[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

[dingadong]

Ringabel's grip is firmer than his dandy exterior would suggest.

"My deal," he replies, taking a sip of his drink, "is that perhaps a week ago I found myself in Caldisla with no memory of my past whatsoever and no clue to my identity, save a book that our hosts have since confiscated after I was removed from Caldisla to wherever this Capitol might be. I was dubbed Ringabel as a jest by the Caldislan townsfolk and have decided that in lieu of any other name it will serve me well enough."

[samson]

Brock screws his eyes up at the ceiling for a second. "That's... not really what I meant, but okay."

He's not going to stop people if they're feeling chatty, after all.

"So, retrograde amnesia, huh? That's rough, bro. You're pretty much in the same boat as everyone else as far as this whole place goes, though," he says, gesturing vaguely in front of him. He means the Capitol as a whole, not just... the bar they're in. But being an amnesiac might actually be to somebody's advantage, he considers -- no moral hangups or traumatic memories to bog you down. You can just operate on instinct and fuckin' waste everyone.

"What happened to you in that week you remember?"

[dingadong]

"Not much, sadly," Ringabel replies. "I slept in an abandoned house, read my book, ventured alone outside the city but not very far, and saw the first few events described in my book--I had a book that described the future, which has unfortunately been confiscated--and was taken here."

[samson]

Oh.

Brock looks at him with some mixture of growing horror and pity.

"Do you... even know if you can fight?"

[dingadong]

Ringabel shrugs. "To some degree, it seems like I can. I was complimented back in Caldisla for my 'nice spearwork,' although whatever occasion that my spearwork was observed is unfortunately lost to the hazy void of amnesia. And I managed to skewer a dummy in my scoring."

[samson]

"Oh, man," Brock says sympathetically, because 'managed to skewer a dummy' does not inspire the most confidence. There is a super good possibility that this dude is just going to get slaughtered, and that's depressing.

"Well," he continues, holding up his beer in toast to this poor, dead bastard, "good fuckin' luck."

[dingadong]

Ringabel raises his own drink in kind. "And to yourself. You seem an athletic man. I'm sure it will stand you in good stead."

With luck, he thinks, there'll be time enough to train in preparation for when he finally does go into an arena.

[samson]

"Yeah, well. I'm not planning on getting killed, but, uh. You never know."

He could go on about how effective a killer he is, how he's government trained on different ways to murder people, but, like he said. You never know. Keeping as much shit under wraps as possible is Brock's current strategy.