(open) Attention, all personnel. New survival manuals have arrived.

[swill]

Who| Hawkeye and anyone!
What| He has his first adventure in the Capitol; don't worry, it's a tame one.
Where| Out in the city, then in the common room.
When| Week 6
Warnings/Notes| None yet!

Dying was new. Dying as in losing his life. Dying as in being lost in terror and losing all or most sense of being a person, he'd done before. Despite it all- the miracles of medicine he had no doubt experienced moments prior to being escorted to his room, before he lay in the luxurious bed for hours and stood under the warm spray of water in the shower for hours more- Hawkeye felt like he'd just done all of this before. He felt he should be more thrilled. He wasn't. He wondered if maybe that meant something was wrong with him, that he hadn't hollered and hooted at taking a breath of air again, at seeing his hand whole, at being able to move without pain. After a night back in the company of the living -because he sure as hell wasn't dead and this sure wasn't Hell or Heaven- Hawkeye had convinced himself he was as sane as he should be and as content as was acceptable to be.

[Out and About]
Silent pep talk done with, he silently slipped out of his quarters -it was weird, thinking that entire room was for him alone- and with a skip to his step, he dared venture down to the common room, the lobby, that place where he inferred all the poor bastards and disheartened saps had to congregate or at least pass through to get away. A first step. And he wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed the color before -chalked it up to his being in shock- but it's what strikes him first after the relief of getting an elevator ride done with. Color! Again, he was supposed to hoot and shriek. He had whined about the dullness of olive and green and beige all around him for the past three years. He had dreamed about color, about bright reds and oranges, and pinks and blues. But suddenly it was too much, too bright, too soon. He stepped through the room without much celebration. One woman with a too-pale face and make-up that'd make the crudest call girl cringe waved at him and he waved back. Hello, stranger. Hello, strange world. There were televisions around- or projections- or whatever. They forced him to look ahead, to his goal and nothing else: out. Lovely room, lovely showers, lovely beds and sofas and what a lovely lounge. But he had to get out.

And when he finally did step out, he wasn't sure if he should keep walking. Hawkeye looked this way and that, found a road that seemed straight enough, and marched on. The Capitol had to end somewhere, by God, or maybe that was the liquor talking. His suite had been stocked.

[Central Commons]
But it didn't end. And eventually he found himself sprawled over one of the couches, screwing with the communicator, drawing back every time he'd manage to make it do anything and shutting it down. He decidedly kept his eyes off the projections of the Games still on-going. He bemoaned the fact that he didn't have a ball and paddle or yo-yo. When a man with bluish skin and green hair strolled on by, Hawkeye whistled shrilly to get his attention, asked how life as a stick of broccoli was going for him, and fought back the urge to deck him for the hell of it. But it'd look silly to exert so much effort into something that would be so fruitless when Hawkeye was upside down in the seat now, head danging where his legs should and legs bent comfortably over the back of the chair. It at least earned him a look here and there and Hawkeye took it as more evidence that he was, in fact, alive again.

So he had said he was through freaking out about that earlier. So he'd lied. Sue him. Do it.

Someone to his right, another freak, another stupid person in this new and stupid world, talks about a lost bet. Hawkeye growls, pretends he's a dog. Gets the person to at least step away. His eyes catch, after much struggle to keep them averted, a replay on one of those fantastic screens. The jungle's shown, a pair of strangers fight. Someone here, away from the jungle, talks about betting again. He swears he would have punched the bastard if he had gotten right-side up quick enough to find the face he was looking for. Hawkeye feels a shudder travel through him, and knows his finger isn't steady as he points at the screen ahead and hollers, red in the face, in a higher pitch than he'd cared for, "Somebody shut that damned thing off!"

What the heck was the matter with these people?

"Or tune it to a different channel! It's been the same thing playing all damn day."

Didn't they get bored? He did. He got bored easily.

Comments

[swill]

"They're failing."

Awareness wasn't celebration. And thank God if she believed in him and damn Him if she didn't that Hawkeye got his finger somehow caught in the laces, that he hopped once and twice on one foot as he tried to get it free and kick off what he had planned to throw at the movies instead. Two seconds of absurdity and the steam falling, Hawkeye let go his scheme and planted both feet on the ground and, hey, that could almost pass for figurative language. Almost. He does this gesture like he's dusting off his hands, like he's straightening the front of his shirt, like he's trying to overcompensate and be proper after his folly. Gee, he hadn't even been trying that time.

And no-- aware. No, he didn't believe it. He starts mumbling, messing with his hair now, going to extra twenty miles in his you didn't see that, nothing happened, act nonchalant routine. Her good cop act was killing him. "You don't know what stress is," he insisted. There's no venom in his words but they might sound less cold if there was. Finally he drops his hands to his sides, heavy. Gee, how embarrassing. "Couldn't find what to wear this morning? Cat ate the lipstick? Yeah, that's stressful. No, seriously. We had one guy in the comp-- do you know people are aware of the war, but they don't--"

Celebrate? Yes, they did. He had. Bet? Yes. Dance? Hoot? Laugh? Televise?

Christ, he's lost. If he looks it, for a second, he doesn't care and he thinks he might be too hungry to. And he hates her damn kicked puppy eyes. "None of this is new, ya know. I'm not stressed. What's wrong with you?"

[mannersmatter]

Effie found herself watching him, listening to him in a way she hadn't in awhile. He reminded her, in a way, of Haymitch. A less broken Haymitch, though...from the looks of it, not by much. What had been going on in his home world? The question was almost at the tip of her tongue, in a small talk sort of way, when she stopped herself.

He didn't really seem to want small talk.

The last question caught her off guard, and she blinked at him for a moment, before scoffing softly and tossing her head. The curls piled atop of it, of course, didn't budge.

"Whatever do you mean?"

[swill]

He looks at her. Just stands there and looks at her and doesn't hide and lingering gaze and doesn't feel any shame for the frown that he sports. Looks at her legs and adornments and her waist and her face and he can convince himself he's talking to a Christmas tree, if he were any drowsier or on any medication. Not human, the little annoying voice in the back of his head called. But it'd been wrong before. And a blind make-up artist did not a monster make, although consulting with the crying children may be a wise choice to call that one. No, no. Hawkeye didn't know what to make of Effie Trinket.

He made a sweeping gesture at the space between them, like he was some theatre clown. "This," he insists, voice flat and demanding and irritated and curious. So damn curious. There's an urgency to it, like his mind would lose itself if he wasn't satisfied in the next second. "Why are you talking to me? Why are you still here?" And he figures the second question's the better one, if only because it's less hostile. Not that he meant to be. Honest. "I'm just a tribute. I barked at someone. I'd have bitten- I almost threw a shoe at you. That is, if I had missed the television, you'd have been the next target. I know I'm charming, doll, but I'm also a hell of a handful. There's a list I have on me that'll vouch for that."

[mannersmatter]

She frowned, looking down. Why had she stopped for this long? He wasn't her tribute, and it wasn't really her mess to be cleaning up, was it? In fact if he made a bigger mess, that'd be less issues for her tributes to deal with.

But even as the thought crosses her mind, Effie can feel herself recoiling from it. Being here, so much, among the Tributes, she can't imagine wishing harm on any Tribute that didn't deserve it. And being angry, confused, her...that wasn't asking for it, because they didn't ask for this?

It was something harder to push away than it had been before, when you practically lived with them.

And even under that, why hadn't she walked away from him?

"Because...this isn't your fault. And...being upset, well. Who wouldn't be." Her voice was clipped, short, because she didn't really know how to express these ideas quiet yet. "And you remind me of an...old friend."

One that, each time she thought of him, she was more sure she'd never see again. Never been able to tell that e had somehow become a friend in this time.

[swill]

"Oh," he says, not convinced but determined to now play along. He finds a chair and lets himself fall to it, sprawled and with his head cocked to one side, so intrigued. It sounded like she had rehearsed that, he thinks, and was just a bad speaker when the curtains were pulled back from the stage. Who wouldn't be mad? Who wouldn't be upset at murder? A lot of people. He found it made him odd that he was.

And he wondered just what part of him reminded her of that old friend- the abuse, the brash judgement, the shouting, the stumbling, the swilling, the swimming head. "Are you sure you want to insult him like that?" Hawkeye went on, because surely the woman only knew friends with big wigs and costumes and the money or status or nerve or live so sheltered. It might leave a bad taste in his mouth, to know his friend is comparing him to a pitiful loser of a man, doomed to be dazed and devastated by anything the Capitol will throw his way.

[mannersmatter]

She let out a small laugh. "I'm fairly certain he wouldn't be insulted. He'd probably offer you a drink for managing to ruffle my feathers."

She could hear it now. But that was neither here nor there, and telling this man about someone he would never meet wasn't exactly going to make his day any better. Nor was it making hers better to linger on a missing friend. And a pity she hadn't considered Haymitch a friend until he was gone.

[swill]

"So you're a bird now?" And he says it so loud and accusingly that he has to reel back and think if he ever does hear what the hell comes out of his own mouth. He even takes a moment to move his mouth, to test his jaw, to see if it works the way it should. And he had turned some heads of onlookers with that stupid remark, and he doesn't know why but he flaps a hand to shoo them away from his thoughts, at least, and some of them chuckle at how demented it had been.

His ears burned.

He decided the best way to proceed would be to fidget with a lock of his hair, nonchalance stacked atop of nonchalance in a display not meant to be deceiving. So this woman hadn't... done anything wrong. Said anything wrong. She talked about an old friend, and what was wrong with that? Christ, he didn't know what to do. "The least I can get out of this lovely conversation is your name," he continued. "In case I ever see your friend, I can know which name to give him when I start running up his tab." Right. Civil. He can play along, see, and all it took was humiliation.

[mannersmatter]

That does get a particularly strange look from Effie. It wouldn't actually be the first time she had been compared to a bird but...while, perhaps this Tribute had never heard the term ruffled feathers before.

Or perhaps he was mocking her. But she was working on erring on his side, right now. And the reaction after, including the request for her name, seemed to settle that.

"I'm Effie Trinket. I'm the escort for District 12. And yourself...?" She asked, extending a hand cautiously.

[swill]

With a name like that, attached to the day he had had and the exhaustion he was beginning to become familiar with, was beginning to welcome, Hawkeye thought in that moment that he'd never forget her. Her face might be lost in crowds, her terrible sense of fashion the perfect camouflage in this jungle. But her voice, that would sicken him later if he thought too long on it, and her name, he'd remember.

It was such a stupid name, and he'd file her away as 'Bird' in his head. 'Pigeon' was too chummy.

Hawkeye looked on, unimpressed. He didn't know what he was trying to show, but that he was a nut was already known. If he wasn't sitting, he'd have curtsied. Instead he reaches out a hand to shake hers, if she had asked for it or not with her gesture he wasn't sure. But before he makes contact, the hand is jerked back and up- and he gives a crisp and, God forgive him, proper salute.

"I'm from Four," he chirps up, realizing he'd stayed quiet too long. His neutral mask is tossed aside for a moment- he does perk up at what he says next. The change in mood, however slight, is evident in his tone. "They tell me there's a lot of fishing that goes on there. Which, if I had to represent anywhere, I'd like to represent a fishing, uh, community, ya know? I'm from C-- I'm from a small town, up in Maine, probably a million miles from here where I'll never lay eyes on it again." He waves a hand again, at nothing, and settles. "We fish a lot there. But I don't think that's what you were asking for, doll." He was just giving himself time to think, because he had so many names and none of them entirely proper for this.

But he had to settle on one, and so he says, "Captain Benjamin Pierce, U.S. Army."

[mannersmatter]

This she was much more familiar with. Feeling more on friendly territory, she smiled grandly at him.

"Four is a beautiful place. It's a good District to end up assigned." When she was starting out, Four had actually been one of the places she had wanted to get. Though her sour feelings towards 12 were gone, she still had a special place in her heart for Four.

"Maine is-was on the east coast, yes? Far north?"

[swill]

Beautiful. Yeah. He'd harbor the word and make it the target of aggression later. His heart was too busy being assaulted to have any say in poor wording on Effie's part. And of course it had to be true, because it wasn't like he had ever once heard the words 'damn Canadians' here yet. There's a lull there, in the conversation. It had happened before, sure, but Hawkeye was almost sure this time it was audible. His lips were just parted so he could feel himself close his mouth and swallow a breath, because his lungs burned from a distinct lack of breathing.

Was.

Yeah, sure. Just carry on.

He schools himself back to broadcast casual intrigue. His voice continues high, not in a desperate way but enthusiastic, if dulled. "We're the... Maine's the northernmost state of the United States of America. A lot of gorgeous places. I don't care how pretty Four is, but it won't even compare to a day in Maine. We have these forests. Lots of rivers. A lot of wildlife, actually, we're not as densely populated as a lot of other states. And every Mainer's an honorary Canadian and we all ride our moose to school, and every young boy wants to grow up to be a lumberjack." He really shouldn't be surprised to find that everybody was dead. But hell.

[mannersmatter]

"That sounds beautiful. 12 is, actually, fairly close to where Maine would be, now, though I think technically it falls in 7." Or 13, she couldn't remember. But really, that wasn't anything to be bringing up right now.

"12 is my district. Farther south than Maine, though. But still, beautiful forest, wild life..."

No moose. She had had no idea those were kept as pets. She had never seen one before, but had the impression they were quite big. Maybe they were more like horses, now a days.