[open] I saw my old friend Gabriel down the perimeter ringing a bell

[samson]

Who| Brock Samson and YOU
What| Drinking and thinking (mostly drinking)
Where| Various bars, he is basically doing a bar crawl
When| RIGHT NOW I mean at night I guess
Warnings/Notes| alcohol...

This whole thing is kind of stupid. Annoying? Yeah, sure, but also stupid. It's more stupid than annoying, truth be told.

The way Brock dealt with most stupid things is generally by punching it in the face. He can't really do that to an idea and a concept though, much to his frustration, so he's just drinking instead. Sure. That's a decent enough compromise. If he can't punch shit, he'll just get loaded until he can better process everything.

Then he will punch shit.

He managed to find the least-dumb looking clothes available to him, ones that aren't decked out in sequins or feathers or holographic whatevers. Apparently plain T-shirts aren't befitting a Tribute, but like fuck he actually cares about that right now. He is anticipating not caring about it ever, to be honest, but one step at a time.

Most of the bars here are, like, stupid clubs with stupid names and stupid drinks with actual pounds of glitter poured into them. He can be found at any bar throughout the Capitol, getting progressively more drunk because that's how he do, but he doesn't spend much time at any of them.

Later in the night, he'll be at the Central Commons in the Tribute Center, and then when that gets too annoying, he goes up to the roof. Naturally, with a bottle of beer because whatever. Who's going to stop him? Seriously.

Though to be honest, maybe that would actually be helpful. He'd get to punch somebody, at least.

Comments

roof because gruff old guys on a roof amirite

[aintyourdad]

Joel doesn't sleep much, these days. He hasn't slept much in twenty years, truth be told, but he doesn't tell anyone that. Usually, he keeps himself to himself, spends the nights in his room, reading or dozing.

Some nights, though, when the nightmares get really bad - especially right after an arena, when he feels somehow closer to the person he was back home, even more detached than usual from this world, then he gets restless. The roof is a good place to go when you're restless.

It's not that he expects to be alone - tributes frequently come up here, even in the middle of the night it's not terribly uncommon to find someone else here. But usually everyone leaves each other alone up here. Still, though, Joel sees him with a beer and, well. He's not much of a drinker, but a beer sounds pretty good right now.

"Don't suppose you've got another one of those?" he asks, not really expecting anything, sort of a half-attempt at a joke.

noir as fuck

[samson]

Tonight, Brock has been drinking well past the point of what constitutes normal behavior for him, and he can't help but find it a little funny that the good-looking physician had asked him how much alcohol he consumes on a regular weekly basis. Well, it wasn't a lie. This situation just kind of falls outside the whole 'regular' parameters.

He's sure he'll get over it soon enough. He's good at that, getting over things.

Apart from the occasional interruption, Brock has been largely avoided and ignored by people through his slowly escalating bender. It could be a number of reasons: he's huge, he's intimidating, his default expression is mean enough to make grown men piss their pants. He doesn't really think about it because it's normal, unlike everything else about this whole situation.

But then, there is the occasional interruption. Brock is staring out over the city and the mountains, considering throwing the half-empty bottle into the dumb forcefield that's ostensibly keeping people from jumping off the roof, just to see what happens, and rolls his head to the side when he figures out somebody is actually talking to him.

"You know they got a whole bar downstairs, right."

[aintyourdad]

Joel, being a big, scary guy himself, and also generally Too Old for This Shit, is not intimidated easily. Whether Brock finds that a good thing or a bad thing, well.

Joel doesn't really care that much.

"Yep, a bar full of cameras even when it's empty, and it's almost never empty anyway," he points out, which - he assumes - is probably the same basic reason this guy is up here drinking, too, instead of down there.

[samson]

"Pfft, yeah. I'm pretty sure they have cameras, like, everywhere," Brock says, swirling his beer around in a circular motion. Once he's sobered up a bit, his plan is to ferret them out of some parts of his stupid little assigned dorm room, at least. You can only work for the government for so long before you get paranoid about that sort of thing, being around it from the other end.

If the US government has spies everywhere, Brock's pretty damn sure this weird totalitarian joint must be a thousand times worse.

"Even up here," he continues, then squints down into the bottle. Maybe...

[aintyourdad]

Joel snorts vaguely, then taps the side of his head with a pointed motion. He's pieced enough things together to work out that they probably have some kind of chip in their heads - a thought which constantly weighs on his mind, but he tries not to dwell on it too much because there's just nothing he can do about it at this point.

"They don't need 'em everywhere, I don't think," he murmurs.

catching him in d8

[reallynow]

It seems as if the irregular batch of new people is starting to filter in once again, Jolie really wishes they'd start setting dates for this shit so she could plan ahead for it. Of course they fucking won't, just send in the clowns why don't you? She's still sore that they snatched Natasha back, but with any luck they'll give her another girl to go with the one that arrived the other day. After dealing with Joel and the other men in District Eight, it would be nice to make some fancy gowns and not struggle with boring men's fashion.

She rounds the corner as Brock exits his room, five feet and nine inches of glitter and fancy fabric staring him down like he has no right to be here before she pulls it together and smirks. "When they said they were sending in a tall blonde I kind of expected a little less boob." She observes, moving her hand to her chin as she lets her eyes graze over him. "What's your name?"

aww yeahh

[samson]

Hanging in the door and frustratingly sober, Brock's immediate response is to do what can best be described as stare blankly. Tall blonde what. And then he's distracted by... everything else... and it takes him a second to actually get a response out. What the hell kind of world is this.

He is really desperately hoping that most of the women here don't dress this insane on the regular.

"Who are you?"

this is so late i'm trash

[reallynow]

Jolie never expects a pleasant first interaction with Tributes. They're always grumpy, for obvious reasons, and she can't really convey any serious level of sympathy without giving too much away. Gotta be all about that Capitol life, gotta look like she don't give a fuck.

"Très Jolie, I'm your stylist." She holds out a hand in front of her for him to take if he will. "And before you even ask, yes. You have a Stylist. No, it's not optional."

no you are great

[samson]

Lucky for Jolie, Brock is pretty much always grumpy anyway. It's his natural state. This place has certainly made it worse, but that's why he's about to go out and maybe get black out drunk. Surely that will help.

Brock doesn't take her hand right away, giving her a once-over instead. It's less judgmental and more suspicious, but it is sometimes hard to pick up on the subtleties between different kind of scowls.

"I really don't need one," he deadpans, shaking her hand. His hand is super big, incidentally, like everything else about him.

[culturalappropriation]

Being one of the Tributes without a brand has led to a lot of that Capitol groupie attention getting turned on to Punchy. He wishes he could enjoy it more, but it all feels very shallow, very cheap, to get all these babes (and more than a few dudes) flirting with him just because their other options turned out to be 'despicable traitors'. He should have been among the people in that jailbreak, and yet he couldn't manage it. He almost wants to tell all the girls to go home.

Then again, he could just get really drunk on booze he's almost-but-not-quite old enough to get in his homestate and then see if these fly-ass shawties perk him up a little more then. Maybe he'll get another impulse tattoo. Maybe he'll let his Stylists dye his hair hot pink or shave a scorpion into his hair. The world is his (smearing, off-balance, bright-light-filled) oyster when he's smashed.

He's actually getting into all the fawning when another Tribute comes in, and about seventy percent of Punchy's entourage peels off to investigate the gigantic, mulleted newcomer. Punchy scowls, takes another drink (four parts caffeine, six parts really strong gin) and steps up to the guy, all inebriated redheaded teenager who can't totally stand up straight.

"Dawg, you best step off. These bizzles is my crew and I ain't looking to split tabs on getting brain tonight."

And he pokes Brock in the chest.

Really, he should have come in cross-faded, too toked up to be in the mood to pick a fight with someone about Many Times His Size. Especially when Punchy isn't all that aggressive to start with. This isn't his best decision.

[samson]

Brock is accustomed to women flocking to him, so he doesn't really think much about the surge apart from the observation that everybody in this town wears way too much glitter all the time. It's like a constant stripper rave and he has a headache from all the neon. Still, they are women, so he jerks his head in very cool acknowledgment, already mentally picking out which ones he'll focus on until he gets off or gets bored.

The bartender just pushes over Brock's order, the most normal-looking and tasting beer he has found thus far, when some kid rolls over and says... something. Brock barely gets it. What the hell? Bizzles?

Brock makes a face almost like he is pained by the decision this kid has just made. Oh no.

"You want to repeat that with or without all your teeth."

[culturalappropriation]

Punchy sees the smart decision. He could walk away right now, could decide not to continue going up shit creek with a paddle that's slipping out of his hands. He could take the out.

Punchy's never been known for his amazing life decisions.

"I said yeezy best not be horning in on all my honeys just because he's some pasty-ass mofo with a mullet, you dig?" And he pokes Brock again.

[samson]

There are a lot of things Brock could do right now. He could ask him in what universe is he pasty, or maybe lecture him about women being free to go wherever they want. Or he could walk away, or ignore him, or whatever. It would be very easy.

But the poking, though. The poking.

Brock's face settles into a very humorless 'you are dumb' expression, and he reaches out to grab this kid by the finger and bend it back.

In a bar with no name

[gardienne]

Eponine spends her days in gardens now. Eva's garden and the Tribute Tower garden, messing in the dirt, watering the flowers, lying in the grass. There's very little else open to her, alienated as she is by the big Capitol brand burned into her left cheek, and disliked by a lot of the other Tributes. The nights though, are difficult. Too many times is she frog-marched back from Eva's house by the Peacekeepers, forced to swallow sedatives and locked in her room until the morning. Too many times has she woken, groggy and disorientated and screaming for her adopted mother, for her murdered boyfriend, screaming at the sight of her Papa's corpse dragging her to hell.

She drinks more than ever now.

Tonight, she's given the Peacekeepers the slip, and gone to get as drunk as she can in a bar. She wears her plain hoodie pulled right up, half concealing the brand on her face, and pulled down at the sleeves to hide the heavy manacles fixed on her skinny wrists. It just so happens that she plops herself down next to Brock. An unfamiliar face... dressed down.

"Sir?" She looks across at him. "Are you new here?" She quickly orders two large brandies, and when they are handed over, offers one to the stranger. "You ought to have this. It is good to make you sleep."

http://youtu.be/zSAJ0l4OBHM

[samson]

What was it they said about accepting drinks from strangers? Well, maybe that was from fairies specifically. Brock is fairly certain this girl isn't a fairy, but he's still suspicious. People have been trying to buy him drinks all night, but none of them have cited them as Nyquil substitutes.

Still, he politely takes the glass, though he sets it next to him without taking a drink. "I look like I need a nap or something?"

Incidentally, he's been up for enough hours drinking that he probably does look like that, but. Whatever.

I'm gonna have that in my head all day now!

[gardienne]

"Perhaps no, Sir." Eponine stands awkwardly. It's been a while since she's had friendly conversations with anyone.

"But you're a Tribute, yes? I think if it is so thenyou will need drinks to make you sleep before long, or they will put needles in your arms, or hold your head until you swallow their pills. It is better with drink. And fhis is brandy: it is strong. A few glasses, perhaps, Sir, and you will forget such a place till the morrow." Sayin that, she gulps her own brandy, knocking it back like a seasoned pro.

c:

[samson]

"Uhhh," Brock says, very eloquently. That's worrisome. Pretty much... all that stuff is super extra worrisome, yes. It's only when she knocks back her drink that he notices the brand on her face, and that's, you know, even more of a thing that is worrisome.

"Are you okay?"

in a bar, aw yeah

[atoner]

Natasha is here because drunk people tend to talk.

That's pretty much the basis of it. She wants information, and this is a locked-down society as far as government intervention goes. But she's been playing the intelligence game for a long, long time. And there are secrets that pass hands in places like these, where the noise and the swell of the crowds is such an excellent cover. Drunk people don't guard themselves as well. They start to think that they're invincible.

Vodka's not really her drink of choice. Which might surprise most people, probably because of some innate stereotypical view of Russians and what they do. But Nat's not even Russian these days. She's not really American either, though her passport and accent would say so. She doesn't really belong anywhere.

But beer's what Americans drink, so. Here she is, perched at the bar and ordering herself another beer before she leans in to talk to the man next to her.

"I'm pretty sure this is the only drink in this place that doesn't have glitter added to it."

yeeee

[samson]

If only Brock could say he had the same reasoning for being here. He has his own lengthy experience in playing spy, but at the moment, all he really wants to do is get drunk. Or as drunk as he can, anyway -- the hard liquor seems to all be reserved for stupid, fanciful cocktails and you get weird looks if you just ask for some straight tequila or something.

So he's making do with beer, and it's slow going. But at least it's serviceable enough.

Brock's already glancing sidelong at this woman before she addresses him, always having a stupid weakness for redheads.

He snorts, lifting his own beer in a mock salute. "I've tried the other places, too. Pretty much the only normal thing across the board."

[atoner]

"There's a cocktail that glows in the dark. I have to hand it to them - they get points for ingenuity," there's a good dosage of dry humor in her tone, which is pretty much the norm for her when she's not on mission. And sometimes, despite that. It's a default Natasha trait, considering she's still trying to figure out who she is without all of her covers to hide behind, that's useful.

The beer gets another swig and a measured judgement. It's not bad, even if it is a little too fancy and flavorless.

[samson]

Brock responds with another derisive sound. Ingenuity. "Is that what they're calling it now," he says with equal dryness, taking a pull from his own beer and following it up with a sort of grimace. Ugh. It's almost not worth it.

He swivels the bar stool slightly to look at her more directly, propping his elbow up on the bar. "So how long you been here?"

She doesn't appear to be a native of this place, or else she wouldn't be commiserating about the piss-poor selection of liquor, after all.

[dingadong]

"I'm more the pompadour sort than the mullet, myself," someone further down the bar muses, "but impressive volume nonetheless."

If Brock Samson chooses to look over to where the smooth voice is coming from, he'll see a twenty-something young man in a fur-collared jacket who indeed has a pompadour, a quite high and elaborate one too.

[samson]

Brock actually likes his haircut. Like, a lot. It is part of his identity, generally speaking.

That being said, he doesn't really think about it a lot, so he instinctively rolls his eyes up toward his hair in response.

"Uh... yeah, thanks. I guess," he says, squinting a little. Volume? "It just does that."

[dingadong]

"A veritable gift," the stranger opines. "You are a lucky man, sir." He turns about 45 degrees counter-clockwise on his stool, then holds out his hand. "Ringabel is what they call me, lately of the Seventh District."

[samson]

This guy's pretty hilarious in a Ren Faire kind of way, so Brock will humor him. He puts his beer down to briefly shake hands.

"Brock Samson. Uh, lately... of District Eight."

Or whatever.

"So," he says, grabbing his beer again, "what's your deal?"