thecapitol | (no subject)

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Who| Firo and anyone!
What| A newbie getting his bearings and bugging others
Where| All throughout the Training Center
When| About a week after the last arena
Warnings/Notes| None as of now

Firo isn’t much the type to shut himself away when he’s freaking out. No, he’s the type to pace restlessly even if he has no idea where he’s going. To expend some of that energy and, hopefully, the jitters, he decides to explore.

Common Area

“Wow…”

Firo doesn’t get too far out of his room before he’s gawking at the décor and furnishings of the place. He has to admit, especially after the drabness of Alcatraz, the rooms are impressive, if not exactly to his taste. He wanders around the floor unabashedly staring at everything.

Including any residents. If he spots someone, he’ll pick his way over to them.

“So, uh. What exactly do you do?”

If there’s some way to tell apart the tributes from the staff and other Capitol denizens, Firo doesn't know it yet. Either way, he figures he should get to know them. If what he’s learned so far is correct, he’ll be stuck with these people for a long time.

Bar

As he spots the bar, Firo nearly feels something akin to contentment for the first time since being dragged here. He already knows it’ll be no Alveare, but he’s in dire need of a strong drink.

He's not so stupid as to think getting drunk in a strange place is a good idea, so he'll just settle for one. Or two. As he works his way through one of the plainer beverages offered, he watches (read: rudely stares at) the others frequenting the bar.

Training Center

He eventually works his way down to the training area. Even if he doesn’t want to think about what’s waiting for him in this place, he can’t ignore the fact that he’s more comfortable around weapons and movement than the ostentatious luxury of the other rooms. He meanders around the stations, clucking his tongue in dismay at all the unfamiliar information and staring with childish amazement at strange weapons. When he reaches an area full of knives, he pauses and considers them all.

If he spots anyone else in the area, he’s going to quickly stride toward them, knife in hand. He doesn’t seem to realize that this isn’t a way people don’t really like to be approached—and despite his unimpressive size, he won’t hesitate to block their path if the ignore him.
“Hey. Where do I get one a’ these? To keep, I mean.”

Aside from the time he just spent in prison, he’s hardly been without a weapon since he first joined the Martillos. He keenly feels the absence of his knife, especially what with being stuck in an unfamiliar place and all. He wants to be ready.

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There’s a reason why Bill had kept all the alcohol locked away in the armory other than to secure and maintain his brand of tyrannical control over all things in the community. The near-constant threat of death in its many forms back home means Luke is about as cautious with his drinking as Firo when he settles into the bar, needing to escape the well-intentioned concern of others that has somehow become so smothering.

Just one glass of beer. Just a little to dullen the ragged, cutting edge of sobriety and slow the bleeding some. This is no time to carelessly drink himself stupid. It never is; not anymore.

It’s hard to relearn how to relax. Harder yet when he can feel someone’s gaze on him and he wonders if this is something he should be any bit concerned about. He hasn’t always managed to bite back his more unfavourable opinions of the Capitol and it doesn't help that there were few if any places that weren’t packed with cameras and devices out to catch every last word that came out of one's mouth.

He can only feign indifference for so long before he dares to offer the man in the stool beside him a brief glance, keeping his expression carefully neutral. No words. Just gauging his reaction.

Firo wasn't expecting to get any eye contact back, but he's almost relieved to see it. There's something almost dreamlike (well, nightmarelike) about this bizarre place and he needs some sort of confirmation that this is all real and he's not alone.

Someone to punch would also be nice, but he'll see what kind of a person this guy is first.

He shifts around his seat to face the guy more directly. "Who're you?"

He asks as if he's not the new person here. He has to get to know people somehow, but Firo's not too good at meeting people in a scenario that isn't incredibly hectic. So that'll have to do.

Dennett Norton is slowly coming to the realization that he may have to actually kill someone.

No, that's not quite right. His master plan is to at least begin to look like he's capable of killing someone, so that he can scare them off, the way Robber Flies look like bees and scare away predators.

It's based on science, therefore it is a good plan.

But it's hard to keep up his new Tough Front when he sees the knife. He gives a probably unmanly 'eep', putting his hands up in front of him, then putting them behind his back--he's a surgeon and his hands are his most valuable tools. "I. Uh. Please. It's not..it's not necessary." Don't kill a guy with glasses!

It’s an interesting way of posing the question, reminding Luke of what it felt like to be the unfortunate new arrival to Panem he had been two month ago, disoriented and desperately searching for his friends while struggling to come to terms with what it meant to wake in a place where the threat of walkers and bandits didn’t exist and few understood the significance of it. A place offering the luxuries of running water, a warm, soft bed, and a wealth of fresh food he had long since forgot the taste of.

A place, also, where he still had to look over his shoulder.

Some things never change.

“One a' them tributes from District 2,” he offers mildly before glancing back to his glass, keeping his expression as inscrutable as he can make it despite the twinges of curiosity. “And yourself?”

Firo, being self-centeredly caught up in his own issues, misinterprets that question. He raises an eyebrow; at least in his neighborhood, most people having a knife or gun (legal or not) on their person is completely normal.

"Not necessary? Are you crazy? Why would anyone walk around unarmed here?"

He waves his arms around to emphasize how emphatic he is about this point. Don't worry, the knife won't come too close.

Firo frowns and wonders if everyone here has their position tied to their identity or if he asked the wrong question. His shoulders become less stiff, though, to hear that this guy is a tribute and not one of the Capitol people.

"Firo Prochainezo." The next words are something of a struggle to get out. He hasn't been here nearly long enough to consider his new role a part of him. "I'm in the same boat as you, but for District 8."

"You got a name?" If the question sounds testy, it's only due to Firo's general feeling of confusion and anger, nothing aimed at Luke. He's just grateful to hear a normal if unfamiliar voice.

The pirate had wandered his way over to the fridge in the meanwhile, popping it open to rummage around in it. He'd discovered the fridge and the wonders it performed -- a box that cooled food and much more importantly drinks -- on his first day, and since then had been making heavy use of it. In this particular instance, when Firo approaches and asks him a question, Jack pulls away from it with a full bottle of rum in hand and an orange in the other.

He gives Firo a questioning look, at first, then slides the fridge closed and cracks a small smile. "Eat. Drink. Be merry. What else is there?"

Be merry? Firo's pretty sure that's impossible when he's so far away from his home and family.

"Uh, that sounds nice and all, but I meant more like your... job here." Basically, are you a tribute or not? Firo's still not at all comfortable with the term.

He hasn't even thought about what to do with downtime. It hadn't occurred to him that there would be any, despite being left on his own for a little while.

He considers Firo’s answer a moment, committing his name to memory. It’s useful to know a thing or two about someone beyond what they looked like, particularly in Panem where conversations with strangers went on far longer than they tended to back home and being trapped here meant one would see the same faces time and time again. Someone you said hello to in a coffee shop today could be drawing a weapon on you in the arena tomorrow. Though he'd rather not think of it that way.

“It’s Luke,” he says, noting the wary edge to the question and subtle drop to the young man’s shoulders. A swallow of beer, and then: “So m’guessin’ you’re new around these parts?"

There's no bite to it, no bitter amusement. If anything, there's a thread of sympathy underlying the tiredness in his voice. No one deserves to be here, caged in and forced to struggle viciously for survival all to keep the Capitolites entertained.

He nods. Ordinarily he'd say that it was nice to meet him, but he's certain neither of them is happy to be here.

"Yeah. Wound up here yesterday." He takes a gulp of his own drink. "How long've you been here?"

There are a thousand other questions he'd like to ask, but he's not sure how many are actually a good idea to ask in this place. Especially to a stranger. Surrounded by other strangers.

And, anyway, he does want to get a feel for how long someone can be in this place and remain not crazy. This guy seems pretty normal so far. ...But then Firo remembers Dragon and decides that he'll wait a little longer to make that judgement.

"Because--" Well. Actually, that's a very good point, Dennett thinks. Why hadn't he thought of that before himself?

But. But!! "I mean, could you, just...." A vague wave of a hand toward the knife. "I. Just. Weapons make me nervous." Especially when they're pointed at him.

"Huh?" He glances at the knife and shrugs, then leans over to set it down on a nearby table. "All right, then."

Well, having been blasted to bits my machine gun fire before, Firo supposes he wouldn't really enjoy staring one down again. Though he's more likely to get angry than nervous. After the blade's already out of his hand, he wonders if this is some sort of trick to leave him vulnerable, but that seems unlikely given what he's seen of this man's demeanor so far.

Instead of repeating his question, Firo remarks. "This seems like a bad place for a guy afraid a' weapons."

"It's been around a couple months. Not much more than that.”

That cautiousness is the furthest thing from unhealthy and unwarranted here. With cameras and recording devices almost everywhere -- and not always so noticeable -- one couldn't let out a fart, it seems, without half the Capitol finding out about it. And overanalyzing it.

Luke scratches absently at his jaw while mulling their situation over. He hasn't shaven despite the pleas of his frustrated Stylist who insists that he’d clean up well and likely turn the heads of a few Sponsors. Maybe he could win the favour of a few. It’s hard to remember what he looked like back when razors were readily accessible and not so frequently used for just about every purpose other than grooming. Harder to think about letting someone dictate how he should dress and smile and shit to please an eager audience.

Some other day he’d see the merit in squaring his shoulders and playing that game. But not today.

There's a noticeable loosening of Dennett's posture, as he figures he can stop trying to figure where he could possibly run here. Or if screaming would help.

"It's a bad place, period." Guess who's not a fan? "Unless where you're from, killing for entertainment is normal, too?" Hmmm, maybe he should take a step back. Just in case.

Firo relaxes, too, somewhat reassured by the fact that this guy doesn't seem to enjoy this place either. What's about as creepy as the whole "death match for entertainment" concept is the amount of people who seem okay with it.

He shakes his head, frowning. "For some people, maybe, but not me."

Okay, he can't deny that there are some people out there he's enjoyed hurting, but those times were necessary and he wouldn't have fun killing someone.

"You're one a' the other people they dragged here, then?"

The words would have been a little reassuring if, you know, no knives. But Dennett can get over it, as long as the knife stays nice and over there.

"I'm a doctor. I...how am I supposed to kill people?" That is a rhetorical question, by the way.

"Yes. Along with Alex and Clara. Which just make it worse." Lucky, lucky Dennett.

Firo doesn't always do to well at being reassuring.

A doctor, huh? He raises an eyebrow, marveling at the irony. He'd laugh if he were in a better mood (probably a good thing, because that probably wouldn't help matters at all).

The two names are unfamiliar to him, so instead of actually trying to think up advice for a doctor killing people, he asks, "They friends a' yours?"

He recalls that there's only one winner. So if you have friends here... Not everyone gets a happy ending.

"Huh. I woulda' thought a couple months in a place like this would make someone lose their mind." Then again, he supposes a couple months isn't very long. Who knows how much time he would have spent in Alcatraz if he hadn't been stolen into this world?

He can't suppress an impatient sigh as he thinks of home. Damn it, he has stuff to do! He doesn't care about whatever the hell Victor wanted with Huey and his eyeball (ew), but he cares about keeping Ennis safe and getting back to his family.

He drags himself out of his thoughts to look at his companion again. "You aren't crazy, right?" It's half a joke, though he would appreciate an honest answer.

Oh, Jack had known what he'd meant -- the pirate just wasn't too keen on acknowledging his unfortunate and unplanned imprisonment in this place. He twists the top off of the rum bottle, takes a hearty swig of it, then lowers it.

"Job?" A couple wobbly steps bring him to the nearest island counter, where Jack places the orange and bottle atop it, then leans forward to rest his elbows on the hard surface. His eyes narrow a touch, studying Firo. He didn't dress in the absurdly flashy way that the Capitol citizens did, and the wide-eyed way that Jack had seen him exploring the common area all pegged him as another tribute. "Wouldn't call it a job, as it were, so much as an elaborate an' dolled up death sentence. I've been marked as a Tribute for District 8."

Luke swallows carefully, setting down his glass and pausing afterwards to level him a look that is two parts, 'you'd best watch what you say 'round here' and one part, 'really?'.

“Wow.” He answers in a flatly incredulous way, unsure at first if the question is meant as a joke or not. Either way it’s not the strangest thing he’s been asked in Panem, though; that honour went to Initiate and every garbled, cryptic sentence that had come out of his mouth. A brow lifts slightly. “Well that’s helluva thing to ask somebody.”

Someone he just met, no less. Besides, anyone could say ‘yes’. It’s easy enough to tell someone what they’d like to hear.

The key difference between Tributes and Capitol people is that Tributes generally dress as they're accustomed to and Capitol staff dress like they're trying to emulate multi-coloured disco balls. Jolie looks a little like that right now, the heavy make-up doesn't help and she looks like she's searching for someone.

And this could be the guy.

She has a new Tribute somewhere, this is the clearly the guy since she's never seen his face before. Offhandedly, she observes that he's pretty cute and that could come in hand. She's surprised when he makes the approach, but it doesn't throw her.

"I'm a Stylist. I dress people." You, specifically, but she'll save that tidbit for later.

Though there's not much joy in it, Firo musters a half-smile in response to that. He can't disagree with this guy's assessment at all and there's something reassuring in hearing someone articulate that sentiment out loud.

"Me too--same District and everything." So, as far as Firo understands, they're on the same team but still only one of them can live through an Arena. Fun.

He follows to the counter, just drumming his fingers on the edge for the moment. "I'm Firo Prochainezo. You?"

Now this person is the first one Firo's encountered so far who really looks like they belong here. As she answers the question, he can't help but stare at her clothes and makeup.

He scratches his head, "Seems like a strange job to have when most people can just dress themselves."

Sure, he knows that there are people even in his world who pay people to mess with their hair and clothes, but those are all weird rich people, right? And he's still not clear on what fashion would even have to do with fighting to the death.

Firo just shrugs and finishes off his drink. "Never hurts to ask, does it?"

Well, if this guy were a little bonkers and took offense with the question then, yeah, maybe. But Firo doesn't plan things out with so much attention to possibilities and pitfalls.

"Place I was before, I met all sorts a' weird people. Some of 'em seemed like they weren't anything special until you talked to 'em."

And once you talked to them, you'd find out they were a cannibal or something. Hence why Firo feels he can just ask: the weird people he knew would give it away with an open answer or a really damn weird answer.

“Depends on who you’re askin’.”

He swabs a bit of dribbling foam with his thumb and brings it to his lips for a taste.

The collapse of government and all institutions has brought out some of the worst in a great many people, to say the least. Freed them of their inhibitions. Though every now and again one did meet a friendly face along the way; someone genuinely sympathetic and generous. It takes so much strength to be kind. And the sad truth of it is is that their sort don’t tend to last.

"I figure that’s pretty much the case anywhere you look. …But I wouldn’t know the first thing about what other worlds are like out there.”

He shrugs lightly.

“So, what kind a’ place’re you from, exactly? If y’don’ mind me askin’”. Besides a magnet for ‘weird people’, whatever that actually meant.

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oh well clearly they have to meet in the training center

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Haha, yes! I'm just going to apologize in advance for him

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Common Area

Common Area

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perfect!

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commons

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