thecapitol | Mission: Capitol Liberation

Entry tags:

Mission: Capitol Liberation

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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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."

"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.

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."

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.

At that moment Joan hates the Capitol more than she ever had before. It's not really logical; the Capitol kidnapped people and made the kill each other, oppressed, tortured and murdered them as well as their own people. And it's not like Punchy couldn't have had a drug problem back where he came from. But she's angry and saddened to see him like this, and well. The Capitol makes as good enough a target for her ire as anything.

She catches the hand going for her hair, and holds it, lowering it slowly.

"Someplace more private," she says. "My place is kind of far from here. Do you think you can make it?"

"Church. I'm breezy." In fact, at this moment, he feels entirely invincible. The trappings of the world shed away like a snake's husk. It's a feeling he didn't realize he missed so much until it returns, until he feels like he could be a hero again instead of weak and helpless.

He could nearly take on the Capitol like this, and that confidence is more than enough to get him to agree to break free with Joan.

"Lead the way."

As much as she should have expected this, Joan had still been planning on Punchy being a little more together, a little more able to engage in a complicated plan of both of them going back out to the party, navigating it separately and slowly, then meeting up outside the building at a particular time and spiriting away from there. In his current state, though, she desn't think it wise to leave him alone. He may well lose track of time, lose track of purpose. Lose track of her.

She pauses for just a moment, thinking hard. People will be watching him, and, by extension, her. They will notice if she's leading him off somewhere, and will probably take a closer look at her, which is the last thing they need. They need this to look entirely ordinary, at least for this crazy definition of ordinary.

She needs to be like any other woman with Punchy.

She gives him a smile and steps forward, sliding her arms over his shoulders and curling them around his neck, pressing her body gently against his and guiding his head down so she can nuzzle his ear and whisper against it.

"We need to get out of the Tribute Tower first."

Edited 2015-01-07 21:17 (UTC)

He's had dreams about this, about Joan with her face painted and her body up against his, and even knowing that it isn't real, that it's a plot to do something else, he can feel his breath get hot and his blood rush. The cocaine ferries it along. Little fireworks go off in his head, synapses like miniature supernovas, pleasure or thrill or just plain adrenalin.

"I should show you my crib." A few hapless ideas scrabble out of his brain and he realizes he should cover her in his jacket, as if he were her boyfriend, the popped collar and the heavy size obscuring her form all the more. Besides, he's sweating, probably from the drugs. "Let's go."

She can tell that she's arousing him, and she wishes she wasn't. This is all an act for her, purely pragmatic. And she knows that for him, a sexually charged situation is something that he has at least thought about. She feels like she's playing him, taking advantage, and she would never do that if she had any other choice.

He moves to wrap his jacket around her, and she presses herself closer.

"I need you to guide me through the party and the lobby," she murmurs into his ear. "I'll guide you once we're outside." She smiles faintly. "I'm taking you to my crib."

"Your crib at the Trib Center? If not my pad's probs on the up." He nods a bit, bringing his arm over her shoulders. He's much taller than her, and he can't help but notice how she fits perfectly, how he wishes that he could just have this moment with her against his chest and forget everything but the pounding of the music in the background and the rush of beautiful numbness in his head.

He follows her once they're outside, even as he wonders what the point is in going anywhere else but here. The cold air flushes his cheeks but he doesn't feel it.

It's dark outside, or as dark as it gets in the middle of a frantic city like Panem. Joan keeps her arm around Punchy's waist, and is trying to look like they're just out for a casual stroll, while at the same time moving relatively quickly. They have an hour to get to the rendezvous, but she wants to make good time in case something comes up to delay them.

"We still have a way to go. And it's not exactly a cakewalk." She glances up at him. "You doing okay?"

"Breezy, shawty. I feel like a baller right now." He taps the side of his nose, pinking with the cold air. "Higher than a motherfucker and still got my skills."

He places his hand in her hair, feeling it in her fingers.

"No..." she says, letting go of his waist so she can take his wrist, try to remove his hand from her head. "It's a wig. It would be bad for me to lose it..."

She wouldn't be quite as concerned if Punchy weren't, as he put it, "higher than a motherfucker." But she's much too familiar with how people can be wrong about their perceptions and motor skills when chemically compromised.

"'Kay..." He whispers, his breath hot and swampy. "We gonna bring more homies, make a party of this?"

The idea that they came just for him is simultaneously flattering and one he can't really wrap his head around. He has images of District Thirteen crashing in and saving everyone, of tidal waves sweeping in instead of curated leaks from the Capitol's stronghold.

"Just one other person. We're going to meet up at a rendezvous spot and then get out of here."

She doesn't want to give him any more specifics than that. If this went bad, and he was captured, it would be better for everyone involved if he had as few details as possible.

Joan spies a clutch of Peacekeepers coming toward them, and turns her head toward Punchy, pressing closer.

"Only one?" Punchy pauses there, although whether it's because his foot has slipped a bit on the thin layer of snow outside or because he has to physically stop moving long enough to accept that fact is unclear. "Is it Dave?"

Then he remembers that he's supposed to be playing a role. "I mean, nah, that homie's too young." He cracks open the door to the Tribute Center as they reach it, ducking out of sight of those Peacekeepers, who seem none the bothered to see Punchy with a girl again.

Edited 2015-01-25 00:52 (UTC)

"Way too young," she agrees with a smile that's as much of a disguise as her hair and makeup.

As they enter the Tower, there's a gaggle of girls who catch sight of Punchy. They squeal and bounce and flutter over to fawn over him.

Just great.

As starved for attention as Punchy perpetually is, and as spaced out as the coke's made him, even he's not thrilled to see all these teenagers and twenty-somethings bounding over to him. Especially not when the presence of a woman he actually likes, actually cares for, seems to make all their makeup seem garish, their clothing cheap, their hairspray choking, their bodies too nubile and Barbie-ish.

"This real estate's taken, bizzles. I be with a new bitch tonight." It occurs to him, dimly, like a voice from down a street, that they might recognize Joan from television, up this close. But he doesn't know what to do about it, pauses in this frozen dilemma without covering her up or standing in front of her.

Luckily Joan has not frozen (and has the presence of mind not to roll her eyes at being referred to as "bitch"). When the girls flock over, she turns, throws her arms around Punchy's neck, and presses her face into where his neck meets his shoulder, nuzzling and kissing.

Of course she would never do this if she didn't have to, if their lives didn't depend on her not being recognized. She resolves to talk with Punchy about it once they can do so safely.

"Yeah? Oh come on, Punchy, we know you're into threesomes," one coos, reaching forward to touch his face. He tries to keep walking but they block him, getting in the way like clutter in a drain. He tries to navigate around but he doesn't have the wherewithal.

"What do we do, shawty?" he whispers to her.

She has to think fast, and work with what they have. They're not going to just vanish, nor just make all these girls disappear.

"Pick one," she murmurs against his neck. "Bring her up with us."

He wants to say that they look the same, all with the exact same style of makeup and striped hairstyles, that they're blending together in his eyes because he can't seem to focus for more than a third of a second, but instead he just grabs one by the wrist and starts going. "A'ight."

By instinct, he goes for the stairs instead of the elevator. The elevator's a last resort for him ever since his Avoxing.

The stairs are probably safer for them. No box that can trap them with a simple flip of a switch. Still, it's awkward with three of them. The girl is giggling and pawing at Punchy, and Joan would bet she's just about as high as he is, so the three of them are not making great time getting upstairs.

"When we get to your room," Joan murmurs against his ear, "we ditch her, and get out. We need to get to the rendezvous."

Punchy, easily distracted and despite the tension of the situation feeling good, as if everything can be accomplished in less time than it realistically can be, is also having difficulty keeping his hands off the Capitol girl who's throwing herself at him. It seems every landing between floors they're pausing to jam tongues down each others' mouths, something he doesn't seem to be excluding Joan from. It's only with her urging that he remembers what they're doing and the limits of a temporal existence.

His skin feels like it's writhing on his muscle, his eyes too wide, his upper lip twitching, and when they reach the sixth floor he can't seem to figure out the key and so he actually kicks the door in.

[cw: drug use]

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