Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.

[omnomgrenades]

WHO| Deckard Shaw and You?
WHAT| After six years away, Shaw needs to get a lay of the land
WHERE| Around the Capitol
WHEN| After The Binding plot, post new-Celebrus issue
Warnings/Notes| There's some different locations and setups below. Pick whichever you like.



Shaw had been ready for trouble at the crossing, but his new papers had scanned smooth as silk, and finally, after six long years, he was back.

Outside the station he paused and drew in a long, deep breath. The colors, the noise, the smell... The city wasn't his anymore, the word home didn't even cross into his mind, but there was something about it.

In the distance, down the grand boulevard, Snow's palace gleamed, and nearby, Tribute Tower winked in the late morning sun. They looked different, especially the Tower - remodeled how many times now? (Fires and fights and ever more tributes, he heard.) But they were still the biggest, grandest things around.

Still the best places to start.

Shifting his bag, he waited for a gap in the crowd, then merged seamlessly into the herd.

~.~

He set himself up at a cafe across from the Tower, a new communicator (a ridiculous, but necessary expense) propped against the napkin holder in front of him. He listened with a single earbud to the news, and watched traffic over the edge of the device.

Traitors and brainwashing and paranoia, oh my. Throw in a few explosives and a mutt or two, they might actually have a party on their hands.

The camera shifted to one anchor, the one with a bright yellow beehive, and a inset popped up, reflecting back against his sunglasses. How to Tell Your Loved One has Been Brainwashed:

He snorted and lifted his coffee cup as the waitress neared.

"I'm gonna need another one."

He had a lot to catch up on.

~.~

As eager as he was to get on with things, he knew practically that he needed a place to stay. There was simply too much to learn, too much to plan -- it was simply too big a job to pull off in a few days.

A search with his communicator had turned up a few possibilities and he was going to check them all before making a decision. He wanted to see the places themselves, and the area around them. The ins and outs, the lay of the land, and what he'd have to work with.

At the second place, something caught his eye.

Walking past the entrance, he paused in end of the alley, head tilting slightly.

Someone had painted a Mockingjay on the inside wall.

"Interesting."

Comments

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's usually unimpressed with Celebrus, but after finally getting his hands on a copy, this is truer than the norm. "Discourteous" is not the worst way he's ever been described by the press, and he's absurdly lucky that there's no mention of Nill connected with him, but it's still obnoxious to have a mad-dog reputation that only feels half-earned.

Even though he'd prefer to stay in with his current collection of swollen bruises on his face and neck, all of which are peaking in color like the most glorious northern autumn days, those in the tower who know about what happened are treating him like they're attendants at his own wake, and he's uncomfortable with it. Marks and all, he's left, taking refuge in a coffee shop and tossing out his issue of Celebrus into the wastebasket on the way in. He gets his coffee brusquely, anxious to sit down and block out the world for a little while, but he'd been socked hard enough in the face to put his sense of depth perception more than a little out of tune. One of his eyes is practically swollen shut, and what he can see out of it is substantially blurry. As he carries his coffee to his table, incidentally next to Shaw's, he misses the table entirely when he sets it down, dropping it to the floor where it shatters and splashes coffee onto the busy man's shoes.

[omnomgrenades]

To be fair, it wasn't the worst thing Shaw had ever had on his shoes, but it was still wet and warm and generally unpleasant. (Wet shoes had always been the worse. The squelching and the squeaking, fuck he hated it.) He jerked his feet away from the jumping ceramic, giving the wet one a shake as he shifted to see the damage done.

Tugging the earbud, he looked at the other man flatly.

He might have thought Avox at first blush, from the bruises and silence, but he had approached alone, and unless things had changed, Shaw didn't know of any servants that went for an afternoon drink just because.

"I'm sure the cup had it coming, but what did I do?"

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden already feels pretty certain that it was a mistake to venture out today. He knew what was coming to him the other night and has no excuse to be truly surprised by the fact that he's a little messed up as a result, but he supposes it's within reason to be unhappy about it. He rakes a hand through his dark, tangled hair, surveying the damage, trying not to let it overwhelm him.

"I wasn't paying attention," he says blankly, finding it to be the easiest excuse. "If you tell me how much the shoes cost, I'll happily pay for them."

As a Victor, even one from as long ago as Linden, money is one of the few things in Linden's life that isn't actually a problem.

[omnomgrenades]

Shaw had never had much time to spend on the Games, even before. Sure, some things always trickled through - the big things and the waves they cast, rippling out even to the districts where he'd buried himself for the past six years.

Two victors from Twelve, strange new tributes and year around arenas, an explosion and an escape....

But he'd never honestly paid much attention to the day-to-day stuff. You'd see one kid stab another in the throat, you'd seem 'em all. It was only when they started getting too antsy for their own good, when they started complaining a little too loud, caring not quite enough, and they'd ended up on his desk that he really started caring.

So he didn't recognize Linden off the bat. He hadn't gotten far back enough yet in the 24-hour news cycle to see all his recent misadventures.

But even if he had, he still would have regarded him with dry bemusement.

"Apologies still out of fashion, huh?"

Some things hadn't changed, apparently.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden bristles very slightly at the brusque observation. Truly, it hadn't really occurred to him to apologize; most people don't demand it when he messes up, expecting certain oversights from the drug-addled and famously unpredictable and difficult Mentor.

"I usually try not to ask for unearned concessions, but I'm not having the greatest day," he says bluntly. "Just let me pay for your shoes, and I'll go back to the Tribute Tower for my coffee, where I probably should have stayed anyway."

[omnomgrenades]

Shaw's attention perked at the mention of the Tower. And as he looked at Linden again, more closely, it finally sparked. A little district, beneath the years of Capitol gloss. Something a little odd in the inflection, nearly gone, but not quiet forgotten.

District... 5?

Unconsciously, his head tipped as he played the last words back in his head.

"District 6," he says suddenly, seemingly apropos of nothing. Then he looked Linden up and down, taking in the bruises again. "They let you out like that?"

Somewhere, he imagined an escort wringing their hands.

[dead_black_eyes]

You can put take a Victor out of the Districts, but never really strip him of the the cultural oddities instilled from an early age, no matter how long the Capitol has its hooks in him. Linden's no exception; his features are classic District 6, dark and sullen against an ashy backdrop, and his years abusing Morphling haven't exactly made him look haler.

Linden blinks. "Yes," he answers, surprised more by the fact that the man is only just now realizing it than the fact that he knew. He's used to pretty much everyone knowing, after all. "And no, not really, but I couldn't stand another second in there. I slipped out when no one was looking."

That Escort would be Stephen Reagan, and Shaw is probably completely right.

"You're not an offworlder, but you don't seem familiar at all to me. I'll confess that's rare," Linden says. "I'm very good with faces."

[tucky]

"What does it mean?"

Tiffany - also passing by the alley, though headed in the opposite direction - notices the symbol when he comments on it, and stops to look. She's wearing Capitol clothes (albeit very tame Capitol clothes, in comparison to what else is out there), but is clearly not a Capitol citizen; she's carrying a map, and has it unfolded so she can follow it as she walks along.

[omnomgrenades]

"Depends on who you ask."

He looked back, and pegged her quickly as a tribute, even if he couldn't recall her from all the footage he'd dug through earlier. The map, the clothes, and that she had to ask at all, especially, sealed her as an off-worlder.

(He'd been living in a hole for six years and he still knew what it was.)

"It's good to some good, bad to others."

[tucky]

"But what does it mean?" She steps forward to get a better look.

"Looks like a bird."

[omnomgrenades]

He didn't move when she did, just the same place on the sidewalk, but in the back of his mind, he measured her. Judged her, and readied himself.

While he didn't buy everything he'd read and heard that morning, there was no denying that these off-world types seemed to be an antsy bunch.

"That's because it is. A Mockingjay."

A Capitol Failure with a capitol 'F,' but lovely singing voices - when the feathery assholes weren't giving away your position.

"Our last native Victor had a pin of one as her token."

[tucky]

"Oh." Is that all? That doesn't sound particular good or particularly bad to her. "So why're people drawing it on walls?"

[omnomgrenades]

"That's when everything started to change," he replied simply. "And some people like to see more of that."

His head tipped, chin tucking low enough for him to look at her over his sunglasses. To really see her.

"You're very new here, aren't you?"

First prompt

[fivefingereddiscount]

Garrett, despite his well-earned title of "Master Thief," thrived in aimless crowds. It was both a target and a wonderful source of cover for him, as long as he didn't draw too much attention to himself. It's for this reason that he's adopted an outfit that's almost entirely generic in the context of the Capitol: comfortable trousers, a hooded shirt, cheap shoes, and even a coloured contact lens to hide the unusual colour of his "enchanted" eye. The only thing even remotely unusual about him is the medical mask over his face, but even then it's easy to assume that he's either ill or just trying not to get sick.

And so, he moves through the crowd with ease, his fingers slipping in and out of pockets to snatch away wallets. Anyone really watching him, however, will notice something very unusual about the pickpocket's behaviour; rather than making off with his victims' valuables, he waits for a moment, then tracks them down again and puts their wallet back in their pocket just as easily as he'd taken it. It's risky, as it would only take one person glancing back for a second to spot him, but it's far more interesting for him than just stealing money he no longer had any use for.

And it's because of this little game of his that Garrett has apparently taken something from the bag of a new Tribute he hasn't yet met.

[omnomgrenades]

There wasn't really a worse mark the pickpocket could have targeted, outside of maybe Snow himself. Not only was Shaw's bag filled with the kind of things that would get a tribute in a world of trouble should have been caught with them, but Shaw was not, in any stretch of the imagination, the average absentminded citizen.

He'd noticed a similar shape moving about the crowd as he moved, in and out of the edges of his vision, and immediately his mind went to tails. To Peacekeepers and being made.

So he paid attention.

The man's odd behavior, and his reluctance to cause an unneeded - and unwanted - scene, held his fist back when the man approached. Expecting a strike, he missed the actual lift, but he realized it soon after.

A part of him was relieved, but the rest of him was pissed.

(Five minutes back, and somebody was trying to take from him again.)

Breaking from the flow of the crowd, he made for the lithe figure, moving like a shark through a school of fish.

[fivefingereddiscount]

Garrett glances back, and immediately picks up the pace when he spots his most recent target barelling toward him. Well, his thieving career would be very short-lived if he couldn't escape, wouldn't it?

He nonchalantly breaks out of the crowd into an alley, strolls down it a short ways, then jumps onto a dumpster. From there he climbs up onto the rooftops and takes off at a sprint, resting on another nearby rooftop once he thinks he's lost his pursuer. Getting the loot back to him was going to be...tricky.

[omnomgrenades]

He reached the mouth of the alley just as a flash of boot disappeared over the edge of the roof. Mouth curling in quick animal snarl, he slipped both straps of his bag up on his shoulders - securing it firmly - then follows.

Up on the dumpster, an athletic jump to the fire-escape, then up onto the roof, his coat fluttering around his hips.

He scanned -- and spotted the target on the next rooftop.

[fivefingereddiscount]

Garrett hears the clanging of the fire escape, and watches for the source of the noise. His target. Well, the guy could climb, that much was obvious, but could he take the Thieves' Highway?

Garrett grins a bit and takes off at a sprint. He wasn't too acquainted with these rooftops, so he doesn't take too risky a route. Following him, however, would still be something of a challenge for someone who isn't used to free running.

[omnomgrenades]

He'd wanted a quiet return. Simple, easy, nothing too flashy. He needed to get in and then to dig in if he had any hope of accomplishing his mission. And now, here he was, chasing a literal flipping jackass across the city's rooftops.

To Shaw's credit he did give it a moment's thought, knowing at the end of the day, it wasn't worth it - even the satisfaction of catching the asshole would mean nothing if he had himself plastered all over the Peacekeeper watch list.... But it was the principal of the thing.

No one stole from him.

Options weighed and decision made in a heartbeat, he looked around quickly, then broke away in another direction entirely.

Just because he was playing into this stupidity didn't mean he had to be as big an idiot as the other asshole. His knowledge of the city might have only been a little better than the other's, but it was better, and he was going to use that to his advantage.

Sprinting away, he moved to cut the guy off at the pass. Ducking behind a maintenance shed, he waited for Garrett to approach, ready to swing a heavy clothesline and to stop him in his tracks.

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard has taken to wandering, now that he feels able to process the city without getting nervous and overstimulated. He's trying to take a walk every day down a different street, as if he's collecting things with his eyes to bring back to people, to tell them about. Sharing the wonders of the city has become one of his favorite parts of Panem, even if few other people here seem so prone to wonder and amazement.

The sun's high, and he figures he should get some water even though he feels up to another walk, so he peers at a nearby cafe and walks in. People seem eager to serve him (he thinks it's because he's a Sartoris but the truth is it's because he's a Tribute), and he hasn't yet realized that the drinks here, as opposed to the ones in the tower, cost money. No one's actually asked him to pay yet.

"A glass of water, if it doesn't trouble you any," he says to the woman behind the counter. "Please. And do you have one of those chocolate ice creams?"

The abundance of frozen treats is Bayard's second favorite of the Capitol. He gets his popsicle and takes the nearest open seat - the one next to Shaw.

"Hello, sir. Hope you don't mind company."

[omnomgrenades]

Shaw looked over, then down, eyes flicking from the boy's easy face to the popsicle and back again.

"You got a good grip on that?" he asked, nodding as he lifted his coffee cup to the treat in Bayard's hand.

[yoknapatawpha]

"Yessir." Although that seems to extend to hands only, because soon enough Bayard is sucking at the popsicle stick and getting melted chocolate around his mouth in a comical sort of goatee. It smears on the nub of his chin and congeals at the corners of his lips.

"I don't believe we've met." Bayard juts his hand out. "Bayard Sartoris. I'm one of the Tributes up in yonder tower."

[omnomgrenades]

"Then I don't care where you sit," he replied with an easy, amiable shrug of his shoulders.

So long as he wasn't going to have to clean chocolate from his shoes as well as coffee, he was content with just about anything the boy chose to do. However messy for himself.

Turning back to his communicator, he just about forget the kid was there... until he carried on a few moments later. Looking back over his shoulder, his eyes flicked to the hand and then back up to Bayard's open, happy face.

"Lucius." He met the hand, the boy's tiny and delicate in his. "And I'm not. One of the Tributes, that is."

[yoknapatawpha]

"One of our slaves is named that. We call him Loosh, though." Small as it is, Bayard's hand still has that strength of a farm boy, someone who climbs trees and digs holes and rides horses and builds stockpens rather than sitting indoors. It's uncommon to Capitolite children, but then again, so are unsolicited handshakes.

Bayard realizes at that point that he's dripping - a dollop of chocolate blops from his chin to the table - and he quickly gets a napkin and dabs it and his face up. "Pardon. If you ain't one of the Tributes, what brings you here? Just a fan of the coffees, I reckon?"

[omnomgrenades]

Deckard reached for a napkin himself, wiping sticky chocolate from in-between his fingers without comment and then carefully moved his communicator out of splash range. He hadn't ask the boy the share, but neither was he particularly upset by it.

He was just a kid. (And he was already showing more tact than some adults he could mention.)

"It's a nice day. And I don't like to be cooped up."

He'd had enough of that to last the rest of his life. However long or short that might be.