thecapitol | I Long to Be As Careless As I Once Was [Open]

Entry tags:

I Long to Be As Careless As I Once Was [Open]

WHO| Marco and open!
WHAT| Marco flops around after one of Calendius' work-outs. All take pity on this poor soul.
WHEN| A few days after the mini-Arena.
WHERE| The Training Center and the District Two common room
WARNINGS| None yet.

TRAINING CENTER

One of the many harsh lessons Marco learns on his first day in Panem is that Calendius Rey doesn't fall for the same puppy eyes and flopping on the floor that most gym teachers do. Marco pulled out a veritable greatest hits of excuses, ranging from a pulled muscle to an inexplicable allergy to his own sweat to just plain 'don't wanna'. No dice. Calendius made him do pushups, pullups, wind sprints, and some exercises that Marco's pretty sure are actually acrobatic stunts and don't stretch anything.

Actually, more accurately, Calendius made him flail around on the exercise equipment for six hours until Marco's normally adorable face was red as a tomato and his nice haircut was mussed up with about four gallons of sweat. And to add insult to injury? The only snack Calendius gave him at the end was a protein bar and a bottle of mineral water.

Marco's definitely not going to morph until he knows exactly how safe it is, but the idea of turning into a muscle-bound silverback gorilla in ninety seconds and giving Calendius a little love tap did cross his mind about oh, four thousand times throughout the morning. Now that he's free (blissfully free, because Calendius had some appointment to 'get his eyebrows threaded', whatever that means), Marco doesn't even have the energy to cram the protein bar in his face. He just flops facedown onto one of the exercise mats.

For a while he lies there because he's really just too exhausted to get up, but after a while it's something more like theater. Every time someone walks by, Marco (very loudly) complains in their general direction: "Don't worry about me, I'm just lying here exercised to death! Cut down in my youth by the gym teacher from hell!"

DISTRICT TWO

The first thing he needs to do, now that he's escaped from the living Ken Doll that is his Escort, is understand more about this absolutely bizarre place he's ended up. As such, Marco drags his sorry, exercised-to-death butt to the lounge in his 'District Suite' and takes up as much of the couch as a vertically-challenged teenager can. He flips on the TV.

First observation: the fashion here is insane, and that's coming from a kid who runs around barefoot in itty-bitty bike shorts for his extracurricular saving-the-world hobby. He turns on the television in the lounge and he's pretty sure the news anchor is tattooed plaid. Rachel would be having a fit. Marco's surprised anyone with eyes isn't having a fit.

Second observation: Marco's pretty sure that the audience for this 'Hunger Games' TV show have never actually seen people die in the flesh. If they think it's fun to watch real people die they're either total sociopaths or have no idea what it is that they're actually seeing. The scenes with dramatic music, that he's sure are supposed to be exciting and riveting and feel like the world's greatest action movie, just make him feel like his guts are made of ice water.

Soon they're going to want him in there. Running around screaming and crying instead of back where he needs to be, fighting for things that actually matter. Killing people just as helpless as he is.

He groans and slumps back on the couch. "Does this thing at least get HBO? Some nice, relaxing cooking channel?" And he starts to flip through the channels.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Jet liked Cal about as much as he liked every other Capitolite douchebag he'd come across in the almost-year he'd been here but, while he'd mouthed off when first meeting Cal, he actually didn't say a thing about the exercise. He did every task asked of him and broke a mild sweat in the process. Jet was actually fit and his form of 'fuck you' in this case was not being bothered by it. It really wasn't any different than the military where he'd learned to say 'yes sir,thank you, sir to being given a hundred extra push ups for his attitude. He might have been good at the military thing and made a veritable career out of it, but it hadn't broken him of all his bad habits, challenging authority being one of them.

This new kid, however, seemed to be having the opposite problem. Jet hung around long enough in the training center to get to the over-dramatic face-in-mat whining stage and it was the 'gym teacher from hell' comment that made him venture over.

Still clad in his shorts and tank that unfortunately left his metal arms and legs on full display, he deposited himself on the floor next to the prone teen. "Hey...come on, it's not that bad, he only half killed you, a shower and some food and you'll feel better."

You had a few choices, in Mindy's opinion, about exactly how long you wanted to torture yourself with your own thoughts. Mindy preferred keeping her more tortured parts behind her, in her room, where she could feel like shit and no one else needed to know. Once she was outside of THAT it was back to business, even if said business was watching to see how many of her tributes would fall in the latest shake down. So naturally, Mindy was headed to the only place that didn't have to make sense: the training room.

Training. Tired muscles. Obstacles to overcome. Sharp objects in her hands. This, of all places, made sense when nothing else would. She didn't like them trying to make her their killer, and liked even less that with these new annoying upstarts, she'd have to train her district twice as hard. THAT meant leading by example, so she would work twice as hard too.

Going to the training center meant meeting new people, though this might be one of the first times she'd met anyone quite like this, all sprawled on the floor and complaining. From the sound of it, must be one of the "new" mentors.

"Dead? I don't know if dead people complain that loudly. It'd cut into their rotting time or whatever. Better get up though: longer you lie their ass flat, the harder it is to get up again."

Marco should be grateful that was all he's suffered. He could have, for example, been one of the poor trainers currently working with the Victor from Eleven.

Across the room, Wesker waited on the mats for an attack from a trio of trainers, each armed with a training staff and covered all but for their eyes in padding, his eyes closed as they circled slowly around him. Looking for an opening, gathering their courage... regretting the life choices that had led them there.

Finally, one struck, staff aimed like a spear at Wesker's back -- and just as quickly the man was on his back, arching in pain as Wesker tossed the staff aside, wood clattering against the floor as it rolled off the mat.

Billy is aware that there is such a thing as a doppleganger. Why, not even three months ago he saw a man with his own face on the Network, his familiar brown eyes marred with oversized glasses. It set off something funny inside his stomach, something like jealousy.

This boy calls up something else all together. When the elevator dings and releases Billy into the suite, he stands still for a full thirty seconds (a personal record) looking the boy up and down. Yes, he knows this boy, even though his memories are faint and dusty. He knows this boy and he knows his eyes. It's as though he were being mocked beyond the grave.

(evaevaevaevaevaevaevaevaeva)

"Ooooh boy," he breathes, drawing attention to himself with both the words and a hearty clearing of his throat. "What do we have here?"

Edited 2014-11-07 21:35 (UTC)

Dennett isn't a fan of physical exercise, himself, and probably every inch of him shows it, from his white sports socks pulled as high as they could (but impeccably white) and the track suit, and double-knotted tennis shoes. He's convinced himself that cardio, at least, is important, so he's been gamely doing laps of the gym for about a half an hour.

But someone facedown on a mat is definitely going to get the doctor's attention. N-not that he's looking for an excuse to stop exercising. No. Not at all. Of course not. That's crazy talk.

He's also immune to figurative language. "Are you--can I check your pulse?" Oops too late: he's going to reach for a wrist to check anyway.

"Don't watch the cooking channel." The complaining caught Torin's attention as he crossed through the suite. "It's not relaxing." He's a mentor, there's a new Tribute, and he's got to get acquainted somehow. "They do a lot of competition shows inspired by the Games, past Arenas and whatnot. It's...actually somewhat tasteless." There's probably some sort of cooking show joke involving taste in there somewhere, but Torin's not bothering to follow through with it.

Truth be told, Iskierka is mostly walking past the training center as opposed to anything else, when she catches Marco's complaint. It's oddly tempting to actually leave him there too, and it's only curiosity that has her stepping into the training center at all; even if Marco isn't directly looking in her direction the sound and pattern of her footfalls makes it pretty clear that she's not anything near human.

"I didn't think anyone could be exercised to death."

After reawakening and recovering from getting the shit kicked out of him (and blasted, and chemically-burnt, and stabbed, and who the fuck knows else ...) in that delightfully fun obstacle course, Kenny's resolved to spend more time here. He already has some decent skills in fucking people up, so all the better to work at them.

He's not there very long when some other kid collapses melodramatically onto one of the mats, which he just ignores at first. But at one point when he's passing by, there's suddenly a round of loud bitching and whining at him. Yeah, it's coming from the guy who's still lying there uselessly. Kenny does the only thing he really can in this situation.

Which is to grab one of the staffs and poke him in the side with it, over and over. Like he's some kind of animal that needs to be confirmed it is, indeed, dead.

Edited 2014-11-08 14:15 (UTC)

Marco finally peels himself off the mat, leaving a shining smear of sweat on the blue tarp of it. Cute. His legs are shaking when he gets up, knees watery and wobbly under him. He jams the protein bar in his mouth and takes a long swig of water as he watches some guy go absolutely kung-fu on three people around him. This might be one of the people Marco's going to have to ~~run screaming from~~ fight, and so he figures he should watch. Decide how many last words he's going to be able to get in before this guy turns him into sushi should they meet in the ring.

The first trainer goes down.

"Whoa."

Well, Marco's screwed.

He watches Wesker make quick work of the others, leaving them to their fates on the mat as they struggle for breath and bemoan the limitations of padding. And he applauds because, as terrifying as that is to see? That was also cool.

He knows Billy's there. He's jumpy enough that he takes a quick glance when he hears the elevator ding, and then takes another to figure out if the new guy's going to keep fixing him with a creepy stare (the answer is yes, yes he is, for like twenty-nine seconds too long for comfort).

Marco knows when he's being looked at like prey, and he's surprised that it took as long as it did for someone in Murdertown to eye him up like that. It sets off an uneasiness in his gut, the preparatory clench of fight-or-flight, and Marco knows that neither option is really there for him in this place. He can't morph and risk blowing his cover as your typical handsome teenager, and there isn't anywhere to run. His only hope is to be charismatic and inoffensive and lay on that charm that gets him out of trouble a good sixty percent of the time.

"We have another person who wanted to run off screaming when they got told they'd be in a death match. Who're you?"

Marco's aware by now that some - actually most - of his competitors are adults, some of whom look like they press four hundred pounds before breakfast and could snap him like a toothpick. This guy may very well be one of them. But you don't last long in a war against aliens by looking afraid of people, so Marco puts on a friendly grin.

"I don't have an ass anymore. I worked it off. I sweat myself into nothing but butt bones." Marco raises his face, which has only just started returning to its natural skintone instead of the flushed pink of exertion.

Oh God, this girl's like what, ten? Who the hell sends ten year-olds into a gladiator ring, wonders the boy who got recruited to an interplanetary war at age thirteen.

"At least when I get put in the Arena I'm going to be far, far away from that psycho with the stopwatch." Seriously, Calendius, wind sprints? That's just cruel.

"I'm too tired to get up and walk to the shower. I need a bunch of cute girls to carry me there. And maybe chew for me, because I'm tired in my jaw muscles, and I didn't even know that was possible." And from the sound of Jet's voice, that's not a cute girl standing over him. He makes a groaning sound and feebly flops his hands against the mat.

And then Marco lifts his head and sees the metal arms and legs. He can't help that his face makes a little "oh" of surprise, even though he knows that's kind of rude. And then he just goes right on ahead and says the first thing on his mind, with a matching pained expression:

"Oh God, am I going into the Arena against the Terminator?"

"Whoa!" Marco pulls his wrist away, more because he's startled that someone actually took his bellyflopping seriously and isn't just rolling their eyes at him. "No, dude, it's okay, I'm not really dead!"

A thought occurs to him as he sits up and looks at the bespectacled man crouched down next to him. Both of them appear to be sweating everywhere and about as in-shape.

"But if you're a medical professional, could I get a sick note to not do this tomorrow?"

"Don't be so over dramatic," she said, "it takes WAY longer than a few sessions to shrink an ass. If that were true, you wouldn't have so many people on a diet. Glad to see you're coming back to a human color though."

He looked...strangely familiar though. Should she know him? Nah.

"Dude, you're going to have to deal with way worse than someone trying to train your ass, believe me," she said with a chuckle. "You won't need a stopwatch if someone's shooting arrows at you. All of a sudden, running's gonna come natural. He's just gonna make sure you can do it more easily so you're not picked off quick."

Wesker stalked the edge of the mat, circling the downed men like a panther before turning away - confident in his victory - and pinning the young man across the room under his strange two-toned eyes.

The pale, blond head tipped, a fraction to one side as his gaze moved over Marco, sizing him up.

"The new tribute for Two, I presume," he purred, as if he hadn't just reduced three grown men to mewling puddles without breaking a sweat. "A Mr. Marco, isn't it?"

Sandy hated this part of coming back to life.

Every time she was killed all the muscle she had put on from training for weeks was suddenly gone and she was back to being a scrawny little waif who looked like she hadn't had a good meal in weeks.

With the aggravation that was the mini-arena behind her Sandy was being proactive and came to the training center on her own to get some running done, but found that the act wasn't aggressive enough to deal with her anger over the victory that had been swept out from underneath her.

And so instead she was kicking a practice dummy over and over again to strengthen her legs. After about fifty of these painful strikes she limped her way over to the water table and that's when she heard Marco's whine.

Holding a bottle of water in her hand she shuffled over to look down at him and see if he was in fact dying. He was a bit older then her and there was something familiar about him she couldn't put her finger on...but mostly she found herself developing a total lack of concern for his comment the more she studied him silently.

Thankfully for Torin, Marco's quick on the ball when it comes to bad jokes. "All cooking shows are tasteless. You go to a restaurant for taste."

He looks over the edge of the couch to see Torin enter. He assumes by the disdain about the Games means that this guy isn't a citizen. "Who're you?"

"Oh, it's possible. Calendius Rey is going to make it happen." It probably says something about him that he's so used to being approached by people in morph or Hork-Bajir or Andalites that he doesn't immediately click that she isn't human.

And then he looks up and sees a dragon.

"Oh my God, don't eat me."

That actually gets a small chuckle out of Torin as he decides to go ahead and take a seat in one of the common room's armchairs. It couldn't hurt to get acquainted with this kid, particularly if he was going to be one of the Tributes Torin was to mentor. "Torin Byrd. I'm one of District 2's past victors. And you are?" Really, he's pretty polite for a product of this system.

"Hey! Hey, what the hell!" Marco gets to his feet (no easy task, given that they appear to be made of gelatin) and staggers away. "That was not an invitation to come over and poke me with a stick!"

He glares at the kid, realizing that he probably shouldn't be focusing on making enemies before the Arena even starts but hey, that kind of hurt. Marco has delicate ribs, okay.

"I hope you're not inviting me to hit you back with a stick, because I'm seriously against whaling on each other with staffs."

Finally, Marco realizes that he's not going to get the sweet, sweet nectar of fawning sympathy that he so desires, and so he peels (literally peels) himself up off the mat and sits on his skinny butt to drink from his bottle of water. He tries to unwrap the protein bar but that sort of dexterity seems beyond his fingers, which are still numb and shaky from the insane crap Calendius tried to get him to do on the chinup bar.

There's a girl there who looks like one of Rachel's little sisters. Marco realizes, with a chill, that she's probably one of the people he's going to be up against.

He waves his hand. "Hi. You better get out of here, it's secretly a torture room."

Wesker turning those chilling eyes on Marco is enough to make his bones feel like ice water. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck rise up like a flock of birds swooping up a cliff.

He spits up humor like one of those evolutionarily-wacky birds that pukes on itself to ward off predators.

"That's pretty creepy how you already know my name, not gonna lie." Marco swallows. "I've got serious heebie-jeebies right now."

Kenny watches the boy get up, only responding with a muffled laugh after he bitches some more.

"Why not? If this was real, you'd already be dead." Not meanly. Just... stating a fact, really. Everyone has their limits, of course, but it seems like common sense to not actually show weakness in an environment like this. At the very least, not the amount that this guy has shown.

What a pansy.

In response to the dramatic outburst, Diana's pretty face appears above him. She wrinkles her nose in a false show of disgusted surprise and responds. "I hope it wasn't the prime part of your youth because otherwise I might have to call it a mercy killing."

Sandy gives him a nod and a half a smile. Before she can stop herself she blurts out "Naw, the torture chamber is much darker and they've got things on the chairs to strap you in."

She realized all too late this was not the normal sort of ice breaker people used when meeting new kids and looked appropriately ashamed by it trying to mask her lack of social grace by taking another long drag off her water bottle.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 8

I Long to Be As Careless As I Once Was [Open]

Training center

no subject

Training Center

no subject

training center

District Suites

Training Center

Training Center

Re: Training Center

no subject

no subject

Re: Training center

Re: training center

no subject

no subject

no subject

Re: District Suites

Re: Training Center

no subject

Re: Training Center

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject