[ When he wakes up, gasping for breath, he knows something is wrong. It's too dark, the smell of dust not at all the same, sterile smell of 13, no. He quiets his breaths, trying to hold as still as possible, listening to the room. It's not a prison cell, what with it's carpet, but that means little in the Capitol, where he has helped drive the beginning of a rather nasty revolution.

Every muscle in his body goes rigid, tense, as he rises, trying to steady his breathing. This isn't right -- if he's not in 13, or even on the ship to rescue his tributes, then something has gone terribly awry. He rushes the door, finding it opens without resistance, and he barges into the hallway, ready to fight, ready to attack if he needs to break free. He's been in the Games before, and despite the wavering in his step from years of too much to drink, he can handle a peace keeper or two, if he needs to.

He comes out of the room stumbling, swinging, ready for a fight. ]

[ After he found his suitcase (which that in and of itself is alarming), he's taken to wandering the hotel. It has to be a trap, all of this, some ploy by the Capitol. He thought he was rescuing a handful of victors, but somehow they've been duped, thrown back into another version of the games.

He's searching first for a weapon of some sort, but all he has is the empty flask from his suitcase. It could do a little damage if someone was hit with it, of course. He needed to find a way out, and he rounds the main desk, digging around on its shelves until he finally stumbles into the lobby, his head pounding, but alert. There was a fire -- that could be useful, but if only he could find a door out. ]

What the hell is this place? [ Excuse the guy who is checking every single window and window sill, under chairs and decorations, overturning furniture to inspect it, trying to find a camera, anything. He knows they're watching, and when he makes it out of this place, he's going to go after the President himself. ]