Commander Jane Shepard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
earthborn) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-01-24 01:18 pm
earthborn) wrote in thecapitol2015-01-24 01:18 pm
Entry tags:
A Brief Weekend Visit to Hell
Who| Shepard, Tess, and anyone else who would like to walk by
What| Sex, Booze, Pillow Forts and Ill-defined Timelines
Where| The Tribute Center, The Training Center, The Foxhole, and probably the D5 suite???
When| both before the crowning and after Shepard's brief stint in the arena
Warnings/Notes| Sex, Booze, and Ill-defined Timelines
[closed, to Tess |oopsright] Pre-Arena, Tribute Center: What Shepard had said was, 'I don't pine' and she had meant it. She didn't waste time on regret, did her best not to hold onto what-if, deliberately set aside vengeance for the sake of duty. She was a little proud of that. The second part wasn't so simple: 'I go after what I want.'
But then, life wasn't comfortable with simplicity, either. It still made her hesitate with her hand poised to knock on Tess' door; seemed callous to just ask over the network, after all.
Shit, this was stupid. You could baldly proposition the damn Consort, but not knock on Tess' door? Grow the fuck up, Shepard!
She knocked.
"Hey, Tess? You at home?"
[open] Pre/Post arena, The Foxhole/D5 Suite: Shepard liked the Foxhole, it was dark, relatively unobnoxious, and private. Of course, she couldn't go too often- knowing its reality as well as its reputation made that suspicious, but she'd pop in every now and then. She tried to make a point of introducing it to every new tribute she met, which wasn't really all that many. The joys of inviting the newly deceased were, too, not to be diminished.
But today, maybe you find yourself dragged along with her-- particularly if your name is Cole-- or maybe you found her sitting on the barstool by herself. Either way, welcome friend! Come in, and know me better.
[open] Pre/Post arena, The Training Center: Every morning, wake up before dawn, four AM. Run laps. Five AM, breakfast, orange juice from concentrate, pancakes, too much bacon, too many sausages, and she didn't pay for any of it. She tried not to think of all the uses for orange juice concentrate, tried not to imagine recipes for napalm, or nerve gas. Six AM, punching bags, sparring ring, target practice with a spear; punching bags again because it was easy to forget yourself, because it was easy.
Wait for Sandy to show up, wait for Karkat to show up, wait for Kankri or Mindy, or Clara, or Beth, or anyone who wants a go, or a lesson, or a word. Watch the Hunger Games, and make notes. Wait. Wait and see. Try not to think about car bombs, and hit the damn punching bags some more, trying not to imagine Dorian's face, or Venus' or Fraysong's on the vinyl and failing. There are safer enemies, better hatreds. Let it go. Let it go. Take a break for water only when your face hurts from snarling, but get back to it.
She might not see you come in, but then you might get lucky and catch her on a break. But either way, this is her day; come on, buddy, let's go.
[open] Post-Arena, Tribute Center Lobby: There existed a tradition of childish disobedience not quite as old as Shepard's tenure in the Games, but very nearly. At the end of her participation in every arena, nearly without fail, Shepard commandeered pillows, blankets, sheets, pins, clothes-clips, bolts of fabric, couch-cushions, chairs, tape, string, and any number of other construction materials and took over the Lobby of the Tribute Center. What was usually a gleaming visage of professional hospitality took on the look and feel of an unmade bed, festooned with tent-tops mad from sheets and a secret underworld of shadows, pillows, and snacks.
Some people might be surprised at the great and grumpy Commander Shepard's ever more elaborate Pillow-Fort, but to them she raised a stubborn middle finger and charged a toll in salted snacks and booze. Some days, you just need a little fun.
What| Sex, Booze, Pillow Forts and Ill-defined Timelines
Where| The Tribute Center, The Training Center, The Foxhole, and probably the D5 suite???
When| both before the crowning and after Shepard's brief stint in the arena
Warnings/Notes| Sex, Booze, and Ill-defined Timelines
[closed, to Tess |
oopsright] Pre-Arena, Tribute Center: What Shepard had said was, 'I don't pine' and she had meant it. She didn't waste time on regret, did her best not to hold onto what-if, deliberately set aside vengeance for the sake of duty. She was a little proud of that. The second part wasn't so simple: 'I go after what I want.'But then, life wasn't comfortable with simplicity, either. It still made her hesitate with her hand poised to knock on Tess' door; seemed callous to just ask over the network, after all.
Shit, this was stupid. You could baldly proposition the damn Consort, but not knock on Tess' door? Grow the fuck up, Shepard!
She knocked.
"Hey, Tess? You at home?"
[open] Pre/Post arena, The Foxhole/D5 Suite: Shepard liked the Foxhole, it was dark, relatively unobnoxious, and private. Of course, she couldn't go too often- knowing its reality as well as its reputation made that suspicious, but she'd pop in every now and then. She tried to make a point of introducing it to every new tribute she met, which wasn't really all that many. The joys of inviting the newly deceased were, too, not to be diminished.
But today, maybe you find yourself dragged along with her-- particularly if your name is Cole-- or maybe you found her sitting on the barstool by herself. Either way, welcome friend! Come in, and know me better.
[open] Pre/Post arena, The Training Center: Every morning, wake up before dawn, four AM. Run laps. Five AM, breakfast, orange juice from concentrate, pancakes, too much bacon, too many sausages, and she didn't pay for any of it. She tried not to think of all the uses for orange juice concentrate, tried not to imagine recipes for napalm, or nerve gas. Six AM, punching bags, sparring ring, target practice with a spear; punching bags again because it was easy to forget yourself, because it was easy.
Wait for Sandy to show up, wait for Karkat to show up, wait for Kankri or Mindy, or Clara, or Beth, or anyone who wants a go, or a lesson, or a word. Watch the Hunger Games, and make notes. Wait. Wait and see. Try not to think about car bombs, and hit the damn punching bags some more, trying not to imagine Dorian's face, or Venus' or Fraysong's on the vinyl and failing. There are safer enemies, better hatreds. Let it go. Let it go. Take a break for water only when your face hurts from snarling, but get back to it.
She might not see you come in, but then you might get lucky and catch her on a break. But either way, this is her day; come on, buddy, let's go.
[open] Post-Arena, Tribute Center Lobby: There existed a tradition of childish disobedience not quite as old as Shepard's tenure in the Games, but very nearly. At the end of her participation in every arena, nearly without fail, Shepard commandeered pillows, blankets, sheets, pins, clothes-clips, bolts of fabric, couch-cushions, chairs, tape, string, and any number of other construction materials and took over the Lobby of the Tribute Center. What was usually a gleaming visage of professional hospitality took on the look and feel of an unmade bed, festooned with tent-tops mad from sheets and a secret underworld of shadows, pillows, and snacks.
Some people might be surprised at the great and grumpy Commander Shepard's ever more elaborate Pillow-Fort, but to them she raised a stubborn middle finger and charged a toll in salted snacks and booze. Some days, you just need a little fun.
no subject
Only Jolie really gives him the time of day these days.
"Send her one of those parkas, then," he offers after a moment's thought. "And some food."
no subject
Of course, was there any doubt?
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
"You glad you came down here yet?"
no subject
Shepard is one of the only friends he has in this shithole.