Gary Epps (age 18) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
a_minute_younger) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-06-29 11:18 am
a_minute_younger) wrote in thecapitol2015-06-29 11:18 am
Entry tags:
Storm in the coffee shop
Who| Gary Epps and YOU
What| Gary usually adjusts well to being back in the Capitol after Arenas. This time, not so much.
Where| Training Center gym, random Capitol coffee shop
When| Soon-ish after the medieval ball, multiple nights for the first prompt
Warnings/Notes| Discussions of severe physical/mental trauma, standard death games fare
[A - Training Center Gym, night]
Gary hasn't been getting out much.
Well, relatively speaking--there are still necessary tasks to accomplish. Going to school is non-negotiable, as are the various Tribute-related festivities for those lucky enough to participate in them, but everything else, Gary has been slowly managing to cut out of his schedule. His evening wanderings around the Capitol were the first to go, shortly followed by his trips for breakfast and dinner at random restaurants he happened to find. Even his recording sessions have fallen by the wayside; it was easy to convince his sponsor to let him take a couple weeks' rest following the alarming bout of illness at the ball, and he simply hasn't gotten around to mentioning when he'll start touring again.
It's freeing, in a way. It's not that Gary particularly enjoys limiting his activities so much; things are just moving too fast for him. Too fast, too crowded, too bright and loud...he never felt like this at home and he can't quite pinpoint what's brought it on now. Whatever it is, he doesn't like it. But on the bright side, it leaves him with an awful lot of energy to burn in the idle hours of the day, and consequently, even more to work with after everyone else has gone to bed and would appreciate not having him blast music in the District Eleven main living area. So he falls back on something familiar.
The Training Center is a dim, empty place after midnight, so long as he avoids the lobby. Gary finds that he prefers it that way when he enters the primary training area and warms up a treadmill. Just him and the rhythmic thumping of his feet on the mat, the music playing in his headphones, and the blood pumping through his temples. It's enough to keep him from thinking about much else. This is the goal.
But given how empty it is, the few people that do happen to visit immediately break his trance-like state and catch his attention. Gary feels a set of eyes trained on him and his head lurches up, blinking in alarm, before he catches the gaze of whoever is around and instinctively offers a small wave.
[B - Random Capitol Coffee Shop, afternoon]
Eventually, Gary finds a reason to go out on his own. He's been thinking (never a good thing) about that field trip he went on a few weeks ago, to the Performing Arts Complex, and the discussions he had with some of the singers there. Sure, he essentially has the same job as an entertainer already, but it's not a job job, not in the sense that he's paid for it. All profits go to his sponsors, they give him publicity and support in the Arenas. And that's fine, for Arenas. But what if he started working here, instead? What if he just cut out the sponsors and the Arenas and the mounting stress of it altogether? What a strange, oddly satisfying thing to consider.
He decides that he would like to discuss this more. This involves going to the very heart of the Capitol; and, in classic Epps fashion, Gary does not plan ahead for the trip. He's already at the second bus stop downtown when black clouds roll in overhead and a rumble of thunder chills him to the bone.
...That's a new feeling he doesn't like at all. It's only a summer storm, Gary tells himself, he's dealt with these all the time. He's enjoyed them. But ever since the last Arena, even just sitting inside his suite, the sound of thunder has stopped being such a distant thing. It's a threat. Weeks of suppressed injury and infection and agony followed him the last time he didn't heed it. And although he's been able to laugh off the lightning bolts painted on his person and basked in the publicity of his success at the Cornucopia, Gary can't help but wince every time the cameras flash nearby.
Caught outside, when the lightning itself flashes and a more urgent crack follows it, Gary finds himself reacting much more strongly. Panic wells in his throat so fast that he doesn't even consider missing his bus--instead he turns heel from the stop and hurries into the nearest shop lining the street.
It's a small coffee shop, about as quaint as the Capitol would allow it to be. It's modeled more as a '50s diner, a seat-yourself-and-order kind of establishment, though Gary hardly notices this. He doesn't wave to the baristas that cheerfully greet him behind the coffee bar and instead shuffles his way to a far, empty corner booth. The building's thin design means he can't escape the windows. But that's fine, because he's inside and there's nothing to be afraid of.
The waitress is prompt in taking his order for a light, early breakfast, but it doesn't matter, because he never gets around to eating it. Instead the rain starts and the lightning hits and the thunder makes the floor shake, the fear rapidly builds to the point where it's unbearable, he feels ill just thinking about it, how there's nowhere to hide. He tries, though. Gary stares over his knees tucked close to his chest, glaring at his plate of cold crepes with a look that is distinctly hunted, and when the next strike hits, he whimpers and sinks further into the booth's cushions. But maybe the downpour will drive in someone who can offer him better company than his thoughts.
What| Gary usually adjusts well to being back in the Capitol after Arenas. This time, not so much.
Where| Training Center gym, random Capitol coffee shop
When| Soon-ish after the medieval ball, multiple nights for the first prompt
Warnings/Notes| Discussions of severe physical/mental trauma, standard death games fare
[A - Training Center Gym, night]
Gary hasn't been getting out much.
Well, relatively speaking--there are still necessary tasks to accomplish. Going to school is non-negotiable, as are the various Tribute-related festivities for those lucky enough to participate in them, but everything else, Gary has been slowly managing to cut out of his schedule. His evening wanderings around the Capitol were the first to go, shortly followed by his trips for breakfast and dinner at random restaurants he happened to find. Even his recording sessions have fallen by the wayside; it was easy to convince his sponsor to let him take a couple weeks' rest following the alarming bout of illness at the ball, and he simply hasn't gotten around to mentioning when he'll start touring again.
It's freeing, in a way. It's not that Gary particularly enjoys limiting his activities so much; things are just moving too fast for him. Too fast, too crowded, too bright and loud...he never felt like this at home and he can't quite pinpoint what's brought it on now. Whatever it is, he doesn't like it. But on the bright side, it leaves him with an awful lot of energy to burn in the idle hours of the day, and consequently, even more to work with after everyone else has gone to bed and would appreciate not having him blast music in the District Eleven main living area. So he falls back on something familiar.
The Training Center is a dim, empty place after midnight, so long as he avoids the lobby. Gary finds that he prefers it that way when he enters the primary training area and warms up a treadmill. Just him and the rhythmic thumping of his feet on the mat, the music playing in his headphones, and the blood pumping through his temples. It's enough to keep him from thinking about much else. This is the goal.
But given how empty it is, the few people that do happen to visit immediately break his trance-like state and catch his attention. Gary feels a set of eyes trained on him and his head lurches up, blinking in alarm, before he catches the gaze of whoever is around and instinctively offers a small wave.
[B - Random Capitol Coffee Shop, afternoon]
Eventually, Gary finds a reason to go out on his own. He's been thinking (never a good thing) about that field trip he went on a few weeks ago, to the Performing Arts Complex, and the discussions he had with some of the singers there. Sure, he essentially has the same job as an entertainer already, but it's not a job job, not in the sense that he's paid for it. All profits go to his sponsors, they give him publicity and support in the Arenas. And that's fine, for Arenas. But what if he started working here, instead? What if he just cut out the sponsors and the Arenas and the mounting stress of it altogether? What a strange, oddly satisfying thing to consider.
He decides that he would like to discuss this more. This involves going to the very heart of the Capitol; and, in classic Epps fashion, Gary does not plan ahead for the trip. He's already at the second bus stop downtown when black clouds roll in overhead and a rumble of thunder chills him to the bone.
...That's a new feeling he doesn't like at all. It's only a summer storm, Gary tells himself, he's dealt with these all the time. He's enjoyed them. But ever since the last Arena, even just sitting inside his suite, the sound of thunder has stopped being such a distant thing. It's a threat. Weeks of suppressed injury and infection and agony followed him the last time he didn't heed it. And although he's been able to laugh off the lightning bolts painted on his person and basked in the publicity of his success at the Cornucopia, Gary can't help but wince every time the cameras flash nearby.
Caught outside, when the lightning itself flashes and a more urgent crack follows it, Gary finds himself reacting much more strongly. Panic wells in his throat so fast that he doesn't even consider missing his bus--instead he turns heel from the stop and hurries into the nearest shop lining the street.
It's a small coffee shop, about as quaint as the Capitol would allow it to be. It's modeled more as a '50s diner, a seat-yourself-and-order kind of establishment, though Gary hardly notices this. He doesn't wave to the baristas that cheerfully greet him behind the coffee bar and instead shuffles his way to a far, empty corner booth. The building's thin design means he can't escape the windows. But that's fine, because he's inside and there's nothing to be afraid of.
The waitress is prompt in taking his order for a light, early breakfast, but it doesn't matter, because he never gets around to eating it. Instead the rain starts and the lightning hits and the thunder makes the floor shake, the fear rapidly builds to the point where it's unbearable, he feels ill just thinking about it, how there's nowhere to hide. He tries, though. Gary stares over his knees tucked close to his chest, glaring at his plate of cold crepes with a look that is distinctly hunted, and when the next strike hits, he whimpers and sinks further into the booth's cushions. But maybe the downpour will drive in someone who can offer him better company than his thoughts.
no subject
"You're a tribute, you're here to kill other Tributes, but from the way you act, you never got the memo. But bravo for being a mediocre popstar and not know what the hell public relations are," politeness went out the window. "It's your public image, and if you hurt Felicity, all those threats? Will fall short on what me and Torin will do to you."