thecapitol | I came in the ring like a dog on a chain.

Who| Shaw (aka Lucien Corleoneu) and You?
What| Watching PNN
Where| Some "off-boulevard" bar
When| The night of the latest PNNcast, pre-Crowning
Notes/Warnings| Cursing, general Shaw-ness. Nothing to bad at the moment.

Shaw sat at the end of the bar alone, by design and preference. He didn't draw attention to himself, didn't encourage company, but neither did he deny it when it turned his way.

He was just another guy, out for a drink. Nothing special. Nothing to be remembered.

That was how he lived; that was how he liked it.

That was how he'd survived this long.

No thanks to Panem Nightly fucking News. The anthem blared from the flat-screen above the mirrored backdrop of the counter and Shaw knocked back the last dregs of his beer, drowning the fanfare in the swish of liquor against his cheeks.

He'd known - as soon as he'd seen those damn cameras - that he should have crossed the street away from them, but no he'd worried that would be too obvious. Served him fucking right, doubting his own better judgement....

He wagged his empty glass at the barkeep, gesturing for another as the hosts started in.

"Make it a double."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As a rule, Ford doesn't pay attention to the news. Especially not gossipy bints talking about who's fucking who whilst wearing what. But here, in a brand new place with no other source of information than the Official Guidelines that Swann gave him and he promptly tossed in a corner and forgot because they're all bullshit, he has to keep his wits about him some way or another. So he finds himself sat at a different bar, down the street from the one Shaw is sat in, staring at the television screen in utter bafflement at what passes for news here. It's a complete zoo; there's a leprechaun and the woman anchor is almost naked, and some foxy Russian woman who Ford doesn't trust from the start because he's CIA and he's paranoid enough to assume that any Russian could be KGB.

Much of it, he glosses over. He has no clue who this Black Tom bloke in, just that he came out of that pestilential mudpit victorious somehow. But suddenly they're cutting to some street interviews, and Ford freezes. At first he's convinced that he's blacked out somehow, but then he sees the name underneath his face, hears the man talking about him, Rick Ford, as a separate entity. Immediately, Rick's blood is boiling. He slams his fist down on the bartop hard enough to knock his tumblr of scotch over.

"I fucking knew it," he roars, startling several Capitolites with stupid-looking hair sitting nearby. Without pausing to pay for his drink, Ford launches himself off his stool and out into the night, cursing up a storm.

He doesn't have much of a plan; this city is huge, but the fucker has to be lurking somewhere, so Ford starts by looking in every pub he can find. The third one he goes into is the right one. Ford stumps into the darkened room, spies Deckard slumped at the end of the bar, and his expression turns livid. "Oi. YOU." He takes four long strides and is standing a foot away from his own face, and it's the most bizarre sensation ever, looking at a replica of himself. "Where are they hiding it, huh? Where the fuck is it?"

The voice arrived before the man did. Muddied curses, muffled but undeniable carrying through the walls. Patrons paused, glancing between themselves. A man near the window peeked surreptitiously around the the curtain -- and jerked back hard when the door slammed open and Rick Ford stomped in.

At the bar, Shaw exhaled a heavy-breath.

Out of the pan, into the shitstorm.

"Just what I fucking needed," he muttered into his glass, knowing, even before Ford started in again that it was headed his way. "Oi," he echoed, turning when Ford stopped. "Is that any way to talk to your long-lost twin? How's about an inside voice?"

Ford's face contorts into mild outrage. "Twin," he roars, not bothering to lower his voice, until he realizes that the whole bar is completely silent and staring. Readjusting his posture, Rick plants one heavy hand on the bar top, leaning in close to the other-him. The not-him. He goes on in a low, threatening growl.

"Twin my fuckin' balls, you're no brother of mine. I knew there was a fuckin' Face/Off machine, I just never expected you lot would have one, too. Where is it? So I can fuckin' drag you back there and you can give me my fuckin' face back."

This is not a drill. Rick Ford, grown man and CIA agent, is in complete belief that the Face/Off machine exists.

A muscle twitched near Shaw's mouth as Ford leaned in, but he didn't give any ground. Eyes narrowing - it just fucking weirder as they got closer - he said, "A what?"

Then his face twisted, snorting and scoffing as Ford went on.

"You really are a damn moron, aren't ya?" He raised a hand, finger circling around his face. "This is my face. I was born with it same as you."

Presumably. Close enough.

"Get over it, or get a surgeon. Just get out of my face before one of these twitchy bastards calls in the Peacekeepers."

I came in the ring like a dog on a chain.

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