[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]

Brock accepts that explanation pretty easily, too. He's had his fair share of bullshit time travel shenanigans even before being sucked into this crapsack world, so he tends to just roll with the punches. Where the punches are, in this case, completely hare-brained pseudoscience. Sure. Why not.

"Maybe," he answers vaguely, then shrugs. The Guild is a little bit of a weird thing, rules heaped upon rules to keep a bunch of psychotic pajama-wearing, laser gun wielding murderers in check, but it works for the most part, so he's not about to knock it.

"Yeah, there's like a hierarchy thing. You play by the rules, you get bumped up... better toys, better enemies. Most supervillains just want to arch somebody -- you know, the whole Hollywood ideal of having a nemesis. That sort of shit. The real megalomaniacal types either try to throw coups and get slapped six ways to Sunday by the Guild, or they strike out on their own without any kind of protection. I took a, uh, sabbatical from the OSI about a year back, and went after the guys outside the system. They're the dangerous ones."