[OPEN] Nothing's going to separate us now

[futilecycle]

WHO | Sigma and YOU!
WHAT | A Gamemaker has one last night on the town before his schedule is filled.
WHEN | The night before Tributes are transported to the Arena.
WHERE | About the Capitol.
WARNINGS/NOTES | PM me if you'd like your own prompt in the comments. In several prompts, Sigma is without peacekeepers. If you plan to have your character do anything violent, run it by me first!



Dusk fell on the final day before Sigma's first Arena as a Gamemaker. As the last of the sunlight disappeared over the mountains, he and his fellow Gamemakers drank to their health before going home for their last peaceful evening. The expensive champagne Plutarch uncorked was unlike anything Sigma had ever had the opportunity to taste, but it did not go down easy - as Sigma sips at his flute he realizes that he can afford any luxury he desires except freedom.

He was exhausted over the constant surveillance, tired of filtering out the people 'beneath' him with computers and force fields. At the celebration's conclusion, Sigma wraps his dress coat around his shoulders and takes the elevator down, instructing the peacekeepers that they need not accompany him - he will go straight home.

Instead, knowing he may well live to regret it, Sigma steps out into the night alone.

A - The park

If there was one thing Sigma loved about the Capitol, it was what remained of its natural environment. Having spent most of his life locked in a steel cell, to feel his boots dig into fresh grass and wet mud was an unbelievable - and almost forgotten - feeling.

He wades through the darkness of the park, pensive and safe from the feverish pace of the city. As the Gamemaker reaches the riverbed, he removes his gloves and runs his hand over the bark of a tree, watching the light of one million superstructures diffuse off of the black ribbon of water. It was almost dark enough to see stars. Not far downstream there was a bench at the edge of the park where a troll and his father had once spoken, ashing burned pages of military blueprints into the rocks beneath their feat.

It was not so long ago, actually. Not so long ago, at all...

B - Training Center Lobby Bar

It was not so much a part of his job as a part of his citizenship to make himself well liked by fellow Capitolites. At the moment, anybody who was anyone was living it up in the lounge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Tributes on their last days of training. Now Sigma settles into the bar, bearing a secret, the only man in the room who knew what tomorrow would bring. Where he used to be no more than a shadow he is now practically magnetic - Capitolites and press begin to pester him, though he says little and drinks much, the occasional smile and nod inserted where necessary. The secret of the Arena is safe with him.

With Quintus' exceptional security, he knows he will be safe if he chooses to bide his time here. Yet fifteen minutes into the first round of drinks and he's looking for an excuse to bolt, waiting for any reason at all to remove himself from this insatiable crowd of vultures.

C - Anywhere within reason

It's much easier to blend into the city street without his Peacekeepers. Should he keep his head down, he was just another old man in the Capitol, an undesirable in a city where youth and beauty were the products of wealth. Months ago he could still take his daily walk unnoticed, practically a nobody after losing his celebrity status. Now blending in had become an art. He does not go so far as to conceal his face, but after his uncomfortable experience in the lounge, he makes certain not to attract attention where he can avoid it.

Yet in a city as alive and buzzing with tension as the Capitol, he was bound to be recognized eventually.

Comments

A

[contrarianlibrarian]

For all the distasteful dirt that comes with it, even China has to appreciate the beauty the Capitol parks offer. Beauty, indeed, is one of the few things she finds worth working for. She's out for her own evening stroll, the tattoos on her arms sprinkled with sparkle like stars in the sky.

She never had the chance to meet the man personally, but anyone who watches the games and the news would recognize that face. It's enough to have her stray from her path to approach him, lifting her skirt just above the grass.

"Could it be? I hardly expected to find a man of your stature wandering around in the wild."

[futilecycle]

As if stunned by an electric shock, Sigma's hand recoils from the tree as he spins around to see who has found him. An expression of cautious indifference settles on his face as he realizes he cannot identify her - in spite of his inextricable involvement with them, he has yet to meet the entire team that comprised the Hunger Games. Sigma is disappointed to have the silence broken, but allows none of it to show on his face. He rests both hands behind his back formally, nodding in acknowledgement at the woman.

"...Good evening, Ma'am." A pause. His greeting is stilted and slightly sharp, but he does not intend to be unfriendly. "I do not believe we have had the pleasure."

[contrarianlibrarian]

China's not accustomed to jolting people so and moves to try and remedy this with a warm smile. "We haven't, and quite a pity it is."

"China Sorrows; I'm the Escort for a few of your former competitors in District 11." She offers something akin to a curtsy, dipping slightly toward him.

She rises and looks back up at him. "I, of course, know you. You have a very impressive reputation, as I'm sure many have told you already."

[futilecycle]

Her warmth, he must admit, is somewhat soothing, and Sigma's shoulders relax. It seemed this woman had no intention of making a scene, even if it remained to be seen whether or not her intentions were innocent. After Jet's misplaced arrow, Sigma had become woefully paranoid of assassination - though not enough to stop him from taking a walk around the park, apparently.

"Oh, my apologies, Ms. Sorrows," -a rather unfortunate name, he thought- "Good to meet you at last. Please allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Sigma Klim." He hesitates before he bows slightly, once again uncertainly, having forgotten how to introduce himself to a lady (if he had ever learned at all). "I am pleased to hear my reputation precedes me, though my failure to recognize you must not reflect well on me at all. It has been quite a long day."

C - Outside some ridiculous 5 star place

[president_evil]

"Dr. Klim, what a surprise," came the voice suddenly from one side. A low, silken purr, like the hum of snake scales across the earth.

Wesker had appeared from inside the restaurant just as Sigma was strolling past on the sidewalk. Buttoning his sport-coat with one easy hand, he moved down the steps toward him.

"Or should it be 'Gamemaker' Klim?"

[futilecycle]

If Sigma had been actively avoiding recognition, he does not find himself disappointed to cross paths with Albert Wesker. Indeed, Wesker was one of the few people Sigma did not know well enough to dislike, and a cautious smile comes easily. The worst Albert had done, aside from taking the victor's crown, was give Eponine what she'd wanted. There were worse men in the Capitol, for certain.

"Ah, Mr. Wesker, a pleasure to see you again. Doctor or sir, as you please," Sigma answers, straightening up as he approaches the stairs. He does not know enough about the man to return the formality, having survived most of his Tribute career as a friendless introvert. "I imagine 'Gamemaker' will become quite unwieldy." He extends his gloved hand to shake his.

[president_evil]

"Latin may be cumbersome, but there's a reason we insist on giving things their proper classifications," Wesker replied as he near, reaching out to meet Sigma's. Shaking it, he joined him on the sidewalk. "It's so everyone knows they're talking about the same thing."

And it was interesting, how humble Sigma was about his new title.

A measure of the man, perhaps? It was hard to say. Wesker didn't know much more about him than what he'd seen in the footage.

"But if you insist."

[futilecycle]

It was not so much what he would like as opposed to an effort to be humble, so Sigma's only comment is another smile. His modesty is how he has survived thus far - there were many knives pointed at his back and the more he boasted the closer they drew. As Seneca Crane had come to learn, to be a Gamemaker was to circle the drain.

He imagines Phi would have something to say about the comment regarding Latinate words, but aside from the short phases she had taught him and what little he'd learned for his Game, the language was not his area of expertise. "A very wise point of view, but perhaps one that creates too many divisions. Will you walk with me, Wesker? It may be our last opportunity to do so for quite some time." He looked at the mentor knowingly, stepping aside to give the other man his fair share of the pavement.

A

[quiethumerus]

In the creative process, it was important not to get too caught up. He could get swept away easily in his work, a feather floating on the sea, doomed to eventual engulfment beneath the waves. It was all too easy to just lock himself up inside, never come out, bury himself in work. With this new change, a new fresh start, he tries to take steps around that.

And anyway, tomorrow would mark the call of canons and the quiet of empty rooms. It feels right to go out here for it, now that his work is done. He'd decided not to wander so far as the pier this time. Maybe another trip, another time. But here is the sound of water, quiet and soft, the lights of the city and nature around simultaneously. A small but perfect merging of both worlds.

Stylists were of the few who got some hint to the arenas, given order of what clothes to craft well before it was time. Tomorrow he will dress accordingly to befit the arena and his Tributes, but tonight he sought calm. For the most part, he enjoyed the beauty and extravagance of the Capitol. However, he also knew what it was like beyond and knew there could be beauty in subtle things. That, and the hood that comes with his chosen garb hides him a little better, blocks out the world.

He walks on through the park, breathing in the cool night air, watching the stars glisten high above, and listening to the sounds of the city and the faint steps in the grass. He comes up to the river with his fingers fidgeting with the rings on them, then he reaches down. He takes off the one boot, then the other, before slowly lowering down to the ground. His feet dip into the water. His head bows. His hands rise up and fold together in something illicit in a world like this. A prayer.

And then the image breaks when he realises sharp that he is not alone. Kurloz looks up and sees the Gamemaker here in the dark with him.

[futilecycle]

In the darkness Sigma thought it easy to hide, but a man with a metal body should know better than to seek company in nature. The tree may give him shade from the light of streetlamps but this riverbank is no longer a forest - it is not long before a ghost drifts down the stream and finds him.

Sigma turns his head to see who has disturbed the water and forgets that he is haunted. For an instant, that hornless face beneath the hood is his Avox son in the flesh, and Sigma makes the fatal mistake of starting forward. Why is he here?! Had someone broken him free?

Had he come to say his goodbyes?

Reality quickly dawns on him and he stops mid-step. It's the human Kurloz, his spectre. His ghost of Christmas past. Their gazes caught but with nothing to say, Sigma replaces his foot on the ground and clears his throat. As though he'd intended to attract the unpleasant Stylist's attention.

"I thought it was you. Good evening, Mr. Makara."

It was not that he hated this man, it was that he hated how he felt whenever he had to face him.

[quiethumerus]

He is frozen. He is, if he would only admit to himself, frightened. In a split second he sees a future rather like a recent scene of this man's past, and another's past, one whom was undeniably inhuman. For all everyone wanted to suggest his stitches likened him to that, he did not believe it so and did not want it either.

But he is not so caught that he does not see. He is not the only one with a secret to hide it seems, for he catches the Gamemaker looking through him. He doesn't like being another's ghost anymore. It's enough to be his own.

Sigma composes himself, putting on the show. Maybe one he'd have called Sigma out, but not now, threaded lips reminding of the dangers. He accepts this as impasse, one hand dropping and the other going up in the most friendly of waves. He proves a good actor, even with having been caught in the act.

The waves says, Hello Mr. Klim, how are you this evening? With perhaps slightest undertone of, a fine night to remove one's boots, wouldn't you say?

He is thankfully considered strange by most everyone he meets. It allows him some room for errors such as this to be disregarded easily.

[futilecycle]

If Sigma had ever wished to been seen for the good that was in him, that whim disappears now. He lies to himself when he insists that Kurloz noticed nothing and focuses on parsing intent from expression alone. Once, he had thought there was an irreconcilable barrier between the two of them. Now he thinks it might not be so difficult, what with how the Initiate communicated.

"It is a fine night, indeed..." Somehow, it is equal parts observation and response. But Sigma does not wish to stay here, stuck in a place where a bystander could get the impression that Sigma Klim would approach Kurloz Makara of his own free will. "I was going to take a stroll down the riverbank, myself," he lies, fidgeting uncomfortably with the sleeve of his left wrist. "...Will you walk with me this evening?" He means for Kurloz to follow harmlessly behind. It was an unfortunate fact that neither of them had much of a choice.

A

[voiceinthephone]

For Phillip, the evening only yielded familiar dread, even after all this time here in Panem. The fear of mechanical hands grabbing him by the throat, and pulling into a gruesome demise. And yet, the Capitol skylights were enough to ease his skittish mind. He could have gone to the bar, as he'd done on occasion but today seemed like a nice enough time as any to walk about. Phil had yet to embrace some of the notoriety his Escort and Mentor had caused a month back, and instead chose to start tapering off his own returning vice, for the Arena and for those he cared about. The park would be enough, the manicured greenery brought back memories...happier times of a normal childhood of a little messy-haired boy pretending to be a pirate.

The pleasant reverie was interrupted as soon as Gray spotted a familiar form along the river's side. Phil was well aware now of who he was: the man who gave him advice back in Valentine's Day, the Gamemaker who offered the avoxed Initiate to the Capitol. But if there was something the Phone Guy remembered from all that, it was the surprise Sigma displayed when he so readily accepted his deaths, both in the Arena and back home.

"Good evening sir," he greeted, wary of the man who would soon send him to the slaughtering grounds.

[futilecycle]

Sigma's heart is fortunate that Phillip remembers his manners - instead of being startled out of his thoughts, he is slowly wakened to reality and finds that a Tribute has dared to approached him. An unusual sight this late in the evening, considering the timing. Most Tributes had the foresight to rest during the days that followed the crowning, lest they be whisked away at a moment's notice - then Sigma remembers that Phillip Gray is an insomniac, and the world makes a bit more sense.

"Good evening, Mr. Gray," Sigma answers, equally wary. Phillip is too polite for his own good and it serves to stirs up Sigma's paranoia. Being sealed in a solitary metal world made him an anxious person in public, doubly so when he risked incurring the wrath of Capitolites and Tributes alike. "You may be the only one of your kind out this late. Are you certain that is wise?" It is not a criticism, but an attempt to be thoughtful. It was a poor secret that another Arena was close at hand - just when the Peacekeepers would descend upon the Tributes was kept a surprise.

[voiceinthephone]

"Even if it isn't wise, it's nice to enjoy a clear night every once in the while," Phil answered with the same respect he would hold to someone in a superior rank than him, "And not be afraid." He shrugged at the concerns and gave Sigma a quick smile and shook his head, "It's not, by any sense of the word, just nice. I'll probably get a good scolding or two when I get back."

Gray looked over Sigma, "How have you been after the Arena?" While he does his damnedest not to point out what is essentially written in stone now. A fellow Tribute now in charge of sending others to the Arena? Of plotting their graves? There's an irony to all this and more so when Phil sees how twitchy Sigma is.

"Relax, you may be a Gamemaker, but you're still a person. I'm not going to hurt you sir," Gray assured him but there was no real warmth behind the smile he donned. Nothing like the one in the Ice Land, they were now on different strata within Panem.

[futilecycle]

Sigma feels an acute pang of guilt in his chest as Phillip admits to his fear, but manages to mask his pain. Yes, he remembered what it was like to sleep uneasily. He also remembers a time he did not have to, in a cave in hiding with a new ally only months ago. "Well, your escort will hear nothing from me," Sigma promises. "And I am well, if short on sleep, myself. I appreciate the concern." It's almost a confession: there were few in the Capitol who truly cared about the wellbeing of their fellow socialites, and it's a nice change of pace to speak freely with someone.

Still, he senses the distance between the two of them, and rightly so. Sigma did not have the opportunity to make friends with Phillip as much as he would have liked. At least the other man held no hostility, and these days the basest amounts of good will went a long way. "Yourself? How are you doing lately?" Regarding the upcoming Arena, about being trapped in an unending cycle of life and death... you know, Mr. Gray, the usual.

B

[dead_black_eyes]

The bars in the Capitol have usually at least seen some of Linden. Many know him by name, and a fair number are all too aware of how long it takes him to go from reasonably coherent to the classic drunken, scene-causing washed-up Mentor that most Games get several incarnations of. It's simply not that uncommon for Game veterans to go a little crazy, or for their vices to get out of control, and while it's certainly discouraged no one is really surprised when it happens.

He's been hitting the bottle harder and longer than Sigma, tonight, but it's not only because he has a problem stopping once he begins. As a tower Mentor for District 6, he has a responsibility to his Tributes to field, woo and persuade wealthy Sponsors into sending them gifts, and on the night before the Games start, he's being especially diligent about it. He has to be; while District 6 is a priority of his, so is a Tribute from District 9. He sent Nill quite a lot of survival items in the last Arena, and people are bound to have noticed. If it happens again this Arena, especially after Cyrus' rules about fraternization between staff and Tributes, it probably won't go uninvestigated, so the more he can send to Karkat, the more he can count on making its way to Nill through him.

Unfortunately, Linden's liver isn't able to keep up with the hard-partying Capitolites like it used to. He stopped being merely a social drinker a long time ago, and years of excess and abuse have taken their toll on him. Five or six promising sponsors in, the room's spinning, and he doesn't trust himself to stand up from his barstool, so he orders another drink instead. Looking to his left, he sees a face that looks familiar, though far too many drinks into the evening, he can't be entirely sure.

"Aren't you the new Gamemaker?" he asks, cordial with that undercurrent of hostility that so many past Victors feel toward men with Sigma's job. Someone like him had once designed and manipulated Linden's own Arena in the 63rd Games, after all.

[futilecycle]

Sigma is not unfamiliar with revulsion and Linden's hostility glances off of him without leaving a mark. Even if he could not place a name to every face in the Tower, he recognizes this man at once and can almost excuse his disrespect. One of Sigma's first duties was to review some of the ways past Victors won their games - for variety's sake, of course. Mentor's names weren't considered important enough for him to memorize by heart, but eidetic memories tend to latch on to details unwittingly. How a line of blood across a slit throat gushes in time with a pulse, for example.

Keeping his glass close to his chest so no one has the opportunity to poison him, he nods to Linden pleasantly. The alcohol is beginning to burn in his stomach and he's feeling friendly enough to honour him with a response. "You are Linden Lockhearst, Victor of the 63rd Annual Hunger Games, isn't that right?" He, like most Gamemakers, like to make a distinction between the 'Annual' Games and the Quell. "You are correct. I am Sigma Klim, sir." In the safety of a crowded room he can reach out his hand to shake his, an extending of the olive branch between two enemies in a very one-sided battle.

[dead_black_eyes]

It becomes immediately clear that Sigma's a true, unflinching professional; not that he could easily secure his position otherwise, but it still leaves an impression. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as he attempts to hold the other man's gaze, but the room's already well on its way to spinning, and it's difficult to see straight in any direction for very long.

"Yes, that's right," Linden says, sounding more tired than he perhaps intends to. Though his win was well over a decade ago, people in the Capitol as a general rule tend to recognize him, and he's never quite gotten over the shock of being elevated from shabby factory rat to celebrity overnight. His eyes flicker down toward the extended hand, and there's a pause just long enough to hint at hesitation before he reaches out and shakes it. His palm and fingers are chilled from holding cold drinks all night. "I'll ask because I have to, meaning no disrespect, of course. You don't have any outstanding grudges against District 6, do you? Because the deck already feels pretty stacked against my Tributes in this Arena, so I'd prefer to know if I'm wasting my time with Sponsors at this point."

C

[metalicarus]

Maybe it was in the way he walked, maybe it was something about his presence or the way that he held himself, but there was something there that had made Jet pay closer attention. Maybe it was the very fact that a man in the Capitol would be dressed in such a way that it seemed he wasn't trying to catch attention, a very un-capiolite thing to do.

Whatever the reason, Jet had spotted the old man and hadn't taken his attention off him for the last while. He'd watched from the crowd of passerbys as Sigma made his way up the street, a thrum in his blood as he watched. This was exactly what he longed for and dreaded: running into the traitor face-to-face. If he only ever saw him afar, he wouldn't be tempted to try any thing stupid, but god did he long to plow his metal fist into the guy's skull. Sigma was just across from him and nearly past him on the other side of the street when Jet felt himself moving. He should ignore him, let him go like he hadn't even seen him. But he couldn't.

He didn't rush, just moved a little faster than average to cross and catch up with the Gamemaker, matching his stride as Jet came up next to him. There was no reason to make a scene just yet, besides, there was a small thrill to be had in the thought he might make Sigma nervous just by being there.

He could dream, at least.

"I was under the impression assholes like you didn't stray from the herd. Doesn't being a Capitolite mean partying your goddamn brains out?"

[futilecycle]

At last he arrived at the inevitable, the night's worst-case scenario: running into an aggressive Tribute his Peacekeepers would have easily disposed of, had Sigma not lied to them to lose their supervision. He can feel the fear of death in his bones when Jet arrives, his blood pressure rising in anticipation of an argument. This was enough excitement for one night, he decided. He would head straight home and try to lose Jet along the way.

In the meantime, Sigma shoots the interloper a brief glare, pretending he had not been attempting to flee the very thing that infuriated Jet. "I do not have the time nor the patience for you tonight, Jet Link. Do you not have better ways to occupy yourself? Preparing for an upcoming Arena, for instance?" He looks straight ahead as he speaks, as if Jet were but an annoying insect buzzing about his ear.

He quickens his pace, sweat already beginning to bead on the back of his neck.

[metalicarus]

He'd intended to just make Sigma nervous, something he could easily accomplish by keeping pace with him and being generally threatening. That was the goal.

And then Sigma opened his mouth.

Everything about him was dismissive, from the way he refused to look at Jet barring that one glare, to his tone and words. He didn't have 'the time or patience' like Jet was some small child with a beef that the great Gamemaker couldn't be bothered with.

Like hell.

Jet's hand wrapped around Sigma's arm like a vice and directed them down into one of the city's alleyways, making sure to walk them down into a dark and empty corner. It might not be a blind spot -he honestly didn't know and didn't care- but it was out of the way. Hoping to use Sigma's age and potential surprise against him, Jet's fingers curled tight into the collar of the other cyborg's shirt and slammed him against the wall.

"Then you make time, asshole. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't snap your goddamn neck right now? It'd be really easy, so think hard."

A

[furgood]

It was late to be out alone, more so in the park. She'd be scolded if anyone knew she was out here, not on her way home or trying for a party. Yet after a day spent watching and rewatching countless hours of footage as loud as she could bear, she missed the silent beauty of the outdoors all that much more. Ironic that her chosen profession had her spending so many hours in front of screens and away from the sun.

But the park was lovely at night, lovely at all times, for all the artificiality of it. It's not at all like home but it doesn't have to be. She can appreciate it all the same. Crouched by the river, she dips a hand in the water, brings it up and in the dark sees the reflection of lights over her skin.

Up and back on her feet, she turns and very nearly falls right into the river at the sight of someone else. It wasn't exactly deserted but she had been so sure this spot was secluded. She squints into the dark and suddenly realizes who exactly is there. Of course she knows him. Who doesn't.

"Gamemaker!"

She speaks too loud for the silence of the park, too loud for secrecy, but she doesn't notice any reaction to such things, already fumbling for her favorite pad and pen.

[futilecycle]

The woman's shout is like a crack of a whip in his ear and Sigma flinches, tearing his hand from the tree. His first thought is that he'd been found, that a Peacekeeper had arrived to escort him home, and for the second this lasts he is terrified. He is not yet ready to part with the peace of the riverbank and return to walls of holograms and death. But once his eyes fall on the armorless woman, his fear is replaced with unease. Was she just another fan of the Games, or something more sinister? One could not tell which Capitolites were caught up in the excitement of the Arena and which plotted to usurp his position for themselves.

He takes a step back, back practically pressed against the tree, and calls to her. "Ah. ...Good evening, ma'am?" It is not by intent that his greeting sounds like a question, but the confusion is plain on his face. He clears his throat, expression drooping into neutrality. "...Can I help you?"

[furgood]

It's only when he reacts that Meulin realizes how loud she must have been. Her hand slaps up to her mouth, the other clutching pen and pad to her chest, somewhat forgotten. Her mind flies, wondering what he's doing here in the dark before she can only settle on it being something like her own reasons. Solitude? Peace? She probably ruined that. Her eyes dart for others in the dark but come up empty.

"I don't..." She trails off, unsure of how to phrase things. He must be asking what she wants, who she is, even if she can't hear it. His confusion is evident. And it feels silly to offer her pad to a Gamemaker. The tributes, her friends, surely, but he has no reason to speak to her.

"I was startled. I didn't expect anyone and I couldn't hear you coming. And then I recognized you and I just--blurted it out." Her shoulders raise, then fall in time with her words. Her smile is back up, with a tinge of self deprecation at such an embarassing situation. After a moment of thought, she bobs her head in the same short bow, "I didn't mean to disturb you."