[Open to you and you and you]

[uncalled_for]

Who| Fiona and Y o u ~
What| Of the mind she can walk it off.
Where| District 2 suites and around the capitol!
When| Nnnow?
Warnings/Notes| Nothing for now, things may be added in subject headers if need be.



[D2 Suites]

When no one was in the living area Fiona paced. She couldn't go into her designated room. She had peeked inside and it was nice there, as it was in the living area, with everything seeming to be high quality. Fluffed beds and pillows, a large window, they gave her food, and nice clothes.

It made her sick to her stomach. Rather than be at any ease her eyes darted around her and she could feel an old paranoia gripping for her. The pacing helped her slip around the thoughts, metaphorically speaking. But she couldn't pace around one room all day.

Her fingers twitched at her side occasionally and with disappointment etched on her face she'd wring them together. It was repetitive with hope ebbing away each time, a clenched jaw slowly holding in its place. They took it. They took her clothes, they took her staff, they took her magic. It was horrifying and the more she tried, the more she wanted to scream. How any of this could be, she couldn't fathom nor did she want to. She forced the terror down, trying to let an older rage build in its place. But fear has a nasty way of gripping tightly.


[Around the streets and such]

Even cities have limits, and though this city appeared huge and foreign and fake, Fiona knew it would have a familiar, solid border. It's a prettied up cage and it was driving her mad. She put one foot in front of the other, with her eyes staying down to the ground. She knew better than to stare in awe at passersby. It was compelling when things around her were so different, but only by appearance. She knew this game and its tune. Never again, she had told herself. Never again would she put up with this. Different faces, different clothes, different... wherever this was. But it was always the same when the facade was stripped down.

She kept to one street for as long as it could go, only turning at dead ends. She wanted to find its limits and the longer she walked, the more she dreaded it. She would likely have to turn around soon, she knew that. But for now she just walked, looking for somewhere quiet if the walls never came. Her mind was absorbed elsewhere, when her vision refused to pay much attention to reality. It eventually brought her to a halt after nearly running into someone in front of her.

"Sorry, I-"

No, hold on a moment. Why should she be apologizing?

"Can't you look where you're going?"



[OOC: Ooor add your own! Prose/Action is fine with me? Just do your thing and I'll follow.]

Comments

[arrogantalloy]

Tony blinks as he's bumped into and turns around, a fruit smoothie cup in his hand and a raised eyebrow. Sure he probably shouldn't have stopped in the middle of the way to take a moment to mistake someone in the crowd for someone that was recently gone missing.

But everyone else had managed to dodge him.

He licks his lips absently, looking like he's wetting his lips to speak.

"Uh. That's my line. I mean you're the one who ran into my back and all."

[uncalled_for]

It's much easier to be angry and focused on something. This man seems like he fits in just fine around here. He's probably one of them, in fact. That's really all the reason she needs not to be pleasant.

Her arms fold, her eyebrows raise, and her Orlesian accent all curl into an underlying defiance. "I wouldn't have if you had kept walking like everyone else."

[arrogantalloy]

"Alternatively. You could have look forward while walking."

Tony isn't new to being hostle to him, but he's also not stupid. If she bumped into him she clearly wasn't looking where she was going.

"I'm guessing you're part of the new batch then."

It wasn't a question at all, more a curious statement.

[uncalled_for]

There is another retort at the tip of her tongue that dies at the 'new batch' remark. For a moment she tilts her head, in part it's disturbing in context yet he seems so casual about it it's unnerving.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She says as she decides to slide passed him. This is likely a conversation she would rather avoid, and avoid she will try.

D2!

[revocation]

There was a familiarity about the woman, though Cullen couldn't quite place it. Both in her face and in her demeanor. Her face was something he would need to think about more, beyond simply 'elf'. Her demeanor, however, reminded him a bit of mages newly brought to the Gallows, how they often looked a little like cornered animals, and he frowned, a little concerned.

"Excuse me," he said, carefully, keeping his hands loose at his sides and almost wishing he had a sword nearby, though he knew she posed no real threat if she attacked - no one here had magic. "Are you alright? Do you need help?"

[uncalled_for]

Her head twisted toward the question and she forced a sneer to cover the surprise. She had been caught up in her mind so heavily that she hadn't noticed when someone approached, let alone entered the room. It felt careless.

"That must be a joke," she said with a bitter laugh under her breath. "Because no one here actually wishes to help."

[revocation]

"Some of us do," Cullen countered. "At least, those of us who've been brought here against our will. Are you from Thedas as well?"

Not everyone who looked like an elf was necessarily from his world, he'd found, though he still couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity.

[uncalled_for]

She frowned before she spoke again. She was wrapped up in her own troubles that she hadn't paid much attention to others. One more act of carelessness to tally on. She was on a roll.

Her eyes remained wary, even if her shoulders did manage to relax. She reminded herself she shouldn't trust kindness here, but it was hard not to when presented with some familiarity amongst everything foreign. However, her tone portrayed none of that. "I am. And?"

[streets]

[tucky]

The near-collision had been at least half Tiffany's fault; she'd been absorbed in her map and hadn't been looking where she was going, either. But she still snorts and gives the woman an incredulous look.

"You fucking ran into me, so how about you look where you're going?"

[uncalled_for]

The language was a little startling over something so small to a complete stranger. Fiona had been driven to those points, certainly, but nothing quite like that so quickly. It only bolstered her opinions not to apologize. "You can't expect me to predict someone who is barely even paying attention themselves."

[tucky]

"I'm paying attention." She waves her map. "I'm trying not to get lost."

[uncalled_for]

She raises her eyebrows. Lost in a map never did anyone any good. "Precisely. You're paying attention to yourself and not what's around you. Is that not what you just said?"

D2

[bravelyplucked]

It's impossible for Torin not to notice the tension in the way the young woman's pacing around the suites. It's not hard for him to figure out; she's just gotten here, he doesn't recognize her, and she's likely a conscripted offworlder.

He seems relaxed enough, reading a magazine while sitting on one of the suite's couches as he keeps an eye on her before speaking up. "Pacing won't do any good." He tries to say it as gently as he can. "There are better uses for that energy."

[uncalled_for]

No amount of gentle speech would likely take her off the edge. Her pacing halts and she stares toward him. "Were I trying to simply expend energy I certainly wouldn't be doing it here."

Defensive words, she knew they were. But all she had at the moment were defensive phrases and worries. Besides, it was none of his business, she didn't have to be pleasant.

inbox ate the notif and I just found it, sorry about that!

[bravelyplucked]

Torin can tell it's defensive, but his only response is a shrug. "Then what are you trying to do?" He's still keeping his tone even and nonthreatening. He doesn't need her thinking he's an enemy here.

Second Prompt

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard, for his part, really ought to be watching the road better, or else he'll develop a crick in his neck. His head is craned back as he walks, taking in the billboards, the buildings taller than any tree or mountain he's ever seen, the way they seem to block the sky entirely sometimes. The other night he came to the roof and found that there were barely any stars to be seen - the product, his Escort told him, of 'light pollution'.

At first, he could only manage about ten minutes outside before his head felt fit to burst with everything he was looking at. After having spent a few weeks here, the marvels haven't ceased, but they've become manageable, and when he isn't drawing or playing with the weapons in the Training Center, he's exploring the vast wonders of this modern city. He wonders if Memphis or Jackson will eventually look like this. He imagines his father on the billboards he sees above, all slick women and men selling things he's never heard of. He imagines that Jackson and Memphis will be proper cities - maybe even Jefferson will be a proper city - with all these fantastic amenities but with a real sense of pride, too.

"Pardon, ma'am!" Bayard skids to a stop too, in the slick new 'Converse' sneakers his Stylists outfitted him with. "I just get carried away with all the progress they've made here."

[uncalled_for]

It goes to show how much attention she's providing to the surrounding area when she begins to scold a child for simply running into her. Fiona's face softens only a little, contemplating whether an actual apology is in order. But his words catch her off guard.

"Progress?" She would not be one to call this place progress. She could see how some might think that, but not her. And she was too clouded in her own thoughts to see much beyond her own point of view.

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard still isn't the best at distinguishing Capitolites from Mentors from Tributes - once presented with one thing so overwhelming in its novelty, the glare of amazement tends to blur out the details differentiating different new folks. But he suspects this woman might be a Tribute, just from how she's dressed and the lack of an affected accent.

"Yes'm." He nods his head with a quick jerk of his chin. His face illuminates with the pseudo-manic delight of a child showing something impressive to a third party, vicariously basking in the potential incredulity as if it's praise for something he himself did. "Did you know that they make flying machines here, and that a man can ride in them all the way up to the moon? I didn't believe it myself until someone showed me pictures - pictures! Photographs, from the moon."

[uncalled_for]

An evident frown surfaces on her face, but this child does not need to hear her thoughts against the subject. He sees the appearance of this place and is marveled by it. Indeed, ignorance is bliss. "Be more mindful of where you're walking. The next person you bump into may not be so forgiving."

D2

[knittingbackwards]

"Oh, do stop pacing, young lady," Merlyn said sharply, after half an hour or so. He had been sitting in the corner of the living room, knitting peaceably and being thoroughly unobtrusive to the point of invisibility, as only old men can. But this was getting ridiculous. "You're making me dizzy. Either sit down, or wear out the carpet somewhere else."

He wasn't without sympathy, though. He hadn't seen her before, which probably meant she was new, and therefore had plenty of very good reasons to be distressed. Besides, it wasn't as if he hadn't done his share of irritable pacing lately. Still, it wasn't going to do her any good, so he saw no reason to indulge it.

After a moment, he put his knitting aside (it flapped oddly, a green-brown tube that didn't seem to resemble anything in particular) and said, in a rather gentler tone, "Oh, do sit down. It helps to talk about it, I've found."

[uncalled_for]

The first comment she barely heard, and the second fared little better. The third, however, she turned her head toward the elderly man. It was a quick glare, as though he were intruding on her. "I'd really rather not." She said with no small amount of annoyance, her pacing continued, if only because he asked her not to.

[knittingbackwards]

He sighed, getting to his feet, and smoothed down his robes carefully, then his beard. Something in his beard chirped, and he looked down at it with a frown. "Oh, do be quiet," he said to it, and strode over to the young woman, looking her up and down as he tucked his hands into the long, tippetted sleeves of his robes.

"You can pace patterns and wring your hands all you like," he said, after watching her for a moment. "I don't know what you're trying to achieve, but this won't accomplish it. Unless you're trying to wear a hole through to the next floor down, in which case it might." Sighing, he took his hat off, dug around in it for a moment, and started to absent-mindedly feed mealworms to his beard. "Let me take a guess at your situation. You just arrived in this by-our-lady hellhole. You are very, very angry at the people who brought you here - and let me just assure you, so am I - and all that they've taken from you. Including, by the looks of things, your magic. Believe me, I understand the feeling. I would tell you it passes, but frankly, I'm not at all sure it does. There is, however, a limit to how long you can go on pacing and hand-wringing before your muscles start to overproduce lactic acid, even in aerobic exercise. Sit down. I'll make some tea."

[dead_black_eyes]

Sticking out like a crow in a flock of flamingos, a thin man in his late twenties is shuffling along in his matte black clothes with a paper bag held in his spidery fingers. He looks a little startling on the best of days, shockingly pale under a mop of dark hair and with a glassy, staring countenance. He doesn't look like a Capitolite, and that's because he isn't; he's a Districter, and he his coloration is classic District 6.

Dark hair, dark eyes. Hollow cheeks. Morphling-bleached.

He's also suffered injuries recently, and though the stylists in his District have done their best to help him cover them up, bruises and swelling are visible around one blackened eye and in finger-shaped patches along both sides of his neck. He was hit hard enough in the face that one of his eyes is practically swollen shut, making his vision on that side kind of blurry and his depth perception unreliable. He hopes that's temporary, because it's very inconvenient, and he's ultimately not very surprised when his bony, insubstantial frame knocks against another pedestrian.

At her truncated apology followed by her brusquer question, he gives her a withering look with his good eye.

"Not too well right now, actually."

[uncalled_for]

It's a quick gasp that escapes her when she sees the man's face. "I- your eye. I can-" she halts her words from going any further. What can you do, Fiona? The answer in her current state was painfully nothing.

"I'm sorry." She finally settles back to, solemnly.

[dead_black_eyes]

That's unfortunately not too uncommon for offworlders, Linden's found, especially very new ones. They forget that whatever rules bound them in their old lives, their new ones have a lot of limitations; his guess is that she was going to offer some kind of swift remedy beyond his understanding or experience, but finds herself smacked with the harsh reality of it being beyond her now, too.

"No one's hurt. There's nothing to apologize for..." he says briskly. "But you're new, or I think I would have noticed you before today in the Tribute Tower. I'm very good with faces even when I'm seeing double."