The Grand Tournament

Welcome to Capital City

When Locke came to Capital City, it definitely wasn't to be a bartender. Yet here he was, wiping off the counter and listening to a few drunks prattle on about the last Battle Royale in the city's famous arena. Once upon a time, it had been a vicious coliseum in which criminals fought to the death. It had been that way for many years, over a century had Pacem executed its murderers and rapists there. However, the latest Monarch, Empress Angelle, had repurposed it into a place of honor. It was now an arena in which combatants of all walks of life could compete in non-lethal duels. Which was precisely why Locke HAD come to the city. He had hoped he could get in and test his ability. He smirked, an image of him amidst the gladiators with his precious scythe popped into his head. His fantasy of grandeur, however, was interrupted by a new arrival.

"Excuse me" he said. Locke couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. The person before him appeared to be a boy in his mid teens. He had soft, almost effeminate features, a soft jawline framed by a mop of raven colored hair. His honey colored eyes stared at Locke, bordered with voluptuous, pretty eyelashes. It was hard to tell he was male, but his voice was a distinct giveaway. A deep, but gentle voice, like the soul of a poet speaking from the body of a warrior. "Uhm, are you okay?" he asked. Locke flushed slightly, realising he had been staring.

"Y-yeah, thanks" he stammered, clearing his throat. "But this isn't a place for kids." The boy scowled.

"I'm twenty years of age" he snapped. Locke eyebrows raised in surprise. The brunette put on an impish grin.

"Well, adult or not, you're still not old enough to drink" Locke replied, taking an empty mug from a customer. "Thank you, sir. Have a nice evening." He looked over the rest of the room to spot any tables in need of cleaning. Booths lined the walls on either side leading up to the bar. Tables were scattered in a semi organised fashion in between. The exit was on the far side of the room, opposite the bar. From Locke's perspective, the restrooms were to the left of the bar while the kitchen entrance was to the right. Low hanging chandeliers lit the booths with a warm glow from the bulbs. A jukebox sat next to the door, currently playing soft blues.

"I'm not looking for alcohol, I wanted to know if you guys rented rooms" the raven haired male said.

"No, that's the Horace Hall in the southern district" Locke replied, placing the empty pint glass in the sink. "This is Murphy's Place."

"Damn" he muttered, leaning against the bar. He folded his arms on the surface and rested his chin on them. "It's gonna be midnight by the time I get there."

"Can't you use the Crystal Transit?" Locke asked, brushing a few strands of light brown hair out of his face.

"I don't have a pass, and the ticket registry is closed by eight" he grumbled. Locke opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he noticed a fight brewing. A drunk had accidentally stumbled into a bald man with a beard, who was now figuratively up in arms.

"Excuse me" he sighed, speed walking out into the dining room. He came in the middle of a strongly worded sentence of profanity. If swearing was an art form, this man would have an entire gallery to himself. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down" Locke interrupted.

"Kiss my ass!" the man snapped, growing louder in volume.

"Listen, buddy, if you don't calm down I'm gonna have to ask you to leave" he replied, managing to just barely keep his voice even.

"How about you make me?" the man screamed. All attention was now on them.

"Come on, let's go" Locke replied, his voice dangerously close to a hiss. He put his hand gently on the man's shoulder, to which he retaliated with a left hook. Locke ducked and countered with an uppercut, connecting right under his chin. He stumbled back and before he could even regain his balance Locke hit him with a side kick. He fell into an empty table and knocked it over. Locke grabbed him by the shirt and slowly drug him out the door and threw him into the cobblestone street. When he went back in, he began to clean up the mess as his boss, Murphy O'Connor, was telling everyone that the bar was closing early. There were a few disappointed groans, but the crowd began to thin out slowly. Within the next hour the place was clean, the customers gone. All except for the boy, who sat at the bar finishing a glass of milk.