Nick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
streetsmarts) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-01-11 05:54 pm
streetsmarts) wrote in thecapitol2015-01-11 05:54 pm
Entry tags:
When you own the world, you're always home.
Who| Nick and OPEN
What| Fresh in from the zombie apocalypse.
Where| D7 suits, Commons bar, through the halls.
When| 11/01, ish.
Warnings| Sexual stuff in some of the threads.
It was over. Done. Done like dinner. After a goddamn marathon of bullshit, after continuous strife and disappointment, their asses were safe. That doesn't mean Nick isn't in a mild state of panic when he arrives. You spend a while attached at the hip with some mouthy assholes, you kind of notice the silence when they're gone. The fact that they'd come so far to be separated isn't as much of a relief as he'd thought it would be. He could use Rochelle to tell him to snap out of it right now, but instead he has weird looking guards devoid of emotional response regardless of his questions.
If they think he's bad, they should meet Ellis.
It becomes abundantly clear that this isn't some quarantine facility. This isn't the Thunderdome of the apocalypse, and somehow that makes it weirder. His chest is still tight with uncertainty and fear, but he hasn't really processed all of the information he's been spoon fed just yet.
D7 suites: It's hard to be angry when he's lead to the lavish suites and left the fuck alone. His grubby suit doesn't suit the fine decor, and that becomes abundantly clear as he catches his reflection in the reflective surface of a window. He visibly crinkles his nose, and he can't be looking anything but himself at this point.
"Rough.." He mutters, brushing off his front like it'll do him any good at this rate. Whatever. He's bone tired and the couch looks all too appealing, so he's sinking back onto it with his dirty shoes propped on the arm of it. He's already lounging around like he owns the place, but he couldn't care less about what anyone thinks. Hell, he hasn't seen anyone to be dismissive of yet. Not anyone who seems to care what he thinks, at least.
Lobby Bar: After lounging, Nick finds something to change into. He almost wants to keep his suit on for how little he wants to be caught dead in jeans and a button up, but the stink of months of fighting zombies is far more notable when you're removed from the situation.
He's had a shower, he's clean and he's ready to scope out what the Capitol has to offer. He's headed out to the streets when the bar catches the corner of his eye and well, one drink couldn't hurt, right? He makes his way to the bar and orders, and his desperation probably obvious from the way he slams the drink down. One drink becomes a couple and he's starting to become curious, he eyes people nearby and decides to approach them every so often.
"If you've been here longer than an hour, you could really put my mind at ease here." He says smoothly, trying to come off as someone in need of sympathy without compromising himself too much. "I'm having some technical difficulties here." He taps his head to demonstrate this. "Is it meant to come off like some weird fever dream? 'Cause I can't be sick. I use hand sanitizer religiously."
Through the halls: Now that he's had a few drinks, he figures he might leave wandering the Capitol for some other time. Instead, he'll work from the ground up. He pokes around the floors of the towers, but it's getting to be night and it's getting to be quiet. He's in his own head, mulling over how impossible all of this crap here, wondering where the other assholes got to and pretty much any sudden noise could have him lurching to the side. He reaches for a gun that isn't there before he forces himself to calm down, shoulders slumping a little when he does.
"I'm never gonna grow out of that." He groans mournfully, his heart still racing in his chest. He's going to be thinking about the Infected for a long, long time.
What| Fresh in from the zombie apocalypse.
Where| D7 suits, Commons bar, through the halls.
When| 11/01, ish.
Warnings| Sexual stuff in some of the threads.
It was over. Done. Done like dinner. After a goddamn marathon of bullshit, after continuous strife and disappointment, their asses were safe. That doesn't mean Nick isn't in a mild state of panic when he arrives. You spend a while attached at the hip with some mouthy assholes, you kind of notice the silence when they're gone. The fact that they'd come so far to be separated isn't as much of a relief as he'd thought it would be. He could use Rochelle to tell him to snap out of it right now, but instead he has weird looking guards devoid of emotional response regardless of his questions.
If they think he's bad, they should meet Ellis.
It becomes abundantly clear that this isn't some quarantine facility. This isn't the Thunderdome of the apocalypse, and somehow that makes it weirder. His chest is still tight with uncertainty and fear, but he hasn't really processed all of the information he's been spoon fed just yet.
D7 suites: It's hard to be angry when he's lead to the lavish suites and left the fuck alone. His grubby suit doesn't suit the fine decor, and that becomes abundantly clear as he catches his reflection in the reflective surface of a window. He visibly crinkles his nose, and he can't be looking anything but himself at this point.
"Rough.." He mutters, brushing off his front like it'll do him any good at this rate. Whatever. He's bone tired and the couch looks all too appealing, so he's sinking back onto it with his dirty shoes propped on the arm of it. He's already lounging around like he owns the place, but he couldn't care less about what anyone thinks. Hell, he hasn't seen anyone to be dismissive of yet. Not anyone who seems to care what he thinks, at least.
Lobby Bar: After lounging, Nick finds something to change into. He almost wants to keep his suit on for how little he wants to be caught dead in jeans and a button up, but the stink of months of fighting zombies is far more notable when you're removed from the situation.
He's had a shower, he's clean and he's ready to scope out what the Capitol has to offer. He's headed out to the streets when the bar catches the corner of his eye and well, one drink couldn't hurt, right? He makes his way to the bar and orders, and his desperation probably obvious from the way he slams the drink down. One drink becomes a couple and he's starting to become curious, he eyes people nearby and decides to approach them every so often.
"If you've been here longer than an hour, you could really put my mind at ease here." He says smoothly, trying to come off as someone in need of sympathy without compromising himself too much. "I'm having some technical difficulties here." He taps his head to demonstrate this. "Is it meant to come off like some weird fever dream? 'Cause I can't be sick. I use hand sanitizer religiously."
Through the halls: Now that he's had a few drinks, he figures he might leave wandering the Capitol for some other time. Instead, he'll work from the ground up. He pokes around the floors of the towers, but it's getting to be night and it's getting to be quiet. He's in his own head, mulling over how impossible all of this crap here, wondering where the other assholes got to and pretty much any sudden noise could have him lurching to the side. He reaches for a gun that isn't there before he forces himself to calm down, shoulders slumping a little when he does.
"I'm never gonna grow out of that." He groans mournfully, his heart still racing in his chest. He's going to be thinking about the Infected for a long, long time.
no subject
But when Nick leans forward with that challenging smirk, he snaps to attention. That isn't to say there isn't a certain amount of exasperated haughtiness to it, but it's different than the tedium before it.
"Nicer than some of your compatriots, I'll give you that. Don't worry, I don't care about getting you all to polish my shoes with your tongues. All I'm asking for is a little damn cooperation." He wrinkles his brow a bit. "Give me that and I'll make it worth your while. This is a business, Nick Without-a-Surname. I'll treat it like one long as I'm getting paid for it."
no subject
Now that Nick has been appropriately shamed and exposed to Jason's nasty attitude, he can better appreciate where Dorian was coming from in his description. Jason is a hateful little man, there's no denying that, but what he brings to the table is interesting. Nick has very little choice in the matter, he's sure, but he knows better than to turn down help in a tough place.
"Sounds doable." He says, exercising that tiny bit of choice he has in this situation. "Get me a knife and I'll show some sorry assholes how far morals get them." The offer comes with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "Can't be that hard if everybody is getting their panties twisted over killing each other." What a bunch of boy scouts.
no subject
As if happiness is a performance for some unseen audience that expects it, rather than something Jason can honestly feel.
"A knife? I'm betting I can get you a knife. Alright, hold your wrist out, I need to make sure the number on your tracker chip matches everything on your file. Administrative." Whether Nick gives him his wrist or not, Jason pulls his arm forward and holds some setting on his phone over Nick's forearm, revealing a number in blacklight. "By the way, you try and run? Captain Glass supposedly has everyone's locations on his bluetooth headset. Don't try it or you won't like how you look the next day, promise."
He lets Nick's arm go. "Just ask anyone who's been here a while. They'll remember the face pizza half your competitors were wearing. Not that I think you're a troublemaker or anything, but I'm betting you can guess that I'm not the kind of Escort who posts bail for people."
He doesn't expect Nick's trouble, because he thinks Nick's smart. At least smarter than the average Tribute.
no subject
He can stand to sate Jason's shitty temper if it gets him a knife, just like he can stand to be entertainment if it gets him through the last leg of his survival tour. Once he gets out, it's clear sailing. He has no friends here they can use against him and no friends here that can judge him for playing the game.
As if breaking himself into being compliant, Nick holds out his arm for Jason to do his weird whatever with. "Big budget prison system. Got it." His smile is mirthless, just barely twitching at the mention of a punishment he can only vaguely imagine. "I've done my share of running. Think I might hang around here while I can." He says, again, like he has a choice. He folds his arms over his chest and stares critically around the room before his head lolls back down and he looks at Jason. "We done here?"
/wrap?
"For now. Report to the gym and start warming up. There should be some spare exercise clothes in your size in the locker rooms until I get your order processed." Nick might end up wearing perfectly-fitted gym shorts with a bunch of logos for protein supplements on his ass, but it's not like he gets much say in that anyway. "I'll be down with a trainer for you in a minute."
Their day has just begun, but he hopes that once he's given Nick a schedule and a routine the ensuing weeks can be more hands-off.
no subject
Either way, Jason gets little more than a mutter of "Later." as Nick leaves the room to amble toward the gym as slow as one humanly can. He just has high hopes that he'll see less and less of Jason and more and more of the better things the Capitol has to offer outside of a goddamn gym.