[OPEN] If the sun don't come you get a tan from standing in the English rain

[honeyedwords]

Who| Sherlock Holmes
What| Midnight mopery
Where| In the park by the shopping district
When| Right about now
Warnings/Notes| References to (kind of ongoing) drug abuse

Sherlock had spent much too long avoiding the Capitol. It had seemed reasonable enough to take whatever excuses he could to stay away from the place; after all, what was the point of marching all the way out to the killing fields just to watch two children from his district get slaughtered by careers, year after year? (Well, he supposes it's not necessarily children anymore, but uninvolved bystanders from across time and space isn't much better.) Drugging himself into a stupor and allowing Beetee or one of the other competent ones run the fool's errand of trying to bring someone home always seemed the better option.

That particular dodge wasn't an option anymore, though. Not if he wanted to actually get anything done ever again. There isn't anything useful about hiding away from all your problems forever, anyway. Might as well stop being a coward and go already.

He's seated on a bench towards the edge of the park, as the fountain is too much of a gathering place for his likings and he'd prefer not to be gawked at today. Anyone who passes by receives a particularly severe scowl and precisely zero eye contact for their troubles. His manner of dress is characteristically shabby, from the fraying sweater to the worn jeans. This on top of the thin sheen of sweat on his brow despite his shivering and the dark circles under his eyes all contribute to making him look like an absolute wreck.

Comments

[amourtician]

Jay is taking a midnight stroll. Well. The meaning of "stroll" could, theoretically, be stretched enough to cover what he's doing. He's walking fast, looking at the ground and not particularly caring whether he stays on the path or not. He's dressed up to the nines, still, having not bothered to prepare for bed at all. His makeup is a little smudged, but otherwise he's still picture-perfect.

Except for his feet. He's barefoot and has clearly already cut his soles on something. He's carrying his shredded silk stockings and high-heeled boots (both heels broken off). He likes to think the loss of a pair of boots and a pair of stockings is all that's occupying his mind.

It is, of course, an entirely foolish notion. He's thinking of Mara and of Raimut, because he can't not think of him, even when trying not to. He's awfully lonely, awfully alone and the Capitol scares him. He knows there's a hell of an iron hand within its velvet glove and he's anticipating the coming crushing of his hands.

He sits down on the edge of the bench Sherlock is occupying and starts rummaging around in his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. Upon finding it, he opens it, notes that there are only three left (and it was a full pack when he got it, that afternoon) and sighs.

He sits up and gestures towards Sherlock with the cigarette pack.

"Fancy a smoke, darling?"

[honeyedwords]

"I think that's precisely the last thing I need," Sherlock replies bluntly, as he pulls his scarf up over his nose and mouth in irritation. "Wouldn't want to take any away from you in any case, you're clearly an avid chainsmoker."

There's a touch of venom to his voice and he takes absolutely no effort to conceal it. He sits up straighter and eyes this intruder warily.

"One of the new tributes? I suppose I should offer my condolences."

[amourtician]

Jay raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. He considers commenting on his tone, but decides against it. Sherlock looks like he might metaphorically bite and Jay doesn't feel up to a catfight.

"Yes, dearest," he says, instead. "I'm Jay. Distict Six. You're, ah ... well. You're certainly not a stylist."

He smiles, to show that it was a joke, however mean-spirited. He takes a cigarette out of the pack and tries to light it with a click of his fingers but, of course, his magic's gone and he produces only rather pathetic snapping sounds.

"Oh, bugger," he says, more to himself than to Sherlock.

[shambler]

It's the clothes that got R's attention on his way back from the Speakeasy. It's ragged, not flashy and in your face like everything else in the Capitol. If it wasn't for the Living smell wafting off him in waves, R would've mistaken him for a fresh zombie or someone ready to turn, the sweat beading on his forehead and the dark bags under his eyes making him look like he was infected.

R can't help it. He's curious for a zombie and it's always been one of his quirks that makes the other corpses shoot him baffled looks. R indulges.

He changes directions, his feet dragging as he staggers toward the fountain and the man. After all the glitter and horns and faux scales at the parties, R's almost glad to see some real jeans here. It's like a little piece of home. Conversation's better, though.

"Where...did you get...those?" R finally gets close enough for his moan to carry through his muzzle. Christ, he really wishes he could move faster. It makes anything long-distance a major pain and he's not dead enough to be incapable of boredom. The zombie's hand flops up to point at the man's jeans and sweater. R might even be a little jealous.

[honeyedwords]

Sherlock is beginning to strongly regret picking this bench in particular. It may not be frequented by the drones of the Capitol, but it's beginning to look like the place to be for the rest of the myriad outsiders dragged in from the districts and beyond. This one in particular looks to be pretty out there, to put it one way. Between the labored speech, deathly pallor, and unnatural blackness to his veins, he almost appears to be on the brink of death. Possibly a little bit past that, even. Sherlock tsks, mostly to himself, as he wonders what the Gamemakers are thinking throwing someone like this into the arena.

"Standard clothing allotment," he says, tersely. Technically with his winnings he could buy himself a nicer outfit, but he doesn't see the point. They'll only wind up ruined anyway, and it's not as if he has anyone left to impress. "Much like you I'm not from the Capitol, and I don't see fit to strut around dressed like a peacock."

[shambler]

Popular bench - who knew?

"Could...you get...me some? Hoodie," R moans, deciding he better be specific. He realizes after a long moment that he better introduce himself while he's at it, now that he was having all these conversations with Living, breathing people all of a sudden. Bumping shoulders and staring stupidly into each others' eyes won't cut it anymore. "I'm...Rr."

He starts by wobbling a foot closer, firmly invading any personal space to stick out a hand that's gray and riddled with veins because he's eager to practice his handshakes. It's the Living thing to do. R already likes how the guy is blunt, says it like it is instead of making R guess. It's easier that way.

[bellabellabella]

Edward would have had a difficult time naming all the myriad ways that this was disorientating if he had a week to do so.

He had woken up. He felt blind, deaf, scent-deaf, slow, weak, and in what was one of the stranger twists (it would be easier to convince himself of this if everything weren't so completely bizarre), everyone here either had the same mental trick that the girl - Bella, Isabella Swan - had, or he'd somehow been stripped of his ability to read minds. Part of the reason he was out now was to put that theory to the test, and in so doing he had also realized that, at the very least, there was some benefit to all of this. The venom burned in Edward's throat as always, the flames raging higher as they always did when he was as thirsty as he was now, but it wasn't nearly as painful to be around humans as it normally was. He couldn't smell them, not like he normally could - he had to be pathetically close to do so. He couldn't hear the wet thump of their hearts nearly so well as he had grown accustomed to.

It was simultaneously aggravating and somehow liberating. He wasn't free of the thirst, but neither was he nearly as interested in these humans as he normally was. Thusfar there didn't appear to be any geographic limits to this weakening, however the effect had been achieved, though Edward did not honestly expect it to lessen within so short a stretch.

The people here. The clothes. And this only made the man who was huddled to himself more apparent.

Edward stopped and watched him, curiously. No one could be still like Edward could, though nearly a century of pretending to be human had, at least, left him with an automatic set of motions to use, things to make sure he wasn't wholly still.

[honeyedwords]

Over the past 15 years, Sherlock has had more than enough time to develop a sense for when he's being watched. Of course, in the Capitol it's safe to assume you're always being watched, but suddenly the sensation becomes much more pressing and immediate, and he looks up to see an unnaturally pale man staring at him. Another tribute from far-off times and lands, no doubt. One would think the Capitol would be more careful about letting them roam free than the ones they reaped from the districts, not less.

"Well?" he asks of the pale man, a bit more sharply than entirely necessary. "Are you going to stand there and gape until sunrise or are you going to say something?"

[bellabellabella]

His eyes were black - the color was startling against the white pallor of his skin, though the contrast was softened by the deep purple bruises under his eyes, as though he was recovering from a broken nose, or suffering from a long bout of insomnia. Seeing as how his nose was perfect, with no signs of a break, the second option was the more likely. Edward smiled a little at the question. The expression was charming, polite, but something in his eyes was still more interested than it should be.

"I'd consider it unlikely," he said softly, an edge of amusement coloring a very smooth, attractive voice. "Admittedly, I wasn't aware I was gaping. Doesn't that usually require some feeling of bewilderment?"

[gruesome]

It was another party, another notch in Some's one-grue campaign to get the public to stop calling him a monster before Ele fought in the Arena and he became only her boring shadow. And he was heading back to the Tower frustrated, slipping around the darkened edges of the park to avoid the usual gawkers at the fountain.

He smelled the man on the bench before he saw him, that chemical tang of sickness, and hesitated.

"... Sir? Are you all right?" he asked, as he was stepping out of the blackness under the tress.

[honeyedwords]

Upon seeing this new arrival, Sherlock starts slightly and makes a graceless noise best approximated by ngah, but he's quick to compose himself again. Obviously the first thing he resorts to is backsass.

"Absolutely peachy," he replies, smiling wryly up at his unnerving new companion. "Never felt better in my life. You're one of the new tributes, then? Deepest condolences."

There, a convenient change of subject. Now he doesn't have to talk about the mild hell he's currently going through and can instead focus on the actual hell someone else has just gone through and/or will go through in the near future.

[gruesome]

"... You aren't another?" he asked, surprised. The clothes, the deshabille, and the condolences didn't say 'Panem' to him.

"I belong to District Eight."

[sleeplessinalternia]

Karkat mostly goes into the city at night--unless he has to buy something with his cull money, since humans and their weird diurnal thing means that the stores are mostly just open in the day. Luckily, though, they are perfectly fine having their movie hives play films at a more sensible hour.

It was a good movie too, about a playboy District Two Career Victor who only slept with so many Capitol girls because he'd been in love with his Escort since he was reaped and she still thought of him as a scared fifteen-year-old. The lead actress even looked a little bit like Troll Meg Ryan. The only annoying part was how he'd had to sit way at the front of the theatre in the nosebleed section because too many dickheads with large (fake) horns were sitting in the middle rows. Humans.

Some of the fake horns were really fucking ridiculous too. Not everyone seemed to have realized that horns only came in orange fading to white, so Karkat had seen way too many fake horns in totally stupid colors like pink and electric blue. He'd even seen someone wearing a pair of rainbow horns, their shape modeled of the initiate. Gamzee would have loved those stupid horns, Karkat thinks.

Fuck, he misses Gamzee. He misses every single one of them really. It's probably worst with Sollux and Gamzee and Terezi. Sollux and Gamzee because of the Helmsman and the Initiate reminding him who they aren't all the time and Terezi because... she was Terezi.

In fact, Karkat is too busy missing people that he forgets to pay too much attention to the path ahead of him. And it turns out that when you bang your nubs against the wrought metal sides of a Capitol park bench it really fucking hurts.

"FUCK!!!"

[honeyedwords]

The rather percussive interruption on Karkat's behalf earns him a very wary raised eyebrow. Sherlock's plenty familiar with the phenomena of being too wrapped up in yourself to be bothered to think about anything else, and this grey, pointy young man's got the right look about him for it.

"You might consider looking into improving your multitasking ability," he says, calmly. "Might save your life one day."

[sleeplessinalternia]

Karkat glares at the guy on the bench. He's a little plain-looking for a Capitol citizen, but what the fuck does he know, all these humans kind of look the same anyway? "I can multitask perfectly fine," he says huffily. "And I've already died once so your help is too fucking late."

[savedbyasong]

Shion was a little lost, he should have never tried to leave the tribute tower. It had been a Bad Idea. About as bad as going out alone in West Town.

Well actually no, not that bad, so far no one had tried to kiss him or kill him. But he had been captured by a woman who had spent half an hour telling him how easy his hair would be to dye and how he should ask his stylist about it.

So he was avoiding shops, but it didn't get away from the fact he was lost. So when he spotted the man who looked the most normal he had seen in a while he headed over.

"Excuse me sir can you he..." He blinked taking in the man's appearance. "Are you alright? Do you need any help?"

The panicked look had left his eyes replaced with concern and he seemed a lot calmer than he had been coming over.

[honeyedwords]

"Perfectly fine, never been better," replies Sherlock with a tone much like that of a student reciting the answer to a particularly banal question. He's not sure if he prefers being around the Capitol people who know him for what he is and treat him as not much more than a novelty or all of these bystanders from different times and places who don't and as such insist on showing concern for him.

"You, meanwhile, are lost. Are you looking for the way to the training center, or away from it?"

[xanthous]

The Psiioniic doesn't particularly like leaving the Training Center. He hates the hustle and bustle of the Capitol, he hates how everything is so artificial, he hates how the place is so big but it feels so tight. He hates the smell and the noise, he hates the idiots wearing fake horns because trolls are fashionable.

Mostly he hates the fact that he's here, in the Capitol and alive. He'd rather be dead in the arena still, instead of stuck in this city where he's gawked at. He knows he's the most unusual trolls, with his four horns and his stupid, mutant eyes and the scars that circle them and run down his shoulders and arms and up his legs and hips, but that doesn't mean he enjoys the attention. It's a desire for peace and quiet that gets him out of the tower, and it's the ingrained need for motion that leads him to the park and that sets him pacing. After being in a helm for centuries on top of centuries and constantly moving, being stuck on one planet is a little jarring.

Maybe it would be less so if he wasn't stripped of his powers. Without the terrified whispers of the soon to be deceased in his mind and the hum of his psionics crackling under his skin, he feels wrong and out of place. He wraps his arms around himself as he paces the park, constantly tugging the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands. He mutters to himself in Alternian because he doesn't want to forget and the chirps and clicking is coming easier to him then the odd words of the Capitol's language. There's a man right there on the bench he's pacing next to, but he can't find it in himself to care about keeping his volume in check. Nobody in the Capitol deserves his respect, and if he's causing a scene and disrupting the strange man on the bench, then good.

[honeyedwords]

For his part, Sherlock is mostly just listening quietly. Unfortunately his untrained ear is unable to distinguish between the different hisses and clicks carefully enough for him to begin picking out phrases and words, but it's a fascinating exercise nonetheless. The man himself is of interest as well. Those scars weren't obtained during the games, as they're far too intricate and suggest something growing into his skin over a long period of time before being removed by some means. Additionally, he recalls no reports of tributes being consumed by biomass, and the Capitol likely would have patched over any injuries sustained in the game, what with their hypocritical obsession with smooth, unmarred flesh.

He doesn't feel too bad about watching this man so intently. After all, if he didn't want to be watched he could always go pace by a different bench, and Sherlock was here first. He figures he might as well get something out of it.

[drpsychosomatic]

"Really. Really, this is what we're going to do now?"

The words weren't shouted, exactly, but they were certainly hurled with no small amount of vigour by the smaller of a pair of Tributes at his taller companion- the former stalking through the park irritably while the latter followed, clearly intent on continuing whatever argument had brought them out here so late at night. The smaller turned on his heel and glared up at his pursuer.

"It never occurred to you that maybe she's doing the best she can of a bad job? They're not evil, Sherlock. And she's-- she's certainly not."

[alldeduction]

"Oh, did I miss the part where she attacked me?"

The tall one - dark, dressed in a long coat despite the weather being warmer than it had been, and fairly muted for something made in the capitol - did not raise his voice. It was sharp, and cold, loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby but no louder. His eyes, however, spoke volumes - narrowed and glaring, his shoulders tight. He might have been slightly exaggerating about being attacked, per say, but she had smeared make-up all over his chest and he wasn't about to forget it.

"She isn't even a Mentor, John - even when they were murdering children she aided and abetted the system - prepared, primped, and saw them to their deaths. I've seen some of the footage from the 74th games--"

[arachnoble]

Oh, Sherlock. You're a mess, but a predictable mess. Sybille isn't too surprised to find him well away from the mentor suites, or that he's so far and hidden away from the main hustle and bustle of the park. There's no such thing as "empty" in the Capitol, but it's easy to stick to the shadows.

Sherlock's been hiding and skirting from his duties for years, so again. It's not surprising. Sybille hadn't gone out with the intent to find Sherlock - he wasn't really her priority - but as she made her way back to the tower she took a detour. If it was because she was stumbling and drunk and decided the air would be a bit sobering was irrelevant, because she was trying to get better. And she would. Soon.

She sits down on the bench gingerly, being mindful of her clothing. It's not the most extravagant thing she's worn, but it's still all severe lines and curves amplified by a corset pulled tight, still made of a material that glitters like spiderwebs in the dim light of this far corner. She still stands out from Sherlock.

"Any particular reason you're out here tonight instead of with our tributes?"

[honeyedwords]

Sherlock almost swears when Sybille appears. He'd get up and leave, but he knows it's futile. She'd find him eventually, after all. There's only so many places in the Capitol he can go unnoticed.

"Well, I doubt they need a babysitter watching over them at all hours, and in any case isn't that your job? To make sure the sacrificial lambs don't go scurrying off to parts unknown? I'm only here to crush the empathy out of them and mold them into perfect killers for the games," he snaps, irritably, sitting back and folding his arms over his chest. So much for having any peace tonight.

"Would you like me to march back there and instruct them in the art of throwing fruit at their enemies? Or perhaps how to miscount the number of tributes remaining and accidentally live until the end of the game. I'm an expert strategist, you see."

[vissernone]

Eva's been around long enough to be used to Mentor's looking like they've just been pulled out a gutter. If she's being honest with herself, she's looked like that often enough, although she usually manages to keep it from being public. Usually.

Tonight, however, she has no inner trainwreck to hide. She's elegant, in a dark feathery dress and a headdress that sweeps back with horns and fabric like smoke and wind wiping sequins into the air. And in her composure she can allow herself to move slowly, to pick up the hem of her dress to walk across the grass and sit on the bench.

"District 3?" She knows almost all of them by face, if not by name. She's had a long time to learn.

[honeyedwords]

Sherlock, meanwhile, has an excellent memory for faces and names and has been reviewing surviving past victors to get an idea of who he'll be encountering now that he's done hiding from the Capitol.

"Sherlock Holmes, sixtieth games, wasps. And you're Eva Salazar. District Nine, Thirty-seventh games, used a crossbow for the vast majority of your time in the arena but are most remembered for the use of your bare hands during the final confrontation. You're also struggling with an addiction to alcohol." He is also very observant.

Turning in his seat to face her, he offers his hand for a handshake, smiling wryly. "Pleasure to meet you."