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

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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