Mission: Capitol Liberation

[etcircenses]

Who| Bucky Barnes, Enjolras, Joan Watson, Punchy, & Marius Pontmercy.
What| Liberation of the idiots.
Where| The Tribute Center
When| January 1st
Warnings/Notes| N/A

This leg of the mission would require more stealth and discretion than anything else. The team would go into the Capitol, making use of the smuggling method the rebels had established and make their way into the Tribute Center. Bucky, Enjolras, and Joan would be provided with elaborate disguises to aid in their infiltration if necessary, otherwise they would be very much on their own. The hovercraft couldn't wait around for them and they would have no back up in case something went wrong.

It wasn't until they were nearly to the Capitol that their targets were revealed. Punchy and Marius. Wait... Punchy and Marius?

Doubts as to their suitability as soldiers aside, the trio's mission was clear. They had to be in and out of there and at the rendezvous point before 2300. It was 0700 when they were dropped off. Plenty of time, right? Right?

Comments

[hollowvictor]

Getting into the Capitol was the easy part and with their disguises, staying unnoticed wasn't that hard either as long as they kept their heads down. The actual extraction was going to be the hard part. If they were spotted by any of the many peacekeepers around the city or the tower, they'd be captured in a heartbeat; all of them were pronounced dead. Sure, Bucky had a convenient counterpart to use as an alias if someone spotted his face, but not when that counterpart was still in the arena like he was currently.

That was part of why he was staying outside. Not only did Enjolras and Joan know the tower and the targets better, but Bucky would be easier to miss out in the open. Besides, he was dressed up and wearing a mask that blended in well with Capitol fashion, but stayed unnoticeable enough to be passed over, so really this was the best place for him.

He stayed out there a while, milling around a while and hoping the others would return soon so they could get out of the city quickly. Of course, the longer he stood there, the more he thought about how useless he'd be out here if something were to go wrong; if they needed help, he'd be much more useful inside instead of out. As long as he kept the mask on, he was bound to still go unnoticed, right? A second of mental debate later saw him striding into the Tribute Tower like he belonged there. The best way to sneak in the Capitol was to be as straightforward and plain sight as possible.

Once he was inside, he quickly realized he should have stayed out.

This was a new building, one built specifically for the never-ending quell and the tributes pulled in to participate, Bucky had never set foot in here before, and yet it was exactly the same as the tribute center he'd been in six years ago. It was the atmosphere, the gilded air attempting to cover the suffocatingly stale quality it held, it was a bigger cage made with brighter and better jewels, but it was a cage nonetheless, one meant to groom and pamper to make it's inhabitants as entertaining as possible when they went off to die. It was a jail.

It was all there in his head as his eyes scanned the lavish decorations and only saw ones used over half a decade ago. He was seventeen and so incredibly overwhelmed it was a miracle he'd processed and retained any of it. The city had been -still was- so crowded by buildings and people and noise and lights, a sea of confusion and unfamiliarity when the only ocean Bucky had ever known had been the one you could find yourself in late at night made of tall grass and bright stars spilling over the inky sky. There was no space, no freedom to be found in the Capitol's confines and with the knowledge that you could very well die soon constantly playing in your head, how could any of it seem as fantastic as it was meant to be.

Seventeen years old and walking into the executioner's grip as willingly as though he'd wanted to because it was better him than the person who meant most to him. He'd walked through those doors and into the shining glamour of the games with the intention of killing everyone and walking away the winner while knowing full well there were hundreds upon hundreds of ways he could fail and not even half of them were related to the other tributes. He'd smiled for the cameras and laughed at the jokes and played the 'homely good-boy' card his mentor had given him to win as many hearts as his limited time offered him and then he'd been thrown into that rocky bowl with the rain that steadily filled it up.

He could hear them, see them, feel the adrenaline in his veins as his heartbeat filled his head and the countdown lowered, the other tributes all ringed around the bottom of the bowl and shaking with anticipation. There'd been blood all over that bowl in the first few minutes and Bucky had spilled a lot of it and he'd kept spilling more and more -as much as he needed to- because he wouldn't let Stevie, his sisters, his mother watch as he died and then at night, when it was finally quiet except for the rain, he'd wonder if letting them see what he was capable of was really any better.

Bucky blinked and he was back standing in the middle of the new Tribute tower, eyes wide, breath short and heart racing in his throat. For one second he couldn't remember anything and then it spilled back into his head with cacophonous force and drove him -a little faster than he should have, considering he was supposed to go unnoticed- into the nearest corner and out of the way of unwanted attention. He felt suffocated in the open air. He quickly wrenched off the mask and hat before lowering his face into his hands as he tried to catch his breath and clear his mind of memories too old to be so vivid.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

He hasn't been back in the Capitol long. In fact, this is the first time he's left his room since he woke up in his bed, like nothing'd happened, like he hadn't been beaten to hell and done the same to the other guy, crawled away from the fight knowing he was done for. It's not the first time he's kept going after figuring he was probably down for the count, though, and if he stops to think how it's different, it's so damn different - well. He's not going to stop to think.

And slightly fortunately, he doesn't have to, because the first thing that catches his attention when he's making his way through the Tribute tower is the guy standing in the middle of it. Even with a mask on, even with Sam's own thoughts shaken and tugging at his mind, he still recognizes the signs of someone having something like a panic attack. It'd be hard not to, especially when he hurries to a corner to pretty much hide himself.

He's dressed up like one of them, like a Capitol citizen, but Sam hasn't seen any of them with so much as a hint of mental issues - aside from the ones that come with growing up here, anyway. And, well. Aside from the Victors. He's got no idea if that's the case with this guy, but Sam finds himself heading over there, anyway.

"Hey, man," he says, pitching his voice low and automatically positioning himself so he can mostly hide the guy from the rest of the room. Capitol citizen or no, he doubts the guy wants the rest of them to see him having a hard time. "Look, just go with me on this, okay? I need you to count to seven as you breathe in, then count to eleven while you breathe out, all right? Seven in, eleven out, and repeat, I can do it with you if you need it."

If the guy doesn't push him away or tell him to shut the hell up, he'll demonstrate.

[hollowvictor]

There was a rushing sound in his head that battled his heartbeat for his attention. Even with the heels of his palms dug into his eyes, he could still see it all: the body of his only ally face down in the accumulated water at the bottom of the basin, the face of the last tribute between him and victory as they fought and Bucky's knife lodged in his skull and the blood that spilled down his arms--but there was another sound, something louder than the rushing and his heart and the memories that weren't so all-encompassing but were just as vivid.

He was being talked to and for just a moment he panicked even more; he'd taken his mask off, if he looked up, he might jeopardize the whole mission all because he couldn't keep himself together. There was also the distinct feeling of being cornered, trapped, as the other guy moved in front of him, but a peek through his fingers told him that wasn't the case, the body language didn't match. He was being hidden. Protected. It made him actually listen.

His breathing a little shaky at first, he followed the instructions and breathed in for seven and out for eleven. If he'd been in his right mind, he might have told the guy off and tried to spare his cover, but whatever was happening to him was too much and following advice that might help like he'd just been ordered to do it instead was so much easier.

He was a soldier of District 13. It was just an order: breathe in 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Breathe out 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.

His breathing calmed once again, he slowly pulled his hands away from his face and risked looking up at the person who'd helped him. He could always fight if he needed to and, worse-come-to-worse, he could always make a big enough distraction with himself to allow the others to escape and carry out the mission successfully.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

"Good, man, that's great, just keep breathing with me." Hell, it's doing Sam good, too, giving him something to focus on other than having just woken up.

Then the guy looks up, and Sam offers him a smile in the second before he recognizes him. "...Bucky?"

It's out of his mouth before his brain catches up with him. It'd make sense, why some guy dressed in Capitol clothes is having a panic attack, except - except his hair is different, his stance is different, he looks way too young. Some of that might be explained by stylists, but... His eyes are different; this might look like Sam's friend, but it definitely isn't. It throws him, probably visibly, but he recovers, offering the guy an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," he says. "You looked like a friend of mine, I - I'm Sam, can I get you to a place with a little less people?"

[hollowvictor]

There's no confusion in his eyes when Sam says his name, no surprise, but he does look away. Cold seeps through him because this was what he was supposed to avoid. Sure, this guy was probably telling himself Bucky was just some guy who happened to look a lot like his friend, but the truth wasn't impossible to figure out.

He remembered seeing this man, Sam, with The Other Bucky and The Other Steve, he was a friend of theirs and that was the only reason he didn't brush him off and leave. He didn't trust him, but he did trust that Sam wasn't with the Capitol.

"Much as I'd like to, I can't." When he looked back up, that vulnerability that had been in him before lingered around the edges, but it was a soldier who looked up at Sam, the leader of a mission that he couldn't afford to let fail. "But...if there's somewhere more out of the way on this floor, that'd be fine."

It was a good thing Sam had been the one to find him, at least Bucky knew he probably existed on some Tribute-Rebel's list of allies. It did mean, however, that he couldn't just leave. If he left and Sam mentioned this to someone off-offhandedly, it might land him in serious trouble, but if Bucky took a few precious moments to clue Sam in just enough, it could protect him and give him something to give the other tributes. After all, it was Lonestar who'd informed Bucky exactly how ghostly and useless District 13 seemed to the tributes right now. Maybe being seen wasn't wholly terrible.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

That’s definitely not the reaction that Sam had expected, calling this guy someone else’s name, and it makes him hesitate, makes him start to wonder a little. He knows about alternates, about people with the same names and similar faces and even similar pasts, with just enough differences to make them not the same at all. If the guy’d been confused, or offended, Sam might not’ve thought much more about it, but he definitely is now.

Especially when the guy looks back up at him, his demeanor changed. Oh now that look, Sam recognizes, and he reacts to it instinctively, stance changing from entirely protective to a little straighter. He knows a soldier when he sees one, even knows that vulnerability, though the fact that it’s on a face so similar to someone Sam cares a hell of a lot about is messing with him a little.

Even if this guy didn’t look like Bucky, he’s still a fellow soldier who’s obviously been through shit, and that pulls at Sam the same way it always does, the same as it had when he’d met Steve and Bucky and Nat, and the Initiate, and Jet and Albert, and Sam tells himself that’s the reason he decides to go off somewhere more secluded with what could very well be a Capitol soldier, and not because he looks like Bucky.

It’s probably mostly true.

He watches him closely for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, man, I got you. Come on.” Sam moves a little closer, putting his hand on the small of the guy’s back like Sam absolutely knows who he is and he is completely supposed to be going somewhere with him. If the guy doesn’t protest, Sam’ll use it to usher him towards the south wing of the ground floor, away from the general public.

[silberfuchs]

"Bucky?" It's not uncommon to find the other cyborg huddling in corners, frustrated with the latest attempt at his District's support team's efforts to clean him up or 'make him presentable' as they put it, though whatever's presentable about half the things the stylists come up with is a mystery to Albert.

This is a bit different though, despite the Capitol foppery and shortened haircut the man is currently sporting. This Albert recognizes as something worse than frustration over the ridiculousness of Panem fashion. This is a panic attack. He should know, he's had them before.

With a soft inhale, Albert moves to kneel by his friend. There's no hand to his shoulder, no unsolicited touch no matter how well meaning, but he's somewhat close and using his body to block Bucky from the rest of the room. It's the best way he knows how to help without making things worse.

"You're alright," his voice is soft, gentle as it was when they'd been playing the piano to find his memories.

[hollowvictor]

In the state he's in now, hearing his name all of a sudden jolts him. The ghosts had faded -thank god- but that just meant it could be someone out to hurt him or hurt his cause and not a figment of his imagination born from memory. Running would draw too much attention, so with that adrenaline still in his system and his breathing starting to find a rythum again, he looks up. He could always fight.

Who he saw when he looked up wasn't someone he recognized by name. He'd seen him in the arena and he'd seen him with Steve, but Bucky had never really payed him much attention. He took in the guy's face and finally placed where he'd seen it, where the most publicity had been directed: this was the guy who'd gotten married recently, it'd been all over Capitol T.V. He was pretty sure his name was Heinrich.

But that didn't answer the question in his head as to whether or not he was being recognized for who he looked like or, instead, for who he wasn't. What he said now could affect it either way.

"You're right, I'm fine, just a headache." It was a lie, but while he certainly wasn't looking to share his issues with some random tribute, he was more waiting to see what the guy did next.

[silberfuchs]

The voice is different. It's not the actual sound, it's the cadence, a slight different in accent, something, but it's not the Bucky he knows and it makes Albert stand immediately, still a wall between this man and the rest of the lobby, but now a suspicious one.

"Who are you?" He keeps his voice quiet, certain there's more to this than he can see, whatever 'this' is. Several ideas whip through his head at lightning speed - cloning, cybernetic double, alternate universe version - but he voices none of them, not wanting to give the man a ready excuse if it's something far more sinister.

[hollowvictor]

"A ghost. It's better for you and anyone you might care about if you just turn around and leave now." It wasn't a threat, but a statement of fact. If some camera somewhere picked up on this guy talking to him and enough even half-clever people saw the footage, they'd be bale to do the math and know this wasn't the meeting it looked like. And then there'd be questions, maybe even torture, depending on how paranoid the Capitol got.

"Nothing I should tell you would make you feel better." Bucky could tell him something like that, but he didn't even know if this guy was truly trust-worthy. He'd seen his name thrown around that Lonestar post as someone who could be trusted, but that didn't mean Bucky trusted him.

[silberfuchs]

"Give me a straight answer or I will call over the nearest Peacekeeper." His voice is still low, but it carries the same layer of threat as the man across from him in his initial statement. It's not a threat, per se, but it was certainly a statement of fact in terms of what would come to pass should not!Bucky respond any differently than he's being directed.

"Tell me who you are."

[aboveangrybees]

With all the buzz, Steve normally would stay in his suite, avoid the hullabaloo and noise, but staying away from it only grants him the continuous playbacks of his friends dying in the arena. Watching them over and over again, dying, unable to help, unsure if they will come back. He tries to ignore it for as long as he can, but eventually it gets too much. Too overwhelming.

The roof is too crowded to get any air or peace, no, the best option is to slip out of the tower and to a quiet corner of the city. There's not many of them, but Steve knows a few.

It's immediate that the man having a panic attack catches his attention, causing him to automatically start moving over to help him without knowing or recognizing him. Though the closer he gets the more the man looks like- no. Bucky can't be revived yet and the other one never was revived. Unless-

Doesn't matter, help with the panic attack and piece things together after.

"Woah, hey, I got you, you're alright," he says it gently but with a firm assurance to help the thought settle in the man's mind. He keeps his hands off him, but he kneels to look up at him, making his presence less looming. "Breathe with me, okay? Slow, calm, just focus on breathing," as he says it, his breathing is already falling into a very calm and deliberate pace, making it audible enough so it's easy to follow. "In... then out," a breathy murmur.

[hollowvictor]

His head was buzzing too loudly, his chest tight and memories still played behind his closed eyes, but they were softening. Slowly, he became aware of a voice and it changed the memories that flashed in his head. The Arena fell away to calm fields and pastures, clumps of trees growing all around a town whose main soundtrack consisted of the constant but low thrum of livestock that was raised there.

His heart calmed as memories he didn't have played a stick of a boy telling Bucky he was alright, to just breathe slow and calm. In, then out." He knew they weren't real, that the dregs of panic still swirling in his head had pieced them together but, for one second, he clung to them as though they were real.

Then they fell to pieces and the memories stopped, leaving only the voice that was too close and hurt too much. Not him. Anyone but him.

He didn't pull his hands away from his face, afraid that if he stopped pressing them into his eyes, he'd look up and see a face that sent a lance through his heart and a thousand volts of ache through the rest of him, but attached to a body that was too broad, too muscular, too perfect for the memories in Bucky's head.

His voice was barely more than a quiet croak when he finally spoke. "What are you doing here? Just go and leave me alone." It wasn't safe for Steve to be there, but if Bucky said that, Steve might catch how Bucky didn't want him to go, only wanted him to stay safe and alive and everything his Steve no longer was. As it was, he wasn't sure he'd been overly convincing.

[formersurgeon]

When Joan was a Tribute, she rejected all the fancy clothes and hairstyles and makeup, much to the chagrin of her stylists. All the Games fans were familiar with a relatively plainly dressed Joan, in muted colors and a simple ponytail. So she decided that the best disguise would, paradoxically, be the flashiest.

Joan's dress is gold, with a purple spray that winds up the skirts and the bodice and ripples with light. The neck is high, with a stiff metallic lace collar flaring behind her head. The wig she's wearing is a mass of red curls piled on top of her head, with spiked bangs that reach over her face to her chin. Her makeup is a random pattern of silver, gold and purple squares splayed out on her face, breaking the symmetry. The makeup and the hair should trick the surveillance software, as well as keep people from recognizing her.

Joan has heard that Punchy has been "celebrating" his victory by throwing himself into the hardcore party scene. When she enters the Tribute Tower, she heads toward the bar and the ballrooms to search for her friend in the crowds.

[president_evil]

Instead of her quarry, Joan would find another familiar face seated in a shadowed corner of the bar. The lights had been purposely turned down at this particular table so its prestigious patron could enjoy his meal in relative comfort.

His perpetual sunglasses resting by his hand, reflecting the bar back upon itself.

Wesker noted the woman as she entered, but he made no move to intercede. He didn't typically seek company when he ate as a general rule -- but particularly not company that made his eyes ache just looking at them.

They narrowed against the flash of color, pupils constricting down to pinpricks, and he turned back to his dinner.

[formersurgeon]

Joan saw Wesker, and her pulse ticked up slightly. He knew her, could recognize her, and he was tight with the Capitol. Or, at least, that's what he wanted people to think. Joan knew it was a front, that his true motivation was self interest. She could respect that. He had told her once that he considered her a resource, so she was fairly certain that even if he did recognize her, he wouldn't blow her cover. It was much more advantageous to him to cultivate their relationship.

And far more advantageous for her to do the same.

She crossed the restaurant nonchalantly, casually heading toward his table.

"Mr. Wesker," she said lowly when she reached him. "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm a huge fan."

[president_evil]

Indeed, if Wesker had been interested in stopping Joan, he'd have killed her the night of Eva's little coup, but while he didn't know her resources exactly, he could certainly guess.

There were, after all, only so many places a tribute could turn in the Capitol. And for that, for the possibility of a thread to them, Wesker let her go. Even encouraged with as absent a hand as possible.

So when the woman approached so brazenly, and he looked up, slitted eyes all bloody iris and saw.... he smiled.

"Of course you are," he purred. "Why else would you bother?"

Setting down his gleaming silverware he reached for the fine linen napkin with one hand while the other slipped into his sport coat.

"An autograph, I presume?"

[formersurgeon]

She had been thinking of ways to let him know who she was, phrases that he would recognize. Maybe something about how she wished she could smash all the cameras. It proved unnecessary, since his expression quickly shifted to recognition. She was once again glad that to the extent that Wesker was on a "side," he at least was not on the one directly against her.

"That would be great," she said, her voice still soft and even. "I'm lucky to run into you. My friends and I are only in the Capitol for the day."

[president_evil]

"How fortunate I decided on dinner out this evening."

The slim, silver pen clicked beneath his thumb and he pulled the napkin closer, writing hand resting on the linen (obscuring the small, neat text from the cameras).

What a pleasant surprise.... it began.

"Though I'm sorry to see your friends couldn't join you. Perhaps some other time."

[cw: drug use]

[culturalappropriation]

It takes her a while to find him, but he's a celebrity in these scenes that people usually notice. He's the new Victor, after all, someone you want to shake the hand of and, if you're of the right persuasion, get the pants lowered for. Joan can occasionally overhear people chattering about where he went off to.

He's in the women's bathroom with a girl at least a decade older than him, although plastic surgery has tried valiantly to make it seem otherwise. She's down to a bra and pants; someone's spilled a drink on him and his forearm is sticky with it. He sits on the sink counter with her on his lap, her high-heeled feet resting awkwardly over the faucets. His hand runs over her back and the tattoo of a serpent there. Girls pass in and out of the bathroom and hardly take notice, except the ones who shoot the woman a look of jealousy.

She runs a hand through his hair and gets off of him, pulling a baggie from her inside her bra. White powder's cut into lines along the edge of the counter and they do it together, not as a bonding technique but just because it saves time. Their cheekbones bump as they meet in the middle and she giggles; he doesn't.

It hits him like an explosion inside his head, but he's done this often enough that it doesn't shock him. He closes his eyes and waits for the stinging in his nose to stop, the short-circuit to his brain to take effect and free him from the worst of his thoughts. He brings his head back and winces, blinks and pulls the girl to him again, letting her kiss his neck.

[formersurgeon]

Joan comes into the bathroom at the exactly right (or, depending on your perspective, exactly wrong) moment, to see him and the girl rise from the counter, a trace of the powder still dusting his nostril. She's heard that Punchy has been partying hard, and knows full well that drugs are a heavy part of the scene here. She expected this. Still, to actually see it...is surprisingly painful. Joan has known any number of people who were actively using, had watched Liam descend into addiction and fall off the wagon at least a dozen times. But seeing Punchy like this...it's like watching Liam use at the very beginning, along with all the pain of knowing exactly what's going to come in the years that follow.

She strides up to the couple and taps the girl firmly on the shoulder.

"Yeah, sorry to interrupt, but I think your dealer is looking for you. Said something like, 'that bitch with Punchy owes me for the blow." You might want to see to that."

[culturalappropriation]

"Shit, shawty, you better bounce," he says, mostly into the girl's hair. He doesn't look up at Joan, and makes a little unhappy sound when the girl unwinds from him and takes those roving lips with her. Maybe if he were in a better state of mind he'd recognize the voice, but instead he sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

He doesn't pay attention to Joan, for the moment assuming she just came for his groupie and riding this high in his mind, eyes closed. He feels like he's floating, like he's smaller inside his skin and it's all on the outside, crisping and crinkling like too much saran wrap. And all the memories are so far below him that they're blurry and blotted out. He wants to maintain this forever, for longer than the half-hour this boost will give him.

[formersurgeon]

She waits until the girl is out of the bathroom before turning back to Punchy. He's pretty out of it, and she swears under her breath. They don't have very long to begin with, and it took her some time to find him.

"Punchy," she says, touching his arm. "Punchy, look at me."

[culturalappropriation]

Punchy makes a noise, enough to tell Joan he heard her but not anything that could be construed as words or a commitment. He opens his eyes and has a sort of glassy expression.

The Capitol may not recognize her face but Punchy always will. He doesn't forget the faces of people he loves; he tries to preserve them, so they don't vanish into smears and colors like his sister did. By some survival sense that the cocaine hasn't numbed he realizes not to say her name out loud, to play along, to pretend this is just another girl.

"Where we going, shawty? We best move before the other bitch gets back." He reaches over and touches her hair, head tilting as if he's looking through her.

[saisamour]

The most difficult part of a life in the Capitol without Cosette was his complete inability to die.

Each time he fell in the arena, he prayed he would wake in someplace different, with his wife by his side, in the place where people head to when they die. In a night-time garden, perhaps, with white butterflies that glowed like the stars that scattered the midnight sky and framed the full, blazing moon.

But every time he opened his eyes he found himself in his room, in the Tribute Tower, his heart still beating even if it no longer should, because it should have stopped the moment she never came out of her room again, all gentle smiles and bright, blue eyes. He was in said room right this moment, pondering on this, and of the unfortunate reality that even had he not been abducted into this place, he would still have died at the barricades and would never have been with her, except in spirit.

If there was someone knocking on his door, or even if there was someone else inside his room, he would barely have noticed.