thecapitol | there is a pseudo-intellectual in me; open

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there is a pseudo-intellectual in me; open

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.

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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?"

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.

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."

"Enchanté," he nods in greeting, not thinking about the sweatiness of her palm or the abruptness with which she'd removed it. They're on equal footing in this, at least. He feels worn and equally unkempt, the exertion of the afternoon suddenly catching up to him. "I'm sorry, I have not researched the other Victors as much as is probably appropriate."

There's a genuine contrition to the admission. While he isn't sorry for whatever blow it will do to her ego, he can freely admit the error in his judgment. Such pragmatic research was not natural to him, but nevertheless would have been useful. "There is simply a lot to which I must attend of late. You understand the complications in transitioning into the role of a mentor."

"I suppose," she agrees readily enough. She doesn't appear offended by the lack of recognition to her name, much like she doesn't seem bothered not to be recognized on sight. "Mine was a bit different from yours, but it can't all be that far off from the truth. Common experiences being what they are."

In essence, common and relatable across the gap in experience and cultural contact.

"If there's any way I can help give you a pointer or two, let me know! I've learned most what I do know from Eva, so it might not be the same as heading to the source, but even a simple farmland girl like me can figure a thing or two out on her own after long enough." She laughs, a brief flash of teeth and amusement holding on to nothing, no bitterness, no real thought. "I've only been back in town recently. You haven't missed much if you haven't heard much about me."

"As you like, mademoiselle." There's a nod, an acquiescence, or deference of sorts to her wisdom on the subject. In actuality, it's quite contrary to what he thinks. Every unknown is an unwanted variable, the Victors doubly so. In his experience, they're either straight up useful, or the information that one can coax from them, however unwilling or unwittingly can be used. Information, in general, is the key to this equation, and its absence is the potential unraveling of a carefully woven web. Panem and this modern world isn't the France of his time. There is no room to spark an uprising and hope for the best. There are only plans and contingencies.

Suddenly, he realizes he's lapsed into a silence, the likes of which are awkward and to be avoided in most polite conversations. He offers a half-smile to cover it, not quite acknowledging the slip. Enjolras could do polite, perhaps even courteous on rare occasion. Friendly, however, proves more of a challenge. "Would you think it to forward of me to inquire about your District? I find Panem to be a very interesting place and the Capitol provides us with relatively little information regarding its people."

Barbara manages to keep her expression slightly baffled, shifting her weight from foot to foot and smiling through the lapse into silence. Much longer, and she would have excused herself, no particular hard feelings. A note to tread lightly and watch how he chose to engage with his fellow Mentors, but it's the same note she makes with the new Victors year to year.

Now several times a year, if she stays in the Capitol long enough. It's still unsettling, on top of upsetting.

Her smile brightens at his question. She finds herself laughing, shaking her head. "The Capitol is mostly about the Capitol. I don't mind talking about home, if you don't mind hearing a little about it, but that's one of the harder things to hear from anyone. It's all so quaint, you know? What these places are like, compared to the way the Capitol lives."

Knowing each District past the basics was a matter of investigation and conversation with people over time. In those efforts, Barbara doesn't mind assisting. She does enough of the same on her own when she can. If her biggest interest started in District 3, there was no one to hold her to blame for it.

"Though the question is if you wanna hear about what it's like to be from the farmlands while you're training, in your downtime, or somewhere inbetween."

"Whichever is most convenient for you. I have already sought to impose upon your time, I should hate to impose upon your patience as well." He kept his tone light, curious hopefully without seeming to eager. If he knew anything about the people of the Capitol it was that they loved taking about themselves and their customs. They treated Tributes (and Victors as well) almost as precocious and extremely intelligent exotic pets which they might domesticate for the novelty of it. However, he had quickly discovered that Victors were a different breed entirely, full of their own rivalries and secrets to hoard. This girl seemed friendly, but Enjolras suspected that friendliness would only hold to a point.

He smiled back at her, though less genuinely. It was the uneasy smile of someone who thought they might be becoming a bore. "And I was raised in the country as well. There are probably differences between my time and yours, but I think perhaps I would like to hear about such a life again."

"Mighty kind of you, Enjolras! I'm not the best at just plain ol' sitting and talking, and I reckon I could use another partner in keeping limber." She sounded jaunty, smile gaining a pleasant edge. "Chattin' and sparrin' has my vote!"

Made all the easier now by their currently disjointed schedules. "You more of an early bird or a late riser?" She quirked up an eyebrow, suspecting that if he was raised in the country, he was likely an earlier riser out of habit.

There was a lingering trepidation to being asked to spar by a woman. He really should have gotten over it by now, but his mouth still opens slightly in surprise at the request. It didn't take it as being forward as much as it was that he held a sort of gentlemanly concern for her well-being, the foolishness of which he now more than fully understood. Still, old habits, and old ways of thinking were hard to break.

"I was sent to Paris for schooling when I was sixteen. I'm afraid living in the city broke any of the good habits of my youth." He hoped she wouldn't notice too much the shift in expression, the slip in his poise. "My family had a large estate in the south. It was not quite a farm, but it was very different. I still find cities claustrophobic in their way.

"Do you fence, mademoiselle?"

"I've dabbled some before." The same cheer she'd been displaying through the whole of their admittedly awkward introduction continues. "I'd be much obliged to learn anything more, if you're a willing teacher."

Something she adds on pointedly as her own amusement, given his open mouthed surprise at her request.

The places he mentions, Paris and some southern estate, hold no particular meaning outside of describing a lifestyle even those in the Capitol didn't replicate. Not for lack of finances, from Barbara's supposition, but a lack of desire to be away from the center, and a lack of government encouragement to leave. If anything, Capitol Citizens were meant to stay in the Capitol alone. They weren't supposed to know so clearly the state of the lives of those in the Districts that kept them in comfort. It might make several of them twitch.

"I feel you about cities being all -- what's the word? Claustro-something? That's when you feel like everything's all pressing down around your ears or something?"

"More or less, yes." He gestured for her to follow him. A display at the periphery of the room had a large collection of practice swords and he trusted they could find something or a another not dissimilar to a foil or pariser. If they were lucky, they might even find a proper walking stick. He was better at Canne d'arme, honestly, though fencing remained the true gentleman's art and more worthy of display.

"It is something that arises in tight spaces. Some people experience it in doors, or in small rooms and closets. I have never been overly fond of people and Paris is full of them. I have nothing against individuals, and in fact, I love discourse and good conversations, but I find the bustle trying." Abruptly, he found what he was looking for. Two practice swords, longer than they were wide, suitable for thrusting and swiping, rather than for actual blows. He held one to her, very aware that while she suggested he teach, it could all be feigned ignorance. "It is a contradiction, I suppose. Anyway, should we have a match? Then you may ask me whatever you wish."

She appreciated the way he offered an explanation, not dismissing outright something she knew sounded fairly stupid. Barbara had years to work on driving people up walls with simpleton remarks, enough to appreciate the varieties of different ways people coped with filling in the blanks of a conversation.

"I think I get it," she said, accepting the sword. "You can find that anywhere you go, that kind of crush of people. The Capitol's building so tall like they do makes it feel worse. If that's possible!" She laughed, brow furrowed as she shifted her grip on the sword's hilt.

About the only thing she was doing right had to do with the alignment of her wrist and elbow, making the sword an extension of her arm instead of a offshoot at an angle from her wrist. Her arm dipped downward with the overall weight, but she appeared to be testing out the heft, since it comes back up before the point comes too dangerously close to the floor.

"A match before warming up? You play hard, don't you?" Her laugh was more of a chuckle this time. Barbara wasn't opposed to the idea, but she did suspect she'd have her rear quite firmly handed to her.

Oh well - all the more reason to improve. "What are the basics behind thrusting again? Or lunging. I think lunging's involved?"

"Lunging, yes," he demonstrated, stepping to the side and aligning his back rigidly in the same direction. He held his free hand aloft, his own sword aligning perfectly with his left. The stiffness of the pose no longer felt natural to him, and he couldn't help but consider just how little such a style of combat would really do within an Arena. It was all delicate form and art rather than practicality.

"You could block me by moving my blade when I have left my balance unattended." Indeed, she could trip him if she were perceptive enough, but lessons could come latter. "A match to the first touch, and then the winner shall explain how he-- they accomplished it."

She laughed, falling into a steady, albeit incorrect, stance. "He is probably going to be doing a lot of explaining." She was probably going to get to revisit proper falling technique. She actually enjoys that kind of exercise.

It was interesting to be engaging in a style of fighting that would serve best as a means of entertainment for those in the Capitol - a less bloody means. More artistic.

Who knows. Maybe Enjolras will find a different way to inspire people into dealing with him and Sponsoring his district's Tributes. Every Mentor theoretically had to pull their weight.

"On your mark."

The practice swords don't give in the way a real metal blade would, and so the swishing motions he makes signaling the begin of the match don't quite work just right. They're there, they're just incomplete, things half-abortive by no fault of his own.

"En garde", he calls loudly to her, as he lunches into an attack. He's less concerned with making a touch as seeing where her skills lay, and so his blade circles hers instead of going directly for any opportunity she leaves open to him. There's still the chance, Enjolras realizes, that she's faking her ignorance. There's also the chance that she could simply be more adept at combat in general than he is. She had, after all, presumably won her Arena by actually fighting.

Swords really weren't a strength in Barbara's arsenal. The way she moves, it was like she was attempting to use the thin bladed sword as a staff. An experienced swordswoman might have made use of the openings he left to advantage. Barbara reacted more like someone used to physical activity, reacting to movement of his blade and deflecting in a defensive manner, moving to one side at the same time.

She didn't press any sort of attack. Barbara was tired from her own exercise right before. All of this was a waiting game for her, and she only moved as she needed to attempt to block his blade.

His game is an attempt to throw her off balance, to knock her sword from her hand, instead of to press a touch directly. He could, he realized quickly enough, but where would be the fun in that. Moreover, he had offered to show her the ropes later. It seemed I'll advised to end it prematurely.

And so, for the first time in years really, with the exception of his ten minute or so with the Gamemakers however many months ago, Enjolras made a show of his admittedly limited skill. He was no swashbuckler and every flourish came with a price, every ornate movement, left him a little bit more open to an attack. They would be at this quite a while if neither chose a direct strike.

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