there is a pseudo-intellectual in me; open

[orestes]

WHO| Enjolras and open!
WHAT| Happenings around the Capitol.
WHERE| Commons and the Tribute Center at least. I'm cool if you want to start something elsewhere, too. c:
WHEN| Generally in Week 2.
WARNINGS| Highhanded philosophical ridiculousness, probably.



[1; training center]

Generally speaking, Enjolras avoids the designated training areas. It isn't that he has something against physical fitness, or is somehow embarrassed by his decidedly modest combative skills. No, it's that they exist as a stark and concrete reminder that the Tributes live for a purpose solely destructive. The best they can hope for is to live and die perpetuating a barbaric system. It isn't something he ascribes to personally but there is a certain inevitability to the reality of it.

That said, he has only ever experienced the training areas when they are inundated with his fellow Tributes. With the Arena on that isn't as much of an issue. In fact, the training areas are more or less deserted in the middle of the day, those Victors who do choose to workout mostly keeping to an actual regimen rather than doing so out of a futile attempt to avoid the disappointingly ubiquitous television broadcasts.

Nonetheless, it's with an uncomfortable tug at the thin cotton t-shirt clinging to his skin that Enjolras climbs onto a mat clearly intended for boxing. He hadn't been much for fighting of that sort in Paris, but he had a cursory knowledge of it from Bahorel and oddly enough, Grantaire, and it had to be more useful than fencing or canne de combat, at any rate. And if he could focus his attentions on his own destructive capacities, perhaps he could block out those happening in the Arena.

[2; main lounge of the tribute center]

Ostensibly, he's reading. There's a pen tucked behind his ear, just visible under blond curls, and a paperback with a distinctly worn cover resting on his lap. Nevertheless, Enjolras' attention is focused on the television coverage of the Arena. He glances down every now and then, seeming to pick up a line or a passage, but it's a farce. He isn't making progress, and even if he were, it isn't any information he didn't already know. He closes the book, finally glaring daggers at the statistics on the screen, at last unable to hide his disinterest.

Never the less, a terrible cycle presents itself. Every seven minutes or so --when the advertisements for luxury cosmetics, designer cupcakes, and whatever else the Capitol is fond of this week begin to run-- he'll stubbornly reopen the book, struggling to find his place again and slowly losing interest again once the programming resumes. It's a losing battle, he should really just move to a different room, away from all the pageantry, but his curiosity forces him to stay. It's a vicious, nagging thing. He wants information about his friends, and yet he also fears what the television might tell him.

Comments

2

[stilest]

Claudia sits down next to him, shoving a glass with some sort of apple dessert at his hands. "I bet it's hard being on the other side of the screen now," she says. "You can't really do anything except send them things and hope for the best."

[orestes]

Reluctantly, he accepts the ridiculous-looking dish even though the smell of it makes his stomach just about curdle. He hasn't been eating much since the start of the Arena even by his own standards, let alone the indulgent ones perpetuated by the Capitol and its citizenry. "And then to what end? I had half a mind to suggest they all kill themselves at the Cornucopia and deprive these people of their show."

He hadn't, of course. Enjolras could only now give voice to such a thought, he doubted his friends, fierce as they are, would consider something like that.

[stilest]

Claudia takes a few bites of her own matching dessert before replying, mostly to steady her temper. The way Enjolras seems to treat every conversation as an opportunity to lecture reminds her uncomfortably of her older sister.

"Don't be stupid," she says, after the third spoonful. "Unless every single district went along with you, there'd still be a Games and all you'd do is remove Five's chance to benefit from a district win. That doesn't really matter for us here, but it does matter for the people we're representing and I thought you cared about them."

[orestes]

"I was talking about my friends, not about our District-mates. I have hardly discussed the Arenas with any of them." The dessert remains untouched, and he stares down at it in all its confectionery glory as if doing so will somehow make his compulsion to rebel against the system more rational or even viable. Besides which, he doubts Shepard or the Initiate could benefit from his advice in any way. His victory had been a fluke, after all. Entirely unintended and hardly even wanted.

"The people of District 5 will only be truly benefit once this ridiculous system is abolished." And with that, he flips open the book again singlehandedly. It's difficult to balance with the dessert, but at least it gives hims something else to focus on while the streams of mindless advertisements play.

2!

[akingalways]

It was lunchtime. Joy of joys, lunch.

Even though Jack seemed to be a very proper, snobby person, if one asked him what his favorite food was, he would unabashedly say "basabito". If no one knew what in the hell that was, well, the humongous...plantain thing he was carrying would answer anyone's question. Which automatically meant one thing.

Jack really like street vendor food. And why not? He grew up in District 8, where vendors lined up in front of the factories were a normal thing. Said vendors would practically pick out the trash that the Peacekeepers threw away, or the least-wanted remnants of animal insides from the few slaughterhouses that dotted the District, cook it up, slap it between two slices of whatever was available, and serve it up to any hungry soul with the right price. Be it assi, tessera, or any kind of item that the vendor might be interested in, in exchange.

Before then, of course, bisabito was among the things that Martha cooked in the orphanage. It was something that could be made quickly and with a hodge podge of items, when they were available. It had always been a treat.

Ah, those days. The smell and taste of the sandwich always brought him back. But those days were gone, if Jack's last visit during the Tours had given a glimpse of the harsh present back in his childhood home.

The vendors? Gone. Martha? He had no idea if she was alive. Most of the kids that he grew up with here dead or disappeared...

Jack's wistfulness - and subsequent staring into the distance - was interrupted by the rustling of paper. Looking to his left, he saw...well, someone he probably should have noticed when he sat down a few minute prior. And, of course, it had to be Enjolras.

"Wh--" He huffed. No doubt Enjolras was reading some weird, lofty book about boring philosohpical crap, with hoity-toity, complicated words like... ultimatum. Or something. "Hmph. Hi."

[orestes]

"Good afternoon." The greeting was mild, disengaged as it was, delivered over the top of the raggedy old book. It was impossible to not notice Jack Atlas, try though Enjolras might. The man had a certain tempestuousness to him that was as grating as it was inevitable. He turned a page, pettily making it obvious where his interests laid. "You appear well, monsieur."

[akingalways]

Unfortunately, that was just how Jack Atlas was. Even when he wasn't talking.

"As well as can be." He crossed his arms. Of course Enjolras would have his nose in that book. However, mindful that people were watching, likely taking note of what he said with the other Mentor, he took a bite out of his food. "So. What are you reading."

Training Center

[vissernone]

"Would you find it offensive to spar with an old woman?"

Hands wrapped in boxing tape, she rests one on her hip and the other against a set of weights. She has a light sheen of sweat already, a dark green towel that clearly has seen better days slung over her shoulder.

She isn't terribly fit; while she has her regimen at the Training Center, alcohol abuse has given her a certain fleshiness and fatigued air, and standing several inches shorter than Enjolras, she never cut the most intimidating figure in size. Her posture is perfect but strains to maintain that rigidity. She favors one leg over the other.

But what she lacks in physical presence she compensates for in intensity. Her confidence could never be mistaken for cockiness, her warmth never for softness or gentleness. Her candor is not actual honesty.

"Or is it something you could swallow?"

[orestes]

He considers, brow furrowing as thoughts of chivalry and propriety swirl in his head. She doesn't look like much and even if she did, he would probably still have to think about it. The fact that he is even thinking about it is something, however. It's a sign of just how much this place has changed him. In Paris, he hadn't truly associated with women, much less over considered laying a hand on one, even in a friendly situation. Madame Hucheloup, his only female contact, had been many things but a boxer was not among them.

"I do not know," is the response he finally settles on. It's the truth, if not much else. Tentatively, he takes a few steps toward her, allowing the difference in their appearances to settle in. She isn't that much shorter, and the Arenas have taught him that size really isn't that much of a factor anyway. And she had won an Arena herself, once upon a time. Perhaps his concerns are entirely misplaced. "I will not reject the idea outright, and I hope you will not think me less a gentleman for it."

[vissernone]

"That's alright. I'll probably find more relief attacking a punching bag anyway." She rubs the back of her neck and pushes some greying flyaway hairs down against her head.

"I won with a crossbow," she says idly, as if explaining away her decision. "Physical combat wasn't something I had to put much stock in. And now it's just a good way to escape the duties of a Mentor."

option 2

[fire_punk]

Kevin walks into the Common Area, tablet in hand. He sits down in a chair, watching the current footage moodily. He looked up with a sigh. That was when he noticed the other Mentor.

"You actually like to read?"

[orestes]

Enjolras tore his eyes from the page with only a cursory effort at irritation. Right now, no, he didn't particularly like reading, but that was only because of his own preoccupation with the Arenas. "Yes, generally. It helps to read something in which one has an interest. Otherwise, I suppose, it is very much like asking if you like speaking English."

[fire_punk]

Kevin frowned, slightly. The last part of that made no sense at all. "Why? Because you like learning things?" That was why Pruna said she did. He'd done some reading since then but he still kept getting lost. Except when there were pictures and most of those books were stupid.

1

[thatwasme]

Barbara passes the back of her wrist over her forehead, wiping away the sweat dripping down into her eyebrows. She'd needed to work out the kinks that the Capitol was putting back into her system, finding it harder to settle back into a routine when she'd never had much of one here to begin with. It was easier back in her District. There, she could figure out something to do. She knew how to work with the system well enough not to feel the razor's edge they all walked was so painfully sharp.

Here it's about always being on your on game. It's exhausting.

Nonetheless, she finds herself smiling, exercise the inevitably lift in mood that can carry her through another round of Sponsor overtures and examinations of their Tributes left surviving in the Arena.

She spies Enjolras on her way out, hair having escaped her high ponytail in wisps and tendrils that cling to her neck and face. Sweat has turned the back and underarms of her loose fitting shirt damp, clinging as she moves, loose as she plucks at it, pulling it away from her skin. Full leggings disappear into socks and shoes meant for this indoor training room, the black of the sports bra she wears high on the back of her neck where her shirt doesn't cover. Her body language as she changes direction is relaxed and fluid, her steps almost jaunty.

"Ah, it's -- Enjolras?" Her pronunciation is terrible, a name she trips over with the slow rolling lilt of an accent one doesn't find commonplace in the Capitol. Barbara's brow furrows for a moment, clearing some as she smiles. "Sorry, I've made a mess of your name, but it is you, right?"

[orestes]

It isn't actually as bad as she seems to think, and he hardly even bristles at the poor pronunciation. Frankly, he's grown to almost expect it. Those in the Capitol who speak French often do not know the intricacies of the dialects or the more or less forgotten related languages. Somewhere between the Langue d'oc and Provençal, his name ends up a jumble of meaningless sounds, the only correct pronunciation coming from his own preference and a vague since of familial obligation that still doesn't quite translate to proper piety.

He nods, smiling faintly back at her in a way that is polite but betrays little interest in her, if he has any to begin with. "Yes, that is me. Forgive me, I do not know your name, mademoiselle."

It strikes him that perhaps it was a poor move strategically to put himself into the unfamiliar territory of the Training Center before attempting a full investigation of just which Victors are left in the Capitol. The precise criteria for how this, now his, species come and go is still unclear to him. Some of them seem sequestered away in their Districts brought back to the city only when the Capitol wished to make use of their image for whatever ends, and some of them seemed to reside there permanently, with little interest in their homes.

[thatwasme]

She shakes her head, waving a hand in front of her to dismiss the thought of there being anything to forgive. "No, you really wouldn't, we haven't met before. Congratulations," she says, the word sounding tentative, "On the last Arena. My name's Barbara Wilson. I'm a mentor from District Nine."

She makes to hold her hand out, pausing partway through the motion to grimace and pull her hand back in. "Probably not too keen on the idea of shaking hands with someone who just worked up a sweat, I bet!"

Barbara laughs, letting her hand fall back to her side. "Figured I might as well say hello while you were around. Goodness knows, we all keep crazy schedules, especially during Arena time."

1

[savedbyasong]

Shion usually avoided the training room as well, when everyone else was here it just reminded him how out of his depth he was. How useless at fighting and surviving he was compared to every other tribute.

But when most people were still in the arena, he could at least focus on the few things he could do. Knot work, making traps. His attempts at using weapons usually ended in disaster but he sometimes still tried.

The more he watched of this arena the more he realised he had to try harder. Even though he could try and gather sponsors he couldn't really help Rat here, couldn't stop him from dying or being hurt.

He hadn't managed to stop him being hurt whilst he had been there either, and that was why he had to train harder.

Of all the people he expected to see, Enjolras was not one of them. He blinked, "You fight?"

[orestes]

He looked up, puzzled at the interruption. It took him a moment to recognize the source of the noise, however. He couldn't recall meeting Shion ever in person, but he had a favorable, if incomplete, impression of him from their brief conversation over the communicator.

"Yes, I fight." The reply was vague enough to be technically accurate, even though Enjolras suspected he was doing better by virtue of the fact that the punching bag couldn't fight back. An actual partner would be much more difficult to manage, however friendly. Still, such a statement was misleading, and he amended it quickly: "Not well, not like this. But I do, on occasion, fight."

[savedbyasong]

Shion nodded slowly, he hadn't expected it even though Enjolras was a victor. He had thought he was more like Shion; well perhaps not like Shion, he had proven himself capable of surviving after all whereas Shion had yet to live past the second week of any arena.

"Did you fight in the arena?" He asked, he couldn't remember seeing him do so, but he hadn't seen all the footage, in fact he had actively avoided some of it.

1

[gluteus]

Maximus had been spending more and more time in the training center as the arena passed on. He had become a fixture there, all intensity and rippling muscle and crippled leg. He didn't bother to hide the prosthetic, here, was learning how to use it almost as well as his original leg and he had increased how much leg work he did in his training.

When he came down here he preferred to be alone, and he made that all too well known. His intensity alone generally kept the others at bay, a single minded focus that nothing could dissuade.

It was Enjolras' fate, perhaps, than when he took his trip down to the training center that Maximus turned that focus on him.

"Victor," He said, the word hard as he looked up to the other man. Despite their mutual wins, Maximus did not view them the same. But not every soldier could be a general.

And this particular soldier he had a bone to pick with.

Re: 1

[orestes]

Enjolras was similarly single minded and normally that singleness of purpose was enough to keep things like petty intimidation at bay. In fact, Enjolras could not recall a time in his adult life when he had suffered from such an affliction. Nevertheless, there was something to be said for the fairy tale-like grandeur with which Maximus presented himself. He seemed, to Enjolras, as if a mythical creature drawn from the pages of Homer or Virgil. Not truly a man of flesh and blood but rather an idea, and he supposed that if he were to be intimidated by anything, an idea would be it. Ideas, both positive and negative, noble and ignoble, were terrifyingly insidious.

He swallowed hard at the greeting, recognizing the voice despite their mutual lack of familiarity with each other. As if by instinct, harsh lines drew themselves on his face and dark blond brows knit over boyish blue eyes. He squared his shoulders, forcing himself up to his full height. It wasn't unimpressive; it was still nothing compared to the gladiator presently commanding his attention.

"Monsieur," the greeting came with a deceptive ease for Enjolras felt anything but. Still, he could take pride in the fact that the quiver he felt in his head hadn't actually made it into his voice. That was something if not much.

[gluteus]

No smile came to Maximus' lips, no warm greeting. He may have been carved in marble for all the expression that could be read from his face, and he brought himself to a standstill in front of Enjolras.

It wasn't that Maximus was particularly tall. He was tall enough, but there were plenty of others among the tributes that stood well above him.

He didn't really need the height, to read as a giant.

"I've been meaning to speak with you." The words were in Latin, since he knew the man was comfortable enough to speak it, and that it would afford them privacy at least from the other tributes, if they should enter the room.

1

[quiteliterally]

Chris is practicing wu shu, which is a martial art that serves no practical purpose. It's not even necessarily athletic, as far as martial arts go, but it does elevate the heart rate slightly and allow him to think more clearly. Or empty his mind of all thoughts, though today is certainly not a day in which he feels capable of zen.

After screwing up his sequence more than twice, even he starts to get a little frustrated, and he breaks from his mat in the corner to grab himself some water. Then he just starts talking to whoever might be in proximity to him and the water cooler.

"Were you aware that most people spend the majority of their life dehydrated? Dehydration can lead to heart-palpitations, dizziness, uneven breath, blurred vision, impaired speech; and all of these things can lead to death." There was a beat in which Chris tries for a smile, but it's nowhere near his usual wattage. He presses the button to fill his water bottle with a little sigh. "We're all eight ounces away from death, when you look at it that way."

He just really depressed himself. "...Excuse me, I need to go run until I can't feel anymore."

[orestes]

Water is actually something oddly near and dear to Enjolras' heart. Not for its own value necessarily, but for the wonder that is clean water, and clean water which seems, at least within the Capitol, to be available universally. He could wax rhapsodic on the injustices of their systems and would with enthusiasm, but there's something to be said for the scientific advances of Panem.

"In the area of Paris where I lived we were advised not to drink the water. There were frequent cholera outbreaks and it was unwise to risk if there was coffee or wine available." Which isn't to say he doesn't believe Chris about the dehydration thing or is advocating for coffee and wine over good, clean, water. Rather, if what this man says is true, that would have been a plausible excuse for the people of Paris in June of 1832 if not for more modern society. "However, here you have an aqueduct system that seems quite advanced. The water doesn't poison you and even tastes good, by a definition of such things."

He declines comment on Chris' last remark. The people of the Capitol are too odd sometimes and he can't be bothered to parse through the logic today. Not after a workout.

[quiteliterally]

Though he'd been about to walk away, he can never resist a conversational mate when he gets one. Especially one so great as an actual other-worlder. "It does taste excellent, and exactly how water is meant to taste. I add an electrolyte packet to mine after a workout: it has all of your essential vitamins and nutrients plus flax seed. Would you like to try some? It's delicious and fibrous."

The packet that was already open in his hand, he now offers to Enjolras with a bright smile, trying to shake any of his depressive attitude of a second ago. If he just keeps moving, and keeps his body in its peak condition, he has to believe he'll be fine.

Or all is lost. "Coffee and wine, and I do love certain wines. They're very high in antioxidants, and, in moderation, it is an optimal way to stave off heart disease. But they are both diuretics, and will only make you more thirsty when consumed in lieu of water. A person should consume at least 2 liters of water each day. I drink five. However, if your drinking water was unclean, I can understand why you were dissuaded from doing so."

Then a slight pause after he's, presumably, dumped off the electrolytes on his new buddy. "Although, if water is taken in and not utilized by the body, it can tax the kidneys and liver. The best way to tell if you are dehydrated is by the color of your urine. Mine is always a healthy pale yellow."

Welcome to Chris Traeger, Enj.