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
The voice is soft and kind, coming from the next booth over.
Zed had been trying to collect herself when Gary had come in, burying herself in her sketchbook and sipping at some absurdly indulgent espresso concoction involving much too much sugar and cinnamon. The arena was bad - death was worse - and honestly, she just wanted to make sense of everything, as difficult as it seemed at the time.
It's getting easier with time. But not for everyone, it seems. So now she's turned backwards where she's sitting, kneeling on her bench and knitting her eyebrows together in concern. She's new, very new - but her expression is open, big eyes fixed and attentive. Her sketchbook sits open on the table that's now behind her...whatever she was working on half-finished and twisted.
"...I guess a better question would be if I can help."
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It doesn't quite work. "Me?" Gary says. His voice awkwardly pitches up an octave from his anxiety, which he tries to force down again with a hard swallow and and thin, strained smile. "Yeah! Uh--I'm fine! Fine."
He's not even looking out the window when the next flash and crack of thunder hits outside, but he still winces and squeezes his eyes shut in response to it. Gary stays like this, tense and holding his breath, for some long seconds after the aftershocks subside.
B
But hey! It was nothing that she couldn't handle! Felicity Yoshida prides herself on being prepared for anything. That's why she still lugs around a too-large messenger bag, entirely unstylish no matter how many cute buttons and Tribute tsum-tsums she hangs off the side. The collapsible umbrella tucked off to the side is just the thing to save the day. Mostly. Sort of. It's a little flimsy once popped open, and even though she tries to move quickly, her shoes and socks are getting soaked. And her uniform skirt, too. And her arms, and... and okay wow, it is raining way too hard. Hard enough that the right choice is to head inside somewhere and wait for it all to pass. The first somewhere that she finds? That quaint pseudo-50s diner.
She lingers a few moments in the doorway, folding her umbrella back up and squealing at how unpleasantly squishy her socks are, but there are others that want to come and go and so she hurries on out of their way. "Sorry, sorry..." And then she is looking around to figure out where in the heck she has found herself. A coffee shop...? She can smell coffee, at least. A coffee might be nice. And maybe a pastry. She has enough allowance money left for that, she's sure... she wanders further on in, staring up at the menu items and specials posted above the counter. Which brings her close enough to Gary that the next time there's a thunderclap loud enough to provoke noise from him, she notices. Not so much that it's him, no... just that someone over in that booth in the corner is pretty upset. It's when she turns to look and maybe offer some sympathy that it all clicks.
"....oh!" She almost shouts his name, but she catches herself. He must be here trying to avoid fans, or the press, or... or something. So she's got a sneaky sort of shuffle to her as she comes up to his table, trailing water along the way. "Aah, aah, hi?" Does he remember her? He'd have to remember her, right? She's his biggest fan, right from the start.
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"...I'm fine too. Want to be fine with company?"
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He noticeably hesitates in answering, and instead waits until she's basically standing at his booth. "...Hi," Gary mumbles into his knees. Shit, need to say something smooth so she knows he's not crazy. Uh. "You look wet." Yes, perfect.
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Okay, no, this isn't going to work if she just stands there. "Can I... uh, can I sit?" Although she doesn't wait for permission before she slides into the booth across from Gary. Standing around like a great big soggy dork isn't going to help keep things low key and careful. "...you... uh, you having a hard day?"
...oh no that was an even stupider thing to say...
A for the great justice and awkward.
There's another person in the area it would seem as Cora wiped away the sweat off his brow. The young man seems to be pleasant enough. Wait, he seems familiar somehow. Leo's eyes thin for a split second, as if his brain collected data and processed it. Light colored hair, tanned skin, speedy thing...where have I seen you before?
And synthpop music played in his head. Oh... He knows exactly who this Tribute is: Gary Epps, how could anyone not given his blossoming "music" career? The look on Leo's face, scheming and almost predatory is the only warning he gets before a special sort of hell is unleashed.
"Evening."
no subject
All of that notwithstanding, the idea of company itself is strong and sounds pleasant enough to crack him pretty quickly. "...Hey, if you're offering..." Gary's mouth twitches into a weak smile and a hesitant nod, which he emphasizes with a quick, offhand gesture at the booth seats opposite to him, inviting her to sit, before he curls back up into his knees.
yes perfect what a good
Such is the case with Leo, the unmistakably grumpy District 2 coach who is stabbing the hell out of some poor training dummies across the room. Somehow Gary isn't surprised. He's frightened, a little bit, but not surprised, and not frightened enough to feel particularly unnerved about getting his attention. He's probably too engrossed in his furious ass-kicking to really pay any attention to the boy on the treadmill all the way over there, right? For a bit, Gary resumes staring at the mileage counter and decides that his theory is correct.
Then it suddenly isn't. Again Gary snaps to attention with a small noise of surprise and promptly yanks out one of his headphones. He still isn't frightened--the greeting is too friendly, kind of unnervingly hungry expression notwithstanding, and as a rule generally unhappy people do not deter Gary from being aggressively friendly back at them. He flashes a wide grin.
"Evening!" He's still running, steady as ever. "What can I do for ya, champ?"
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"You must be Gary Epps," he began curtly, "I've heard many things about you. It's a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh."
After that dummy's total annihilation, the choice of words were foreboding for what would happen. "I am Leonidas Cora, coach for the District Two team. I work alongside the Mentor Torin Byrd, and I've been keeping an eye on the competition." First red flag? He works with Torin.
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"I...guess you could say that." There's a low base rumble outside, one that shakes the floor and makes his untouched plate of crepes skitter across the table and forces Gary's eyes shut while he rides it out. He wants to say something to qualify it, maybe laugh it off, but his breath hitches oddly in his throat and keeps him quiet. Awkward silence prevails.
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"Hey, yeah! I've heard about you!" He laughs lightly and shakes his head. "Man, those District Two guys...they say a lot about you. Like, a whole lot."
This is, of course, a load of shit. Gary barely knows anyone in District Two and doesn't hang around them much anyways. But it'll be worth it to see the look on Leo's face, he thinks.
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Her eyes get all wide and she gasps, and then she's looking around to see who else is looking. She managed to get uncle Torin back together again by getting him away from what was bothering him, but that was just a television screen. Thunder's everywhere. So maybe... so maybe... "...aaah, one sec!" And then she is digging around in her big, unfashionable bag for something that might be able to fix it.
She produces a palm-sized music player with a pair of sparkly pink earbud headphones wrapped around it, and drops it on the table, next to his plate of untouched crepes.
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She leans on her elbows on the table, leather jacket squeaking a little bit on the tabletop.
"...Been here long? I mean...not here, just...in this...world?"
The words still feel weird coming out of her mouth, even if she knows it's the truth.
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There is a temptation to stop the treadmill on the spot but that would be unsportsmanlike. Slightly. Cora allowed Gary to continue his exercise. "She was my Cadet back in District 2, I regard her with a lot of respect...I can't help worry."
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Several seconds later, he hears the music player clatter onto the table. Gary chances looking up to investigate. The player itself is innocuous, so he looks up further at Felicity. She seems earnest enough. Not like she's completely missed what the issue is and is just giving him a gift or something. Carefully, Gary reaches out and takes the earbuds in his shaking hands.
There's another flash of lightning, far away but still bright enough to light up the windows. Gary locks up again and his hand clamps into a fist around the headphones, tight enough that his knuckles go white. They're probably flexible enough that this won't break them or anything, but christ, this is really unpleasant! Sorry Felicity, you'll need to be patient with him.
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Or maybe not. A vaguely flirtatious response naturally comes to mind, he opens his mouth to say it, when another bolt of lightning strikes close and cracks overhead, like it might just split the roof open with hardly any mind paid to the office and apartment floors above. Gary's voice comes out as a squeak as he crumples into his knees. Oh god, he feels so sick. This is the worst. Everything is awful, so on and so forth. He's going to need a minute.
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He's not entirely sure what the best approach to this should be, so Gary takes the route that comes naturally to him. "....What about?" he says, quirking an eyebrow. "I look out for her! Tell her not to stay out too late, keep her out of fangirl brawls, make sure she packs her lunch..."
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Leo delights in throwing shade onto his prey and even more so when he sees Gary's expressions. "Is this a problem? I thought you were a professional."
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The fact that it's also more than a little shaky on legal grounds doesn't escape him, but as is usually the case, Gary is willing to shuffle that aside.
"What problem?" He gives an exaggerated shrug and rolls his eyes. The nervous undercurrent of chuckling isn't something that he notices until after the fact. "Look, she's a fan. Do you know how many fangirls I have? If I sat every one of them down and told them that I can't be their poster boyfriend, I'd never do another concert. Some things you just can't stop!"
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"Aaah!" She's startled because he's startled, because more jumping and fear isn't at all what she wants to see from him. She grimaces, and then makes a point not to grimace. Nothing's wrong. Nothing has to be wrong, anyway. "...lots of music on there. So... so find something you like and listen, okay?" Just in case he doesn't fully get the idea. She wants to reach in and take them from him and put them in his ears, but would that even go over well? Better not, just in case.
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Belatedly, Gary realizes that most of the music on here is probably going to be his own. He doesn't mind that so much. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"...Thanks." That seems like a far more appropriate thing to say right now than anything else in his head. But there's still so much out of place, so much that hasn't been decided...Gary has a hard time deciding which is the most important or least threatening, so he picks the most obvious one first. He awkwardly gestures at the plate of food between them.
"Crepes?"
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"Oh yeah?" With his mind made up, Gary's expression settles into a confident smirk. "Like what?"
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That 'thanks' gets a genuinely happy smile out of Felicity. Things still aren't perfect, but she's helping, and that's good. "...huh?" It takes her a moment to realize that he's talking about the food that he'd ordered and didn't touch, and she looks down at it. "Oh! Oh, uh.... no, it's okay. It's okay." They looked cold and... and okay, she liked him but the idea of eating food that someone else had probably been poking around in was a little gross. The concept of the 'indirect kiss' seemed suddenly entirely unappealing, at this particular moment in time.
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There's another lightning strike. The storm is passing over and the rain has subsided significantly, but even the more distant rumbles of thunder set Gary on-edge. He winces and holds his breath for a few seconds through the recovery. But there is no good recovery. Instead he just sits there, eyes cracked open to stare despondently at the blank bit of table in front of him while the crepes lay abandoned in the middle.
"...Sorry," Gary mumbles, glancing up from over his knees. "This is like--I know it's--fuck. I dunno. I'm sorry."
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"These dissuation techniques include broken bones, ruined reputation, and sponsors losing faith in you. Being banned from performing in venues...there's more."
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"It's okay. It's okay! It's allowed. It's okay. It's.... it's like that." And she's smiling again, though it's something softer and more careful than usual. "...it happens. When you get put in an arena. All the time." Her Uncle Torin wasn't the only person she knew with trauma and triggers. District 2 is a career district, and those winning career Tributes were in her family's social circle. It wasn't polite to talk about how you should never sneak up on so and so, or that such and such couldn't eat raw fruit anymore, but you picked these things up. And you worked around them.
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"Look, look," he says, baring his teeth in a meek grimace, "we don't have to get all threatening and shit about this, alright? I listened to that Cyrus guy's speech. He said staff." Gary pauses, letting that sink in for a moment. "...Right? Felicity's not staff. She's not gonna get in trouble for this. She can't. That wouldn't be fair."
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Cora then added, "Because Felicity is not staff, she does not enjoy these measures and the safety that comes along with it. She's not an employee so she has nothing to fall back onto except her uncle's reputation. And believe me, you don't want to be in either Torin Byrd's or the Yoshida family's warpath."
Torin may be the Victor in the family but hell hath no fury like Candy and her Peacekeeper husband if their child's in danger.
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It is. Maybe not the best time to attempt to emulate suave romantic overtures. But also Felicity's hand is needed for other reasons, for grounding and assurance and a general sense of human contact and security that Gary genuinely yearns for right now. This was a good move, awkward as it was.
He hardly waits for Felicity to finish talking before he cuts in. "--I-It shouldn't be," Gary says, more than a little desperately. "Not for me. I wasn't supposed to be like that. I don't know what's wrong."
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"--Whoa whoa whoa, hold on," Gary cuts in with a flustered shake of his head. "What does public relations have to do with this? Like--safety? What do you think I'm gonna do with her, take her to Lover's Lane and stuff her in the trunk of my car? You're making it sound like I'm a serial killer or something."
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"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."