thecapitol | Thicker Than Blood Start

Thicker Than Blood Start

For Tributes with keen eyes, they'll notice that Peacekeeper presence seems increased and yet infinitely more ineffective in the last few weeks. Peacekeepers seem harried, as do the Stylists, and most of the Escorts titter and plot without alerting the Tributes as to what, exactly, is so exciting. They simply say that this weekend they'll know.

And so it happens that on the weekend in question, the Tributes are woken by their Escorts early and brought to a restaurant for a hearty breakfast. The restaurant is nothing spectacular, although they seem to be trying to make an impression on the television cameras that float around. The sleepy, cranky meal goes by and then the Tributes are led back to their Suites for a mandatory meeting.

Sitting on couches and the floor, in chairs and on windowsills, standing off to the side - people from the Tributes' homes are waiting to greet them in each District Suite. Some are confused, some accepting, some frightened and some elated to see their beloved. Either way, it should be an eventful reunion.

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"That I was dreaming," Doc said easily enough, still regarding Wyatt with a bewildered look. "Which was well easy to believe, considering. But I've never dreamed a whiskey so good or a face quite so sour. You don't owe me anything, Wyatt, I was paid well for my services and I have nary a complaint on that score. And neither have I any complaint being here. Nothing was holding me back there, save an early grave. What could I care to take a jaunting trip into the future?"

He brought his glass to his lips, tipping it back and emptying it down his throat before placing it with a hard tap back on the table.

"No need to fuel the injustice on my account."

To that point, Wyatt had assumed Doc's talk of dreams had merely been the man's hope. His way of trying to explain what was happening.

But now....

His brow wrinkled, eyebrows twitching slightly, a small vee appearing between them.

Why would they lie? Why tell a tribute he was here for anything other than the Games? They'd never tried to hide it before.

A cold tingle wormed up his spine in warning.

There was even more going on than met the eye.

"Ya can take a man's badge away," he said carefully, glancing toward the camera that buzzed closer. "But not his laws."

"And there's that face, turning even more sour," Doc said, following Wyatt's eyeline. He didn't even know what the flying things were - didn't even bother trying to guess. He was in the land of the impossible, and as Wyatt said, there wasn't anything that their hosts couldn't d--

It was strange, really, that the thought hadn't occurred to him before. Generally Holliday considered himself a man of rather quick wits and quicker reflexes, so the idea that he'd just let that comment slip by with nary a question was surprising, but it came back in force now.

"You say our hosts can do anything," He said, a strange gleam in his eye as something took hold in his chest. Something that wasn't just lingering death.

Wyatt may not have known Doctor John Henry Holliday particularly well yet, but he knew that look. That dawning light that crept into a face as an idea began to form. Like a lamp being lit in a dark room.

He didn't have to know the specifics, to know where the wheels in the man's head were turning him.

His head tipped, eyeing Holliday carefully.

"Near 'nough," he said slowly. "When it suits 'em."

Bring a man back from the arena, clean and whole, a half-dozen times, but watch him loose his leg in the Capitol.

"Even, ah, as one would say, medically speaking?" He wasn't exactly keen to talk about his condition, though he knew Wyatt would know soon enough, if he kept him in company. He was prone to coughing fits, and witnessing one was a dull inevitability.

"Professional interest," He added, giving Wyatt a sly grin. "You understand."

Wyatt's mouth opened, closed, a breath pushing through his nose. He wrestled with himself for a moment, the decided to hell with it. Doc was going to find out sooner or later.

Better at least, he figured, from a face he recognized.

Better before he was in there, dying.

Shifting, he reached for the bottle and poured the man another drink. Just in case.

"I can't give ya definite answer, not knowin' what yer askin' for, but I'll tell ya this," he said, returning the bottle to the table and sitting back in his chair to meet Doc's gaze. "Since they brought me here, I have died nine times. An' each time they have brought me back, good as new. Not even a scar to show for it."

"Well isn't that something," Holliday mused, the grin spreading over his lips. "Isn't that just something. Not even Jesus Christ himself could say the same, but I'm more inclined to believe what's before my eyes than otherwise."

He reached over for the bottle, pouring himself another glass.

"One tall tale after another and I've gone from skeptic to convert..."

"An' I imagine ya ain't even been outside yet," Wyatt snorted, mouth twisting. "Let me tell ya, all'a this, ain't nothin' on the first time ya really see it. That's somethin' an' a half."

His sipped from his own glass, letting the liquor roll linger on his lips - that low, pleasant buzz that reminded him of summer. Of sunshine and of bees.

(Of Max, distant, but never forgotten.)

"...Ya don't have to tell me, if ya don't want, but I see the gears turnin' there, an' jus' 'bout smell the smoke...."

"... And where there's smoke, there's sure to be fire," Holliday said wryly. "Well I can't see the harm, it was known well enough already, to those of good acquaintance."

He tipped his glass back again, letting the whisky take the sharp bitterness from his thoughts.

"Consumption," He said, strangely casual, as he put the glass down. "I'm a lunger, Mr Wyatt Earp, and my days are duly numbered."

To his credit, Wyatt didn't shy. Didn't move back, or pull that calculating face folks did when they were trying measure what their chances were.

He'd certainly heard of it, seen it, and likely would have even put it together if he'd thought a bit harder about that day. The coughing hadn't been pronounced, but it had been there.

He merely sipped from his glass again and shook his head.

"Not here," he replied after a moment. "Not from that."

"Well now." He wet his lips, a sly grin flickering at their edges before taking over his face. "Isn't that something," He mused.

He wet his lips again, just to taste them, just for that shadow of whiskey.

"And where do I sign up?"

"Ya already have," Wyatt murmured in reply, shifting in his chair, crossing his boots at the ankle. Settling in. "Jus' by bein' here."

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"The Capitol don't jus' bring folks here out'a the goodness of their hearts. They got plans for us. For you."

"As everyone is so quick to remind me, the Good Lord had plans for me too," Holliday pointed out easily.

"But if this Capitol of yours have ones that keep me alive a little longer than his, I am all too happy to find myself under their guidance."

"They're a bit more direct 'bout their plans here," Wyatt said bemusedly. "A firm touch."

He polished off the rest of his glass in one shot, head knocking back.

"They call 'em The Games," he said after with a sigh, half-pleasure, half-pain as the liquor burned down his throat and settled into a warm pool in his chest. "They gather up all the tributes an' put 'em in the arena. Some ninety-odd people, usually,... an' usually only one comes out alive."

"And that is how a man full of such vigor as yourself has come to die nine times?" Holliday guessed, smirking.

"Sounds like the Coliseum, except never for a want of participants."

"As I understand it, they didn't want for neither," Wyatt muttered, slanting Doc a look as he thought of Max, press-ganged before any of them into being a gladiator. "I know one, an' he didn't do any volunteerin' either."

Then he nodded, tapping his glass on the table, before his hands hooking neatly on his belt-buckle.

"An' yes. Nine, would'a been ten, but I won the last one."

Doc whistled, raising his eyebrows. Knew one? That was a story he would have to ask later.

"Well. Tenth time's the charm, it seems," He said, teeth showing through the grin. "And what did you victory win you?"

"They used to tell us that they'd send us home, if we won," Wyatt said. "Then they promised winnin' meant we'd never have to go back in."

His mouth twisted wryly. A dark, bitter sort of amusement, curling one corner.

"They usually manage to keep that one."

"Well who'd want to go home once you're here, anyway," Doc said, smirking as he leaned back with a sigh.

"Seems a worthy enough prize to me."

Wyatt's mouth opened, then closed, the tip of his tongue catching between his teeth. There was more to it, than the simple way Doc presented it, but Wyatt couldn't honestly argue.

Home hadn't really been home for some time.

"...It does have it's points," Wyatt agreed slowly, head bobbing in a small nod. "Some mighty big ones."

"Well, then I'll be more than happy to join you," He said.

"Provided, of course, that this place has something in the way of entertainment for its prestigious guests?" The smirk flickering at his lips gave some indication of exactly what kind of entertainment he meant, but he didn't spell it out. After all, he didn't quite have Wyatt's measure yet, and he wasn't entirely certain what sort of attitudes the man would take towards gambling. And drinking. And whores.

One needed a sort of well-rounded entertainment, after all.

At that, Wyatt couldn't help a smile. A real, true one that eased some of the shadows out of his eyes, lifted some of the weight he carried around his mouth.

"Some things are universal, my friend," he said, a chuckle rumbling up from his chest. "Matter'a fact--" he moved in his chair, sitting forward again as the idea came to him. "If yer up for a look 'round, I'll take ya by the best place I've found."

"Why I am incredibly interested," Holliday said, flashing Wyatt a toothy grin.

"Assuming you're a man of taste and character," He added teasingly, hoping for just the opposite.

Wyatt snorted, pushing his chair back from the table.

"No promises."

Standing, he glanced at a nearby peacekeeper - who made no move to stop them - and gestured for Doc to follow with a small wave. Beside them the camera hummed, buzzing along as it fell in with him.

"Come on, we'll get ya settled in."

Doc grinned, grabbing the jacket that he'd been given and throwing it on, all too happy to have Wyatt introduce him to the delicacies and delights of the Capitol. He glanced at the camera, but it didn't really bother him - after all, nothing here made much sense save for Wyatt himself, so it was easy to just tune it all out.

He was a man born in the fast pace of the industrial revolution, after all. Every year seemed to bring more mechanical delights.

He couldn't quite keep silent as they walked through the tribute tower - couldn't quite hold his tongue from making small exclamations every time they passed a particularly strange looking tribute - ("Is that a dragon?") - but it wasn't until they got out onto the street that they let out a long, low whistle.

"Well. That is something else," He said, as if he hadn't really believed it when just seeing it from the window.

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the_marshal - 2014-05-21 18:59 (UTC) - Expand

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