thecapitol | open

Who | Skye + you!
What | Skye arrives and is upset with this entire situation, to absolutely no one's surprise.
Where | Training Center, various locations therein
When | Now
Warnings/Notes | Mild language warnings.

[ District 6 Suite ]

At first when Skye wakes up she thinks Hydra must have her, and it's only the nausea and disorientation sweeping over her that prevents her from trying to physically assault one of the peacekeepers when they come to lead her away.

(Portals are such a bitch. Thanks for nothing, stupid Nordic alien gods.)

It's once they get her to the Training Center and give her the vague welcome spiel that she realizes how wrong she was. This isn't Hydra. This is, if it's even possible, much worse.

She drags herself into the bathroom and stares at her reflection in the mirror, feeling numb and cold as she tries to process what she's been told. A battle to the death. Things were just starting to seem like they'd be able to make a go for the better, and now she's here, trapped in some foreign world for a celebrity deathmatch. Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? And then: there it is, anger, bubbling up hot and fast. She wrestles it down.

First things first: she needs more information, and she needs to see if she can find her team. Skye pushes her hair back and steps out of the bedroom to meet her suitemates.

[ The Commons ]

She's fiddled with her network device by now, and already figured out the vast breadth of digital information is locked to her--for now. The Tributes list and network had no records of her team, but that doesn't mean anything. They could be here off the record, under lock and key. She knows nothing about how these people operate.

On the other hand, she did see several other familiar names and faces, and her stomach flipped nervously when she saw them. Really? They're pitting a Level 1 agent up against the Avengers? Talk about unfair play.

So in the meantime, she's stuck to good, old-fashioned info hunting. Which is to say, she'd changed into a brightly-colored dress upstairs and is now approaching strangers downstairs with a stunning, confident smile, one hand held out to shake. "Hi! I don't think we've met yet. I'm Skye."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I prefer manager," Stephen replies smoothly, flashing her a grin: the joke puts him a little more at ease. "With some extra responsibilities. I'm here to help you adjust to living in the Capitol, and to help you win the Games."

Help her win the Games. The Games that, for her to win, require her to kill other people: real, living, breathing people.

She couldn't even stand aside and watch Ward die, easily, bloodlessly. No trigger for her to pull, no knife for her to cut with, just Mike and the tiny electroshock disc that he could use to stop or start Ward's heart on command, and Ward's fate dependent on Skye's compliance.

(Do you have it in you to pull the trigger, Skye? Do you?)

"Right. And then what? I get to go home?"

"...no," he corrected, uncomfortably. "I'm afraid not. When you win, you no longer have to play. You live a life of luxury in the Capitol." Something in his tone might tell Skye that this wouldn't be the happy retirement it might sound like. "And you mentor other Tributes competing in the Games." A fidget.

So win, you get to spend the rest of your life the plaything of rich, powerful people while failing to help other people survive; lose, and you die.

Can't bad guys ever just play Flappy Bird instead?

"So I can close my eyes and pretend I'm playing tables in Vegas," she mutters, more to herself than to him. It's basically the same thing.

To him, she adds: "How long do I have before these Games start?"

"A few weeks. The next Arena is due to start around mid-August. I suggest you take the time to prepare, Miss Skye. There's a training room in the basement, but your public image is going to be just as important." Here, Stephen turns serious: this is possibly the most important thing he had to discuss with her. "Do you know how the sponsor system works?"

They use the same calendar, she realizes as he answers her. High school dropout Skye might be, but she remembers elementary school basics: like August being named after some Roman emperor. There is no August without Rome, and no Rome without Earth. So what the hell is going on?

In any case, that's not a whole lot of time to prepare.

"Assume I was just dragged up here and explain it to me."

"When you go into the Arena," Stephen begins, "the people in the Capitol can send you gifts. Food, water, weapons, supplies -- all of it contributes to your chances of winning. They're expensive, though, and the longer you last in an Arena, the more expensive they get. As your Escort, it's my job to convince sponsors to spend money on you, to keep you alive as long as possible. And part of that is crafting an appealing public image for you."

He glances over at the chairs and sofas arranged in a loose u-shape in the common room.

"Would you like to sit down? This could take a few minutes."

At his invitation she drops into a chair and peevishly kicks her legs up, boots and all, onto the coffee table. "So that's what you mean when you're say you're my manager. I'm basically Miley Cyrus. Only I'm telling you now, I'm not doing any music videos where I'm swinging naked on a wrecking ball."

Public image. That so does not sit well with her. Skye is used to operating from secrecy, from behind a computer screen or a covert plane. Ironic given her prior quest to unmask secret government organizations, but that's how hackers operate too. None of this out of the shadows, into the light crap.

Stephen sits down across from her and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees and folding his hands. He raises an eyebrow -- is it at her boots or about the description of Miley Cyrus? Hard to tell -- and gives her a nod.

"Okay," he says with a wry twist of his mouth. "No naked photoshoots. Got it. So how would you like the public to see you, Miss Skye? What makes you special? What stands out?"

Everyone raised their eyebrows at Miley Cyrus, so it's a perfectly natural reaction. And plenty of people raise their eyebrows at Skye too, because she's the kind of person who thrives off of upsetting people's conservative expectations.

"I don't know," she says, not sure how to take the bit of humor she reads in his expression. "You're the pro at this, you tell me. Profile me."

Stephen looked her over, coolly appraising. The professional detachment was what kept it from looking like he was checking her out; his expression was more like someone's who was looking at a puzzle.

Challenge accepted.

"Mmm," he hummed, speaking slowly. "If I had to convince a citizen to sponsor you, right now..." He tapped a finger against his lips. "I'd tell them you were fiery. Irreverent, brave, clever. You're pretty; that helps, but your spunky attitude will get you further. I'd also play you up as mysterious: you won't talk about yourself, you're dodging questions right now," he adds, flashing her a don't think I didn't notice look, "and we don't even have your last name. Clearly, there's more to you than meets the eye, and I'd use that mystery to -- well, to make you look cool, for one thing, but also to get people curious about you. They'll want to see you in action for as long as possible, hoping for clues about what happened to you and what you can do. Et voila: sponsor gifts."

"There is no last name," she offers, studying him right back. "It's just Skye."

He is good at his job, if he can read that much from a five minute conversation. Of course, Skye's always worn her heart on her sleeve, but not everyone knows how to read a person like that.

And she very much doubts his only job is to help her. Better instead to assume he's there to watch her, too.

She leans back casually in her seat, her hands cupped in her lap. "So these sponsors. How are they supposed to know what I want or need?"

"You mean aside from the fact that everyone in Panem watches the Games?" Stephen shrugged. "I'll be keeping a particularly close eye on District 6's Tributes throughout the Arena. If it looks like there's something in particular you could really use, I'll convince someone to send it to you."

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