[open log, slightly backdated]

[capitolprivilege]

WHO| Stephen and anyone who wants to interact with him before he's captured!
WHAT| A catch-all! Stephen will be traveling around the Capitol under false pretenses, and he'll have information and passwords he can pass along to the rebels. I'd like to use this post for him to meet old friends again, possibly thread out his capture by Peacekeepers, and idk possibly use this post for the breakout.
WHERE| The Capitol's outskirts.
WHEN| Day 1
WARNINGS| Probably tears. Stephen Reagan is crying his way through Panem's revolution. Also, if you want a different starting situation, put it in your toplevel, and I'll match it.

Stephen Reagan is making no secret of his excursions into evacuated Captiol areas. He tells the Peacekeepers that he is searching for stragglers in an official capacity, and to that end he has a (mostly complete and also stolen) readout of pod locations. He doesn't know what each trap is, but he's stolen enough information to avoid them, by and large. Being a trusted and invaluable assistant to a subdirector of Panem's research and development ministry had its advantages, and his possession of the readout lent legitimacy to his story.

His heart is pounding. He knows that if he runs into the wrong rebels, he just might be shot on sight. He's banking on the fact that he'll be a promising enough hostage that they'll bring him back to rebels who do know which side he's on.

Carefully, Stephen picks his way along an empty street, shying away from a large, ornate, iridescent fountain. He glances at it nervously. Knowing that the Capitol placed a carefully programmed murder machine inside it is deeply, deeply unsettling to him. He blows out a long breath and keeps going, all senses on alert for any sign of company.

Comments

[voiceinthephone]

For being the siege's first day, Phil is so damn thankful the Capitol was evacuated in time. He wouldn't be able to split families in the name of Thirteen, it just wasn't in his heart to do something so atrocious. But he's here to do his job: search and rescue, and maybe alert any soldiers of wounded Capitolites they can capture and nurse to health.

And then he spots that telltale mop of blond hair and energy bounding across the streets. Stephen Reagan had been such a contradicting man before and during the war but his heart lay in the best of places: with Panem. Gone were the doubts of the man's true loyalties, especially at the Portal. Of course Phil would give the rebellion his word that Stephen Reagan was not just valuable as a hostage but an ally.

But Gray is quick to notice how the former escort walked, avoiding certain paths and monuments. It's enough for the man to shush his pets close, there are traps here. "Stephen?" he only called out when they crossed paths at the fountain, barely above his speaking volume as to avoid activating anything.

[capitolprivilege]

"Phil!"

Stephen's whole face lights up. His voice is no louder than a whisper, but there's enough relief and happiness that it could practically burst. Luck is definitely with him -- odds, favor, you know -- if the first person he meets is Phil Gray.

"God, am I glad to see you -- careful, keep away from that fountain, it's definitely rigged with something or other -- are those foxes?" The questions all come pouring out at once as he steps closer, close enough to take PG by the upper arms. "I'm so glad I found you. Or did you find me? Never mind, it doesn't matter." Stephen feels like he'll never stop smiling; it's the most genuine smile he's worn in too damn long.

[voiceinthephone]

Phil wasted no time in giving Stephen a long overdue hug, one he never got to do when the Capitolite resigned from his Escorting job. He seized the moment while the two foxes chattered and circled the friends.

"It doesn't matter, you're safe!" Gray almost broke their self-imposed volume limits, but it didn't take long for his paternal instincts to come out, "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be with the rest of the Capitol? It-it's not safe out here, your brother must be worried sick!" Stephen was a Reagan, and while Phone Guy didn't have the most knowledge about Panem history, the man was needed. Wait, what did he say about the fountain?

"Foxy, Alby, stay..." He shushed his pets once more, "W-we can talk somewhere safe, okay?"

[capitolprivilege]

Is anywhere actually safe? Stephen wonders. It's hard not to think that way, surrounded by once-familiar streets now empty and laced with war machines. But there are definitely better places to talk.

"Okay," he says, willing to follow PG wherever he goes. "As for why I'm here..." He waves the small handheld device he's been holding in his hands and taps it with a finger. "I'll tell you when we're out of the street."

Stephen knows his brother is likely worried. He also knows that he is far from the only thing Cyrus Reagan is worried about. Finally, he knows that he cannot allow Cyrus Reagan to talk him into leaving. There are two reasons for this. One, Stephen can help the rebellion with the resources he has access to. Two, if Stephen's going to have any hope of surviving and keeping his freedom in the case of a rebel victory, he's got to come out in support now, before it's too late. He's said some very, very terrible things over the past few months.

[voiceinthephone]

Phil immediately tensed up at the thought that the street they were in was already infested with traps and the like. How does one even consider sacrificing their own living quarters, their livelihoods and the integrity of the people they were supposed to protect?

Nothing about this made any sense except to a madman or a coward desperately clinging to his ill-gotten immortality. Instead of arguing about safety, Phil cocked his head to the side and let his companions lead the way to an empty restaurant. Gray remembered it somewhat fondly, he frequented it before the Victory Tour, and he hoped the chef was safe.

"You have a lot of explaining to do mister," he hurriedly spoke up, keeping his gun on hand to escort what was precious cargo: his friend.

[capitolprivilege]

He gives Phil a grin and lets himself be steered toward the restaurant.

"Believe me," Stephen says, "I've been wanting to explain it for months. But fair's fair, and you're going to have to tell me where you got your foxes." He's already in a lighter mood; he's still alert, still nervous, but he's finally, finally going to get the chance to say everything that's been on his mind since his attack.

[voiceinthephone]

To see the real Stephen, the smiling and worrying man behind the Capitolite image, brought Phil much more that comfort, it gave him courage. If Stephen made it out in one piece then he could do so much more.

There is a distinct stale scent in the restaurant, plates strewn about as if this had been a normal day of operations until the siege was alerted. It was distressing for a man who finally returned to familiar grounds only to have them empty.

As soon as Phil locked the door behind Stephen, the foxes immediately started sniffing around for edible snacks.

"We might not have all the time in the world but we have, uh, now?"

[fusshionable]

Being back in the Capitol again is rough. She's the first person to admit it. Even with all the resentment that's built up in her, even with all that she knows that this place is built on lies and death and oppression, it's still her home, and seeing the place you grew up in being torn to shreds is never easy no matter your feelings on it.

She's been given a scouting assignment, which she fully understands to mean that she is Pod bait, but she has a map containing at least some of the locations, and is exercising extreme caution at any rate.

Gun tucked under her arm, map in her free hand, she comes around a corner, eyes sharp for any sign of movement, but the muzzle of her automatic lowers at the sight of a familiar face. The streets are empty, eerily empty around them, but she still doesn't dare raise her voice.

"Stephen," she calls, softly, her voice echoing off stately marble walls. She hasn't seen him since the Portal, and the worry comes flooding back to her, even though he's clearly alive and well.

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen registers the gun before he recognizes its owner.

"Easy, easy, I'm on your--Porrim!" His hands, which had come up at the first sight of the gun, drop again. Stephen breaks into a relieved laugh, ecstatically relieved -- though underneath, it still carries an edge of remembered fear. "Oh, thank god. I know I left a little suddenly, but I wasn't expecting to have a rifle pointed at me for it." He's teasing, sure, but the I'm glad to see you in his tone is impossible to miss.

[fusshionable]

Her expression, which had been taut with worry, relaxes, and Porrim drops the muzzle all the way; she's still ready to bring it back up at a moment's notice, but for now she slings it over her shoulder. No need for it when it's just Stephen.

"I'm so glad to see you," she admits. "In the confusion back in Two, I lost track of what happened to you." She comes closer, and a little smirk finds its way onto her face. "Though I do owe you a swat for making an innuendo at a time like that."

She moves like she's going to pull him into the alcove they're standing near, but seems to think better of it and pulls him into a tight hug, instead.

[capitolprivilege]

"Please, go ahead. I definitely deserve it." Stephen means for it to come out light and carefree, but as he wraps his arms around her, there's something tremulous in his voice, a shaking that betrays how keyed up his emotions are. A laugh comes bubbling up out of him, and it's a real laugh, a happy one, but it's the kind of laugh that has an undercurrent of fear.

He holds her tightly for a long moment, and his eyes squeeze shut. Out of everyone he knows, Porrim understands best what Stephen himself is feeling right now. Most other rebels are from the Districts, or Offworlders, or others who never really cared about either side, but Porrim, like Stephen, cares about both.

When Stephen pulls back, he doesn't let go of her upper arms.

"What do they think they're doing, sending you out here alone?"

[fusshionable]

God, it kills her to hear that tremor in his voice, to know that this is affecting him just like it is her. Hugging someone in battle armor isn't easy, but somehow she manages to convey the same amount of affection as if she were wearing a silk dress instead, and maybe a little bit more, because he clearly needs it. "Later," she replies. "I'll spare you the humiliation for now." Joking is good, joking keeps the conversation from turning too heavy. She can't afford to be that distracted right now.

Porrim doesn't move from his grasp, but she does back them into the alcove now, sighing. "I'm—scouting," she admits, because she knows it's not an answer he'll want to hear. He might notice that her face isn't what it once was—thinner, and with still-healing scars on her neck and across her cheek. "I'm not a very valuable asset to them otherwise, I'm afraid." There's more than a little bitterness in her tone.

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen's mouth pulls tight. They sent her out alone to look for traps. He's not an idiot; his eyes cloud over as he understands exactly why she was sent on such a high-risk, low-support assignment.

He feels a surge of anger, anger he doesn't want to feel. Stephen is on the rebels' side; he has chosen them over the Capitol, has chosen to assist in the Capitol's destruction. He holds no illusions that the Capitol wouldn't use one of its soldiers the very same way, if not worse. But it gnaws at him that it's being done at all.

Knowing all this, Stephen chooses to say nothing. The anger that flashes across his face sinks away, leaving only seriousness. "Can you take me to them?" he asks. "I understand that you're on a mission, but I have information, and the sooner it gets to them, the better."

[dead_black_eyes]

As a hacker and former Victor, Linden's not often risked on this kind of mission. But since Temple was caught and convicted he's been more eager to accept them. Maybe he's hoping that he'll find Bailey and have the chance to salvage some small part of the life he'd assumed to build after the war, and maybe he's chasing something fast and intense that ends in glory and fire. Either way, he's back in the Capitol after a long absence, a visored helmet hiding his features as he edges through the streets. He's tasked with collecting data on the Pods, avoiding the damage while observing and recording the effects. He's armed, but his advantage is in discretion rather than firepower.

He's found the suspected location of one, and is trying to work out how to trigger it without putting himself in danger, when a familiar blond head bobs into view near the fountain he's watching. Something twists in his gut, because he would recognize his old escort anywhere. He raises his voice as loud as he dares, calling from an empty shop's doorway.

"Stephen?"

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen whirls around at his name, muffled by the visored helmet; he doesn't immediately recognize its owner.

"Hello?" he asks cautiously, his hands up defensively, showing that he's unarmed. Blue eyes find the figure half-hidden in the empty shop doorway, and the mask does nothing to ease Stephen's concern.

"I'm not armed," he says, holding his ground. "I'm here to help."

[dead_black_eyes]

I'm here to help.

How often has Linden heard those words, rarely even paraphrased? They're simple, speaking to a primal level of suspicion and fear. They'd frequently calmed the volatile fury and soothed the prickly dissatisfaction of a Victor ill-suited to his new life and its obligations. They were probably the first words that Escorts learned in their training, a rote shortcut to patching together the irreparable bits of the ruined humans left in their care, but they worked. They extended a lifeline and a gentle promise to someone programmed to hold tightly to every opportunity for sanctuary.

"I know," he responds immediately. Even now, his trust in Stephen is unfaltering. His former partner in shepherding District 6 through its usually ill-fated games is somewhat unique that way. "If I approach, is there any chance that a sniper will fire on me, or that I'll trigger a pod?"

Stephen's answer is every bit as important as the way he answers. Though Linden trusts him, if Stephen's been coerced into acting as bait for unwary rebels to wander into the open, there will be at least a few tells that a savvy people-reader cold pick up on.

[capitolprivilege]

Linden!

Recognition crosses Stephen's face. The widening eyes and the sharp inhale would have been obvious to anyone with even a tenth of Linden's experience. The fact that it's positive recognition is obvious, too: Linden's voice fills Stephen with hope, not dread or fear. In fact, a large part of the fear is gone.

"No," he says, and there's no trace of a lie in it; his voice is all relief. "I'm alone."

[dead_black_eyes]

Stephen was always expressive. It was one of his more reassuring traits, for a paranoid Victor convinced that everyone around him was determined to hide the most important things from him. It was comforting to know that even if Stephen wanted to keep a secret, Linden would probably be able to suss it out without too much difficulty.

It's also comforting to know that after all the upheaval and danger, Stephen is still happy to see him.

He nods, acknowledging the words, starting to step toward him. It's not the rushed and emotional approach of someone reuniting after a long absence with someone cherished and missed; it's not allowed to be.

"You don't have to be," he offers, raising the visor. The face is tired and drawn, sober but completely recognizable.

[capitolprivilege]

"That'd be nice," Stephen admits. The words have a weight that suggests a meaning beyond the immediate. He's felt really alone lately. "I'd like that."

He, too, approaches, thinking the shop a better place to talk than the open street with its booby-trapped fountain. Stephen doesn't run -- it seems careless -- but his steps are quick, and a few seconds later, he's ducked into the doorway with Linden. Stephen's looking him right in the eye, bright blue eyes full of relief and concern all at once.

"Are you all right?"

It's a hell of a question.

[clotting]

Temple's plan is one that assembles itself in fits and starts, pieces composing themselves only as soon as they fall in front of her, a ramshackle, patchwork carcass of a goal or an ambition rather than an actual plan. The skeleton is nothing but a single-boned spine around which the rest of her ideas congeal, like a magnet around which shreds of iron gather. Get a hostage. Get her son back. So simple it's either genius or suicidal.

She has a gun. It's more of a weapon than she ever had in her Arena, where she had nothing but the skinflint remnants of her beauty to try to desperately drag others into her orbit. It can't make her feel safe, because until her son is in her arms she knows that she's about to be shattered to pieces, but it can make her feel powerful. There's a key difference there.

She dodges round a corner, holding the gun so tight that a bead of sweat weaves between her knuckles, and peeks around the corner. She sees Stephen. Some part of her - not the part of her that shared a bed with Stephen for a hot moment before she was engaged to Gowan - knows he's the perfect target. Valuable. Inept. Someone who would help her because Stephen isn't the type to turn a cold shoulder on a mother scared for her baby. She approaches, glancing back and forth at the fountain, knowing it's a trap she's about to flip the switch on to get attention.

She sets the fountain off. It rocks the wall behind her with a spray of bullets she truly didn't expect. She throws herself behind a wall, checking herself fervently for bulletholes, terror freezing her face into a mask of weeping.

"Help!" she screams, although what she calls for from Stephen isn't a rescue.

[capitolprivilege]

Stephen swears under his breath.

He'd split up with the others, agreeing to meet back at the rebel camp once they'd shaken pursuit, so he's alone when he hears the bullets go off. He knew there was a pod in the fountain, he knew it, and some clumsy idiot set it off.

He doesn't know if the person in question is on the side of the Capitol or not, but it doesn't matter. Temple is right: he's not going to turn a cold shoulder to anyone.

"Stay down!" he yells, ducking himself; he crouches behind the low wall that encircles the area the fountain is in. It's high enough that if he stays low, he'll be able to head in the direction of the voice and probably not set off any of the fountain's motion sensors. "Stay where you are! Don't move!"

[clotting]

Temple's greatest assets may not be her wits or her looks. They very well might be her lungs. She screams and wails and plays the victim with earnestness, tapping on a wealth of personal experience to draw Stephen close.

She looks nothing like the prim and polished Capitolite's wife she was when they last saw each other; fed on District Thirteen rations, she's become lean and starved, angles carving themselves into her face and limbs. Her beating at the Peacekeepers' hands permanently damaged her nose and teeth and jaw, pushing them out of alignment. There's no glitter or makeup to hide behind anymore, nor a designer dress. She's in the same fatigues as anyone else, clutching an imaginary wound on her stomach, howling in pretend agony and trying to pull at Stephen's sympathy like a fishing line.

She looks like the seventeen year-old they airlifted out of the Arena years ago, just dressed up in army clothes. Her head spins in a litany of could she really blow stephen reagan's brains out, of course she could, she's temple drake, she can do anything she isn't above anything nothing is too base for her.

He was good to his Tributes, she thinks. She clutches the gun in its holster. But all that matters is that the Capitol will pay ransom for him.

let me know if this is okay!

[currupted]

Cyrus hears them, and quickens his pursuit.

The Reagans are all gone. All hidden away. The Ministers have fled to the strongholds given them. Cyrus Reagan had his pick of safehouses, but he chose none of them-- he ran back out into the Capitol, because all of the safehouses were closed to Stephen, and he would see every other Capitolite drown in Rebellion gunfire before he let them lock out Stephen.

He was not the first to hear Stephen was out of prison. But the news had felt like being dropped into ice water, like an electric shock to the base of the spine, like being suddenly hollowed out-- suddenly, every other door in front of him had closed but the one that led out into the Capitol, that led back to his brother.

He doesn't even know what he intends to do, exactly-- whether he means to drag Stephen back to safety with him kicking and screaming, or whether there's still some part of him that believes that if he only says the right thing, Stephen will finally listen to him. He's fevered and furious and what he believes and who he hates most shifts with every bullet-scarred corner he turns, between the Rebellion and the Tributes and the Capitol and Stephen himself.

"Stephen!" he barks, through a throat that has felt raw for days. "Stephen--"

He's not so frenzied that he misses the fountain, and when he bursts into view it's between Stephen and Temple-- too far away from either of them, but far enough that he is not yet in anyone's line of fire. He looks between them, and his face contorts with fury at the sight of her, at her District Thirteen clothes.

He's too far, at the moment, to interfere with either of them. His view is disrupted on every side by low walls, by his own distraction. He freezes, and looks between them, and calls-- again-- hoarse, desperate-- "Stephen--!"

[capitolprivilege]

"Easy, easy! Quiet!" he calls, loud enough (he hopes) to carry over her screams. If she doesn't stop that, she's going to bring in every soldier from either side for miles, Stephen thinks. He's got to get her to stop, get her somewhere less unsafe, maybe bring her back to the small rebel camp if it turns out she can be trusted--

He only recognizes her when he rounds the corner. His eyes go wide--Temple Drake. That's someone he hasn't seen in a hot minute. Sympathy pulls at him; god, she looks terrible, she looks like she's been hurt, and she looks scared out of her mind. Stephen breaks into a run, shouting as he goes. "Temple! Temple, calm down! You're going to get us caught if you don't stop--!"

He doesn't hear Cyrus.

[clotting]

The shots turn into an apoplectic rattle as the machine gun runs out of ammunition. The machine gun lurches back and forth, sparking little bits of powder and discharging dry clicks as the hammers in its barrel strike air. No one notices, but Temple stops screaming, and hears only the Reagan brothers issuing commands.

When she hears Cyrus' voice, it's as if a path has been opened through the ocean for her. She can do her negotiating here. She doesn't need to piece together a scheme to get into government buildings and keep a hostage while communicating demands to people who could probably snipe her from orbit. This can be easy.

The way she can see it all lay out - a streamlined, quick plan, this doesn't have to take longer than a minute, just listen to me, Minister Reagan, no one has to get hurt - gives her nearly a high. It's what pumps the energy into her thighs to bring her to her feet as soon as Stephen gets close.

She doesn't even know if Stephen could have been coaxed to play along, an ally pretending the part of a hostage. She has no ideology beyond the simple locus around which all her actions are circling: she is going to survive and she is going to get her kid back.

She lunges for Stephen's arm and yanks him towards her, jamming the gun up and against his ribs, no longer cowering but still smaller than him, still protected only by the firearm she has pressed into his clothing.

"I'm sorry," she hisses to him, then yells to Cyrus, "stop where you are or I'll shoot!"