(647): my move is emasculating men with my superior intellect [open]

[ransoms]

Who| Ransom and YOU.
What| D1's returning mentor gets herself reacquainted with the Capitol and with the Tower.
Where| The tower commons, and various locations around the city.
When| During week 1 of the Arena.
Warnings/Notes| Probably none, will update as needed!



a. tower commons/training center

With the D1 suites being sparse this early in the Arena, Ransom has been avoiding hanging out there alone for her first few days back in the Capitol. It's been a very long time since she's been here, and although District One itself isn't exactly a backwater, it's still quite a bit to get used to. But she's meant to be here, she's meant for better things than wasting away back home without any Careers to train. Her talents are put to far better use here.

She's not a woman who likes to show weakness or insecurity at any point, and for this reason her qualms in taking on this new position are buried beneath a ruthless efficiency in learning everyone's business whose path she might cross--fellow Mentors will find themselves accosted without much preamble and questioned. In many cases, she doesn't bother introducing herself. She's a Victor, after all, a real Victor from the most prosperous district in Panem. In her opinion, everyone ought to know who she is by sight, an oversight that doesn't help her not-quite-friendly demeanor.

One might find the newly arrived Mentor poring over her Tributes' files, spread across a table in the common lounge with a look of intense focus on her face and a tall glass of cucumber water next to her. Or perhaps she's taking out all her excess energy in the Training room, opposite a training hologram or even another Mentor, elsewise an unlucky Avox.

b. around town

At some point, even a workhorse like Ransom needs to get out, and in the afternoons she often takes the liberty of taking walks before dinner. These streets used to be familiar to her in some capacity, and she's eager for them to become familiar once more, even if a lot has changed in eighteen years since she's spent any extended amount of time in the Capitol.

She'll stare down strangers with condescension; anyone who dares get in her way will be met with a short reprimand and a haughty stare. She's not huge on shopping but she does need new clothes; her arms at intervals will be loaded down with crisp carrier bags from luxury brand stores as well as athletic outfitters.

In the evenings, she makes a habit of dining alone in various restaurants. Ransom finds nothing wrong with splurging on a good meal, especially with the line of credit the Capitol has graciously extended her, in addition to her Games winnings, which she's wisely invested and earned annuities on all these years. She can be found in various Capitol venues, enjoying a well-aged steak or some fine delicacy or other. Depending on how empty her single allotted wine glass is, you might even be able to ask to join her and be received favorably.

Comments

a.

[crabmunicator]

Since his early death in the arena, one of Karkat's regular haunts has become the training center. Not that he avoided it before, no, but with his leg back in normal condition he can pick up for what he missed. Not that training ever builds much here for tributes, not with the reset of death, but that's besides the point.

He likes keeping his skills sharp, and that's most of why he's here. (The other part is obligation to Shepard, but he's not about to share that.)

He does not, however, expect to see whoever this is. There's so many tributes around the tower between arenas that he can't hope to recognize them all, but here in the first week he didn't expect to see much of anyone. This has to be someone who died early, or... Do they let Capitol staff down to exercise here? He's never really asked; he never had reason to.

The end result is that Ransom gets an alien teenager staring at her from across the room. He's got a knife in hand that he's been using against a dummy, the solid kind he can actually feel his blows with, but he's abandoned that task for now.

Eventually he calls over, "Did you die early too?"

[ransoms]

Ransom is aware that there's someone gawking at her, and she can feel a prickle of annoyance across her back at the idea that someone is so bent on watching the spectacle, but she tries her hardest to ignore it. She's working with a hologram at the moment, shadowing it, a spear in hand. Its balance is perfect, and she's experienced with it, that much is obvious from the way she shatters the holo into a thousand pieces, over and over, expertly.

She would be perfectly fine with pretending there isn't someone else here, too, if he hadn't gone and decided to speak to her. Ransom's brow knits, and she turns off the training simulation, turning heavily. She adjusts the athletic wraps around both her wrists and hands, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"No," she replies simply, voice haughty, "that's why I am still here and not festering in a mass grave somewhere."

[crabmunicator]

Isn't she prickly? Karkat's features press in around the eyes and mouth as he takes in both her face and her answer.

"I meant the arena," he says with a kind of off-to-the-side motion meant to indicate something elsewhere. "But fine, not that, point taken. Are you a mentor, then? I haven't heard of Escorts or whatever coming down to swing spears around."

She definitely looked like she knows how to handle it, too. Not a weapon he's chosen, too big and unwieldy for his small frame, and he's used to short-range fighting.

[ransoms]

She barely refrains from rolling her eyes. "Yes, I'm a Mentor. A Victor. A real Victor, too, I didn't win my Games by being nice and handing it over to someone else, or protecting my 'friends.'"

She swings the spear around, easily, like it were made of balsa wood instead of titanium, twirling it for show. Not because she's showy, but because she can.

"And you? You died right out of the gate, didn't you." Not a question, just a statement of fact.

[crabmunicator]

Karkat takes her in, her tone and her answer and her needless show-off display with the spear, and lifts his eyebrows high.

"Whoops, my mistake! Here I thought I was talking to a person, but in fact have encountered a mobile pillar of salt. Good luck with that." He waves his hand, and starts to move toward the door, pointedly not turning his back to her. He's a troll; he knows better than to show a weak spot to someone armed and hostile, and he can't take her attitude as anything but.

"Yeah, I died. It was lame and stupid and here I am, and I'm never going to be a 'real' Victor anyway, because I'm too busy giving a shit about people. Tell me something I don't know."

[ransoms]

Ransom lets out an unimpressed snort. "Just like you offworlder Tributes to back away at the slightest sign of confrontation," she muses aloud, sticking the spear straight down into the floormats like they're made of clay and not hard rubber.

"You're never getting anywhere with a self-pitying attitude like that," she adds, watching him avoid turning his back on her. "At least you're smart enough not to turn your back on someone like me."

[crabmunicator]

Karkat rolls his eyes without taking them off her. "I'm not looking to get my ass beat by someone who looks like she's just waiting for a volunteer. I already limped around for a month before the arena, and I am devoutly opposed to a repeat of the experience."

The cause would be different with her, to be certain, but learning the various ways his legs can get fucked up is not an experience he's enjoyed thus far. He'd rather not add to the list.

"Also, frankly, so long as you're not D6 I don't give one winged fart where you think I'm getting like this."

He's nearer the door now, only lingering on the off chance that maybe she is from District 6, though he doubts it. She probably would have said something about it by now if she were.

wanna beat up a 2, Ransom?

[clotting]

There are some people who are too classy to drink at the gym. Temple isn't one of them. Dressed in opera gloves and a tight dress that one couldn't hope to fight in, she pulls from a flask as she gazes over the much-improved training facilities. They're larger than they ever were when she was a Tribute, made to house nearly a hundred offworlders who might not even be human. Back in Temple's day they were all some variation of malnourished child, but now there are dragons, turtles, dwarves, aliens (adults, she says to herself). The gym, empty now that the Arena has just started, seems humongous and cavernous, especially compared to the one Temple remembers.

It's comforting, in a way, to think of any part of her Arena as being small. In her mind it seems like an invasive species, self-propagating and ravenous, eating up the person she was before and scrambling from past into the present, threatening to devour her entirely.

She takes another pull of straight whiskey as she walks over on clacking high heels to where a familiar face is beating the hell out of an Avox. She drinks more as a statement than because it actually does anything for her, as a way to flaunt her lack of an addiction in front of her eight-years-sober-counting-every-day husband. She watches Ransom throw punches and kicks that could break bones, watches the Avox fall to the ground and then get back up on command.

"Oh, don't do that," Temple says, with a mewling voice that sounds almost sympathetic until it gets cold again, like an eyelid closing on kindness. "It might start to think it's a person if you treat it like an opponent."

absofrigginlutely

[ransoms]

Ransom's too focused on her work--for that's absolutely how she sees this, it's her work to be the best she can be, so that her Tributes can be the best they can be--to notice any bystanders. Underneath all that creamy white skin, shown off in impeccable white athletic gear, is lean muscle and sinew, flexing impressively as she lands blow after blow on the Avox like he's a punching bag. He may as well be--he makes no sound aside from his labored and terrified breathing, and he'd be on the ground cowering if Ransom hadn't threatened him to no end that he had better get back on his feet if he wanted to keep breathing.

She's in the zone, taking out all her aggressions--all her frustrations, all her trepidations and misgivings and regrets--and she barely looks up at first when Temple speaks. But the last part gives Ransom pause, and she steps back, shooting the Avox a look as if to dare him to look relieved.

Temple cuts a familiar figure; of course Ransom had seen her Games, and it had been a hard Games to stomach. But she's not one for pity, nor is she impressed by Temple. To her, Temple's victory had been nothing but dumb luck. She's in the same category as these Offworlder Victors, if you ask Ransom.

"Didn't think you knew where the Training Room was," she says silkily in reply. Temple is certainly no athlete.

Re: absofrigginlutely

[clotting]

"Oh, is this the Training Room? I thought it might be the zoo," Temple says, demeanor taking on an icy sheen. It's like winter has come over her suddenly and irrevocably, although her lips remain tilted upwards in a polite, amused smile and her eyelids remain at a sated halfmast. She takes another swig of whiskey.

She knows Ransom, should have recognized her at a distance in District One's trademark spotless white. They've rarely spoken, but when they have it's always been with sentences like minefields, beartraps in between their teeth. Ransom doesn't rank highly enough in Temple's esteem to constitute a rivalry - and the feeling is likely mutual - but you don't last as long as both of them have in the Capitol without acquiring a few people who fall just short of an enemy.

She gestures at the Avox to go. "Water, please? Watching all this is making me thirsty."

She then pauses, eyes wide as if she's caught herself making a mistake. "Oh, sorry, I hope you don't mind me borrowing your toys."

[ransoms]

Ransom isn't as good at controlling her voice and expression, doesn't have the ability to say one thing and make it sound like something else entirely. So she straightens, shoulders rolling back, eyes narrowing to slits of icy blue. Of course someone like Temple--some spoiled little Mayor's daughter who won on a fluke--would look down on someone who's worked hard her whole life.

But she can only gape as Temple has the nerve to send away her pet punching bag, gritting her teeth but willing herself to stay controlled. "By all means," she manages, stepping forward as the Avox limps away, bruised and bleeding. "Maybe I'll use you instead." It's a threat, absolutely, but she's proud of herself for the way it sounds like it could be a joke.

[cw: sexual abuse]

[clotting]

She bats her eyes in surprise that's as genuine as it is feigned. Ransom could probably snap Temple in half with two blows. Temple's small, long-legged but tight-ribbed, with hardly an ounce of muscle on her body, just soft feminine curves. She knows it isn't a joke.

"You Careers would, wouldn't you?" She doesn't know if Ransom was the Mentor on duty in Temple's year - God knows District One had enough Mentors to spare - if Ransom was the Mentor whose protege went off to Temple's ignominious Arena and used her like someone else's fouled-up dishrag, like some teenager's unpaired gym sock. She doesn't know and she doesn't quite care, because the word 'Career' has become something of a slur in her mind, one battered and mutated through years of resentment.

And yet she churns with uncertainty, because part of her believes she deserves whatever blows Ransom wants to rain down on her. If she could win her Arena by lying, if she could bury an infant daughter without shedding a single tear, perhaps Ransom inflicting some suffering would be a fast and effective way of evening the karmic scales, a preemptive plea deal.

[ransoms]

Ransom stares, chest still heaving from the exertion of her workout, and toys with the bindings around her knuckles, tightening the white tape where the sweat has it slipping. She knows exactly what Temple is referring to, because it had been one of the Careers she had trained who had done what he did to her, and though it's not her fault and she doesn't feel guilty for it, it's still something that's uncomfortable to think about.

But she's not entirely without a moral compass, and as much as she might toy with the idea of a one-sided sparring match to let off some steam, she's not that much of a bully. So she shrugs, turns away and adjusts her ponytail--even though it's perfect and needs no adjustment.

"No," she replies finally, tone irritated. "Too easy. And you're drunk. There'd be no challenge." The Avox was easy, but to her the Avox was no more than a training dummy, one that bruised and bled but couldn't cry out for help.

a. hope you don't mind a very late tag?

[theyoungperish]

Chuck can't say he much likes most of his fellow Mentors. Never has, never will. He's too prickly a person, too dismissive of those he doesn't think are worth his time. But the truth is, he has a far higher regard for the classic Victors than he does for these offworlders. If it hadn't been for the fact that his father hadn't wanted him around them, hell, Chuck would have stayed in District Four where he was. He was perfectly content with that.

But he's here, and that's that.

Still, of all the Mentors who've made their way back to the Capitol, Ransom has at least some respect. She earned her victory like he earned his, hunting down her fellow tributes and slaughtering them, and that means something to Chuck. Better than Temple, or Shiloh, or Linden. So okay, maybe he hadn't meant to track her down to the training room, but now that he's here, well, she's a challenge even beating up an unlucky Avox. Here, Chuck snags a spear of his own, twirls it idly, point snapping toward the ground.

"Can't be gettin' a good workout with that," He nods his head towards the Avox, gaze never leaving Ransom.

never too late!! c:

[ransoms]

Ransom and Chuck are very similar in their attitudes toward others: she, too, is as prickly as a hedgehog, and selective when it comes to whom she chooses to grace with her respect. As an avid watcher of the Games, she's well aware of who Chuck is, and therefore his presence is less annoying than it otherwise might be.

"It does the trick," Ransom grunts, landing a heavy blow to the Avox's gut. It falls to the ground, and she doesn't bother threatening it to get up or else, instead turning to Chuck.

She eyes him warily, but with something like interest in her expression.

"It suffices," she replies, turning heavily, a sheen of sweat shining across her chest and shoulders. "Not as good as something that fights back." She nods her head toward Chuck, cocking an eyebrow. "You game?"

awesome ;w;

[theyoungperish]

It's part of the reason why he's singled her out. They're very similar in ways, and Chuck isn't patient enough to deal with most people right about now. The Games aren't in his favor, and Chuck's always worked that through with rounds in the Training Center when he could. Tearing into holograms, or Derek. The truth is, Chuck doesn't remember her Arena beyond the snippets replayed, because it was when he was too young. But after -- well.

She's strong, fast; a threat in a way Careers always were. Chuck mightn't have been the typical Tribute from his District, but he knows the culture, the life. He doesn't assume she's gotten soft away from the Game. Not when she's there in front of him, exertion written easily in the lines of her body. The Avox stays grounded, but Chuck doesn't bother with it.

"Wouldn't have mentioned it if I wasn't." He takes a couple steps forward, crooked smirk curling at one corner of his mouth. Meets her halfway, easily.

[ransoms]

She's not normally much of a smiler, but the prospect of a good and proper fight, against a worthy opponent (as opposed to a living punching bag) has her smirking right back at him, dismissing the Avox with a wave of her hand. This has caught her attention in a much more constructive manner.

A few feet away from Chuck now, Ransom twirls her spear easily in her hand. She could go into dramatics, spin it behind her back, hand to hand, all kinds of distracting maneuvers that hide much more tactical movements, but she knows Chuck will likely be able and prepared to see straight through all that, so she doesn't bother with much more than a short twirl and an adjustment of her grip. Her knees bent slightly, she doesn't say anything more--just launches herself toward Chuck with the business end of the spear aimed at his gut. She has no doubt that he'll see it coming a mile away, but she has to start somewhere.

[theyoungperish]

He can tell, sort of. Or, maybe, there's simply just something in her gaze. A singularly focused light, like a lioness after her prey. Chuck wasn't underestimating her before, he knew just enough for that to be a dumb idea, but this just reaffirms it. He waits for her to stop, stance shifting, spear twirling in her hand.

Her skill is apparent, well-mastered, as anybody who's learned and used a weapon for much of their life can attest to. He doesn't bother twirling his own spear, simply adjusts his grip, shifting his stance, readying. Doesn't have to wait for very long, in the end. Chuck shifts out of the way quickly, redirects her spear with his, slicing at the outreach of her arm even as he's pulling back. He's built too solidly to rely simply on speed, too impatient to wait. It's like a dance, simply more vicious. There's a jab, towards her midsection, point twisted to slide between ribs if given the chance.

[ransoms]

As she expected, Chuck turns her advance away easily, but Ransom is prepared; she dodges right, shrinks back, feet crossing behind one another to avoid his jab. This is a dance she knows, and all too well. Fiercely, eyes flashing, she brings the point of her spear up under his, edging her elbow to the right in an attempt to push the blunt end into his side and knock him off-balance.

It feels good, better than she'd imagined, to do this and to do it against someone else who's faced down death and triumphed over it. It's different to spar with the trainers in One, who've never left the District, never been truly injured, never really had to kill anybody. But this feels natural. It has her adrenaline running and her endorphins surging even after only a moment.

a

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's been feeling under the weather lately. Chronically fatigued, his already lethargic movements have slowed down further, and his pale skin has taken on a yellowish, sallow cast. He has never been a vain man, but it's concerning, and not something he can continue to ignore for much longer. Maybe it actually means seeing a doctor at some point during this arena cycle.

Strangely (or maybe not), it doesn't even occur to him to temporarily change his habits to account for future possible developments. He's a lot like a child gorging himself on cookies before he gets caught, even knowing full well that he'll get caught, thinking that he might as well at least have what pleasure he can before it has to abruptly end.

Flask in hand, he's in the Tower Commons watching the Games, drinking until the pain in his side ebbs away. Even now and then, he drifts off to sleep and absolutely looks dead, but when he wakes up this time, he sees a familiar face and pulls himself up where he's slumped out of sight on his chosen couch.

"...Ransom? Is that you? I didn't know you were back."

[ransoms]

One of the more well-recognized symptoms that comes along with being a Victor--a fun accessory to the PTSD--is that sudden movement or sound can be a real bitch. Ransom likes to think of herself as pretty steady, all things considered, but even now, loud or unexpected sounds or sudden motion throws her off-guard. She swivels where she's paused in her tread, shoulders tensed and her hand reaching for a weapon that isn't there before she realizes exactly who it is that's popped up from that sofa to greet her.

Her eyebrows shoot upward toward her hairline, and Ransom's expression is clear: she hadn't expected Linden to look so...shit, honestly. He looks like death warmed over.

"Fuck," she says vaguely, "Linden. It's been awhile."

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's familiar with the special brand of skittishness unique to Victors, and he tries to respect it when he can. Even though he thought he'd moved carefully with sufficient rustling to announce his presence, though, he can see that he's startled Ransom and feels a twinge of guilt over it. Even Careers aren't immune to the horrors of an Arena, and he has to keep that in mind.

He also notices the way she looks at him. He's sick, and that's true, but by the day it's becoming clearer that it's completely obvious to everyone around him. Only one of those things is something he feels like he can deal with right now; the smile he wears is overbright and forced, trying too hard to look vital and vibrant in front of another Victor.

"So many classics are returning to the Capitol we could almost have a reunion," he jokes, trying to keep his tone light. "Have you met 1's Tributes yet? You have some real characters, this go-round."

[ransoms]

Ransom snorts. "Depressing reunion," she comments, moving closer now that her heart has stopped feeling like it's going to jump out of her throat. She studies his expression, leaning with her arms across the back of the sofa. It's a casual move, but it's forced. Ransom isn't really casual, as things go--her bearing is too erect, too military for her to ever look too relaxed. But she can certainly try.

"Haven't met any of them, no. I arrived a bit later than intended. But they have promise, certainly. Even though half of them aren't fucking human." She looks as bitter as she sounds. Nodding toward Linden, Ransom cocks an eyebrow. "What have you been getting up to?"

[dead_black_eyes]

"What? No, not completely depressing. You must like seeing some of these people again," Linden says, without necessarily hoping that he's one of them. And why would he? Most people are astonished that he's still alive when they come back in contact with him after an absence of more than a year. He doesn't lean away when she rests her elbows against the back of the sofa to better converse with him, rather holds her gaze with his glassy, dark one.

"You'll catch up," he offers as his vote of confidence. "And what is human, really, at the end of the day? They're all sentient and capable of thought and speech, and that's all you really need."

He blinks at the question.

"Just... Mentoring. Trying to stay sober. Failing... the usual. What about you?"

[ransoms]

Ransom shrugs, glancing away. "I don't like many people," she admits. She's a stubborn thing; like an old curmudgeon at thirty-three. "But it is good to be back. Better here than rotting away in one, wasting my talents on kids who don't need me anymore."

Whoops. Was that her venting? Maybe. Anyway. Moving on.

She lets her gaze slide back to Linden's, and his comment about trying and failing to stay sober has her snorting. "No offense, but I can tell. You look like shit." Another shrug. "But it's good to see you here. I'm..." Beating the shit out of Avoxes in the training center. Trying to remember what normal is around here. "Getting settled."