Open - A wild Agatha appears!

[agathaheterodyne]

( Editing in a cut so that this is not a wall of text for the disnterested.  )

And that, my friends, is the true story of how Agatha Heterodyne came to be sitting on the floor in the corridors of the Star Ship Enterprise, taking apart a wall panel, and the computer access behind it...

[open]

[stillplaying]

( Back in Panem... )

...and she stops.

Gone is the fresh air. Gone is the slight breeze and the sickly sweet smell of corpses yet to be fully buried. Mockingjays no longer make noise in the distance. There's a different sort of chatter now. A different smell in the air.

Her heart skips a beat in her chest. There are people here. People in a place that looks like a bar but... but can't be a bar. Because there's no bar that looks like this in District 12. There's no time for the people of 12 to just sit around, doing absolutely nothing. Not with all the cleanup and the rebuilding and this can't be possible.

She takes a breath and forces herself to move. Her eyes dart around, aware and alert, already assessing the people in the room and the room itself. Looking for weaknesses, for entrances and exits, for anything she can use for defense in addition to her bow. She doesn't understand it. She doesn't know how she got here, why she's here, or even where here is. But she refuses to be caught off guard. She refuses to have survived this long only to die in... in some new game?

Did they change their mind? Decide that she was too dangerous to be kept in District 12 after all? Bring her back... someplace, alongside all the other unwanted and dangers from the old Capitol? She looks around and tries to spot someone familiar. When that fails, she forces herself to speak loudly, in as firm and threatening a tone as possible.

"I want to talk to President Paylor. Now."




It's only later, after matters are explained, that she's found herself sitting at one of the tables in the corner nursing a cup of tea, that she might be a little more approachable. But there's still a suspicious and angry look on her face and a steel glint in her eye. Her bow and quiver and bag are on the floor next to her but she keeps the skinning knife beside her hand.

Just in case.

The odds have never been in her favor.

Just prior to the drawing of Tributes for the 75th Hunger Games

[nowinners]

The day is hot, stifling really even in the simple clothes he's in. It won't be too much longer though that they'll be forced to be out in it. Just as soon as Effie manages to capture that slip of paper with Katniss' name upon it, then she'll move to the next bowl and then the male tribute will be decided and the ball will begin rolling. He has to wonder which plans will be put into motion depending upon which one of the two names in that second bowl is called. If it's his, there will be no doubt that Peeta will volunteer in his place, leaving him to work those plans outside the arena. If Peeta's name is called, well, he'll volunteer in Peeta's place and certain other plans will need to be taken into action and Peeta will need to be drawn into the fold of a certain plot to take place while he's in the arena with the other tributes.

Needless to say he's startled out of mulling those thoughts over as he observes things when the flash briefly blinds him for a second and when he can see again, it's immediately obvious that he's no longer in District 12. Nearly as immediate, his thoughts go to wondering if somehow, the conspiracy has been uncovered and thus he's been snatched someway, somehow away from 12 to possibly a hovercraft of some type they've never seen before. Well, they won't take him anywhere to be interrogated without a fight, not if they already know about his part in the growing rebellion.

He's observing the room as one hand is slipping under his coat with full intent on getting a hold of the knife hidden within a waistband sheath at the small of his back. It's not all that big of a knife, but the edge is sharp enough to do a decent amount of damage in the hands of someone knowledgeable enough to make it count and he is quite knowledgeable when it comes to using knives. If he's lucky he'll take one of them out and force them to take him out and rob them of the chance to torture information from him, or worse turn him into a weapon against the rebellion.

It's as his eyes fall on the windows that he's briefly confused by the sight beyond them. It can be possibly be explained away via being a trick of display screens, but why would they bother? He gives the sight an annoyed look for the anomaly of it's presence and then resumes scan of the room. The people responsible certainly should be making their presence known soon, or perhaps they're waiting for him to do something actually incriminating. He can explain the action of going for his knife, thanks to the suddenness of his being pulled to this place without the least amount of warning. Any further action however, he should no doubt be careful of if they're trying to confirm whatever information they might have on him. Any actions he does take might end up causing harm not only to him but to others, so caution is definitely something to be advised in this situation.

He has to wonder about the people in the room, are they here to try provoking some sort of action from him or to keep him from acting when his host's arrive? He draws his hand away from the knife after these thoughts, allowing the coat to fall back down to his side naturally. Having spotted what seems to be a bar counter, he makes his way to sit at it as he's no doubt expected to. Not that he actually plans on drinking anything served. There's no telling what sort of drugs might be in any drinks he might be given.


[Closed to dreams_dont_die , ltcolonel , unkindness , asklepian , blindadoration , empathic_pathfinder ]

(no subject)

[tinypink_crane]

( This time on power rangers )

Only when Kimberly pressed the button on her communicator, the scenery changed without her even needing to teleport. This wasn't the command center, this wasn't even the park. She was in another sort of bar..one that definitely didn't look like the youth center.

"Um...serously, this whole dimension hopping is getting really old." Atleast everyone here looked relaxed. Dimension hopping was one thing-dimensions full of hostile creatures were entirely something else.

Carefully, she made her way over to the bar, trying to not look like she was freaking out. "Hello...someone mind telling me where I am?" Maybe how the hell to get back to Angel Grove."

When it was explained to her, she was still sitting at the bar with a drink, moping.

During the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games

[fishermansweater]

Previously: In the arena, Day Two: sometime after 5:00 pm. [ cw: mentions of violence, prostitution, torture, death ].

( In the arena, Day Two: sometime after 8:00 pm. [ cw: mentions of violent death ].  )

Finnick is leaning on the trident, staring at the sky where the last of the memorial images has just faded. District 10. Johanna makes a comment, and he turns to ask his allies who's left of their competition (and of their alliance of conspirators).

Instead, there's a shift around him that jolts him into action. A flash of light shatters the jungle's dark, the ground changes under his feet, the sweltering humidity of the arena's air no longer prickles on his skin.

His hands swing onto position on the trident with barely any conscious effort. He's on the alert for danger: from the arena, from the other tributes, and the slightest change is enough to surge adrenaline through him, every sense on alert.

He looks wild, hardly like the famously well-groomed Capitol heartthrob he's known as throughout Panem. All he's wearing are the undershorts from his outfit for the arena; the jumpsuit was useless after it was riddled with chemical burns, and the undershirt's been wrapped tight around one thigh as a bandage. Large swathes of his skin are covered in healing burns, mottled a greenish color by the ointment he'd smeared on them to stop the itching. His face is worst, a face famous for its beauty across Panem, but now with a swollen nose and the skin of his cheeks and forehead covered in the scabs and the stains from the burns.

His stylist would have a fit.

Though free of the usual eyeshadow and eyeliner to emphasize their startlingly pure color, his sea-green eyes are focused and intent, assessing everything.

He swings his trident into an attacking position and drops low, muscles coiled to lunge at the first sign of threat.

This isn't the arena.

[ This post is plot-locked to asklepian. ]