thecapitol | I ain't much of a poet but I know somebody once told me

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I ain't much of a poet but I know somebody once told me

Who| Courfeyrac & Open!
What| Resurrected French kid has no idea what the hell is going on.
Where| The Central Common Area + District 11 Suites.
When| The day before the trains leave.
Warnings/Notes| N/A

His head was spinning when he was finally left alone in the suites. It felt like it had been an eternity of listening to those people barking at him in words he couldn't process quickly enough to understand, overwhelming to the point that he thought he might lose face and be sick about it. Wasn't he dead? He didn't specifically recall dying, but he remembered the distinct impression that his own demise had been imminent. If he was dead, was this place hell or heaven? He'd never been a particularly devout young man, but he knew none of this was in the Bible.

Thinking about it hurt, and all Courfeyrac wanted to do was to go dig a hole for himself and return to his time and his sleep. He wanted to wake up from this crazy dream, return to Paris, be anyplace but in this city, in this building, in these wretched rooms.

Depressed, he looked about for a corner in which he could hide and regain his pride, or perhaps fall asleep again and wake up feeling normal. He felt as lost and tired as he looked, and if not for his last shred of vanity, he might not even care.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Very little of what Enjolras says is registering with Courfeyrac. Instead, he is unfortunately taken in by the imposing and genuine marble figure before them. It isn't intentional, but he actually recoils upon recognizing the face staring down on them.

"Pardieu! What in heaven is that?" He casts a sideways glance at his companion, unsure of how to proceed.

"A statue built in honor of my victory." The reply is more flat than easy. Looking up at it still makes him uncomfortable, but they're moving quickly enough. Maybe Courfeyrac will let the issue slide.

"I was on my way to the bookshop when I spotted you. We shall begin our tour there."

He allows himself to be ushered along, but makes note to inquire about the logic behind such an obscenely large and utterly unrealistic erection.

"Lead the way, then." And away from that monstrosity in marble they go.

They meander through the streets. The shops in the Capitol are all unnecessary, filled with designer clothing and artisan cupcakes. Superfluous things no one truly needs. Several minutes pass in silence, and while Enjolras would like to fill the void with something, he's still uncomfortable from having to expose Courfeyrac to the statue. Eventually they stop in front of a small bookshop, more posh and pristine than what he would truly prefer, but a bookshop all the same.

"There we are. I am never looking for anything here, except perhaps an escape from the activity of the Tribute tower. There is rarely a dull moment, but it can become trying at times."

The Capitol is a dizzying sight to novice eyes. Paris in his day had been alive with people and commotion, but it was filthy, twisted, and freezing. This place, on the other hand, is glittering, brilliant, and frightening in its imposition. No barricades could survive on these streets, to be sure. The precision of it almost makes Courfeyrac's stomach turn. He's never seen anything quite so marvelous or unnerving as this.

"Do you come here alone, then?" He gazes over the place, not condemning it from the exterior, but not completely convinced that it was worth going in for a better look.

"Usually," Most of Enjolras' roving through the city were in solitude. Usually they arose from a need to think about things away from his fellow Tributes. Traveling with someone, anyone else meant speculation and slander the next day, and frankly he had little patience for it all. "Sometimes a friend accompanies me. I thought of bringing Marius here, but he hardly notices anything other than Cosette these days.

"I was not looking for anything today other than a way to kill time. We could go in if you are curious, or we could continue. I have no preference in the matter."

Courfeyrac levels a look at Enjolras, one that simply means to remind his friend that he is having a particularly tough day. "I don't think I can rightly engage in anything literary today. I had an especially traumatic morning, you see. Come, take me elsewhere. There must be more ground for me to stamp my anger out on."

"Yes, of course." He takes the admonishment in stride, turning away from the storefront without a second thought. "The Capitol is vast and we can keep walking as long as you would like. However, I caution you, my friend, it will do nothing to alleviate your frustrations."

If anything the visible excesses would probably make them worse. Enjolras could remember very clearly how angry he had been in his first days in Panem.

"I doubt that very much," he answers, stamping his boots into the ground purposefully. "You have your books to ease your mind, I prefer to take a stroll. The air will clear my head. It's been a long time since I could breathe fresh air."

Besides that, he would like to gawk at the spectacle of it all for a moment. The buildings, the strange carriages, even the horribly dressed people wandering the streets, everything catches his eye. Courfeyrac always cared more for the appearances of things than Enjolras did.

"How long have you been in this place? How long have souls been abducted from their God given sleeps to participate in this devilish game?"

"I have been here for 10 months, and three Arenas. However, one stops counting things in terms of days and weeks when shoved into a death match." And there it is again, the pall hanging over them, the implicit order to enjoy their proximity and phantoms of freedom now before they were wrenched from each other again, even if it is only to be temporary.

"The Games have been going on for 76 years now. People have been pulled from other worlds for slightly over 1." And with that, Enjolras is walking again, moving quickly through the streets of the Capitol not unlike the way he had done in Paris. These streets, however, are more broad and require less dodging of pedestrians, carts and carriages. In fact, if Courfeyrac pays attention he might note that there are not carriages at all. "They began abducting people in response to a couple from the Districts who defied the Capitol as they won their Games. I have yet to decide if they were merely foolishly in love, or truly usurping the system. In either scenario, Snow saw them as a threat, evidently, and here we are now."

Edited (typos are a very real threat) 2014-01-12 07:45 (UTC)

This does not fall on deaf ears, or on unmoved ones, but Courfeyrac has a difficult time fathoming that this brilliant future society should have fallen under such a tyrannical rule. He recalls Enjolras' impassioned speech to them at dawn (for it's still that same day for him) and he recalls the splendid vision of a future paradise without famine or hatred or war. A future of democracy. A future of universal brotherhood. What the fuck happened to that beautiful dream?

"And what caused them to begin seventy-six years ago?"

"A failed rebellion. They destroyed the District that originated it entirely. They used something called nuclear weapons which I am told are powerful enough to make it uninhabitable even now. I don't understand such things, Courfeyrac, but that is what I have been told." His demeanor now probably stands in stark contrast to the impassioned words exchanged at the barricade. There, Enjolras could express his opinions, his visions, without concerns of reprisals against him, or more importantly, against anyone close to him.

"After that, they selected two children from each District every year and forced them to fight. The winners would receive better rations for their District, never mind the fact that it is always in a prosperous nation's best interests to provide for its people. The people refused to rebel again so long as their children were the hostages and I can understand their concerns." He pauses, chewing his lip. It's a bad habit, insecure and tentative rather than thoughtful. It's something he's only started doing since being brought here. "Now, I cannot say what stops them. We should be their emancipation, instead they are just as captive as ever."

There is no cry of disbelief or even look of sadness on Courfeyrac's face, not because he is cold or unmoved by the plight of these people, but rather because it would seem they have been systematically subjugated and perhaps don't even believe themselves to be free any longer.

But then, another line of questions presents themselves, and he at last frowns. Vaguely, he wishes Combeferre were here to explain everything away in some human and logical manner.

"And the point of murdering children is what? Snuffing out the lives of little ones gains them what? The anguish of the mother, the horror of the people. But what does that gain the government? Logistically, logically. Who benefits from these murders?" He crosses his arms, almost defending himself from this sickening, glittering world. "And who benefits from being oppressed? You must appeal to the lowest denominator, Enjolras. If you wish for the people to throw off their chains, you must sell them the appeal."

Enjolras listens patiently through his friend's tirade. He's thought and said just as much in the 10 month since his arrival. There isn't a day he can yet remember without some form of that debate presenting itself, some fragment of his argument being picked at until it is no longer an argument at all, even when he knows in his immortal soul that it is and it is valid. Hearing Courfeyrac reiterate his thoughts back at him, entirely organically, is only reassurance to Enjolras that he is not, in fact, mad or some sort of idealistic fool. It's comforting, despite the frustrations he knows his friend is about to endure.

"I have had no opportunity to do so," He pulls his arm from where it's linked with Courfeyrac's only to replace it again over the man's shoulders. "They have kept us from the Districts, my friend, and the only people from the Districts to reside in the Capitol are previous Victors of the Games. I suspect they do this for the very reason you suggest. I suspect that the people anticipate a rebellion and that the only thing which prevents them now that their children are safe are the years of oppression. A man born into slavery will always be a slave, but there is nothing harder to conquer than a free nation."

The words are quick, spoken with a dangerous, conspiratory edge. Yes, with Courfeyrac here, things could begin to change. Abruptly, his tone shifted, a detachment seeping into it even as he neglected to break their contact. "I have been cautioned against speaking so openly about my dissent, and I should offer you the same advice. We can maintain French for now, and I do not think they will notice unless they take the time to study tapes of us. Which they will do, eventually, I am sure. Eponine has been teaching me a language similar to French, but that they cannot understand, or if you still remember Occitan, we should use that whenever possible. The Capitol does not take kindly to talk of revolution, nor are they civilized in their reprisals."

"Of course I remember Occitan," he says softly, at once keenly aware of the warnings he's heard repeated since he arrived. They are being watched. They are watching, always. Then, speaking quickly in the other language, he continues, "I understand the necessary precautions."

With a cautious glance over his shoulder, he tugs at Enjolras' arm. "Come. I think my appetite has returned. Let's find your friend. We can discuss the revolution in time."

"Alright," The reply is in Occitan, the ancient language of their grandparents, spoken around them since childhood, now even more foreign to him than his own. Courfeyrac has always been more reasonable than Enjolras himself, so he isn't sure why the easy agreement makes him uneasy.

Had he more experience with the technology of the Capitol, Enjolras could probably have simply found a phone and called Venus to request that she meet them somewhere. As it is, however, they're doomed by his lack of proficiency to make the walk back to the Tribute Towers and look for her in the District 5 suites. "I hope that you will acclimate soon, my friend, but I hope that you never truly adjust. Too many people come here only to grow complacent to the Capitol and its barbarisms."

"I will never grow complacent," Courfeyrac says with an unmistakeable scowl on his face. He is, unfortunately, reminded of Eponine's horrible warning to him. Her prediction that he would fall in line makes him rage inside. "They might think they can control me with threats or pain of death, but I have already died and been dead a long time, and I tell you it is a marvelous thing. I do not wish to die, but death does not hold the terrible glamor that it once, my friend."

"Let us hope your resolution extends toward others." In that moment, Courfeyrac reminds Enjolras of how he had been when he was brought to Panem. He hadn't cared for anything and so nothing could touch him. He was already dead and so death gave him nothing to fear. In fact, it had been an appealing end, one that seemed to be robbed from him, unfairly traded for this terrible mess. "As a mentor, it is my responsibility to ensure the success of the Tributes in my District. If I were to do something to defy them, they would attack them. I will accept the consequences for my actions, but I will not force those consequences onto innocents."

The solution to that seems simple to Courfeyrac and he wonders why it hasn't occurred to Enjolras too. "So start with them. They are your charges and they are reliant on you. Give them a reason to follow you. I know you know how to do this. We are not free here, so your Tributes will be an easy conquest."

At the familiar voice and the somewhat-less-familiar-voice, Venus' head pops up from over the edge of the couch, where she's been snoozing with a magazine on her stomach. She tries to pat her freshly blow-dried hair out of being lopsided from the nap. Only the fresh makeup (more suited to an evening) and the change of clothes (less revealing, to please the social mores of the Frenchmen) indicate how recently she showered.

She stretches her arms and cracks her neck and joins them in the kitchen, which serves as a mezzanine to the District suite. The magazine lies abandoned on the floor near the couch, waiting for someone to slip on it or for one of the tidier roommates to get anal-retentive about clutter. "Ready to go, or do you two have more conspiring to do together? Allons-y?"

She totally googled that shit.

She holds a notepad out. "Oh, and I heard it's easier to read some languages than it is to speak them. If you can decipher my writing, Monsier, we might have an easier time communicating."

She looks to Enjolras to translate.

Enjolras is preparing a rebuttal to Courfeyrac's suggestion when they walked in. A suggestion that perhaps he should trying convincing Shepard or the Initiate to do anything, if he is so keen on the idea. The point is well taken, of course, but there is only so many times you can tell people that they have nothing to lose by rebellion and have them not hear it before the conversation alone gets tiresome. He is, seemingly, at an impasse with many people here. Ever so slightly out of step, even though in theory they seem so close.

Venus' familiar voice thankfully pulls him away before he can voice these concerns to his friend. His friend who would, very likely, not hear any of that at all.

"I know he reads English even if Monsieur Courfeyrac is afraid he cannot speak. Did I tell you he found Marius work as a translator while we were in school together?" It's a welcomed change of subject. They could discuss their revolution in time, when Courfeyrac has more than an hour of tenuous acclimation under his belt. "And I suspect that he will put forth more effort in your presence than with me alone."

Courfeyrac eyes the notepad, glancing over at Enjolras with a look of curiosity. He knows they're talking about him, can grasp strands of what they're saying, but it's all so quick and jumbled to his ears, and he finds himself longing for this alleged translation device to kick in soon.

"I am pleased to see you, Mademoiselle," he says to Venus in a slow, heavily accented voice, confirming Enjolras' suspicions completely. "I have been longing for some pleasant company since I arrived."

"You didn't, and I haven't been able to say ten words to Marius yet." Venus' face glows with approval at the perfect, if slow English. She leans over her notepad and writes out a phrase: at this rate youll speak better english than i do. Her handwriting is stylized, quick but legible - she's got muscle memory from writing out autographs, which have to look unique and yet easy to read.

She gestures with her pen at the door, grabbing her coat from the rack (the rack is comically tall, due to the attempts to accommodate for the Initiate's towering height). "I hope you've both decided on an appropriate place for dinner. I'm starved."

"The café we went to the other night, I think. It reminds me of a place we frequented in Paris and my insensitive friend should be able to find something he likes there." In truth, he likes it less for its cursory resemblance to the Café Musain, and more for the fact that it is out of the way, off the main streets of the city, and less likely to present him with the unappealing prospect of dodging citizens curious about the personal habits of the latest Victor. "Perhaps we can avoid the absinthe this evening, however. My head still hurts from our last outing."

With a smile, Enjolras turns back to Courfeyrac, an arm inviting him to lead the way out of the spacious suite again. "Venus is more knowledgeable than I about the modern world. If you have questions, she may be able to answer them more easily. I will translate, if you truly require the help."

The English is quick and teasing. It's an implicit challenge to Courfeyrac to step up his game.

Courfeyrac wonders what on earth Enjolras could be referring to with the allusions to absinthe, but he does not ask, he simply leads them out the door. He will demand answers later, for if there is something he should know, he will certainly know it.

"Mademoiselle Venus, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what year we are in presently?" A lengthy and slowly spoken question, to be sure. He is woefully out of practice, having little occasion to practice real English conversation with a native speaker. But the skill is not all lost. It is simply tucked away and not quickly recalled. "This city is nothing like Paris. I've never seen anything resembling it before."

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