison to Dr. Evil.

His looked up the moment Lyle barged into his room - led by an avox who quickly scuttled off.

"Norg, thank goodness, I -" His jaw dropped slightly and then he rallied with, "I see you've taken it on yourself to establish a reputation as the Tribute Center's riskiest dresser."

It did the clenching sensation in his chest good to find Brainy alive and awake. It did less good for his self-control, because relief always did; but he managed to contain himself until after he'd shut the door and propped (totally propped) himself against it to keep anyone from barging in on them.

"Brainy," he said as his self-control fractured into helpless laughter. They were both alive and this was so sprocking ridiculous. "All of my pants are made out of skin."

That wasn't good. It wasn't actually that funny. In fact, it was pretty gross and what had happened to them was rather horrific. He was dealing with it, of course. What other choice did he have?

But that hadn't been a death by way of his greatest fear. It had been Lyle's.

It hadn't been a death he was thrown headfirst into, since he'd arrived before the arena and had time to prepare. It had been for Lyle.

More to the point, he'd seen this kind of overwhelmed hysterical reaction before and from more than one team-mate. In fact, he was often the team-mate that wasn't doing it that had to take care of the ones who were. It was a role that had been thrust upon him by necessity but it was one he undertook without resentment.

Brainy shut down the prompt on his communicator and pulled the duvet away to make space for someone to lie underneath it.

Then he walked over to him and locked the door, reaching down to pull Lyle up.

"You're decompensating. Come here."

Edited 2014-03-03 08:00 (UTC)

Lyle rarely suffered from such reactions, due in part to his natural resiliency and in part to the training he received from EarthGov. Which was a good thing both in general and in specific; this sort of thing brought out the worst in him and Lyle had a contrary streak a klick wide at the best of times.

He stopped laughing and stared with slitted eyes at Brainy's extended hand.

"No."

And just like that, out of nowhere, after more than a year of tucking it away, he used The Voice.

"Lyle."

The Voice was something he'd developed during his run as Legion Leader, which had been a mess. A life-saving mess, but a mess. The entire team had been reeling from the trauma of losing their universe, many of them were mentally deteriorating, they had no ship, very little supplies, and no way of knowing how they were going to get by. Or if they were.

So he'd stepped forward for a term as Legion Leader, making it clear to them all that he was better prepared for the emotional strain. As the only one that was remotely sane and grounded at the time, he'd been voted in unanimously.

That didn't mean everyone was willing to listen to him, though. They were stressed and psychologically unbalanced, the pressures on them all were grueling, and in that state of being, rationality was often the first to give. They were a disorganized mess at times, occasionally incapable of proper teamwork.

That was when he'd developed and started using The Voice.

They all had a natural inclination to listen to him because he was usually the one with all the answers, but in their ragged state, they'd been ignoring it. But The Voice always caught their attention. The Voice reached down to the base of their spines and yanked until they'd turned around from bickering with each other to face him. The Voice had an almost identical effect to that thing parents did where they quietly said their kid's full name and they just knew they were in trouble.

It was quiet, yet not threatening, yet so firm that "no" just simply had given up and died rather than being an option for an answer.

"Up. Now."

Edited 2014-03-03 08:30 (UTC)

It worked about as well as it always had. Lyle straightened up from his crouch and had taken a step toward the bed before he realized he was doing it. He hesitated, casting a sidelong glare at Brainy, but the use of The Voice also seemed to have jolted him into a state that recognized that, if Brainy used The Voice, then he had a very good reason. He completed the walk to Brainy's bed without protest.

He did, however, slouch resentfully against the headboard instead of laying down properly. But he kept the irritated I'm fine behind his teeth rather than spitting the words out into the room.

Punchy, by contrast, has completely availed himself to everything his Stylists have thrown at him, which explains why he got a stylish tattoo of a dragon crawling up his neck and across one side of his face yesterday. The tattoo doesn't look especially happy today, a bit waxy and puffy, but Punchy figures that if he actually read the directions on tattoo care, they'd say that was normal. Probably. He ain't bothered.

He's also got chain pants that drag a solid foot and a half past his ankles, despite his considerable height, and about six popped collars. Truly, he is the emblem of cutting fashion. He shuffles into the elevator on the sixth floor, trying to combine swagger with the inability to walk without tripping on his clothes, and immediately snorts when he looks at Lyle.

"Dawg, your drawers is scamped." He smirks and gestures at Lyle's legs. "Where you heading to?"

Harley happened to be in the elevator when Lyle got to it. She was wearing some loose fitting shorts and a tank top ready for a good workout at the gym when this majestic pants less creature came swaggering into the elevator.

She giggled like a child at first and then sighed happily "Glad to see there's at least one rebel left in the world willing to cry out "Take these pants and shove it!" She declared.

"What floor you going to legs?"

Lyle assumed from the gesture and the tone that this sentient's first comment had to do with his lack of pants. He had to assume from the context because the vocabulary was completely incomprehensible. He seemed more amused than offended though, which was good since Lyle wasn't in the mood for a fist fight in an elevator right now.

On the other hand, giving that the other sentient was apparently wearing some kind of tent, Lyle could probably escape pretty easily.

"They were tragically unworthy of my legs," he explains, his words and the shrug of his shoulders more reflex than anything else. "Floor eight. Or whatever floor the Eighth District Tributes are on."

'Rebel' set alarms pinging in Lyle's head. That wasn't a good word to be associated with with this reality being as awful as it was.

"Oh, I'm hardly a rebel," he said with a wink. "I'm just keeping ahead of the trends. They want skin?" he clapped a hand to his thigh. "I've already got skin. Floor Eight, or preferentially, whichever floor they keep the District Eight Tributes on."

He was oddly methodical about having a half-naked room-mate show up in his room hysterically laughing, but there were things you should do in this situation and things you shouldn't do.

So rather than trying to force Lyle into laying down he simply pulled the blanket up over his legs.

"We have no idea what technology they used to revive us so I want to check your vital signs. I can't do much without a proper medical scanner but I'd like to ensure that they're at least stable," he said, reaching his hand for Lyle's wrist so he could take his pulse.

"You can also stop giving me that look. If I showed up in your room after a trauma, laughing hysterically, sans pants, you'd be concerned, too. Unconsciousness aside, our perception of events is that what happened was only minutes ago."

"I was not laughing hysterically," Lyle objected as he rolled his arm so that Brainy had easier access to his pulse point. "It was absurd, so I laughed. Who makes pants out of skin?"

Maybe the type of people who wanted to watch you starve and fight and fall to your messy death? Lyle shoved the thought aside, visualizing a storage crate (thick dura-plast panels, a little battered around the corners, used and reliable) to store it and ones like it inside until he was somewhere safe to deal with them.

"You look good. Better. Like you haven't been digesting your own muscle tissue."

Yep. That was a change of topic all right.

Harley simply giggled and punched the button for him "Off to see your lean green boyfriend huh? I'm sure he'll be happy to see you made it. It's great when friends can survive something like dying together huh?" She joked as the doors slid close leaving him alone with the noted psychotic.

His what now?

"I was thinking about it, but since my lean green boyfriend is imaginary, I figured I'd go see Brainy instead," he said, wrapping his hands around the rail inside the elevator. No, it'd be fine, he'd barely feel the sensation of falling before his body caught up to the elevator speed, he'd be fine.

"Been watching the show, huh? How was my hair?"

"Perfect but it could use some color, have you considered purple?" She'd always liked purple.

"By the way, hi, I'm Harley Quinn." She added with a grin "Brainy had heard of me, dunno if you have." But oh was it a stroke to her ego to know that people in worlds like hers knew who she was. Almost as good as being a reality TV star.

"Your threads? You oughta hook up with my peeps, they got me all gussied up. I be dripping the butter around here, ya dig?" Punchy leans against the back of the elevator, running his hands through his hair to keep it at its intentionally-disheveled look.

"Six. Number of the beast, yo." Except not quite, but you know. Attempts were made.

"...okay, so are you exhibitionist supervillains, or is there a less ridiculous reason for why you aren't wearing pants?"

In Danny's case, the stylists had taken the fact that he was a superhero, and run with it, taking every opportunity they had to paste his logo on an outfit. It didn't sound so bad, except Danny hated the fact that he was being used to sell his own logo to people he hated.

It took Lyle a few befuddled moments to parse the words coming out of this sentient's mouth into something he could understand. He was pretty sure he was being encouraged to get styled by this sentient's stylists (ha! Hahaha! No), and that he was representing District Six. Must have gone too far down in the elevator.

"You know, I think I will," he said with a smile. Except no, he was just going to steal pants from other floors. Not from this sentient's room, because he was too tall and Lyle could probably fit another Legionnaire inside those pants with him.

"Been here in Panem long?"

"Tell 'em I repped 'em. Maybe I'll get some free swag."

Punchy sticks his hand out, not for a shake but for a bropound. Everybody should give each other bropounds. With as many fists here made that actually have violent intent, Punchy finds it so nice to have ones that speak of camaraderie instead.

(He also misses his floor.)

"So you's freshman class here, right? You in the last jam?"

It was absurd but the laughing had been slightly manic. Still, Brainy let that rest for the moment. Lyle was even worse than some of the others when it came to acknowledging when he was upset. Always so eager to prove his use and self-sufficiency.

But they were a team. There was no shame in stumbling when everyone else was eager to help anytime it happened, and this was just a stumble in Brainy's eyes. This was merely a time where they both should perhaps take a moment to breathe before moving on.

"I suspect that the form of revival the Capitol employs may somehow reset our physical condition to our pre-arena state."

The way his eyes flicked to Lyle's showed that he had theories but wasn't comfortable voicing them where they could be overheard. He didn't want to display he had that kind of technological or scientific expertise so he stuck with the obvious.

He looked relieved as he took Lyle's vital signs. Pulse was normal, respiration was somewhat fast but the anxiety caused by that ordeal was the most likely cause and it wasn't at a rate that was alarming. He had nothing to measure blood pressure with but color and circulation appeared normal.

He got out his communicator and fiddled with it until it emitted the light that was meant to be used for low-light filming and shined it in Lyle's eye to check his pupil dilation.

"I'm fine now."

Yep, perfectly fine, despite all of that being rather horrific.

Of course, it was possibly not actually front but sometimes it was hard to tell with him whether he was covering up fragility or genuinely that stubbornly resilient.

Edited 2014-03-09 06:50 (UTC)

"Are they charging us for the privilege of picking our clothes without our input?"

Lyle looks down at Punchy's extended fist with a confused expression. That's not the fist of someone who has something inside their hand (not unless it's something very small and malleable), and it's not a fist aimed to hit him, so probably some alternate form of a handshake. He supposes that a fist makes more sense here, since there's no way that everyone here means no harm (and all of the species he's seen thus far have had hands or something equivalent, so bowing isn't a necessity).

That's really clever, actually. Lyle curls his own hand into a fist and taps his knuckles against the other sentient's.

"Got thrown in about a week into play," he says. "Just got out, depending on how long they kept me under."

"I have standards and those pants were beneath them," Lyle sniffed. "And, frankly, I can't understand why anyone would want to wear skin pants in the first place."

How was that for ridiculous, Danny? And focusing on the pants was an excellent distraction from how Danny's presence here meant that he'd died inside the Arena. Grife, they were all too young for this.

"Skin...pants? Wait, leather, vegan, right. That is all kinds of screwed up."

Choking on his own blood had been fairly terrifying at the time, but Danny was nothing if not good at covering up emotional trauma with sarcasm. And from a certain perspective, he'd already died and come back twice before Panem had even been an issue.

Edited 2014-03-10 02:28 (UTC)

"I'm not big on bright colors in my hair," Lyle said. "I prefer to catch eyes with my movements rather than adding color to my appearance. That lets me choose when I attract attention and when attention attracts me."

"Lyle Norg, if you somehow managed to miss it," Lyle said. "Can't say I've heard of you, I'm afraid. Where do you operate out of?"

Probably not a super hero, if she's pleased that Brainy recognized her. Just the type of person he wanted to be stuck in an elevator with. Great.

"Skin is skin, and they're still disgusting," Lyle said. "So I'm not wearing them. Is that an acceptable reason for not wearing pants, or are you still scandalized by my bare legs?"

Lyle wrapped his hands around the rail on the inside of the elevator as it started to move. "So, where you off to? I haven't had much chance to explore around here."

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These Pants Are Optional

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