steve rogers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
decommission) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-08-25 03:42 pm
decommission) wrote in thecapitol2015-08-25 03:42 pm
we'll put it together (open)
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.
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.
no subject
"I brought whiskey. Do you drink whiskey? If not, I have wine and vodka in my room."
She has been spending too much time with the other Victors. Alcohol sounds like an excellent way to deal with her problems right now. She walks to the table, staying across from him so they don't have to touch (even though a part of her wants to touch him) and leans down to see what part of the binder he's looking at. He doesn't seem to have gotten very far yet, but she can't blame him. "Do you have any questions so far?
no subject
"Whiskey's fine, thank you." The truth is, he's almost sure that he hasn't had a drink since 1945. He doubts that date holds any relevance to this world, so he doesn't mention that or the fact that hard liquor doesn't do much to settle his nerves (doesn't do much of anything for him). He can fake it, he remembers doing that much.
As she maneuvers around to the other side of the table he lets his gaze fall on the binder again, shaking his head. "Already familiar with fascism."
Except this system has the ability to pull people from different universes. He looks at her straight in the eye this time, doing his best to separate her face from the one in his memories. "I'm not a big fan."
She'd offered to show him the ropes, how to navigate the viper's nest. But she should know the sort of person she's dealing with (he tries not to consider that she already might). He's not playing any games, capitalized or otherwise. He's not dancing to the Capitol's tune.
He also doesn't have any actual plan.
no subject
Nope.
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the term." Fascism, Bolshevism, she knows nothing about it. She doesn't need to know anything to hear his tone and tell that it's bad. "Mr. Rogers--" and isn't that strange, calling him that, "--you're not the first one to be unhappy with your circumstances, and you won't be the last."
She needs alcohol for this. She puts out two glasses and pours them both a generous helping before putting the whiskey bottle on the table. "I know that you probably have no intention of playing along. Maybe you'll mouth off while you're on camera or attack a peacekeeper. There are consequences for this." Her Bucky. Her Steve. The last Steve Rogers. Her stomach churns and she averts eye contact before taking a hefty drink.
"They will hurt or kill the people around you. Your Escorts, Mentors, friends. If they decide that you've overstepped your bounds too much, they will cut out your tongue and brainwash you until free will is a distant notion. If they want to, they can take you away and make you so deathly afraid of the people you love that you will immediately try to kill them when you're brought back. Capitol politics are not a game and you will hurt a lot of people if you disregard them."
Play to his desire to help people. He might not have one, but... let's face it, he's a Steve Rogers, so he probably does. She really doesn't want to see this one die if she doesn't have to. "You don't even have to perform well in the games if you really don't want to. You just need to be smart." And by smart, she means 'Oh please please for once in your goddamn life listen to Peggy and don't bull rush your way into an early grave.'
no subject
It also pisses him off.
His hand closes around the glass but he doesn't bring it to his lips. There's something else - the threat of brainwashing again has his anger cooled down as ice runs through his veins. He swallows, glad that she's not looking at him. She's from here - he wonders how many people she's seen go down that route that she considered a friend. Some part of him wants to ask how she got involved in all of this, another part doesn't feel like he's got any right to.
"I can manage smart." Sort of. His tone is almost self-deprecating, something that would've been said in good humor once. He keeps his eyes off her and finally takes a drink, his hand shaking a bit.
no subject
But he doesn't start running off to do something stupid or say something ill advised. That's different. Instead, he makes a concession. There even seems to be perhaps a lilt of self-deprecation there, maybe a hint of humor? Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. Either way, thank all things good. "That's all you need."
Something in her chest loosens just a little in relief. "As long as no one thinks you're a threat, you'll be safe. Don't buck authority, don't say anything off-color in public, don't make trouble. No matter where you are, there are cameras and microphones everywhere to pick up what you're saying, so don't bother trying to sneak around it."
She doesn't expect him to take it lying down, but she really hopes he will. She's not sure how many more people she can lose. She takes another drink at the thought. "How much do you know about the Hunger Games?"
no subject
He can lay low.
(he can try, at least)
At her question his gaze shifts down to the open binder and he shakes his head. "Not much at all."
Just the part where everyone brought into this facility is meant to murder each other. His eyes settle on her again, and for a split second it finally occurs to him that she might be one of those people and his heart stutters in his chest. But she'd said that she works here, doesn't even live in the same building.
no subject
The alcohol does a little to soothe her nerves. It's always easier to talk about the Hunger Games when she's been drinking. That's why she tries to stay away from it unless she's with company.
"The Capitol considers this an honorable sacrifice you make on behalf of the Districts. The Games weren't always like this. Tributes used to be drawn by lottery, one girl and one boy from each District from ages twelve to seventeen, and they would be brought to the Capitol to fight in the arenas. When they died, there was no coming back. The Games came into being seventy-seven years ago after the Districts rose unsuccessfully against the Capitol, and we continue to play them to remind the Districts of the consequences of war."
The explanation rolls off her tongue easily. She has lived with the reality of the Hunger Games her whole life, and she has fought in and mentored people for them for many years now. They are a part of life.
"Mentors are people who won the Games. We're here to advise the people in our Districts." She doesn't look directly at him, but she's paying attention to his reaction. She doesn't know how the fact that she played and won the classic Hunger Games will affect him, if it will at all.
no subject
They both have a lot that they don't want to talk about.
"And when we die now?" The woman he spoke to earlier had it sounding like the Capitol just brought them back over and over again.
He hadn't wanted to believe her.
no subject
She's not sure if she's giving him good news or bad news. The suffering never ends, but at least the death he doles out isn't permanent?
"Some people don't come back. I'm not sure what the selection process is. My working theory is that they don't bring back people they decide are too much trouble to have around or aren't entertaining enough."
She's not sure if she's relieved or disturbed by the lack of questions or reaction towards the revelation of what she did to get here. Does he understand what it means, that twenty-three other children had to die for her to be here right now?
no subject
As for the revivals - he didn't plan on killing anyone himself. As for his own potential demise - he's trying not to think of that either. He's trying not to think of a lot of things, and it's making him visibly go inward until he reaches for the bottle again to pour himself another drink.
no subject
Another drink sounds good. She pours herself one too. That would make her third drink in all, but it takes a while before she really starts to feel these things. "It's a lot to take in, but if you have any questions, just ask me."
no subject
"This is already more than enough - thank you." You don't owe me anything. He runs a hand through his hair like an anxious tic, then pours himself another drink.
"Someone called Snow's the man in charge around here?" Someone had mentioned his name earlier.
no subject
"President Snow, yes. He's the President of Panem and has been for a very long time now. You won't see him except on television or making announcements at grand events, most likely. I think I only ever saw him in person at my Crowning and that of Bu--someone I mentored." Bucky. Bucky's Crowning, mere days before everything went to hell. She's going to nurse that whiskey now.
no subject
He catches the near slip up and frowns at her, then at his drink. "You must've mentored a lot of folks." There's something about his tone that makes it sound like he's more wary of whatever it is that she's hiding this time, but he's still dodging around a direct question. Part of him is still afraid of whatever it is that she's not saying.
no subject
She keeps her face impassive, but she's staring into her drink. After a while, she grew numb to the death of children. She wonders if it's made her a monster. "I had one Victor, but he didn't become a Mentor."
If he really wants to know the story, he can ask. If he doesn't, she's not going to get into it.
going to respond to this one for a bit before going back to the training log FOR REASONS
There's a long pause, his tongue heavy in his mouth. "Who was he?"
There goes dodging the answers.
Sounds good!
"Bucky Barnes."
She remembers the night before his games when he crawled into bed with her and they huddled together like the scared children they were. She remembers watching a man she knew to be so gentle turn around and murder nearly everyone in his path. She remembers afterwards when he was so lost.
"He volunteered for the Games, actually. Panem's Steve Rogers had been reaped and he was far too sickly to survive, so Bucky took his place. I'm afraid it didn't matter, really. Steve died before either of us came back to District 10 after the Crowning." He was taken away. He was taken because Bucky had said the wrong things to the wrong people. She doesn't want to openly discuss that, though.
She finally looks at Steve in the eye and tries to smile. It's all wrong, though. She's talking about one of the most painful times of her life, and she can't completely hide that. "Bucky took his own life soon afterwards, so he never became a Mentor."
She had thought Bucky was dead for years before he revealed he wasn't. Even though he's alive, his death has left lasting scars on her.
no subject
"I'm sorry, Peggy." The apology is beyond inadequate, then her name slips out without any of the formality he'd been trying to put between them - there's not much he can do. Not much of anything he can do for her right now but sit here and remind her of a dead person.
no subject
But it's nice to hear him call her by her name. The trouble is that he sounds exactly like Steve (except less breathy, since this Steve can properly fill his lungs). She shouldn't cling to his familiarity because she's clinging to a dead man, not to him, and that's not fair to anyone.
“It was eight years go. I’ve had time to move on.” That’s not to say that she actually has. She’s not sure if she even can move on before she’s been able to see Bucky again and properly honor Steve’s death by creating a better world. She finally looks back at Steve, fingering her empty glass and considering another drink. "I'm sorry to tell you all this when you only just got here. You already have enough to think about."
no subject
Despite his reluctance, he now thinks that it's better to know up front than to wonder. Talking about this hurts her more than it hurts him. He's not naturally a tactile person - even in his previous life it was more often Peggy and Bucky reaching out to him for physical contact than the other way around, but in this moment he almost feels the urge to reach over and cover her hand with his own, remembering a time when another version of her did the same for him. His fingers curl, but his hand remains against the table (even if he were able to, it's not right).
"I shouldn't take up the rest of your evening." The barrier's back up and his eyes settle on the drink she's considering. Maybe they both have a lot to think about. He can come back another time to look over the rest of her binder.
no subject
"Take the time you need to adjust," she says as she stands up from the table. "I'm going to go to my apartment. If you want to speak to me or ask any questions, I'll be back here in the morning."