thecapitol | they keep calling out

Entry tags:

they keep calling out

Who| Sam Wilson and YOU
What| adjusting to the detainment center after being shot down by the Capitol
Where| the detainment center
When| after the power chip liberation mission
Warnings/Notes| talk of death, torture, violence; will update as needed

It could be worse.

Sam doesn’t exactly want to think on the specifics of how it could be worse right now, but he keeps reminding himself of that anyway. He’s still alive, and as long as he’s still going, he’s got hope.

He keeps reminding himself of that even when it becomes obvious that Jet isn’t with him. That Sam didn’t just save Jet’s life only for both of them to get shot down and captured by the Capitol - he saved it only for them to get shot down and separated, and Jet’s being held somewhere else. Somewhere terrible, if the threats they make and the tapes they show him are true - Sam isn’t convinced they are, but there’s always a chance.

And Sam knows - he knows - that it’s not because of him, that he’s not important enough for this, that wherever they’ve got Jet it’s for reasons beyond him and they’re only using it to get to him, he knows their bullshit enough to know that it wouldn’t matter whether he was here or not and that doing what they say isn’t going to win Jet his freedom.

But the part of him that’d do anything to keep his brother safe is a little easier to convince.

When they let him out, to mingle with the other Tributes turned Capitol soldiers, he tries not to let it replay in his mind. Instead he focuses on trying to find a couple of familiar faces, ones he hasn’t seen in too long - at least not without being in the middle of a battlefield.

He’s not exactly too careful about who he might be bumping into as he hunts.

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Shepard isn't looking.

Well, she never, is, is she? Finds trouble anyways. Case in point, one Sam Wilson. Somebody stares at you long enough, you get an itch, and the longer it takes you to look, the worse it gets. Worse, when you're well-used to responding to that itch by ducking for cover.

Shepard turned her head, looking for the source of the-- ah. Here's trouble.

What Shepard knows is that everyone here is walking the razor-thin line between good enough, and no amount of effort mattering. It's clear to her that all of the offworlders, every tribute that every fought, is only so much grist for the mill. That's going to prove fatal, for somebody, she's sure. It could always be worse. It could always, always be worse.

So she stares Sam Wilson down from across the room, from where she's sitting enjoying her protein for the day, with salt thank you very much. Come, talk with her, a while: the floor's as good a seat as any.

Éowyn is pacing. She does a lot of that, lately. Pacing, and fidgeting, unable to stay still more than a few moments at a time. The longer she's in here, locked away from the sunlight, the more desperate she becomes.

When she paces right into Sam, her reaction is threefold. Her first instinct is irritation; her second, apology; her third, recognition. "I know you," she says, in a tone of some surprise - any new faces seem horrifically rare here, what with how the days drag. "You were with Samwise, when first I saw him in this world."

Sam'd been wondering, ever since he found out that Terezi was alive, if Shepard had met the same non-fate. And it's not like he hasn't faced someone he's killed before after they've been brought back - but that's different. That was the arena, most of them killed and died with the knowledge that there was a high chance they'd come back.

When he'd shot Shepard, he'd really believed that was it. And as far as he knows, so had she. He doesn't believe Shepard will hold it against him, and he doesn't regret it, but it's still different.

He hopes they hadn't found out that she hadn't tried to stop him from killing her, that she'd all but asked him to do it. That the Capitol doesn't know just how close she'd worked with the rebellion.

Maybe he shouldn't associate with her, if she's still playing the long game, but he finds himself heading over anyway.

"Shepard."

She understands the grim line of Sam's mouth as well as any eloquent speech; he didn't want to be here, didn't like a bit of it, and sure as shit didn't want to be having this conversation. And yet, here he was.

"Sam," Her expression is cool, even and professional. Her voice is... hard, and smooth like stone, without even a token handhold to grip, "Nice of you to join us."

It wasn't nice of him to join us. Nothing about this was nice, least of all Shepard herself. Her eyes burned, dry and hot, but she refused to blink.

"I assume you've been given the usual welcome party. Sorry about that, the Capitol's not as forgiving as they used to be."

Sam can't begrudge anyone some pacing, especially not in here. Chances are, he'll be using it himself soon, and it's not like he was really watching where he was going, either - far too intent on looking for those he knows have been hosted by the Capitol for far too long.

His brows furrow at her as he watches the play of emotions across her face, wondering a little at the recognition, but then smooth out when he mentions the hobbit's name. His lips quirk in a tiny smile, remembering Samwise with affection.

"Yeah. He was a friend, we used to cook together sometimes." He takes a closer look at her, and she does look familiar, though he can't place her name. "I'm a Sam, too. Sam Wilson. You're from Samwise's world?"

He's only guessing, but he assumes that the fact that she had to add 'in this world' onto that means that she'd seen Samwise before.

She nods, dips a tiny little curtsey. "Éowyn of Rohan. I knew him little, but... well enough." Well enough to miss him now, and to wish a world of hurt on the people who let him perish so far from home. "I cannot say we are well met, not in such a place. Yet it is good to see that some of his friends yet live."

When he comes to the DC, it is primarily to seek out new candidates for the Capitol's anti-war commercials. He brings his dear little Callie and a friendly smile (as he sees it). He dresses down, by Capitol terms, though still fairly frivolous by others, this time with silvery makeup, glitter cheeks, and leggings to match, only a cozy sweater to tone it all down.

But unlike those times before, his smile is absent this time. He has just one person in mind, now that he knows they're here, and that person will never be put on Capitol cameras the way his job does for people. He's not all sure why he comes beyond his casual masochism. The only thing he'll get out of this is maybe anger and pain.

Nevertheless, here he is, and he's there waiting for Sam on the other side of a guest table. Callie the snake, all rainbow iridescence, curls round and round his wrist as he pets her smooth scales with a finger.

There's not a lot that he's happy about right now, being here. But he's not unhappy that she's alive. It complicates things, maybe, and it means he's not too sure where they stand right now, but he's glad she's not dead.

He can't ask her any of the things that he wants to, though, not with all the guards and Peacekeepers around, so he lets her do the talking. She's... not quite aggressive, but she's the opposite of friendly. Distant, cut off, even if there's still the sarcasm that Sam remembers.

Sam can't quite be sure if she really is holding a grudge or she's just treating him like an Capitol ally would treat a captured rebel, but he's going to go with the second one.

"I've noticed. Talk about a fall from grace."

He can't help but smile a little wider at that curtsey, and returns the gesture with a small bow before he can think better of it.

"I probably did that all wrong, but it's the thought that counts, yeah?" He keeps the small smile on his face, even when she brings up the place they're both stuck in - because he doesn't really want to dwell on it right now, and it's easier to just pass over it. "Same to you. He definitely made an impression."

When they tell him that he has a visitor, Sam's surprised, and immediately a little suspicious. Everyone he's friends with is either in this place with him, safely in District 13, or dead.

The only thing he can think is that it's someone who wants information on the rebellion - or maybe an interviewer, looking for the kind of thing he used to do so much of back when he was still a Tribute. Maybe that sweet girl who used to write the romance column for Celebrus, he always could count on her to put something about him in there to distract everyone from what he was really up to.

He goes, of course, because he doesn't figure he has much of a choice, and then his eyes widen in even more surprise when he sees who's waiting for him. For a moment, Sam's wary - but then he pulls in a breath and lets it out, shrugging one shoulder as he sits down. It's not like he has much to lose here, he might as well just go with it. "Didn't expect you to come see me here."

Makara's make up looks almost like stars, and Sam misses his Kurloz sharply for a moment. "I never did apologize to you for getting up in your face when you first became a stylist. That wasn't fair of me, man, I'm sorry for that."

"Oh yeah, but I like it better. You know me; always trying to cut out the bullshit."

Bullshit here personified in a white uniform and a faceless helmet. Shepard doesn't approve-- only reason a helmet needs that have that kind of range of vision is if it's got an internal display. She's seen it, and they don't. Strategically void pieces of...

"I'm not much for grace to begin with. Scuttlebutt is, you were caught running recon for the ah, the rebels," She paused a minute, as if to emphasize the lilt of sarcasm at that term, but really she was thinking back, trying to remember the exact phrasing, "That's nice of them to put you out there. I hate to see good soldiers wasted."

Sam didn't expect him and he's not particularly surprised by that. He watches with a cold stare, his anger muted but not quite suppressed the way ought to be. He's prepared for that however. If he's going to be here it's because he's got things to say.

(He knows this ill-advised. He knows his talking never did anyone anything good and especially not himself. He should keep his motherfucking mouth shut as like he stitched it for. But he guesses something in him has the thought he ain't being punished enough.)

He's just starting to build it all up, to work what things he wants to slam the fuck down. Then Sam ruins it.

It shows on his face, a twitch and flashing of emotions; shocked, indignant, overwhelmed, uncertain. He ends up settling on a sort of blank confusion, one what keeps him still a moment before he frowns down at the table. He didn't have a plan when coming here but this is already not going according to it.

He pulls his paper pad out and his pen. THY HAD BEEN THE ONLY TO GIVE SECOND CONSIDERATION ON ACQUIRING THIS OCCUPATION FORMERLY MOTHER FUCKIN MINE. YOU SIT BEFORE ME NOW A REBEL. YOU SOUGHT TO WEAVE DECEPTION OVER MINE OCULAR. YOU PREDICT I MAY BE MISLED TWOFOLD THEN. ~~I HAD THOUGHT~~ He scratches that last line out. It doesn't matter.

She smiles. It's actually something of a surprise to her, to smile. Since she was brought here, it's been even more of a rarity to her, to forget the crushing weight of her captivity even for a split second. It doesn't last more than a moment, but a smile is a smile.

"He did," she agrees. "I have met few more gentle-hearted, or more steadfastly courageous."

It could be worse; it has been worse.

Clint's lived -- in a sense -- through amputations and being eaten alive, he's lost his best friends, had another executed on live TV, and he's spent months constantly under watch with nary a trusted friend in sight. The only thing that could make it worse, really, is having someone's fingers in his brain again.

And the Capitol's already toyed with that idea.

But for now, yeah, it could be worse. Though that doesn't mean he feels like he's been shot again when he rounds a corner and spots Sam's familiar form. There's a moment where Clint pauses, heart juddering behind his ribs. And then he's stalking forward, long legs carrying him before he really comprehends it, gaze not moving from Sam. Nothing else matters, even if he wishes like hell it wasn't happening.

"Sam," he calls, something in his voice like a wish -- please, no -- as the distance between them shrinks.

Terezi has been in the Detainment Center long enough that she basically has free rein of it again. It was slow going at first, but she's been cooperative enough, and that's really all they can ask of her.

She doesn't expect any new faces to be cropping up. There haven't been any skirmishes lately--unless they decided not to invite her to one. There was trouble with the Peacekeepers, though, and she knows from Initiate's messages that it reached further than just the city. But if anyone new died, she doesn't smell them here.

Not until she suddenly comes across Sam one day and stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes go wide and round, dismay clear on her face. "Sam?" It's the first word that makes it out of her mouth, and a few more tumble after it with the silence broken. "What are you doing here? What happened?"

Despite everything, Sam can't help but chuckle when she says that.

"Something like that." He shrugs one shoulder, like it's no big deal. Like there isn't a pit of dread in the bottom of his stomach at being stuck here. At knowing there's no damn way things are just going to go back to the way they were last time he was in the Capitol, playing their game and pretending like he wasn't fighting every chance he got to get out.

There's no pretenses this time.

"Guess it was only a matter of time before I got caught."

"Mmmh. That's the thing, isn't it. You die, and you wake up again, with those damn uniforms looking at you like you fucked up on purpose."

And then they goose-stepped you back to wherever they'd decided you lived now. An apartment, in a shining tower, or a dark cell where they pretended you'd never see light again. And you didn't get a choice, either way-- the choice to obey, the choice to rebel.

It all came back to a cold slab at your back, impassive black masks, and white uniforms.

"So long as that's true," She shifted slightly, heaving a sigh to hide the grimace, "We'll always be back, someday. I'm not here for fun and games, y'know."

If nothing else, Sam's counting that smile as a win. Especially from someone who's probably been here for a while now - Sam doesn't know all of the Tributes who'd ended up in District 13, but he doesn't remember ever seeing her there.

"Or as good with a taser," he adds, smile turning into a little bit more of a smirk. "He tased my best friend once, back in the arena."

Maybe he shouldn't be talking about anything in the arenas with any kind of humor, but terrible as they were overall, there's parts he remembers with fondness.

Sam watches the emotions play over Makara's face, curious.

He doesn't know Makara's story. He doesn't know how loyal he is to the Capitol - though right now, Sam's guessing a lot - and he doesn't know why. Maybe he could have learned, back when Sam was still pretending to be a good Tribute, but he hadn't taken the time. He'd been focused on his Kurloz, on keeping up his activities in the rebellion a secret, on looking after his friends.

Sam honestly doesn't know if he feels guilty about that. He hadn't paid much attention to the other staff in the Capitol, either; the only reason he'd looked twice at Makara was because of his name and face.

But he guesses it doesn't matter now. He's probably not going to learn in the detention center. Still, that crossed out line catches his attention.

"What did you think?"

There's a wave of relief when Sam spots one of the people he'd been looking for. Realistically, it's not like finding Clint is going to make the situation better - now they're both just trapped here - but right now, actually seeing Clint, it's hard for him to remember logic like that.

For a moment, he just stands there, giving Clint a little shrug in response to the way he'd said his name - he doesn't even know why, isn't sure if it's acknowledgement, or apologetic that he got himself stuck here instead of getting Clint out, or even yeah I know we're fucked.

But it's only a moment, and then Sam's moving into Clint's personal space, pulling him in for a fierce hug. He hasn't seen him in person since the last arena, when they were able to steal a few moments during the break in, and fuck he's missed him so bad.

"Told you I'd find you, didn't I?"

The look he faces down at his paper is just short of a glare, like he's only barely resisting letting actual anger show. He breathes deep, eyes closing, then fixes his eyes back on Sam for a moment with a great sigh.

I HAD REFLECTED IT POSSIBLE THY TO BE ONE OF FEW TO GIVE A SECOND CHANCE OF SORTS. TO LET THINE SELF CONSIDER I MIGHT BE MORE THAN THE TRAITOR AS OPPOSED TO LESSER FOR EITHER BEING HIM OR MOTHER FUCKIN NOT. THE JOKE WOULD APPEAR TO BE UPON ME. YOU ARE MERELY SOME STALE ASS REBEL WORKING FALSIFICATIONS AND FIGHT. TO YOU I AM NOT BUT A POSER DESERVING MY WORLD TORN APART ALL FOR THE CARNAGE YOU DESIRE.

AND MOTHER FUCKIN YET, YOU THINK TO APOLOGIZE. FOOL ME ONCE, HOMIE. YOU KNOW HOW THAT PARTICULAR SAYING GOES?

The more he writes the more it burns. The more his grips tightens on his pen and the thing makes a noise just away from snapping. He sets it down. He smooths out his faces and breathes.

Callie's head lifts on his wrist, like she's noticed his stress and worries. He pets her head again with a finger.

There may be dismay on Terezi's face, but some of the tension in Sam's eases a little when he sees her. He doesn't light up the way he did when he'd run into her out on the battlefield after they'd thought she was dead, but he'd been looking for her. And it's good to see a familiar face, even if him being here is far from a good thing.

He gives her a small, humorless smile when she says his name.

"Got shot down," he says simply, unwilling to go into too much detail when the sight of the missile heading for Jet and the feel of it hitting him instead is still playing over and over in his mind. "Flying a mission."

"You're not more and you're not lesser, man, you're just you. Neither of you deserve to be pitted against each other like that."

Sam's gotten a lot better at handling alternates these days, pretty much entirely as a result of both dating and being best friends of two very different Bucky Barnes.

"I'm not that great of a spy, Makara. What you saw of me is pretty much what there is. It ain't like I ever kept it a secret about how much I hated dying, and how much I really hated having to watch the people I care about die. I don't want to tear apart your world, I just want the people in it to be treated better."

We all deserve better, he thinks, but he doesn't say that. He'd already used that line in the propaganda film he shot before the war even started, and he doesn't think Makara would react well if it seemed like he was quoting it. The guy's already getting riled up enough as it is.

Does he believe that? He's not sure. He particularly has some choice words about what is deserved and for whom.

IT DOES NOT TAKE A SPECIAL OPERATIVE TO KEEP A SECRET.

His fingers lift and trace over his threads. A thoughtless gesture as he writes.

WHAT DO YOU PERCEIVE OUR STRUCTURES TO BE FOR? OUR GREAT CAPITOL UNCOVERED THE BEST MEANS FOR KEEPING PEACE IN OUR WORLD. SEVENTY FIVE YEARS OF IT, SO LONG AS ALL BENEATH FOLLOW THE RULES. THIS APPLIES TO MYSELF AS MUCH AS THEE. WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE WE HAVE ALL BEEN SEEKING TO GAIN? WE HAD PEACE. NOW WE HAVE WAR. THERE IS NO DOUBLE DEATH FOR THOSE OF PANEM.

GOOD INTENTION SAVES NO ONE, SAM WILSON.

This... this he knows very well.

Edited 2016-01-31 01:35 (UTC)

She cocks her head to one side, frowning. "Tased?" she repeats. It's been a while since she had to ask what a word meant - she's learnt by now to understand the gist of what people are saying, and most of the strange words they use - but she has no idea what a taser might be.

It takes her a moment to process that. Shot down. A thousand different thoughts run through her mind, and she's not sure how to voice them all. At the very least, he seems okay for however much that counts while they're stuck here in the Capitol.

"Was there anyone else with you?" She has to know. Even if she doesn't want to hear it, she needs to know if there was anyone else, just to put her fears to rest.

"Kinda thought that ended with the games. Guess we were wrong."

He doesn't know what to think of that, that whatever revival mechanism the Capitol's got - whatever it was that those scientists in District Three were working on - it extends even outside the arena. If you die outside of the arena you go back home, that's what most of them had believed. He'd convinced himself that Steve and Nat and Tony were back home, pissed off at not being able to see this war through if they remembered, being their Avengery selves if they didn't. He doesn't know what it means now.

But he can't focus on that now; he's got enough troubles as it is.

"Sure you are. We're all here for fun and games, that's what the Capitol calls war."

Sam makes a little bit of a face at himself. "Sorry. A taser's a weapon, kind of. It ain't lethal but it packs a pretty big punch of electricity, you pretty much just point and zap and it'll knock out your opponent for a little bit."

"Well when you put it like that."

Not to mention that Sam was special ops, and he does know how to keep a secret so damn well that no one'd suspect he's hiding something. Maybe he's not a spy, but he is good at keeping part of himself hidden from everyone.

But that's not the point. He reads the words that follow, already shaking his head when he gets to 'we had peace.'

"That ain't peace, brother. That's fear. That's oppression. That's seventy five years of keeping people silenced and beat down, burying them in gunpowder and then bring surprised when a spark ignites the whole thing."

For all that he doesn't really want to talk about it, he'd been expecting that question. Still, he runs a hand over his jaw, clearly unhappy.

"Jet. I don't know if they got him, too, I haven't seen him." In person, anyway, and he doesn't want to bring up the videos they keep showing him. If they're true, there's nothing either of them can do about it, and if they're not - well, either way, there's no point in freaking her out.

Like before, there's a twitch with the brushing of raw nerve. There's an immense displeasure he forces down. But nevertheless, Kurloz does manage to keep it down. He is controlled. He is made prefect.

SILENCE IS PEACE. IT IS AN ILL IN YOU THAT LEADS TO BELIEVING THE SPARK WILL NOT DESTROY US ALL. I HAVE BORE WITNESS TO ITS RECKONING BEFORE.

FEAR CAN BE CURED. YOU ARE KICKING IT SICK. I CAN HELP YOU, MY HOMIE KILLA. I ONCE WAS FOOLISH AS YOU. NOW ALL IS RIGHTEOUS. NOW ALL MY MOTHER FUCKIN FAMILY ARE SAFE.

OR THEY WERE, UNTIL THIS UPRISING OF MIND-TWISTED SUCKERS. OUR PANEM IS A MACHINE. IF YOU STICK HAND WITHIN ITS MAW, YOU MAY BREAK US TEMPORARILY, BUT YOU WILL LOSE DIGITS WITH PERMANENCE.

LET ME MOTHER FUCKIN HELP THEE. WE CAN STILL MAKE ALL WELL AND GOOD WITHIN THIS WORLD.

And he will write the truth as he knows it.

Edited 2016-02-15 20:50 (UTC)

Somehow, that catches her sideways, flat-footed, like getting kicked in the knee. For a second, right before the pain, you think you can take it, you think you're fine, and then that horrible wet snap, the sickening loss of balance, and trying to compensate with lifelong muscle memory only brings more hurt. It's not a joke, but she can't help the surprised laughter.

It was all one war, to her. Eden Prime straight on through, all one big conflict-- cut into chunks sometimes, sure, but this was just another two year detour along the road, in her mind. Suddenly, she sees it from another angle, from Sam's, and suddenly it is hilarious that this is indeed what the Capitol calls 'war'.

Fun and games.

Soldiers who can't die.

Monsters that look like people, and people that act like monsters.

...That are monsters.

The laughter takes on an edge of hysteria before she can drag in the long breath and shut it down. Shepard has to stop, look away and breathe for a moment. Has to force down the memories, red-brown heaps of half-processed remains on slick, almost chitinous surfaces, skin scoured away, muscle thrown in sharp relief, tendon, white bone. The press of the operating table against her back, cold and somehow clammy. The mess hall smells like new linoleum and bad food, body odor, processed air not processed people. Give her a minute here, Sam.

"Sorry, I-- Shit. Shit, I actually miss the Reapers. That's pretty fucked up, isn't it?" Shepard shakes her head, still halfway to bemused, then glances back at him, "Nevermind, I guess I never... don't worry about it. Damn. There might be a point, there."

It's not the first time that Sam's seen that moment, when everything drops out from under you as something that should be a mild comment, a half joke, a barbed exchange of banter, hits a lot closer than you thought. Hell, he's been on both sides of it.

The laughter's not exactly a surprise, and it pulls a laugh out of him in response. It's not exactly funny - all right, it's a little funny - but if nothing else it's a release of pent up tension.

When her laughter starts getting a little hysterical, he shifts, just enough that their shoulders are just barely touching. But he doesn't say anything, giving her a moment to breath and get herself back under control.

"Nah. They're terrible, but they're a terrible you're used to. I miss Hydra, fucked up as that is," he offers. "They're... pretty close to the Capitol, actually, but at least they were the Capitol before it took power." He shoots a small, mostly humorless smile at her. "Yeah. Sometimes I have those."

"It's the end of the human race, Sam," That slips out, incredulous at her own idiocy. For all she hated the Capitol, for all the mistrust District Thirteen and their rebellion inspired...for all this suffering, it's just human suffering. No matter who wins, or loses, there's going to be a tomorrow.

And here she was, halfway nostalgic about being exterminated.

"I spent some time comparing notes with Rogers, you know. We've both got our fascists, but the Reapers..." She trailed off, trying to find the words, laughter all dried up, but the shaking hysteria still crawling up her back, "Take Hydra, Cerberus, whatever, they're people. They might hate you, for whatever reason, but it's like this. The Reapers don't even hate us. They farm us. Cook us alive down to component parts and build weapons out of us, I've seen it. I've watched it happen. Earth is enemy territory, now."

She was looking at the door as she spoke, across from where they were seated. The security camera was a dark eye, there, and the peacekeeper guard a baleful presence. It was a comforting hostility, not straightforward, no, but understandable. The Capitol might do terrible things, callously, and for its own ends, but no matter how often they dug their fingers into flesh and brain-matter, they couldn't become more than merely human.

"And, every battle, it's some ugly new machine, and then it twitches wrong and you realize that they're still alive in there."

Jet. Terezi frowns deeper at the name, but if she notices Sam lying to her, she doesn't remark on it. It's more liking that she's too preoccupied with what it means for Jet to be missing--both for him and for their people back in District 13.

She almost asks why they were out on a mission with just the two of them--but it occurs to her that maybe he shouldn't answer a question like that in the middle of the Detainment Center. There are likely to be ears all over the place, and if they don't already know what that mission was for, Terezi doesn't want to put Sam on the spot.

But she doesn't really know what to say. They're both stuck here now, and possibly Jet, too. And who knows how the others are taking it... That worries her almost as much as being trapped here.

Lacking any kind of words to express herself with, Terezi steps forward and hugs Sam around the middle instead. She holds on tightly, whether he wants her to or not. Her muffled words drift up towards him. "We have to get out of here. We have to get back to Thirteen."

"Oh." Éowyn half-smiles, not without a twist of wry humour. "All these months, and still I cannot make sense of this world, I fear. Give me a sword over electric punches any day." She pronounces 'electric' with great care and slightly odd inflection: el-luh-tric.

There's a quiet pang of loss when she says Steve's name, but though he sits with it for a moment before he lets it go, he doesn't let it interfere with listening to her.

Before he became an Avenger, before he was brought here, there might be more of a sense of horror at what she's saying. And there still is, because it's pretty damn terrible, it's just - maybe it's that he isn't surprised. After Loki and the Chitauri, after Ultron, after Initiate and Terezi and Albert and Jet... no, it doesn't surprise him.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye instead, the way she emphasizes certain words, the way she grounds herself in right now, the way the edge of hysteria still seems like it's creeping in, barely held at bay. This isn't the first time he's say on the floor with a soldier like this.

"Still a terrible that you're used to. I'm sure as hell not saying we should trade the Capitol for the Reapers, but." He shrugs one shoulder, the one not leaning against hers. "Shit like that, it becomes your new normal, and sometimes you don't know what to do when it's gone. Sometimes you miss it."

There's a moment of silence, then he asks, "How long you been fighting them before you came here?"

"Invasion proper, that's only been a year," She said it offhand, as if it had been anything less than absolute hell, "But before that, they had their slimy fingers in our places..."

She stops, thinks a moment, tries to remember. Back home she could simply look up the date, ask EDI, ask anyone. They knew. Two years, twelve days, missing time. Missing life. When was the first time she saw a Husk, saw the awful black bulk of Soveriegn rising like an impossible insect over Eden Prime?

"Five years, I think, all told," Then she looks at him, and sees it, all empathy and gentle eyes, and her expression closes off hardens itself into an unbreachable bulwark. Never again, "I'm fine. A lot of people have it worse; at least I got to do something about it."

It's not all that surprising, when she shuts down and pulls away from him - at least emotionally - like that. He doesn't pull back, but he doesn't try to bring her back in, either.

Instead, he quirks a smile, dry and humorless. His tone matches it, something not quite irreverant, a little bit at odds with the way his eyes stay warm.

"And here I thought you were gonna play war story olympics with me." Which he guesses she still kind of is, just in the opposite way. "You know, I always wondered - who decides what worse is? We got a judge somewhere looking over everyone's worlds and ranking them?"

He runs a hand over his jaw. "War is war. There's nothing pretty there. And yet here we are fighting, because there's not really anyone else and even if there was, none of us know how to sit our asses down and let someone else handle it."

"Tell you a secret," She's back to pretending to be companionable, though the smirk treats her eyes like a five-mile no-man's zone, "I always win that game. And I know why I'm fighting."

She wasn't fighting because there wasn't anyone else. Of course there was someone else. There were hundreds of someones, both here in Panem, and back home. Some of them were even on her crew, people she trusted to take up the mission, to keep fighting the good fight after she was gone. People here, to fight their own damn war.

She was here, the Capitol would hear, because she knew a winner when she saw one. Because she was a good little drone who knew which side of the bread was buttered-- this side. The Capitol side.

But maybe Sam, and anyone with sense would remember; Shepard knew, she was here for one reason only, and that was because way back, some pissant in a white lab coat had decided it might be fun to own her like a pet. The only reason Shepard or anyone else not born here was here was because they were brought here, and kept here, because they were interesting. Entertaining to kill, to study, maybe.

Right and wrong had nothing to do with it. And neither did war, really. This was about treating people, like things. That's where it started.

"Nice seeing you again, Sam. Stay out of trouble, will you?" She levered herself against the wall and stepped off towards the narrow little rat-hall towards the cells they called bunks, "...If you can."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

they keep calling out

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whoops, finally tagging this

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