One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Rebellion // [Killian/Damien]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

KILLIAN

It's an open secret in Eleven that most buildings have basements. They are simply necessary in a part of Panem frequented by tornadoes. But they are also far more useful than simple temporary shelters. For one, they can be used to store food during the long, harsh winters. For another, the Peacekeepers who shelter in the officially marked underground when the tornado sirens wail don't think beyond themselves. If they're aware other basements exist, Killian hasn't seen them make any effort to shut them down.

That's what he likes about the speakeasy, buried beneath the Town Square. It's both public knowledge and totally private, a cave and oasis all rolled into one.

There are downsides. He picks up a candle as he enters (no electricity). If he has to piss, he'll have to leave and not return until the next night (no plumbing, and the bartender can't have drunks coming and going without arousing suspicion). Armed with the candle and empty bladder, he weaves between the crowded tables and squeezes into the last seat the bar. Tonight it's mostly country folk, coated in dirt from a long day at the fields. Killian is too clean to blend in, so he doesn't bother. He drops his shoulders, opens up his chest and loudly orders scotch, neat.

He's been a patron of this bar for a long time. One slap of the bartop for iced tea, two for actual liquor. Tonight, he slaps it twice.

The barkeep raises an eyebrow as he passes Killian the glass. "Special occasion?"

"It's the start of the Games. Course it's special," Killian says without missing a beat and downs the glass. "Another."

The second glass he spins on the countertop, watching its reflection. The barkeep moves up and down, tending to other patrons. It's late by the time he circles back to Killian. He leans in close. "Bad news?"

"Certainly wouldn't be any good news right now." Killian sighs. "But no, they're both still alive."

The barkeep taps the wood twice with his knuckles and then cocks his head at a young man seated down the way. "Might be worth introducing yourself."

"What would I do without you?" Killian grins. He rotates the glass one more time, gets Damien's reflection, and then slides the glass expertly down the bartop, giving it just enough force to bump into Damien's arm. And Killian is there almost exactly as it does so, looming over him. "You're the older Newton boy, right? Name's Killian and this round's on me."