thecapitol | (no subject)

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Who| Roland and Sigma
What| chatting
Where| tribute center bar
When| maybe late week five of the arena, early week six? ish?
Warnings/Notes| none, will add if anything comes up

He's spent a good part of his life sitting in this same spot of many different bars. Near a wall, not next to the door but not too far from it, either. Easy line of sight from him to the exit. Easy line of sight from the exit to him, too. As he's finding out.

"And then that wolf just-" The girl moves her hand through the air and curls it into a fist, as if catching something. "Right on you! I had my bet on the castle roof and lost like, twenty assi. That asshole Bachman was so smug when he got it right. I mean, we all knew you'd fall off something. Do you think the gamemakers do it on purpose, you dying like that?"

With the full glass in front of him, Roland can not leave on the excuse of having to meet someone. He spends a moment peering over the girl's shoulder anyway, hoping that exit he has such a good view of will give him a sight of something useful. It's an indulgent moment, he knows that, but he does it anyway. After it's done he does, of course, mean to answer the girl promptly. He knows how important people like this are. In spite of the questions.

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Speak of the devil and the devil will come.

With the Arena reaching its conclusion, Sigma had several new ghosts to bear and very few options for coping. Knowing those who would take pity on a Gamemaker are in short supply, he's resigned himself to a glass of whisky at night, a sentence of solitary confinement in his home or at the bar. As the novelty of his new position has officially worn off for most, he's settled easily back into his former introverted personality.

As Sigma crosses into the room, his Peacekeepers park themselves near the door, joining a different, less specialized set. His path is already decided: Sigma embarks on a journey of straight lines, intending to sit directly in front of the bartender... until his eyes fall on Roland near the wall. An expression of familiarity and pleasant surprise passes over his face - he searches for eye contact long enough to send the message that he is interested in company (his company, specifically. He yet remembered the alliance Roland had offered him in Arenas long past, in spite of their recent rocky history). His intentions received, Sigma alters his path to take a seat several paces away from Roland, his back turned to him. Roland was under no obligation to respond if he chose not to.

Well. That's more luck than he expected, although it doesn't feel lucky. Roland remembers the look on Signless' face too well in the days after Initiate was avoxed. He remembers the Signless' crowning, when Sigma had given him the impression that, when it came to those he loved, he was unwilling to make sacrifices. He remembers talking of the Initiate in he and Sigma's last arena together, and the look on the Sigma's face.

Roland remembers, too, that this man is a gamemaker now. He would not seek out a relationship with one on his own, but since there is some connection already there Roland would be a fool not to follow it through. Not when that connection could one day keep him or someone else safe.

It might not, of course. But it could.

"You know," he says to the girl, "I think I may ask one. Working around to it may take a while - takes a little subtlety, you understand." That and a little more and the girl's nodding, grinning, and then bouncing off out of the little bar and across the room beyond. Roland watches her a moment, making sure she's gone, then he picks up his drink and moves to stand at the table next to Klim. "Mind if I sit?" he asks, for politeness' sake. "The girl had a fairly important question, and I told her I would ask."

"Please do," Sigma answers almost too quickly, straightening up to make room at their table. By now an avox (-distinctly human-) has deposited his whisky before him without command. The Gamemaker's drinking habits are consistent, becoming steadily more frequent as more Tributes lose their lives.

Roland hadn't seemed too thrilled when Sigma had found him, but at their age, few expressions could not be mistaken for a scowl. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything important," he remarks, hoping to sound friendly. Hoping to sound as though nothing had changed. He has a feeling that Roland might ask him about the Arena... a situation he had been coached to avoid. But in this friendless age he will give an old ally the benefit of the doubt, and so Sigma maintains eye contact, listening carefully. "What was this 'important question' of hers?"

Roland shrugs, the corners of his lips turning upward a little as he pulls a chair out for himself and sits. "She's noticed a pattern in the ways I tend to exit your arenas." He uses that particular phrasing without thinking, even though he knows well enough that this arena is the man's first. At least, his first in Panem, if even a little of what Klim had told Roland about himself was true. (And there's little reason to think that it wasn't. The best way to lie, after all, ever has been with truth.)

But first or not, when Klim had joined the gamemaker's ranks he'd gained more than the power of the position. Everything that's theirs is Klim's now, too. "To be honest I suspect it isn't you, and I'd rather not know either way."

"Telling her I'd ask you, though," he continues, after a sip of his beer, "got her away from asking me. I know Panem's fans are important, but sometimes a man only wants a drink in peace." With that he nods toward Klim's glass, having paid not even a glance to the avox who'd served it. "Speaking of, I hope I haven't interrupted anything. Another minute or so to make sure she's gone and it should be safe enough for me to leave."

Roland knows very well that asking after arena information could be very bad for him here. He is, as it happens, not the least bit interested, and if he were he wouldn't ask, certainly not so soon after getting back in touch with the man. Roland may not always be interested in subtlety, but he is not stupid.

Sigma does not wish to scare Roland away, but he cannot hide his disappointment when Roland mentions the Arena. And yet, what right did he have to be disappointed in him? He was the one putting Roland and his loved ones in the line of fire. God, he hates himself, hates how unprepared he was to be universally reviled. "I understand," he eventually answers. "I suppose it is a fair observation... She would be disappointed to learn that there are few I am permitted to speak with regarding the Arena." Clearly, Roland had not made the list.

And yet he's quick to rebuff the impression that Roland is bothering him. "Do not feel as though you must leave my table," he almost pleads. "I so rarely have a guest and it is nice to stay in contact with old friends." He has used that word liberally, he realizes.

Before Roland can find an excuse to reject him, he continues: "If it is the attention you object to, why don't you come with me to my home? We can drink there with some semblance of peace." They both know a newly-minted Gamemaker would be under the constant watch of the Capitol, but it was better than here. At least in his own quarters Sigma could pour his own booze and everyone's dignity would be left in tact.

Roland raises his eyebrows. Normally he'd treat an invitation like that very warily, but in this case it is exactly what he wanted. More than a gamemaker normally does for a lowly tribute, he knows that. Certainly more than he'd expected so soon. "I'd like that. Wish I'd gotten some cards now - that's what people do in this place, isn't it, even outside the tribute tower?" Is it obvious that Roland has not acclimated to Panem? He hasn't. Nevermind. "Have you eaten?"

Sigma manages to smile in relief. He does not consider Roland's want of a deck of cards as a misunderstanding of Capitol culture, but rather as the wisdom of a man who knew the importance of keeping one's mind occupied. Damn! For all of the games Sigma played, cards was not one of them. He makes a mental note to invest in a deck so he might surprise Roland the next time they shared their company.

"Well, perhaps we can play next time? And... I have not eaten yet, no." Sigma answers bashfully. It's almost embarrassing to admit that he, a nearly seventy year old man, would walk into a bar with an empty stomach and an intention to get too drunk to stand - or, at least, too drunk to wake up in the middle of the night. "Did you have anything in mind?"

The fact that Sigma, a man with plenty of means for both drink and food, is drinking on an empty stomach, goes unremarked on. His tone when he says it, too - for all Roland reacts, he may well not have noticed it. In truth Roland doesn't know enough to assume too much one way or the other. But he notices. "Nothing in particular. But we won't be able to find something on the way, not unless we get it here. Getting through the city can be tricky for me - doubly so for you, I imagine."

Sigma drums his fingers on the table, trying to decide how to solve this conundrum. It was true that neither of them could saunter into a restaurant in the Capitol together without meeting trouble. There was an alternative, but it was quite a cozy one, and he found it impossible to gauge how Roland would feel.

"I live in something of an isolated community," he answers tentatively. "The security is necessary. I could arrange for delivery to meet us at the gate. That should solve the problem, but the question remains regarding what you would like to eat... if you truly have no preference, I suppose it will be a surprise." With his lack of tact it almost sounded as though they were planning for a date, and Sigma wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wants to add that there was no reason to worry about the food being poisoned, as he had an Avox assigned to taste it as it was made... but he feels that will not reassure Roland in the way he hoped.

Dating is not a concept that exists in quite the same way in Roland's mind as it does in Panem, and so he does not think on it. Where most of his mind is working is in acting casual, friendly. "In this city, I've found it's best to have a few preferences as possible. The surprises you get that way are a little more palatable."

He takes a drink from his glass, then raises his eyebrows at Klim's. "Would you be off, then? Or shall we finish our drinks?"

Sigma smiles gently, amused by Roland's observation. It seemed the choice was left to him, then. "Go ahead and finish your drink," Sigma answers, abandoning his. Alcohol served by slaves would scald his throat. "I have some calls to make, but I shall not be long, lest your new friend whisk you away. Please excuse me as I make some arrangements..." With a near imperceptible bow, Sigma leaves their table and makes his way over to his Peacekeeper to relay his change in plans, and his rash decision to trust Roland with his life.

--

Far from the Tribute Tower by design, the luxury penthouse Sigma called home is astoundingly sterile. The entrance even resembles an airlock: a two-door system joined by a hallway, the first of which unlocked with a metal key that security had a copy of, the second requiring a passcode only Sigma knew. Boxes of food are waiting, still piping hot, at the foot of the second door. As a Gamemaker his paranoia is, perhaps, warranted, but he'll ask even Roland to wait outside as he collects their meal and inputs the code (a password requiring all digits on a keypad save for "zero").

"Alright, Mr. Deschain. You can come in." He wonders if he can at least permit himself to call an old ally by his first name in 'private', but he decides to wait for Roland to make that call.

Sigma's home is composed primarily of colourless, empty space and hidden cameras. The main room is freakishly clean, not because Sigma was a tidy man but because the furniture has never been sat on, the curtains have never been opened, the tables have never been used. His bedroom door - which has been left open, as he never had the company to require privacy - frames the only signs of life. Doubling as a study, it is a mess, books spilling over beside tables or rearranged sloppily on the shelves that were supposed to organize them. A homemade cat tower has been crammed in the space between his desk and bookshelf, and on it sleeps the only other inhabitant of his grand, expensive home: his cat, Nye.

Nervous, Sigma's composure is stiff, unable to turn his back to Roland as he adjusted to having a guest. He wished he could assure him that it was nothing personal. "Well... make yourself comfortable. Sit wherever you like." Even at home he'd been a lonely man unused to entertaining.

What the place reminds him of first is the arena in which they'd met one another. Parts of it, anyway, the parts which had been clean and colorless and empty. While he thinks on that Roland is aware of that tense feeling which sometimes passes between people when one enters another's house for the first time, can imagine Klim watching him take everything in. Roland can not really stop himself looking, but he lets his eye linger on nothing - not even on that one room which may well be the most interesting place in the house, though he hasn't seen the whole of it - and heads instead directly toward a table. They were planning on eating, after all, and even after over half his life spent mostly outdoors and having dinners in front of a campfire, Roland might never be a couch-eater.

His path takes him past Klim, has Roland turning his back to him to get there, and according to Roland's own posture, almost as relaxed as Klim's is stiff, he does not worry about doing so for a second.

"Thank you for having me, s- sir." Not ideal, that stammer, but better than not catching himself at all, than really trying to say sai for the millionth time and embarrassing himself when it feels like he needs to do anything but. "Did you ever use my given name? I don't recall. Maybe in that last arena together. After the birds." He tries to get neither the food nor the man any closer to him. Roland would rather watch him instead, see how long it takes that stress in Klim's posture to start to fade.

Edited 2015-08-25 00:56 (UTC)

Roland has placed perfectly the reason why Sigma was unnerved by his new home - it reminded him too much of his last one. He had already spent most of his life in an Arena and was now doomed to spend the rest of it in an imitation. Or, perhaps, in a cell awaiting execution. That much remained to be seen.

Sigma nods to say you're welcome, the etiquette of the situation eluding him, having not entertained in fifty years (if you could even call a college frat party 'entertaining'). Forcing himself to tear his eyes away from Roland, he begins to lay out their food: expensive Italian cuisine served family-style, too much for two people. He realizes too late it is an embarrassment of riches.

"Forgive me. There are rules in place regarding Tributes and those in power, as you know..." He doesn't speak until he's approached the table again, lowering plates of expensive china onto glass. "...But I believe I can allow myself to be informal in my own home... Roland."

He diverts his gaze as though he is ashamed to act so familiar. After all, it was not too long ago that the other man made a veiled threat against his life. And yet... "I am glad that you are here." As differently as he wishes things could have gone between them, he is forever grateful for a second chance. "How is your health?"

"Well, thank you," Roland says, apparently not noticing how much food it is that Klim is laying out. He does notice it, but he is not at all surprised. When it comes to the differences between those with power and those without, some things stay the same no matter which world you're in. He's thinking instead on Sigma's attitude, and thinking on how it'd been at Signless' crowning when they'd talked. The man seems eager for company and he'd seemed the same then, seemed in some unspoken way almost desperate for it. Either it's an act Klim has kept up for a very long time, or it's simply part of his personality. Roland notes it, cautiously.

"Though I've heard that wasn't always the case here." Roland does not move to help Sigma set up the food. The rules of being a guest in someone else's home can be broken when things are informal enough, but regardless of what Sigma's just said their arrangement here does not feel so informal as all that. "When I felt that malady in the arena I assumed it was a purposeful trick, but I've learned otherwise. Lucky thing it didn't last. And your own? Settling in to a new home can be hard on a body, or so I've heard. Even without all this other business to worry on."

At last Sigma has finished setting the table and takes his seat in front of Roland, waiting to answer his question before he eats, though he gives his guest a nod to communicate that he need not do the same. "I have been... decent, I suppose." There was a certain kvetching circle in place here - there was not much point in complaining about his luxurious household to a Tribute who had just come from an Arena. But Roland is right to think him desperate for company; there were some things he wanted to open up about to someone, anyone.

"I have discovered that even Gamemaking is something of a young man's sport, here. The hours are very demanding. I will be seventy years old in two weeks time," he remarks, "and yet I could not consider retiring from such an illustrious position so soon. I suppose none of us will live forever." It was a crude thing to say in front of a Tribute who may die by his hand, but as it stood, Sigma was speaking to Roland as a friend. He was growing very tired. "The truth is that I was hospitalized during the malady. I was away from my panel that day, and failed to catch up on the health of my Tributes, so forgive me for my ignorance. It was not a plot of my design - I know almost nothing about what transpired on that day, though I have my theories." His heart was in rather poor condition, it turned out, and the sudden illness did him no favours - but this was a secret to everyone, now, except Roland. There were vultures that waited to eat an ailing Gamemaker alive.

Although maybe it's still a secret from Roland too, for the most part. At least until Sigma tells him a little more. Instinctively, Roland avoids asking about those theories he'd mentioned - too obvious to focus on that when he's invited here to give some friendly company, not to hound after every little potentially useful thing the man hints at.

He doesn't eat yet, either, regardless of the nod he's been given to do so. More of those guest-host rituals embedded in Roland, as well as the product of long habit. Waiting to eat after the men who've hosted him has saved Roland's life more than once, and whether he thinks consciously on doing it or not, when he hasn't seen the meal prepared himself he rarely does otherwise. "You hardly seem seventy - at least not by the standards of my world. But mine, for all its glories, might not have known too much about keeping men alive. Maybe not so much as yours, or this one. I hope you weren't in hospital for anything serious? Nothing the machines of this place can't solve?"

Through his thick introversion Sigma is not certain how to react to that. Was it still a compliment, between men? "Thank you," he answers tentatively. "I was expected to be a decent competitor in our Games in my old age, so I suppose it says less about my world than you thought." He smiles wryly. There were certain things he was not supposed to say that he will speak here. "As for my condition, it wasn't serious. I lost consciousness and my coworkers assumed the worst. Unfortunately, it was rather inconvenient for me. I missed a crucial event for a health exam. Such foolishness..." He knows he was given special treatment. He knows that offworlders everywhere were ignored while Sigma was given a free overnight stay in the best hospital in Panem, and that makes it all the more disgraceful. Still, the incident scared the shit out of him - here, Sigma was not immortal. Here, he was terrified to die.

The fact that he was allowing their food to grow cold whining about his life embarrassed him. He'd like to stop talking. Specifically, he'd like for Roland to talk, but is unsure of how to ask him. He twirls his fork gracefully around the center of his pasta, wondering how he can get through to his friend. How he can inspire the sort of honesty between them that they once felt in the Games. "Roland..." His fork freezes on the way to his mouth as he wonders how to word himself. "You say that seventy is quite old for your world's standard. I know so little about your world other than the glimpse you allowed me, a lifetime ago. But I would like to. We had so little. It comforts me to know that there were people better off than mine - Panem included." It's not a lie. He takes a small bite of his food anxiously, wondering how Roland will receive that.

"Better off," Roland murmurs, thoughtful, his eyes darting up to watch Klim start to eat and then down again to think about his words. There'd never been anything like the 'games' Klim's world shares with this one - at least as far as his tutor, who'd known more than anyone about their lost and ancient history, had ever told Roland - and in that respect his own world certainly was better off. But he can't say that here. Wouldn't risk saying it even in one of those zones where the Capitol's eyes supposedly can't reach. The games are a fine and honorable tradition, of course.

"Your world must have been poor indeed," he says, and takes a slow bite of the food in front of him. A great deal of the things eaten in this city are new to him and so he chews carefully, almost as if he's studying the process. "Mine was dying, when I left it."

Had it been? That last period in his life is still safest unexplored, wherever he'd gone and whatever that place had done to his mind, and the- the spells that come on Roland when he makes the mistake of thinking on it too closely are the last things he wants to experience now, especially in front of someone he does not at all trust. Whether or not his was a dying world ties in to that somehow, there's some nagging connection there, but Roland gives his head a quick, sharp shake, makes an effort to lighten his frown. Best keep things simple, and guide his thoughts here down a very careful path. Think of the world as it was before all that.

"Had been for quite a while. Places weren't where they used to be, time moved less and less steadily. Seventy was a rarer age in my day, but after those sorts of numbers didn't always mean much." He shrugs. "This may not sound clear to someone who hasn't lived in it. Suffice it to say the forces which tied my world together were falling apart, and we knew that long before the civilizing forces holding my world in the light crumbled, too. I'd go on, but I don't think that's what you wanted to hear. It's what I have."

"I know very little about your world too, you know. I know your world had its version of the Games, and that those who played in them might become their masters, as I think you did." As you did here, he doesn't say, because there's dangerous ground, there. "I know a little about your own life, but not so much. Was your life as a gamemaker there very different from your life as one here?"

That question is purposely a vague one. If it's vague enough to give Klim room to avoid the topics he wants to, it doesn't look so much like Roland is digging. He isn't digging, really, because forming a relationship with this man is the purpose of this visit, rather than gaining any particular information. But if he can learn about the gamemakers a little, well, Roland isn't going to pass that chance up.

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Timeskip, let me know if I need to change anything!

that works, thanks!

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