Benjamin F. "Hawkeye" Pierce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
swill) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-10-04 09:31 pm
swill) wrote in thecapitol2014-10-04 09:31 pm
(open) Please remember to say "please" and "thank you". Thank you.
Who| A captain called Hawkeye and whoever happens to be in the way
What| Arrival and readjustment
Where| D4 for starters, then the Training Center Bar and Commons
When| Today. Hideously early in the morning. Let's do this.
Warnings/Notes| None, I think, but of course I'll edit this if something comes up.
Was this different than last time? No. Not really. Exhibit A: Hawkeye is still in olive drab and mud caked boots, still with the same old two dog tags hanging around his neck, still with untidy hair and a touch of stubble and he's, you know, fully aware. Aware that waking up in some strange new place that's all razzle-dazzle and big guns isn't normal, aware that he might have shrieked a little that first moment he knew he wasn't lying on a flea infested old cot, aware of who he is and how much he can't do. Like make sense of anything. At least not until the memories flood in the way the bright lights flood the room and the big burly guys in equally bulky armor seem to flood the halls outside.
Things were exactly as they'd been last time, because Exhibit B: Hawkeye's a white knuckled mess now, and he'd been a white knuckled mess then.
Things were exactly as they'd been last time, because as Hawkeye's led from that one chamber to the other, more spacious and colorful and comfortable chamber, he still kind of feels like he's either dead or about to die.
Which, knowing the place, wasn't his gut telling him a lie.
Blah, blah, said some man with a helmet. Die, die, he explained.
Don't mess up, because someone was going to die.
So, okay.
So, okay, Hawkeye was led easily up to the district suites this time around and he honest to God couldn't remember if he'd put up a fight at all before. He remembers the number and remembers the theme- and so, okay. He didn't feel like running his mouth or squirming like an oiled piglet under the iron grip of the Capitol this time- so he didn't feel like cracking wise about something smelling fishy. And then he remembered, no, something was wrong and more than in the usual sense of the word. He nearly wished he'd been chucked into a pod and lifted into a jungle instead of the nice room. Naturally, the wish didn't last.
[District 4 Suites]
Something was wrong and it was up to him to find out what. He marched through the suite like he owned the place- boots stomping and leaving traces of dirt and God only knew what else where he stepped. Hawkeye had only the courtesy to peer into his assigned room for a minute- three tops- and survey what was there for him. A bed, a projector-window-flip-the-channel-thingy, a dresser, a lamp and other nonsense stuff. He flung his jacket into the bed and slammed the door shut- slammed it not in the I'm-sorry-let-me-be-quieter-next-time sort of way, more in the I'm-a-moody-adolescent sort of way. He tucked those stupid cowbell dog tags into his green shirt out of newfound habit.
And went knocking on whatever other shut door he could find. The bathroom, the bedrooms, the kitchen cabinets that looked suspiciously spacious enough to hide a body. "Oi! Hey! Anybody in here? Hey-"
Something wasn't right, see, the Capitol's Darling would have shut him up by now-
"Finnick!"
Like he's a kid. Just like he was a kid wailing for his sitter.
Or what, was he not supposed to say that name?
[Commons and Bar]
Hawkeye had, some way or another or through good old black magic, calmed down. The initial freak out-- oh good Lord, who was he kidding, the initial freak out had only just begun. And it was, what 10 am? At the latest? Too late, as far as he was concerned and gee, wouldn't he rather just lie down in his new comfy emperor-sized bed and sleep this over? Well, he would, but the cynical part of him tittered that he'd sleep when he was dead. Oh, the time's he had muttered that in the O.R.- oh, to be in that O.R. again! The elevators were always a riot to get into and out of- Hawkeye squeaked the whole way down and told himself he was a rat. The commons gets a scan- the fashion of the Capitol citizens is given a grimace. And then Hawkeye catches sight, or whiff, of the bar- of that glorious nectar that would pull his brain awake and would shock his system into that great defeat. He all but makes a beeline. Busy or not as the bar may be, Hawkeye snags himself a prime seat and a hearty round of drinks. The threats and scares of the day are thrown aside- more like forcibly pushed. Hawkeye stands, feels like he's got those good ol' jelly legs, raises a half-empty glass and announces, "Drinks on me!" in that voice that plainly told he had forgotten the drinks were free, that plainly told he was so convinced he'd fix something by the act. The surgeon sits his ass down and looks around and grins-
"Go wild, boys!" No, wait, no no no no-
"Mild- I sai-" Guns and threats, yeah? "I said mild! Gee, cut the greenhorn a break around here!"
But wouldn't you know it, literally nobody had given a damn. Those stinkin' hypocrites.
[ooc: Give me prose or brackets, I'll follow your lead!]
What| Arrival and readjustment
Where| D4 for starters, then the Training Center Bar and Commons
When| Today. Hideously early in the morning. Let's do this.
Warnings/Notes| None, I think, but of course I'll edit this if something comes up.
Was this different than last time? No. Not really. Exhibit A: Hawkeye is still in olive drab and mud caked boots, still with the same old two dog tags hanging around his neck, still with untidy hair and a touch of stubble and he's, you know, fully aware. Aware that waking up in some strange new place that's all razzle-dazzle and big guns isn't normal, aware that he might have shrieked a little that first moment he knew he wasn't lying on a flea infested old cot, aware of who he is and how much he can't do. Like make sense of anything. At least not until the memories flood in the way the bright lights flood the room and the big burly guys in equally bulky armor seem to flood the halls outside.
Things were exactly as they'd been last time, because Exhibit B: Hawkeye's a white knuckled mess now, and he'd been a white knuckled mess then.
Things were exactly as they'd been last time, because as Hawkeye's led from that one chamber to the other, more spacious and colorful and comfortable chamber, he still kind of feels like he's either dead or about to die.
Which, knowing the place, wasn't his gut telling him a lie.
Blah, blah, said some man with a helmet. Die, die, he explained.
Don't mess up, because someone was going to die.
So, okay.
So, okay, Hawkeye was led easily up to the district suites this time around and he honest to God couldn't remember if he'd put up a fight at all before. He remembers the number and remembers the theme- and so, okay. He didn't feel like running his mouth or squirming like an oiled piglet under the iron grip of the Capitol this time- so he didn't feel like cracking wise about something smelling fishy. And then he remembered, no, something was wrong and more than in the usual sense of the word. He nearly wished he'd been chucked into a pod and lifted into a jungle instead of the nice room. Naturally, the wish didn't last.
[District 4 Suites]
Something was wrong and it was up to him to find out what. He marched through the suite like he owned the place- boots stomping and leaving traces of dirt and God only knew what else where he stepped. Hawkeye had only the courtesy to peer into his assigned room for a minute- three tops- and survey what was there for him. A bed, a projector-window-flip-the-channel-thingy, a dresser, a lamp and other nonsense stuff. He flung his jacket into the bed and slammed the door shut- slammed it not in the I'm-sorry-let-me-be-quieter-next-time sort of way, more in the I'm-a-moody-adolescent sort of way. He tucked those stupid cowbell dog tags into his green shirt out of newfound habit.
And went knocking on whatever other shut door he could find. The bathroom, the bedrooms, the kitchen cabinets that looked suspiciously spacious enough to hide a body. "Oi! Hey! Anybody in here? Hey-"
Something wasn't right, see, the Capitol's Darling would have shut him up by now-
"Finnick!"
Like he's a kid. Just like he was a kid wailing for his sitter.
Or what, was he not supposed to say that name?
[Commons and Bar]
Hawkeye had, some way or another or through good old black magic, calmed down. The initial freak out-- oh good Lord, who was he kidding, the initial freak out had only just begun. And it was, what 10 am? At the latest? Too late, as far as he was concerned and gee, wouldn't he rather just lie down in his new comfy emperor-sized bed and sleep this over? Well, he would, but the cynical part of him tittered that he'd sleep when he was dead. Oh, the time's he had muttered that in the O.R.- oh, to be in that O.R. again! The elevators were always a riot to get into and out of- Hawkeye squeaked the whole way down and told himself he was a rat. The commons gets a scan- the fashion of the Capitol citizens is given a grimace. And then Hawkeye catches sight, or whiff, of the bar- of that glorious nectar that would pull his brain awake and would shock his system into that great defeat. He all but makes a beeline. Busy or not as the bar may be, Hawkeye snags himself a prime seat and a hearty round of drinks. The threats and scares of the day are thrown aside- more like forcibly pushed. Hawkeye stands, feels like he's got those good ol' jelly legs, raises a half-empty glass and announces, "Drinks on me!" in that voice that plainly told he had forgotten the drinks were free, that plainly told he was so convinced he'd fix something by the act. The surgeon sits his ass down and looks around and grins-
"Go wild, boys!" No, wait, no no no no-
"Mild- I sai-" Guns and threats, yeah? "I said mild! Gee, cut the greenhorn a break around here!"
But wouldn't you know it, literally nobody had given a damn. Those stinkin' hypocrites.
[ooc: Give me prose or brackets, I'll follow your lead!]
no subject
But Mindy would prevail. Had to. In any case, the break of the hug was fine. "Hey, its tanks and sweatpants, I'm not out to impress anyone. You should SEE me when I actually get dolled up. We actually have a decent stylist now."
Panem: now with fifty percent more drag queens. You know the fashion had to be halfway decent.
"Hey, fine, I know how you old guys need to have a stupor in the morning. Me, I'd save it for later, when I have more things to bitch about, and properly. Just can't do that so early in the morning, it ruins the whole damn day."