[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

[samson]

"Dude," Brock barked, offended at the very audacity of Maxwell getting in his shit. That was his shit, sir, not yours.

Still, he didn't let it rattle him. Growling with determination, he pushed himself to go harder, speed increasing somewhat -- not enough to catch up, of course, and when the timer sounded after Maxwell's twentieth shot, Brock was still several bolts behind.

"Goddammit," he said, throwing the bolt in his hand that he'd been about to fit into the crossbow; it slapped the target in the throat, causing it to flicker and go out. It didn't count toward the tally, of course, but it made him feel better.

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell had the grace not to gloat, however pleased he was. Returning an unused arrow to the quiver at his back, he turned sidelong to Brock and offered a friendly sort of smile.

"If it helps, I've been doing this since before I could tie my own boots."

[samson]

Brock was not exactly a sore loser, but he was also not really that great at being gracious. He's scowling, though his frustration isn't toward Maxwell, but rather his own inability to win.

"No shit," he said, glaring sideways at the targets until they flickered out of existence, the training program ended. Sighing, he turned back to Maxwell, gesturing vaguely. "That's not a bad advantage to have, anyway. I don't think they give us guns in the Arena, and most people only know how to use guns."

[dreadinquisitor]

"I don't even know what those are," Maxwell blinked, a look of honest confusion crossing his face. "So you have me there. And..."

He sighed and lifted the longbow slightly, looking down at it almost wistfully.

"I'm told I may not even see one of these in this so called arena."

[samson]

Brock followed his gaze down to the bow, brow furrowing as he tried to remember. "I don't think I saw any in the last one, but from what I hear, that was sort of an unusual circumstance."

So unusual that Maxwell was probably very lucky that he hadn't been privy to it. If the dude didn't know what a gun was, a space station just might have made his head explode.

Shaking his head, Brock turned and went back to the weapons rack to put the crossbow back. "Guns are, uh... they're a projectile weapon. More like a crossbow than a bow; there's a trigger. But it's not a bolt, it's a bullet -- a small piece of metal -- and the firing mechanism is combustion. So there's basically a little explosion inside the gun that shoots shrapnel right at you. Easy to use; easy to kill with."

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell followed a few steps behind, arrows rattling gently in the quiver as he pulled the strap up and over his head.

"And they don't have these weapons here for us to train with?" he asked, hanging the bow and arrows back on the stand. "I thought killing each other was the point of this whole affair?"

Would a more efficient method of it not have been exactly what they wanted?

[samson]

"Nah," Brock said, putting the bolts away with the crossbow. There were a bunch still in the target range, but fuck if he cared about cleaning up after himself. It was enough that he actually put the crossbow away.

He turned to face Maxwell, one hand on his hip. "It ain't killing each other. It's to make it as bloody and dramatic as possible. These people are all sadistic sociopaths -- they get off on bloodsport like it's Grey's Anatomy." That reference probably went over Maxwell's head, so Brock quickly thought to clarify. "Like a super-dramatic play or something. We're their entertainment. They're not gonna be entertained if some guy gets a gun and just -- boom, boom -- wins in two seconds."

[dreadinquisitor]

He was about to ask, mouth already opening, but Brock beat him to the punch and it he let it go, a nod of understanding taking its place.

"So it's not just the result, it's the suffering." He folded his arms, shaking his head as he exhaled a long breath. "Charming place, they have here."

[samson]

"Yyyyep," Brock said, expression a bit flat. He was very clearly unenthused about the whole thing as well. "I mean, I guess if you win instantly, you'll still be excused from future Arenas. But they probably wouldn't be too happy about it."

[dreadinquisitor]

"And what a tragedy that would be," Maxwell murmured dryly, having a difficult time drumming up too much sympathy for this unseen spectators - saddened by the lack of bloodshed. "So, winning and victory are the only two avenues of escape, and victory does not include a way home."

He arched an eyebrow at Brock.

"Does that sum things up?"

[samson]

"From what I figure, yeah," he said, shrugging.

"There's tons of guys around who won, and they're still here, so. They just move you up to a staff position and you get to give bullshit advice to all the sorry sons-of-bitches who still gotta partake in the murder orgy. Where I'm from, they call that a 'lateral promotion.'"

Air quotes and everything.

[dreadinquisitor]

He was familiar with the concept, if not the term exactly. Silent for a moment, he considered, shifting lightly on the heels of his boots.

"Have you ever hard of anyone going back? For certain?"

He wasn't entirely certain he wanted an answer, already guessing at what it might be, but he had to ask.

[samson]

Brock shrugged again, folding his arms over his chest. "Sometimes people die in the Arena and they don't come back. I dunno if that means anything. Could be the Capitol figures you're not worth the trouble and just dumps your corpse in a mass grave somewhere. Could be you go home. Who knows. I sure as hell don't wanna test the theory."

Not yet, anyway. Brock was not exactly known for making the best decisions, so if he was still here in a few years, he may give it a whirl.

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell took a long breath in through his nose at Brock's answer, but he merely nodded. He'd expected it, even as he'd dreaded it.

At least he could say for certain now that they had no way of knowing.

"It does make sense, as much as I wish it didn't. Why waste such power and resources keeping any of us who do not wish to be here, if you could merely send us back and replace us with someone who might be more willing?"

If nothing else, certainly it would cause them less of a headache not having to listen to complaints.

[samson]

"Yeah. That's a possibility," he said, digging in his pockets for a cigarette. Maxwell didn't know what Grey's Anatomy was, so there was a distinct possibility a cigarette would wig him out, too. Brock didn't care very much, though, just found his lighter and sparked it.

"Nobody really knows if they can send us back, though. Or if we're stuck here forever."

[dreadinquisitor]

Smoking devices weren't unheard of in Thedas, pipes were popular - but even if they hadn't been, he'd seen more than one person imbibing here. So while he did lean slightly to avoid the smoke, he wasn't unduly upset when Brock lit up.

The lighter got a bit of a curious glance, but even there, it was difficult to be too worked up when he'd known people capable of setting towering inferno's with little more than a flick of their wrist and a thought.

"An appealing thought," he muttered lowly. "However much I like this room."

It didn't change things really; if Dorian's theory was correct, there was nothing for him to go back to... but it was still saddening to think about.

[samson]

"Yep," Brock agreed vaguely, glancing to the side. "Better make the most of it, in that case."

By which he meant that if they were to be stuck here indefinitely... if the only escape was death... then it was in everyone's best interest to do what they could to stop this horeshit from continuing. Complete overthrow of the sitting government. But it was slow-going, and Brock wasn't even privy to how deep the rebellion ran. Or if there even was an organized rebellion at all.

"Anyway. I lost, so I guess I owe you a drink."

[dreadinquisitor]

His expression was thoughtful for a moment, mind turning the same way Brock's did at the rather idle sounding suggestion. If they were going to be stuck here, if there was no going back, change would have to come to Panem. How, he couldn't even begin to say yet, but he'd already led one rebellion, what was signing on to another? Especially when the threat of dying had already become a guarantee?

Then he gave a small shake of his head and the wheels turning behind his eyes faded, gaze brightening with gentle humor.

"The drinks are free here," he pointed out. "But I'll happy share a round with a worthy competitor."

[samson]

Making an amused sound, Brock reached out to clap Maxwell on the back. "Worthy competitor nothing, you completely spanked my ass," he said, grinning. "But okay. Let's go and I'll fake pay for your free drinks."