thecapitol | A Brief Weekend Visit to Hell

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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.

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"So this is where you escape to every so often."

Azula had to admit she was surprised to be invited along on this little trip to Shepard's watering hole. Even more surprised then she had been to see that Shepard was killed so early in the arena. Black Tom was becoming quite the formidable foe in his own right given his track record. He was one to keep an eye on.

Back in the moment Azula was dressed as casually as she ever got in a warm crimson colored sweater and a Sleek black jacket which she took off once they were in the bar. Her hair was up in a businesslike bun and she had been in the middle of watching the arena when Shepard had spirited her away. Even now she found it difficult to stop wondering what was happening to her tributes.

For now she distracted herself by having a look around to see just what was it that appealed about this place.

She'd heard the knock, was laying on her bed in fact with a glass of her whiskey stash on the nightstand and a book in her lap. What made her pause before moving to answer the door was the familiar voice calling through it. Shepard?

And of course she was home, where else would she be? Joel was in his current slump without Ellie around and dragging the man out of his room seemed impossible these days, it was best to leave him to his cave of solitude and try again later.

Tess pulls the door open and leans against it with her shoulder. "I'm home," she greets, book in hand and closed with a finger slipped between the pages to mark where she was. "But you're a few floors off from yours. What brings you around these parts?"

Not a lot of people ever came to visit her; half the time it was Tess seeking someone out when she needed something, or just needed to get out.

Joel doesn't leave the Tribute Center all that often lately. Why should he, when everything he needs is right here and the only thing waiting for him out there is crowds of strangers who want to bother him in one way or another?

But every so often, he does get a craving for some of the nicer coffee shops in the city, slightly better coffee than what he brews himself in the suite, so he makes his way down to the lobby, girding his loins for the inevitable battle.

Today he pauses at the sight of the pillow fort, quirking his eyebrows as he spots a familiar head of red hair. "Not sure this'll withstand gunfire," he drawls, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he takes in the sight.

"Every chance I get," There's no point in mincing words about the Foxhole, really. It was a dirty shitheap in more ways than one, if anything in the Capitol could be said to be so, but it was still the friendliest any bar had yet to be towards the Tributes as a whole. That went a long way in Shepard's book, cracked bartop or otherwise.

"I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Everybody's a critic," she groused, regarding him from under the boudoir curve of blue silken sheets. They were lovely, and also undoubtedly ruined by being duct-taped to the wall, "You think you can build a better fort, old man, be my guest. Unless the Peacekeepers start ripping it down, this bad boy's here until the Arena lets out."

Maybe even then, she'd rebuild it. She's pretty stubborn, Shepard is.

"Besides, it's tradition. I heckle the staff and they bring me snacks to pay the toll. It's more fun than drinking alone or watching the games."

"Didn't know grown-ups made pillow forts in the future with space aliens," he teases lightly. "But I'd say just about anything's better'n watching the arena."

"Oh, that's nice, Joel. I made this by myself, the space aliens are off screwing around in the snow," Shepard knew the fate of a Turian and a Drell in the weather she'd been shown. Freezing to death was not the worst way to die, by far, but watching someone do it left a hell of an impression; Shepard had no wish to repeat the experience, "This is pure, unadulterated human ingenuity."

One of the couch cushions fell over, to illustrate her point.

"You wanna put your dignity to bed for a while, come hang out with me? Half an hour, Joel, get off-camera for a bit. Take a breath."

"Believe it or not, I actually wanted to talk to you."

Well it wasn't a lie. It also wasn't anything approaching the whole truth. She passed a hand over her hair and glanced away, trying to find the words. It was easier with Joel. Hell, it was easier with Liara, with the framework of...or something there, a shared sense of logic, a shared cultural boundary. Fuck it.

"Look, after that 'party,' I've been thinking," Ah yes, the slumber party, the party in which Shepard displayed her utter professionalism by getting drunk and causing no less than three panic attacks in half as many hours. Who wouldn't want to be reminded of it? "Maybe I haven't been as up front about it as I should be. I like you, and I enjoyed what happened. I want you to know, if you're interested, my door's open for you."

Ah, the party. Their little stint in the closet, the heated exchange of lips and shoving one another's tongues down either of their throats. The touch that had sent her into panic mode and had killed the moment, snuffed it out immediately. Yes, so sexy.

"You came all the way here just to tell me that?"

Was there some kind of shyness going on? The way Shepard had glossed her hand over her hair and couldn't meet her eye in the beginning, that had to speak for something. But why? Probably for the same reasons why Tess felt awkward herself with what was being put out in the open.

Speaking of being out in the open...

"So you decide to say that where a dozen of microphones and cameras are hanging around outside my bedroom door eavesdropping?" Tess opens her door wide enough for her to slip in, stepping back. "Get in here."

She arched an eyebrow and despite herself she couldn't deny a small smirk.

"Well that is a nice surprise. If this were a little over a year ago I would have admonished you for asking for anything so quickly after your death. And you would have blackmailed me or threatened me." She raised her fingers to signal to the bartender she was ready for a drink and gestured to the simple menu.

"I like this way better. But I've changed a lot in the last year so of course. Just tell me what you need and I'll see what I can do."

"This is stupid as hell," he mutters, but he acquiesces. She has a point - away from the cameras, anyway. "What're you drinkin'?"

Shepard snorts at that. All the way here, was just an elevator ride or a few stairs. Geez, Tess.

There were technically fewer bugs in the actual rooms, of course, but they weren't anything even approaching camera-free. Privacy was a luxury the Capitol didn't technically allow.

"Well would you rather I called ahead?" stepping through, she had to turn her shoulders slightly to get past Tess, and the proximity was made prominent in her memory. It was distracting, and juvenile, and if Garrus could see her now, he'd die laughing, "I could get somebody to pass a note if you really wanna try and dodge the mics."

"Sure, it could be like we're back in high school and passing notes behind the teacher's back."

The door's shut and now it's her turn to slip past Shepard, heading over to bookshelf where she has an obvious stash of goods and non-perishables.

"Drink?" She grabs up her glass from the nightstand, sipping it and watching her over the rim, wondering what she's hoping to accomplish from coming here.

"Why do think I have to be drinking in order to build a pillow-fort?"

Still she's handing him a bottle of cider, more red than orange, with a cartoon apple tree on the label that appears to be either enraged, or on fire-- possibly both. Spicy hard cider, Joel. It was a gift.

"Cider. I got a Victor, owes me a case of beer, but she's off doing mentor bullshit for the arena, y'know how it is."

"I didn't say you had to," Joel says with a faint snort, but he takes the bottle, sniffing at it.

"Nice."

He could really use the drink, frankly, after the week he's had.

"So that cornucopia was shit."

"I'll drink to that," And a tip of her half-empty bottle at Joel to cement the sentiment, "Could be worse."

Not that watching someone do it is much fun, but hey. Better that than sepsis.

"S'quick enough, anyways. You wanna get somebody to send something to Tess?"

That's really the only bother - he's stuck back here while people he cares about are back in there. Tess. Clementine. Beth.

"I dunno, how would I go about doin' that?" he asks. She's the expert. He's been here a good long time but has almost never found himself in this situation before.

"Well, step one is don't be an asshole to all the Victors in your district," So, he's probably already failed step one. But there's no trouble there, "Or you can just tell me what you need and I'll get Azula to do it, if there's the money. D5's good for dramatic bullshit, or something, and besides, I've been blackmailing her from day one."

Which isn't the reason Azula's helping her, but it's a reason for Azula to help. And that's good enough for the mics, in Shepard's opinion.

"Oh, it's way the hell too late for that," Joel mutters. Come on, Shepard, you know him. He's alienated nearly everyone he's ever come into contact with, especially the Capitolites.

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."

Shepard took a long, casual swig in a particularly self-satisfied manner and said nothing. She had, of course, already done so.

Of course, was there any doubt?

"Sure, thanks," She should probably have said 'no', but... Well, she wasn't really good at holding back really. Why had Tess invited her in if not to...

...

"Y'know, it's funny," Watching Tess move in relative safety was so very different from the terse, businesslike manner in the arena, or at that damn party. Shepard licked her lips and took a breath, "When we met, I'd have predicted that without somebody around to keep things civil, we'd be clawing each other's eyes out, at some point."

"Jesus Christ, you could try to look a little less smug," he mutters, shaking his head.

"What for? Modesty never got me anywhere good," Got her grinning, he did. Joel's exasperation was a fine thing, meant to be savored, like sunsets, or birdsong, or the way Joker used to bitch about her jokes, "C'mon, you walked right into that."

"And why do you suppose that?" Tess asked over a shoulder as she went to prepare Shepard's drink, making it a double whiskey. Like her own. She had no ice but that didn't matter here, carrying it back to her while she had given herself a refill of a single.

"Here."

"Walked into what?" he asks with a snort. "That you know as well as I do what Tess needs?"

She laughed at his expression and nudged his hip with one foot to emphasize the absurdity of it. Surly bear that he was, Shepard considered Joel a friend; this was nice. Simple, even; as simple as anything got. You don't get much of simple, living like Shepard did. Gotta savor it when it comes along.

"You glad you came down here yet?"

"Dealing with you is bettern' dealing with my damn stylists," Joel mutters, which is his way of saying yes, yes he is glad.

Shepard is one of the only friends he has in this shithole.

"I wanna send a few gifts-- with notes," She eased her weight forward on the bar, leaning on elbows and forearms, "Nothing subversive, just a... Y'know. Jokes. For fun. Everybody likes fun, right?"

She made it sound a little sarcastic, but it was the truth. Building alliances was more than solemn oaths and taking sharp points in your soft parts. At least, hopefully it was.

"Little gifts, so people remember 'em."

Azula's expression softened and she found herself falling into the old habit of trying to find the deeper meaning in Shepard's words. Could it really be so simple as her wanted to do something nice for these people?

In the end she supposed it didn't matter. She was Shepard's mentor even if in title only. And that meant she would help.

"We could use a little more fun around here." She agreed. "It's very thoughtful of you and I'll be happy to help."

Warm fuzzy feelings for all.

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A Brief Weekend Visit to Hell

The Foxhole

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