[open] They're mopping up the butcher's floor

[samson]

Who| Brock Samson and YOU
What| Brock gets over himself and goes to the zoo
Where| Training Center (D8, gym, roof, commons) and Capitol Zoo & Aquarium
When| Weds., Jan. 14

a. TRIBUTE TOWER.

After the Arena, Brock spent a little over a week being as reclusive as one can in a world where one has been foisted into Kardashianing against one's will. He spent a large amount of his time in the Training Center -- specifically in the gym.

Today is really no different. He's in the gym, stabbing training dummies and hitting the heavy bag and climbing the rock wall. He has a lot of aggression to work out, and this is the best way to do it.

Still, it's been over a week. It's time to buck up and get over it. It's not so much that Brock's mad he lost -- he didn't really care to win, and, to be fair, pretty much everyone was cheated out of a fair fight because of several circumstances -- but rather that his death disturbed him more than he'd care to admit. And the best way to deal with things he didn't want to admit, in Brock's experience, was to distract himself to the point where he didn't have time to think about it. But there is a thin line between healthy coping mechanisms and being a little bitch about something, so he makes a concerted effort to move the hell on.

Midday, he's up at the rooftop garden, idly looking over plants as he smokes a cigarette. Which is probably not a great combination, but screw you, just try and stop him. Occasionally, he leans over to touch the plants, frowning, before he moves on to the next planter.

He can also be found in the District 8 Suites and in the Central Commons, though he doesn't stay in either place for long, only passing through.

b. CAPITOL ZOO & AQUARIUM

As the day winds down, Brock heads out into the world. He's usually at the zoo every week, every Wednesday, a quirk he's not sure the Capitol has picked up on yet, judging by the lack of paparazzi following him here. But it's not like there aren't cameras everywhere anyway, he muses darkly, as he looks over giraffes and monkeys and other things on his way to nowhere in particular.

Or at least that's how he's trying to appear: he's going nowhere in particular. He always winds up by the polar bears as the sun begins to sink down, then upstairs to the otters and sea lions and other aquatic mammals. He lingers here awhile, maybe waiting for someone, but then again, maybe these are just his favorite animals. Either way, once it's dark enough, he moves on, glancing at a few more exhibits before he leaves.

Comments

rooftop!

[aintyourdad]

The roof is about the only place Joel can go where it's quiet, where it doesn't feel like there are a million eyes watching him. Which means he's been spending more and more time up here lately, if only to have some sense of privacy away from his bedroom.

He gives Brock a little nod when he spots the other man. "The down time is the worst," he comments, just by way of making conversation.

[samson]

Brock glances up from where he is poking at a succulent, jerking his chin at Joel in greeting. Even though he lives with the guy, there was a short period there where he thought he might have been dead or something -- he didn't see him anywhere and his door was always locked. Like a ghost. Obviously something happened, but it wasn't really in Brock's habit to pry, so.

"Really? I'd say the getting murdered and brought back to life so you can get double-murdered is pretty bad," he answers dryly, ashing his cigarette on the floor of the roof. At least it's not in the flower box.

[aintyourdad]

"Nah," he says with a shrug. "Watching it happen to -"

Kids. Ellie.

He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. The only things good about this place are the hot water and food."

[samson]

"That's, uh... a pretty low bar you're setting there," Brock says, eyebrow arching a bit. Yeah, this place is stupid as hell and he'd rather be home, doing his job, but there are some things that aren't so bad. There are women here, for example. Women are not so bad.

"I wonder how long they think they can keep us mollified, though."

[aintyourdad]

Maybe some people think it's a low bar. It's the only bar, as far as Joel is concerned. He hates this place. They dragged him here, made him watch Ellie suffer, then took her away from him.

So yeah, the only good things are the food and the running water.

"I'm pretty sure they already failed at that," he responds with a snort. He's been around long enough to know a lot of the tributes are far from mollified.

[samson]

"Well, they're not all rising up in open rebellion, so..."

Which isn't to say there isn't a secret rebellion going on. Brock only saw the one Lonestar transmission before that sloppy green kid in their District ate it, but it's pretty obvious that's what it was. Still, even though they could claim innocence, Brock is sure the Capitol is paying an extra close eye on District 8.

"Weird stuff with that kid, though, right?"

aquarium!!

[fusshionable]

Occasionally, a girl just needs to get away from it all. Away from the Tribute Center, away from the bars and restaurants and the people. And Porrim's learned that a pretty good place to get some solitude is the Capitol's aquarium. She enjoys a leisurely stroll through every now and then, enjoying being surrounded by walls of water, and darkness, and silence, the fish silent shadows moving alongside her. Every now and then, she pauses, watching the great white Beluga whales swim-dancing, strangely graceful in their bulk, and that's what she's doing when she spies a reflection in the glass that indicates she's not as alone as she imagined.

The Escort turns, appraising the man briefly, before smiling slightly.

"So we meet in person." Her voice echoes a little in the tunnel-like space with its dark marble floors.

[samson]

Brock has actually found it a little surprising that the Capitol has something like an aquarium. It seems a little too academic for the regular sort of debauchery that the Capitolites like to engage in -- you can't really have a glow-stick orgy against a dolphin tank. Or maybe you could. He doesn't really want to think about that.

But he's thankful for it. The animals remind him of his family, of taking the twins to see educational crap like this because, frankly, homeschooling could only get you so far. They needed to get out in the open every now and then. The irony doesn't escape him that now, here, he's out in the open but still very much contained and closed in.

It takes Brock a second to place her when she turns, and he blinks at her before an acknowledging grin creeps across his face. "Porrim, right? Winding down after a super-exciting Arena?"

There might be some sarcasm in his tone. Maybe. So super-exciting.

[fusshionable]

"Astonishingly thrilling," she quips dryly, not missing a beat. A school of those tiny orange fish swims close, and Porrim lifts a finger and presses it to the glass, winding it in figure-eights and watching the fish follow it around and around in formation, like they're hypnotized. She glances sidelong at Brock, her little smile widening.

"How was outer space? Cold, I'm assuming." She's not trying to be an asshole; she's always found it easier to try and make light of the Arenas when speaking with Tributes, rather than making everything sad and somber like a goddamn funeral. There are no funerals, when they're doomed to die over and over. It wouldn't be appropriate to act like one.

[samson]

Brock watches her play with the fish, though to be honest, he's more interested in the angle of her wrist and the delicate arc of her finger. He appreciates the way she's joking about it, anyway; he doesn't trust the Capitolites as a matter of course, but the more self-aware they are on an individual basis, the more he'll let his guard down.

"Oh, yeah. Freezing. Especially when they turn the oxygen off." The way he died is a little fuzzy and he hasn't watched the tape -- he doesn't want to. But it's a little cathartic to joke about it instead of moping around.

"But, you know, it's winter, right? The next one'll probably be ice castles."

[fusshionable]

"I bet," she remarks, dropping her finger and watching the little school of fish scatter now that their amusement is gone. Porrim turns to face him, then, leaning a shoulder against the cool glass of the tank, silent shapes gliding past behind her.

"Please," she snorts. "Give us a bit more credit than that. We may love our blood sport, but we've got taste." Is that a hint of cynicism in her voice? Or is she merely being ironic? She has to hope it comes off as the latter. The escort takes a step or two nearer. "I hope this doesn't sound like a line, but--come here often?"

Gym

[dreadinquisitor]

He wouldn't admit it aloud - he was loath to even admit it to himself - but Maxwell really liked the Tower's archery range. Wouldn't even be, if such a thing were possible, against taking it back to Thedas.

There was something very satisfying about the way the enemies broke into shards of bouncing light under his arrows. Looking like little pools of flame before they misted away.

Looking like magic.

He worked with the other weapons, taking the advise he'd been given about being prepared to heart, but he always ended his training with the bow. Letting his muscles get lost in the familiar movements - nock, draw, release, repeat. Letting his mind wander; letting it work slowly through everything that happened.

Sometimes he was there for hour or more, losing all track of anything else outside the little hall. And sometimes he did feel bad, when he found other tributes waiting.

Like when he finally exited one evening and spotted Brock.

"I'm sorry, were you waiting?" he asked with a small wince, gesturing with his free hand back through the glass door.

[samson]

Though the Capitol is a little sci-fi for Brock's tastes, he's adapting well enough. You don't spend twenty years of your life around super-science and get spooked by holograms and weird computer shit, after all. He likes the Training Center's holographic dummies mostly because you can set it so they're neverending; so they appear continuously from the digital ether, wave after wave. It's a good way to lose yourself in killing without having to deal with all the blood.

Still, space is an issue. There are only so many spaces in the Center where the dummies could be activated. Brock has been keeping busy in other parts of the Gym, punching things and literally climbing the walls, but he really just wants to go and kill shit. Even if it's simulated murder.

He's trying to be polite, though, so he doesn't really make much of a fuss when this dude is in there for so long. It's not like Brock can't get in there any other time during the day, now that the curfew has been lifted.

He's selected a battle axe off the rack (like all the other weapons in the Center, it is made of blindingly shiny steel in what appears to be a single piece of metal) and is just kind of testing the weight of it when the room finally clears. "Kind of. Don't worry about it, bro."

[dreadinquisitor]

"Quite the attraction," Maxwell said, as he stepped away from the glass doors. "I had to wait myself to get in earlier."

There were regular targets set up nearby, of course, but somehow, it just feel the same anymore. Just not as satisfying.

"Considering how many of us there are, you'd think they'd have planned better."

Unless they were hoping brawls might break out, despite what he'd heard about rules against it.

[samson]

The regular dummies -- made of burlap and straw, or some futuristic equivalent thereof -- aren't satisfying enough, really. Brock would agree on that. It's super difficult to compare static, stationary targets with ones that came at you and died when you hit them. Even if the death wasn't real, it was better than the traditional dummies' way of dealing with damage: just standing there.

"Right? Multiple rooms or something. You'd figure they'd want us in top shape for, uh..."

Well, for ritualistically murdering each other. But that doesn't make very good small talk, so Brock waves dismissively. "Well, you know. Maybe there's a suggestion box around someplace."

[dreadinquisitor]

He didn't have to finish, Maxwell could tell where he was headed, and he too let it slide by. The arena would be soon enough to worry about things like that.

"Somehow... I doubt it," he replied with a snort. "I get the feeling complaints as to the facilities would be the least of their worries if they opened the floor to comment."

B. Capitol Zoo

[hersir]

It was something he did not comprehend. Farm animals certainly, they needed to be tethered and placed in their own holding fences but this was beyond what he had ever seen before. Animals he didn't even know existed with his own eyes. The evening is on its way but there is a peace here compared to the hustle of the city. Even though he doesn't understand the concept of keeping such creatures, they are nice to look at. His eyes drift over the the large cats lounging, such strong beasts and he wonders quietly what it would be like to hunt such strength. His eyes look over to them, the pace of them easy going as they meander around the landscape. A sigh escapes his lips, he's not sure it's fair they are locked up.

Surely in their own world it would be more comforting, more beneficial.

The Northman's own walk around the grounds lead him to various places but when he see's the height of the giraffes he pauses in his steps. What large animals, how tall they stand and he is quietly enamoured with their appearance. A small smirk on his lips, he approaches before something else catches his eye. A familiar face, one of the first people he had met. The stronger man, who looked like one of his companions from back home in build and gaze. Pausing, he thought about turning away and leaving the other be but instead, he quietly approached, eyes fixated on the creatures.

"Magnificent." Came his reply as he walked slowly near. "I've never seen a beast like it."

[samson]

Brock is still getting used to the idea of people being from different worlds and times and whatever else. He's been around costumed villains and super-science for so long that temporal shenanigans aren't as confusing as they might be for your average Joe Schmoe off the street, but some things about it give him pause.

That somebody wouldn't know a giraffe is one of those things. Hannibal used elephants to cross the Alps, so surely giraffes were just as common. But maybe that's like saying Monopoly exists, so everybody knows what little pewter dogs are for.

Brock looks over his shoulder at the animals. "They're giraffes. Kind of useless, but cool to look at, I guess."

[hersir]

Stories of great beasts that lie beyond his peoples knowledge of the world exist, but the creatures that he comes across are by sea and by the lands of cold regions, mountains resting at the mouths of fjords with short summers and long winters. They are from the woodland and tundra, there was never anything like this and his eyes still remained on the towering creatures as he came to stand beside the other, leaning on the railing and watching them move across the landscape they were held within. It was a shame they were caged, he saw little purpose to it but otherwise he might not have been able to witness such a thing without them. A blessing, a curse, all in one. He is from a much different time, the time when the earth was still so new and lands unexplored. There was no writing, only runes, and he was the first of his culture to sail west.

That was saying something, before hand it didn't exist, it was simply empty water.

When the other spoke though he gave it a moment before looking over to him, a small smile upon his lips, face relaxed as he crossed his arms over each other on the railing. "Giraffes." His accented voice replied as he looked back to them. "Why keep them in confinement though, surely it's better to leave them to their habitat."

[samson]

It's a good question. Brock's not exactly sure how to answer it, especially because he's going to have to try and dumb it down a bit -- not insultingly so, but he's not exactly sure what time period this guy is from, or if he's even from Earth. There's the matter of cultural translation.

He pauses, screwing his eyes up in thought. "Uh... well, they're imported. Probably." If this is even Earth, which he thinks it is, but he has no proof. Maybe other planets have giraffes, too.

"They're not from here," he clarifies, leaning one elbow on the railing and turning a little so he can gesture vaguely in the air with the other hand. "So they wouldn't be able to survive in this climate if they got set free. People take 'em from their home so they can be seen by people who'd never get a chance to otherwise."

Even if it's not Earth, the weather makes it clear to Brock that giraffes aren't native here.

b.

[silberfuchs]

"I'm surprised to see you here," Albert smiles a little, watching the otters doggedly crack shells on their bellies. "But I guess judging anyone by what they see in the Capitol's footage is a bad idea."

Brock isn't the only one who comes to the aquarium to unwind, though Albert's not certain the man is aware of the lack of microphones at this exact spot near the otter tank. The muscular blond has been on Albert's radar as someone to keep an eye on. He could go either way, or simply be in it for himself, but as Albert's staunchly ensconced in the Rebellion now and he decides he should try and vet as many of the newer Tributes as possible. Though Brock's not exactly 'new'. Still, Albert's not going to pass up the opportunity.

"Albert Heinrich, District 3." He turns from the railing to face the other man, offering his clearly metallic hand for a shake with a small smirk. "Fellow sea-creature aficionado."

[samson]

Though Brock has been doing his best to keep track of the other Tributes -- as much for potential allies as potential enemies -- it's hard to sort out pertinent, useful information from tabloid trash. As such, he knows very little about Albert, apart from his name. He's even surprised to see that he has like a robot hand or something? Not that Brock is unfamiliar with robot hands in general, but he hadn't been expecting it.

He takes his hand with a bit of a blank look, and then he glances around and realizes where he is. "Oh... yeah. Sea-creatures -- isn't that more, like, fish and stuff? Whales?"

[silberfuchs]

"Well they're sea otters, but I was being broad. This is an aquarium." It's a mild, friendly rebuke. "I like them though. They use tools."

Albert leans on the railing, blank white eyes scanning the tank but attention still clearly on Brock. He needs to get the man talking a little, see where he stands in general on the Games, though that might be difficult to mark considering very few of them are willing to be completely candid about that. "How are you finding Panem?"

[samson]

Brock glances at the otters in the tank, not really having noticed that before. Of course they use tools. They hold hands, too, which is just as humanizing a trait, but not one he's about to bring up.

Generally, Brock is careful about what he says. He knows the Capitol is always listening and always watching, every inch of every place bugged and wired. But the waterfall by the otter exhibit, he's concluded, is enough white noise to drown out any bugs that may be around. It's why he comes here every week, waiting for information from a certain individual, but apart from their first meeting, she's never showed.

Still, even though he's pretty certain that the Capitol can't hear them, you can never be too sure who's in their pocket. Not that general bitching is enough to arouse suspicion, so he's not being too careful just yet, just snorts and rolls his eyes. "Oh, yeah, I love mandatory murder orgies and finding glitter everywhere," he says, very flat.

[silberfuchs]

If Brock had said that, Albert would have simply agreed. He finds it endearing even if it's just so they don't float away from each other while sleeping. Though you might say it's the same reason people hold hands, so they don't float away. There's certainly enough footage of him holding hands with his husband in the Arenas and out to support that idea.

"There's a few that do." He shrugs, but by his tone he's not among them and is glad that Brock doesn't seem to be either. "Which is why we find places like this to speak freely."

Not that subtle, but close enough; a tip that this is a blind spot and they won't be overheard.