we'll put it together (open)

[decommission]

Who| Steve Rogers (AU) and (OPEN)
What| Wandering around after his arrival
Where| Training Center (roof and d9 apartments)
When| Mid-late Tuesday
Warnings/Notes| None yet. Will edit if necessary!



THE ROOF

He needs air. After bolting out of the sub-levels and briefly heading into the streets above (almost as bad as the basement, everything outside is too quick and unfamiliar) he finds himself on the rooftop of the Training Center, standing near the railing. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, his gaze fixed on the city below. Just a few hours ago he was sitting in a small, humid apartment, barely listening to the music on a tinny radio of Peggy's and wondering how much longer he'd even be there. Now - the scene from earlier replays in his head over and over as his mind struggles to process and reconcile his current situation into reality - none of the information properly sinking in yet, none of the names or places or sights prickling any sense of familiarity.

Like everything about his past couple of weeks, it's a work in progress.

A hand runs through his hair and he sucks in a deep breath before abandoning the railing for the rest of the garden, eventually stopping in front of a marble statue carved in some amorphous shape. He reaches out, running his hand over the smooth surface. He might as well be sleep-walking right now, holding his hand there for so long, until his mouth starts twisting.

"I'm not killing for anyone."

The amorphous marble blob, understandably, doesn't respond. He has the sudden urge to laugh, feels it threaten to bubble in his throat - but there's nothing funny about any of this.

DISTRICT 9 APARTMENTS

When he finally takes the elevator back down to the apartments, it's out of hunger. There's a very obvious communal kitchen and dining space when he first enters, but first he runs a slow check of the rest of the floor for a concrete count on rooms and exits. Once he makes it back to the common area and the kitchen his demeanor is one of intense concentration - though on what would be anyone's guess. He doesn't actually take anything, seeming to prefer poking around at the cabinets instead.

Should any footsteps approach from behind, he won't turn around - instead his stomach gives a greeting for him in the form of a loud growl.

THE CAPITOL

For the rest of the day he can be found moving through the streets, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets. His pace isn't leisurely, he's not someone looking to be stopped. When he does stop, it's at a bar where he finds a seat at a stool shoved up against the wall, not ordering anything and slow to strike up conversation with the workers. There's something rigid about his posture when he actually does get to finding the person he's looking for and the talking part: some sort of abbreviated job interview for a barbacking position set up by the Escort that had accosted him in the Training Center.

For someone his size, that tense sort of demeanor comes off vaguely aggressive and when the conversation is over the bartender appears somewhat relieved to return to what he was doing. Steve lingers at the bar - you look like you could use this had been what the man said a bit nervously when their business was done, sliding over a glass full of some amber liquid. Steve had nodded his thanks, waiting to give a suspicious glance at it once the bartender's back was turned. He leaves the glass there, and if anyone sits next to him with an eye for it he'll eventually jerk his chin toward the drink without making eye contact.

"Haven't touched it." His tone is more neutral than friendly, but it's clear that he's offering the drink up for free.

Comments

THE CAPITOL /slams in

[travail]

Bucky's come down here to this bar for the same reason as him: a job. She could go try to find work at the hospital doing what she's trained to do, but she found herself less than keen on that idea. So much about this place is just wrong, the culture of it makes her uneasy about working where they heal their citizens. Citizens who find no problem with being entertained by people murdering each other, including children.

She walks in wearing a simple black skirt and white blouse lent to her by her stylist and looks around for whoever's in charge. She's looking to serve drinks in the very least, so Steve doesn't need to worry about his prospective job being swiped. At this time of the day, there aren't many people around at all, so she walks over to the bar and stands a couple feet away from him. With the way he's sitting, turned a bit away and with the hair and scruff, she doesn't know it's him just yet.

She looks over at his untouched drink, and when he speaks up, her heart stutters. But it's likely just a similar sounding voice... "Why not? 'Fraid the bartender's got a hankering for poisoning customers?"

[decommission]

He frowns at the drink, confusion flickering through his gaze. He'd noticed her when she entered the bar the same way he had automatically taken note of every other patron and worker - one of those habits he has that give him a bizarre, out of body experience the first time he finally realizes he's doing it.

There'd been nothing in particular about her appearance that caught his attention. But now that she's talking - there's a question forming on the tip of his tongue. He recognizes the accent, and suddenly the room feels a little smaller.

"Wouldn't offer it if that were the case." Spoken off-handedly as he glances at her face this time, both eyebrows raising as he studies her again, more carefully this time.

[travail]

At first, her expression was relaxed with an easy smile tugging a bit on one side of her mouth, but when he turns, it fades into a flatlined shock. Her eyes don't go wide, but she's looking at him like she's seen a ghost. Steve in her world was alive last she saw him, of course, but he looked very different. She remembers what Peggy told her about other realities, and she's heard of different points in time as well. God help her if this is her Steve only a few years down the line. It's not the beard or the hair, she doesn't mind that though he might get teased a little... it's something about the look in his eyes and the way he's sitting that concerns her. It's heavy-seeming, tired.

"... Steve?" She ventures, brow furrowing a bit and squinting slightly.

[decommission]

His eyes narrow, the confusion returning to his expression when she says his name like she recognizes him. Then it's gone, his gaze returning to his drink as a hand rises to run through bangs that are too long to be flattened to the side anymore.

"Wrong one." His voice turns gruff and artificially dismissive, there's something faintly apologetic underneath. His gaze shifts toward the exit.

District 9

[impaledqueen]

Peggy is not happy that she has to go down to District 9, but apparently, someone had been an obnoxiously loud drunk last night and she needs to tell them off on behalf of District 10. (Personally, her money's on the Iron Bull.)

She comes in to see a man rifling through the cabinets. It's someone she can't recognize from behind, which means they have to be new. She knows the names, districts, scores, and strategies of everyone who's been in arenas and is still in them.

While the accent is off, her voice is unmistakably identical to her counterpart when she says, "You wouldn't happen to know which one of you decided to serenade District 10 at three in the morning last night, would you?"

[decommission]

He doesn't have an answer to her question, instead his gut starts to twist up more than just hunger pangs and he's suddenly turning to face whoever it is talking to him without fully comprehending what it is that's so familiar -

His entire body goes stiff. He looks like she's just slapped him across, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he scans her face again and again. She's younger, the way that he first started remembering her - if he's still looking for a reason to convince himself that none of this is real, seeing her walk straight out of his memories like this might just do it. It's his chest that constricts this time and he grimaces.

"Peggy." Maybe there ought to be a question to his tone, but the inflection seems to have gotten lost somewhere at the end.

[impaledqueen]

Thoughts of telling off a random drunk man fly from her head. Instead, there's only one word on her mind.

"Shit."

A dead Steve, a dead Bucky, and now the introduction of two new versions. She doesn't have a doubt now. Someone is trying to bait her, or else send her a warning. Her stomach twists and it feels like her heart is in a vice, and he's looking at her and why can't they just leave her in peace--

"I..."

You have the wrong Peggy. I'm not the woman you think I am. She needs to say that, needs to get her composure, but she never spoke to the last Steve. She specifically avoided him because she knew this would happen if she was faced with one. Her Steve is dead, has been for years, but now a ghost is staring at her and she misses him so much and will these ghosts just go away and leave her alone--

Roof

[actually112]

The statue won't respond, but the kid who was meditating behind it will.

"You don't have to." A little boy (who looks like he might be Tibetan? Maybe?) with a shaved head and tattoos of arrows everywhere leans over to turn his head and look at Steve from his seat on the ground. Aang has to squint in the sun, because he knows his face, but no... Steve is supposed to be dead, and the Capitol wouldn't bring him back after all the trouble he caused, would they? "You can go through the arenas without actually killing anyone if you want. I do it all the time."

The man seems upset. Aang scoots to the side and pats the ground next to him. "Sit down. I have a tribble, and they're great for when you're upset."

[decommission]

In his haste to get to the railing he'd thought the roof was mostly empty, completely missing the boy meditating behind the statue. The voice startles him - both by its suddenness and the fact that the owner barely looks ten years old by his reckoning.

As the Aang squints at him, Steve squints at the seat on the ground being offered. He doesn't immediately accept, but he does start cautiously circling closer. "Never heard of a tribble."

Doesn't know if that's something specific to this place - and though it's everything else the boy just said that holds most of his interest, he's now grappling with the fact that these people mean to send him out to kill kids too.

[actually112]

Excuse you, he is a hundred and thirteen, thank you very much. Except yes, he still looks like a skinny ten-year-old.

Aang keeps eyeing the man, trying to figure out if it's Steve or someone who just happens to look a lot like him. The Steve Aang is familiar with knew about tribbles because Bucky kept one--the one Aang now looks after, in fact. Then again, the Steve Aang is familiar with also was going through a mental breakdown during his final arena because of things the Capitol did to him, and those things could include mind wiping. Or maybe Aang's just making it too complicated and it's someone else. Or... maybe it's both and it's another version of Steve.

Honestly, the Capitol makes things way too confusing.

"Tribbles are little animals that don't eat but like to cuddle and purr a lot." Aang digs into the pouch in front of his hoodie before taking out a purring mass of fur. "This is Toro. He belonged to a friend of mine. Toro's really good at calming people down."

Roof

[letthemburn]

The statue doesn't answer. The dragon who's come up the steps of the roof just in time to hear Steve's question does, and without a flicker of concern that she might not be anything that Steve will be inclined to react well to.

"I suppose there is nothing making any of us fight, in the Arenas. But it is easier, when everyone else is."

Admittedly, her opinions of the Capitol and the system of fighting have rather been souring of late, but she is not - yet - willing to give up the idea of fighting, regardless of the fact that she might be doing it at the whims of a group of people that she isn't particularly fond of just at the moment.

sorry about this

[decommission]

His gaze breaks from the statue to turn toward whoever is approaching and -

Holy hell...

He can only gawk at first - he's seen some strange things so far, but a talking lizard takes the cake. The actual topic of discussion is suddenly lost.

"You're a -" His face screws up, as though he doesn't believe the word about to come out of his mouth.

In fact, the word dragon doesn't come out - he just sort of keeps staring at her in complete confusion.

[letthemburn]

It's not the first time that Iskierka has left people more than a little stunned. Not that she tries, most of the time, but even knowing that there are worlds without dragons she still prefers to simply talk to people, rather than stop to worry about what they might think of her. It makes things easier, and her being a dragon is perfectly normal to her.

"Whyever should I have been anything else?"

She is as she has been since she hatched, albeit at a somewhat reduced size to what she would have been anywhere else.

The roof

[allyorfoe]

"You'd be surprised."

The woman that replies to Steve slips from her own place wandering the rooftop to step within his sight. Her long ears, the not-quite-human structure of her face, the eyes hint at something not human, but in a city where people regularly dye their skin purple and get neon glowing tattoos, she's hardly the strangest thing here. Her face is curious as she approaches him, eyes flicking over his face with a recognition that he should probably get used to, though she's far more neutral than the others he's likely to meet.

"Lots of people say that, but these people are real good at thinking up some pretty convincing incentives for it." To survive, to protect your loved ones. To end suffering. She's done a lot of killing at this point, before and after the Capitol drug her here. Quite frankly, she's already started killing people just because she wanted to win (and the money helps). It gets easier. "But it's possible, I suppose. I know people who've gone through arenas and never killed anyone."

She pauses, hands on her hips, and gives him a scrutinizing gaze.

"Speaking of killing, haven't you died like. Ten times. Like--Permanently dead, super dead, the dead that they don't xerox your sorry ass back from. At least they brought you back with your muscles this time. Last time you looked like a strong wind would blow you over."

[decommission]

Luckily he adapts well, those not-quite-human features get a quick, curious glance that doesn't linger - until she continues on to that last part.

"Think you've got me mixed up with someone else, ma'am." His expression shifts from curious to cautious, a deep frown settling in. As far as Steve knows he's only 'died' once, the rest of what she's saying might as well be gibberish. Xerox certainly is. He doesn't approach her, keeping a good amount of distance between them while he waits for her to either start making sense or dismiss any further conversation.

[allyorfoe]

"Maybe." She allows, giving him a squint. She hadn't exactly been buddy buddy with the good Captain, but the face was certainly more than passing resemblance. But wouldn't he know what she was talking about? Unless they messed with his memory...Although why they would do that was beyond her. Seemed like doing that would just make him make the same decisions he had before.

(Don't ask her what a xerox is, she just picked up the term from the more tech savvy people. An elf, or a parrot? The world may never know.)

"You certainly look like Steve, though. I think he was the only tribute with a ranking that wasn't a commander, we've got three Commanders and he was sitting there with Captain. But don't take my word for it, it's not like we invited each other to our nameday--birthday parties." She shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck. "Anyway, I only know him because I try to have at least a passing knowledge of the people I'm thrown into a bloody death match with." There's a pause, then her hand is held out to him.

"It's a good policy for you to start on. Luckily, you get to start with the most attractive tribute in the tower. You can work your way down the totem pole from there." She grinned at him, without an ounce of shame to be found. "Warden-Commander Revas Tabris, at your service."

The Roof

[seestheman]

Even after a year and change in Panem, Clara still isn't overly fond of heights. That doesn't change the fact that the roof is one of the quietest spots in the Training Center, and she can distract herself from just how high up it is with a trashy romance novel (on the tablet she uses for work, of course, so no one has to know that she's reading Panem's take on a bodice ripper). She's pulled out of her book by his voice, which is a little startling to say the very least. She knew that the Capitol had brought another Steve Rogers in as a Tribute, it was part of her job as a Mentor to keep tabs on which Tributes were brought in (and, more specifically, how her girls rank against them). But still, there's a difference between knowing that there was a different version of Steve here than the one that she had met in the past and having proof of him in front (or behind, in this situation) of her.

"You don't have to kill if you don't want to," she says, shutting down the book and climbing to her feet from where she was sitting behind the statue. "But I can't promise that they'd be happy with you if you refused."

[decommission]

His eyes follow her as she gets to her feet, flickering from the book in her hand to her face. He shoves his hands into his pockets and his voice is a bit gruff when he speaks.

"They is pretty damn vague." The Capitol, whoever stands at the top of it. Someone named Snow, if he heard right.

[seestheman]

"That's because there are a few 'theys.'" There really isn't a way to sugarcoat it. "There's the Gamemakers, the politicians, and then there are the people of the Capitol. And they all love a dramatic bloodbath." She offers up a little shrug. "You can play the game without killing anyone and win, but you'll get a lot of flack for it."

She would know.

"I'm Clara, by the way. I'm one of the Mentors for District 10."

D9

[biiowiired]

People often moved between floors to visit friends, especially since there was no curfew currently in effect. As he entered the common area, Psii didn't pay much attention to the stranger in the kitchen until he heard a growl.

His head turned, the hairs on his neck rose, and the bases of his horns tingled apprehensively. He instinctively growled back with an extra chittering from his throat before he knew what he was doing.

"Are... are you growling at me?" he asked sharply. There was no one else in the room. No way was he looking for a fight; in fact, fights mostly came to him whether he liked it or not. All the lanky cords in his body tensed. He stubbornly kept his hands in the pockets of his yellow pants, as if keeping them there would guarantee civilized conversation.

[decommission]

At the growl from behind Steve straightens and turns, eyes widening then narrowing at the source of the sound. He peers at the strange boy, gaze hovering at the top of his head, but only for a brief moment.

Good thing he ran into the dragon first.

"I'm not. Sorry." He's not going to acknowledge that the sound came from his stomach.

"This your floor?"

[biiowiired]

Psii was used to strange looks from humans, and he brazenly stared back at his stupid-looking face hairs. He gave a short laugh that was half a scoff.

"Technically, nothing here ith mine, not even my life." Bitterness crept into his tone. A Tribute only existed to entertain Capitolites. "But yeth, I do live here. What'th it to you?"

The man looked so much like the human Steve Rogers, but he acted and carried himself differently. Psii was smart enough to know he wasn't going to act exactly like the golden boy who sacrificed himself during a secret weapon disarmament mission, and whose peace speech prompted the Gamemakers to explode a bunch of Tributes before they even got to run for the Cornucopia.

[cognitived]

It can be overwhelming, the first few glimpses of capitol life. Clint had been shoved directly into an arena his first day here, but that doesn't mean waking up in the city itself isn't startling. Even now, more than half a year later, he's still surprised by it.

But it's easy to ignore, spy training and a steadily dwindling support group at his back to keep them safe and secure. There's only Aang now, though, and that aches. But whatever, he can deal with it, can forge forward. He's visibly mourning in the Capitol's eyes, and that's partly a play, though he is missing Sam. Today though, he's out with his girl, talking calmly and training carefully, grateful there aren't any distractions up in the roof. Right up until Stev storms in, and Clint goes instinctively on guard. Kate, an adolescent hawk -- purple, because Sam thought he was funny -- perched pon his arm, follows suit, head cocked, staring Steve down with precision.

He knows Tributes, this one must be new. But there's something, about his form, even if the way he carries himself isn't right. Clint shifts, silently.

"You don't have to." Nit a lie, but not an entire truth. "But not everyone does the same."

[decommission]

The newcomer gets a quick glance of assessment - the bird gets a longer one, though less on the assessment and more on the squinting side. He's not sure whether to take the words as a threat or not, and stands a bit straighter.

"Wouldn't expect them to." People are going to do what they have to in order to survive whatever this is (and if he has some hope that some of them aren't completely numbed by their time here, he's not about to voice it right now). His voice is low, not threatening but his eyes start to narrow when they settle back on Clint's face. After his walk from downstairs, he's sort of getting tired of vague explanations and warnings.

[cognitived]

He's had an eye on Steve from the very beginning, of course. Cautiously, some niggling notion tugging at him. But its not until he turns, not until he speaks, that Clint places it. Not the tone, but the shape of his words, the sound of his voice. Not his form, but beneath the scruff and wary distrust -- which admittedly Clint had spent weeks learning in the last Arena -- is a man he followed into battle, a man he trusts.

A man who was in 13, last he heard.

So Clint's eyes widen just a tad, before sharpening, features still, gaze as intent as his hawk's as he picks Steve apart. His jaw tenses, but Clint doesn't move closer, unsure now. Carefully, carefully. Chose your steps wisely, Barton.

"Cap?"