Dr. S. Klim (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
futilecycle) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-05-11 09:23 am
futilecycle) wrote in thecapitol2015-05-11 09:23 am
Entry tags:
[OPEN] Ghosts of the past always tend to revist
WHO | Sigma Klim and anyone in the Training Center.
WHAT | Some "face to face" contact with a Gamemaker as Sigma observes training from his perch.
WHEN | Any time before the next Arena.
WHERE | The Training Center.
WARNINGS/NOTES | This is one of the few ways Sigma can interact with the Tributes safely. He will be behind his force field in the viewing room a few metres above the Training Center floor, but can be spoken to clearly (for handwaved reasons, like a sound system or a special barrier that lets sound in). Sigma can also be coaxed down to the main floor if given good reason, but he will be flanked by peacekeepers. Attempts on his life (other than attacking the barrier by "accident") will have consequences.
It was not long ago that Sigma had been in the thick of training, himself. Muscle and bone as old as his required frequent exercise to stay fit enough to fight, and over the past two years Sigma had grown familiar with every inch of the Training center. There was scarcely a weapon or workshop he had not come to master, and the frequent additions to the center always kept the regimen interesting. He'd worked hard to remain deserving of his score.
Watching the Tributes from above offered a considerably different perspective. Between the force field separating him from his players, the elevated vantage point, and the cushy leather seats the Gamemakers were entitled to, it was easy to feel removed from the chaos below. These were, after all, Games intended to be sport, and he and his colleagues may as well have been watching a football game on a panoramic screen. Sigma's eye flicks from Tribute to Tribute, telescopic eye following what his organic one could not reach. In the event a Tribute approached the loft, Sigma would rise to meet them at the edge of the balcony and match their glance with a neutral stare. Sometimes, he would even offer what little encouragement he was allowed to give.
On occasion, Sigma will send another Avox to disturb the Initiate from cleaning the Training Center wall and force him to cater to some whim at random. There are also times the Initiate is instructed to hover by his side, waiting for his next order. It's a boast in plain sight, the fruit of his labors displayed on the trophy-shelf that was the perch. One would suppose that a nation-wide broadcast was not enough.
WHAT | Some "face to face" contact with a Gamemaker as Sigma observes training from his perch.
WHEN | Any time before the next Arena.
WHERE | The Training Center.
WARNINGS/NOTES | This is one of the few ways Sigma can interact with the Tributes safely. He will be behind his force field in the viewing room a few metres above the Training Center floor, but can be spoken to clearly (for handwaved reasons, like a sound system or a special barrier that lets sound in). Sigma can also be coaxed down to the main floor if given good reason, but he will be flanked by peacekeepers. Attempts on his life (other than attacking the barrier by "accident") will have consequences.
It was not long ago that Sigma had been in the thick of training, himself. Muscle and bone as old as his required frequent exercise to stay fit enough to fight, and over the past two years Sigma had grown familiar with every inch of the Training center. There was scarcely a weapon or workshop he had not come to master, and the frequent additions to the center always kept the regimen interesting. He'd worked hard to remain deserving of his score.
Watching the Tributes from above offered a considerably different perspective. Between the force field separating him from his players, the elevated vantage point, and the cushy leather seats the Gamemakers were entitled to, it was easy to feel removed from the chaos below. These were, after all, Games intended to be sport, and he and his colleagues may as well have been watching a football game on a panoramic screen. Sigma's eye flicks from Tribute to Tribute, telescopic eye following what his organic one could not reach. In the event a Tribute approached the loft, Sigma would rise to meet them at the edge of the balcony and match their glance with a neutral stare. Sometimes, he would even offer what little encouragement he was allowed to give.
On occasion, Sigma will send another Avox to disturb the Initiate from cleaning the Training Center wall and force him to cater to some whim at random. There are also times the Initiate is instructed to hover by his side, waiting for his next order. It's a boast in plain sight, the fruit of his labors displayed on the trophy-shelf that was the perch. One would suppose that a nation-wide broadcast was not enough.
no subject
But she has more of a handle on things now. Still, she doesn't spend much time training - the luxury of the Tribute Tower and the glamor of the Capitol at large is too much to resist, and she spends most of her time partying it up and having fun. Today, she wanders into the Training Center for only the third time since arriving, and approaches the force field for the first time.
"... Uh, hey? Hey. Can y'all hear me up there? I got a question."
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It'd been easy to act on anger then, with Signless' grief for the Initiate fresh in his mind. Even now that grief is evident in Signless' every action, at least so far as Roland is concerned, and will be a part of Signless for a very long time. It is still easy for Roland to be angry. It's a little easier for him to control it.
Roland is aware of Sigma's presence. He's worked his way from one practice area to another nearer one, lets his reactions gradually slow as if with tiredness. As the corner of Roland's vision catches the Initiate walking up to Klim and going still, blank-faced and waiting, Roland rushes toward the wrong obstacle at the wrong time and ends up having to tuck, roll, and slam hard against the wall below Klim's. He gets his feet under him and stands, head tilted back to get a look toward that viewing room.
"Cry pardon," he says in polite tones, reaching for the back of his shoulder to rub at the spot that'd hit the wall the hardest. "Hope I didn't shake anything loose up there."
no subject
Sigma remembered this woman's scoring well - in fact, in a manner of speaking, it was the very first scoring session he had had the privilege of witnessing. At the same time, she had not done much; if he had not been reminded of how he, himself, had almost refused to try for a score, it would have been entirely forgettable.
"We can hear you," Sigma answers, not unpleasantly. A shadow of a smile plays at the corner of his lips. In this political climate, he's almost come to enjoy company, for there were entire weeks he went without speaking to someone outside of his associates. "What is your question, Ms. Doggett?"
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"I was wondering if I could do my scoring again, 'cause I don't think I reached my full potential. I didn't really know what was going on, you know? Or if I can't do it again, can I get it raised up later, if I prove myself?"
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He catches his mistake before the vibration at their feet has ended and retracts his arm at once.
In an effort to save face, Sigma rises from his seat and approaches the field, peering over to where Roland waits below. A wince cuts through his expression - the wall Roland had collided with was made of solid concrete. The thought that his old ally may have been trying to send a message does not cross his mind until he has already met his eyes, and even then Sigma tries to convince himself he is being paranoid.
"We are fine, of course," Sigma assures, and is surprised to find a note of concern in his voice. Not even his Zero persona could successfully repress his empathy. He gives up trying: "Are you alright, Mr. Deschain? If we could feel that up here, that must have been quite the blow." He can hear his colleagues clucking with disapproval behind him.
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"It may reassure you to know that an opportunity for a new score is not outside of the realm of possibility," he begins cautiously, "for many of your fellow Tributes were recently reevaluated. But, tell me," now Sigma smiles, a hand reaching up to touch his chin, "Do you believe the one we gave you was unjust?"
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She rocks back on her heels, giving a nod that she hopes looks confident. "So if I do good in the Arena, will you up my score a little bit?"
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Roland himself is fair at it, when he needs to be. The look in his eyes when the doctor meets them speaks to that well enough, although like the best performances, the emotions this one uses are true. A little anger, but mostly a careful blankness. Distance. Roland would need that blankness over his face whether or not his tumble had been intended as another threat - which it wasn't, in this case, though if the other man assumes so that might be better. If it didn't seem that Roland kept this conversation going out of anger, it might be too easy to guess that he's trying to open the lines of communication between them up again.
There may be no real way to know what horrors this Capitol is going to commit next, but having a gamemaker's mouth to his ear would not be a bad one. Nevermind Roland's own feelings on the matter, which would only confuse this situation more if he tried to sort them out. What matters most is that this is an opportunity he ought not let pass.
Speaking of opportunities, he's got to keep this conversation going until he finds one. Or maybe speaking a while will be enough. Is that concern in Sigma's voice real? May be time to see.
"I'll find out. Don't think I'm feeling it all just yet. No reason to worry - I'll be in good enough shape to put on a good show once the arena starts. I know you'll need a good showing, with the tributes you've lost since the last one." Roland does not so much as twitch his glance toward the empty husk of an avox standing up there on that platform. He doesn't need to.
(ooc: If Roland doing any of that would be likely get him in trouble with the gamemakers let me know and I can edit - although I might be cool with it, if you think it would we can pm and talk it out.)
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And yet, here she was, just another shmuck who barely understood what was happening around her. And a lot was happening--The strange videos, the talk of rebellion from the one troll who was actually the proper size for a qunari. The school. That lovely little video from a district she hadn't known existed. This place had things moving around and spinning past her, and here, she was just a little bug in a glass jar, peeking out and trying to see what the fuck was going on.
But even this bug could see when she got a peek of something big. She recognized him from the video--one of the people who was where she had been--Probably not exact circumstances (she bet he had no statues at all! Not even a little one), but he was one of the people who had a look at the big picture, while she was squinting over a puzzle piece.
So, she watched him. She didn't bother to hide it. Instead, she looked up from her attempts to identify plants (this is why she ate animals, plants are fucking bullshit), and watched him with a neutral expression. Studying him, like he was studying the Tributes. That big qunari-troll was being put on display, he should've stopped with the pretenses and dressed him up like a jester. Shown a spotlight on him, got him to do a little song and dance. Well, maybe hold the singing.
She wouldn't speak until he noticed. Until she had to give some excuse for trying to memorize his face. When he does, she slips into a little smirk, gesturing to the screen, that was trying to politely quiz her on the possible edibility of dogwood. "You know what would really drum up the ratings? If you planted pot in the arena. If you thought watching us all get shitfaced at the end of the last one was a hoot, you'd be tickled pink, guaranteed."
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When he went from knife to bow, he noticed. His eyes casually darted up to the booth and the familiar face there caused him to jerk to a halt and openly stare. Jet hadn't seen Sigma since they'd been in the traitor's room, interviewing for his release. What a fucking mistake that had been. Just one of many.
His gaze hardened into a glare and he was suddenly overcome with the overpowering urge to yell and rant and throw the biggest thing he could at the forcefield on the off chance it'd break and crush the man behind it. But he couldn't, he had to remember the people he still had with him, the ones that still needed him. He bit the inside of his lip hard enough to distract and finally turned away to return to his archery practice.
There were eight targets and he hit every single one almost right in the middle. He'd gotten a lot better over the last few weeks of practice. Moving targets were next and he repeated his performance, hoping his accuracy was noted by the man he wished was practicing on. That gave him an idea, a dangerous one, but it was just too tempting to pass up.
He waited for just the right moment when a moving target moved in the same direction of the forcefield, making Jet turn to shoot it. Except his arrow missed it's mark and shot up towards the barrier and bounced off the area near Sigma's face uselessly. Whoops.
"My bad."
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"Do not allow yourself to be riled up by an outdated scale. We believe we gave you a score that represents you best." He cannot say, 'regardless of your performance,' because to say so would indicate how occasionally meaningless the scoring sessions are. It was an executive decision made by Plutarch himself, Sigma had no say in the process, for unlike the highest ranking members of the Capitol he was not made privy to information from other universes. "But if it encourages you, yes. Should a Tribute live so long, we do account for improvement from time to time."
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"At any rate, promises can not stand in for physical capability. If I were you, I would remove myself from training for the day lest I exacerbate my injuries." Roland is not the only person capable of concealing intent. He'll let Roland off with a warning, this time: shape up your attitude or one of us will have to leave.
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"This may come as a surprise to you," the Gamemaker begins tentatively, feeling the sensation of a dozen sets of eyes boring their gaze into the back of his head, "but back when the dinosaurs reigned, I was a college student." In his attempt to learn from the best, he may have inherited Plutarch's dry sense of humour. The 2020's were a big deal for California and even Sigma, nark to end all narks, had been willing to smoke weed after it became legal.
"If I wished for my Tributes to lay down in the meadows and sing campfire songs with eachother I would definitely do as you suggest," he jests. "In the meantime, we have other ideas." In this hedonistic world where revealing what one has smoked in their lifetime would not warrant a bat of an eyelash, his coworkers aren't particularly impressed by his banter. Still, as an anxious recluse in general, Sigma is proud to have managed his lame retort.
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Neutralized by the force field, the arrow snaps into pieces inches in front of Sigma's face, its metal remains showering down onto the floor below. His consistently weakening heart jumps hard in his chest and sends an ache through his entire body, and the Doctor must take a deep breath to ease it. Growing old outside of the Arena would prove to have its own set of disadvantages.
Sigma blinks slowly at the perpetrator, pretending to be unfazed by his strike. The protection of his barrier was absolute... of course. "Oh, no trouble, sir," Sigma answers calmly while his heart rattles inside of him. "You should consider it fortunate that we did not install a barrier that would send one's strike back in the direction it came. We recognize that accidents happen, of course." He could not control what Quintus and the rest of the Tower's security team decided, but he chooses to leave the implication hanging nonetheless.
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"Thank you, sir. Thank you; thank you very much," she says, fully genuinely. She takes a step or two back, and even gives a respectful little bow.
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"I cry your pardon again, sir," he says, still rolling his shoulder and shifting his back a little. The opportunity to come over and speak may have been calculated, but the tumble he'd taken to do it had been real enough. Worth it, of course, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt and there's no reason to pretend otherwise. "You know how to do best for the arenas, better than I ever will."
There's a moment, perhaps a hesitation, and then Roland speaks again. "Is there some way I can make it up to you? Maybe if we spoke again later I could show you I'm not so arrogant as I sounded just now."
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"Well, according to everyone around here, I hail from when the dinosaurs reigned, so I suppose I see your point." She replied easily. "No college, though." College was...for mages. She was pretty sure that's not what it meant for him. But she'd learned pretty fast that she had no idea what half the shit people said meant.
She snorts at his reply about the campfire, breaking into a little titter of laughter. "Well, I wouldn't say no to it, but..." And here was the tricky part. Having to bullshit that you didn't want to break out of here and burn the whole city down. But she figured this man knew that perfectly well. Any bullshit is just agreeing that they are the ones in charge, so you have to pretend. "...I leave the idea making in hands more capable than mine." And raised a fist to her chest, giving it a solid little thump, and dipping her head.
"Still, consider it stuck in the suggestion box. You can always lace it with whatever you put in those flowers last time."
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The implication sounds like a threat and he has to resist shooting another arrow at the barrier. "Even if it did, it wouldn't be a problem. Unlike some people, I don't need to hide behind things to protect myself."
Jet's stomach twisted sharply and he longed to do something more, to cause pain like he hadn't felt in over a year. He wanted nothing more right then than to shatter Sigma's neck like the arrow had shattered against the barrier.
If he ever ran into the doctor face-to-face again, he doubted he'd be able to restrain himself, no matter who was left in the Capitol.
"What're you trying to accomplish by watching, Sigma? You'd think you'd have a good idea of how we can kill each other. Some of us in more detail than others."
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Sigma hesitates before answering noncommittally. "I am quite a busy man in these upcoming weeks, you understand... There is much work to be done." Surely, that excuse would satisfy both of the men he was eager to please. He is quick to append his response: "...Perhaps if you extend an invitation immediately after the Arena ends, I may accept, provided there is space in my schedule. This is, of course, assuming you survive." He wanted to emphasize that it was not a given that he would return - too few Tributes took their extended lifespans for granted.
and end, unless there's anything you'd like sigma to add
"Gracious of you, sir," he says, bending his neck in a nod that adds for a second to the complaints his other muscles are making. "In the mean time I think I'll take your advice and beg off training for the day. Best be well rested if I'm going to put on a fair show." With that he stops craning his neck to look up, takes a step backward and turns to head for the elevator. Best not to look as if he's taking Klim's offer too seriously, but it is not one that he intends to forget.
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"Your suggestion has been noted," he answers with a firm nod, though the likelihood that the other members of his team would take it into consideration was slim. He supposed it could be a comedy option. At least she had the mind to act as though she knew her place, and Sigma thought such insight should go rewarded. "Ms. ... Tabris, was it?" His stern, important air evaporates, replaced by something almost friendly. It was in his best interests for the Tributes to stop considering the Gamemakers their enemies. "I admit that I lack the familiarity with individual Tributes my coworkers possess, and you have roused my curiosity. What sort of period do you hail from, if you will permit me the question?"
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"I am doing my job," he answers with a growl, "though I need not answer to you. Getting awfully familiar, are we not, Jet Link?" Sigma hadn't bothered to learn whether or not either member of the couple had elected to have their names changed, but regardless, the lack of respect stands. He's done trying to bridge the gap between the two of them, grasping at straws to communicate to someone who might eventually understand that they were not as different as they seemed. It had only ever been a fool's hope. "By the way," Sigma begins sharply, having intended to be sympathetic until Jet egged him on, "I could not help but notice what happened to your husband. Truly sorry." There was some information even Sigma was not privy to - for all the Doctor knew, the Capitol had simply decided not to revive Albert.
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She supposed that's what the big qunaritroll was for.
She can't help but wonder if this was doing a really bad job of keeping out of the spotlight, like she'd been asked to. Well. Whatever. She was pretty sure that him asking her questions about her home wasn't going to ruin her ability to help out when the time came. So she thinks on it for a moment. "I hail from Thedas--There are a decent number of us here. For me, the period is year 41, of the Dragon Age. I don't think you follow the same time, though...Someone called me a walking renaissance fair? We're pretty far back, I guess. There's no guns or cars or that electricity stuff." She shrugged. They were, however, pretty up to date on institutionalized oppression and church-sanctioned racism, but humans rarely liked being told that they were shitlords in every world.
Fucking shems.
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"I presume that you did not call it the Dragon age without reason? Such things are, indeed, not from our history. But even before I arrived here I was familiar with the concept of alternate universes - I think you are right to say we do not follow the same timeline." Sigma smiled. He wondered if Tabris would come to appreciate the next Arena, or if he was stereotyping her time period. If he owed anything at all to his isolation, it was that over the years he had somehow managed to put a limiter between his brain and his mouth.
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In this particular case, it worked in his favor, as far as the Capitol was concerned: Albert was gone for good and to prevent that from coming true, he had to pretend that was still what he believed too.
"Fuck off. Keep your 'truly sorry' to your damn self." He turned away from the forcefield to give his attentions to his training again, although he was definitely distracted now. "Just because you're used to slipping everyone a healthy helping of your lies doesn't mean they always take."
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And concerning Plutarch, he can hear the man shifting in his seat behind him, ready to calmly take control of the situation the way he did when he was dissatisfied. Sigma reminds himself that, as far as the Gamemakers were concerned, he owed the Tributes nothing. And indeed, in his rage Jet was behaving more like a petulant child who could not get his way than a man who was supposed to be older than himself, desperate for the last word. Sigma decides to cease to indulge him. "Very well. I will be delighted to keep to myself." He takes a step away from the edge and, still looking at Jet, offers his advice one last time. "...However, I believe you shall see it my way before the end." He was happy to remind Jet that each time he spoke against the Capitol, he played with fire.
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Maintaining his silence, he turned away from the booth and returned to his training. He'd put his all into it, be as vicious as he could be and wear himself out quickly so he could leave sooner. He didn't want to stay where he knew those damn eyes could watch him.