Elemental Artisan

“Looks like we’re in this together now.”

"No harm or danger, and I have no intentions of stopping you from inhaling your meal, but next time you should let me cook. Might not look it, Gabe, but I can fry up a decent breakfast."

Gabriel paused with a fork halfway to his mouth, the easy warmth in Alex's voice cutting through the old static in his head like a clear signal. He set the plate aside, a real grin tugging at his lips—not the sharp emperor's smirk, but something softer, earned. "Deal, Alex. Next time you sling the hash, I'll play critic and keep the galaxy from imploding in the meantime." He meant it, that small promise, because Alex showing up like this, no shields up, made him want to meet him there, one careful step past the wreckage.

Joe Manganiello

“Yes… none of us meet “formally”… we only meet the versions of ourselves we’ve been casted in.” She hums to herself, tunelessly, before continuing, “there are many like you… but only two of us in District 3. My former mentor, the Capitol’s favorite genius… and me, his broken protégé, the only tribute he ever brought home since his own games…” she then meets his eyes, the lucidity suddenly in the grey eyes is unsettling… and so is the smile that crosses her expression, “and yet… one of us was assigned to the Capitol to design and code a light-show for a head peacekeeper’s birthday… and the other is here because for all their control, even the capitol knows that one wrong line of code and the entire weapon store…” her voice trails off… and she mimics an explosion with her hands. She then, even more unsettlingly, laughs to herself, a joyless sound… before eyes blink… and suddenly, she looks the same as before. A frail, thin woman drowning in a technician’s uniform, staring at him with too wide blue-grey eyes.

He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing her whole as he scanned the room to make sure no Peacekeepers were within earshot. For a second, the struggle to be "decent" vanished, replaced by a raw, recognition of a kindred spirit. "Careful, Wiress," he rasped, his voice barely a vibration in the air. "That kind of talk gets people turned into Avoxes." He looked at her frail frame, then back at those wide, vacant eyes, and realized he wasn't sure if he was warning her or thanking her for the thought.

But then she speaks again, “Meant to… ask how you’ve been. I don’t believe we’ve formally met… other than a victory tour… or passing in the capitol.”

"I've been better," he said, the lie dying in his throat before it could even form. He looked down at his boots, then back at her, his expression tightening as he fought the urge to revert to a snarl. "I don't do 'formally,' Wiress. And the Capitol... well, the Capitol doesn't exactly leave much of a man left to meet." He shifted uncomfortably, his large hands knotting into fists at his sides before he consciously forced them to relax. He was trying, but he felt like a wolf trying to learn how to sit at a dinner table.

“Where did you pick?”

“Vulcan.” Wiress finally says, as if her mouth was testing the way it sounded, “Vulcan, yes. I have meant to…” her voice trails off as if she’d suddenly forgotten how to speak… or maybe in her mind she’s still speaking. But it’s back to that unsettling stare. Her thin hands twitch, almost like articulating a conversation she’s having in her own head.

Yet, he didn't leave. He saw the way her hollow cheeks caught the light and remembered the way his mother’s face had looked at the end—frail, forgotten, and discarded by a world that only valued the strong. He swallowed the urge to snap at her and instead took a small, deliberate step back to give her air. "Take your time," he muttered, his voice sounding rusty even to his own ears. It was a clumsy, heavy-handed attempt at patience, but for a man who lived by the sword, it was the closest thing to a mercy he had left.

Clint could see the invisible fence around them though not as clearly as he should. He only could see it as some kind of shimmer. "What is this place? And why am I here?"

Send "Outch!" for the oposite.

“Vulcan.” Wiress finally says, as if her mouth was testing the way it sounded, “Vulcan, yes. I have meant to…” her voice trails off as if she’d suddenly forgotten how to speak… or maybe in her mind she’s still speaking. But it’s back to that unsettling stare. Her thin hands twitch, almost like articulating a conversation she’s having in her own head.

"Meant to what?" he asked. The words came out gruff, stripped of the polished charm he used for the cameras, but there was no bite in them. He waited, actually waited, watching her twitching fingers as if they were tapping out a code he was supposed to know. "Finish the sentence, Wiress. I'm listening."

“Hey that’s just showing off you know. You’ve got the whole park staring”

"Never heard of Shi'ar Whatever. And I can't do that. Disappointing people is my superpower." He said and then looked around trying to find a way out or just a weak spot or something.

Clint moved with the confidence of someone who was used to breaking locks and outsmarting guards, completely oblivious to the fact that his leash was already pulled taut. Gabriel let out a low, rough breath through his nose, his eyes fixing on the back of Clint’s neck where the metal band sat innocent and dormant. "You're about to learn your second lesson," he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard, waiting for the inevitable spark that would cut the strings on the loudmouth puppet.