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orestes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-01-31 12:15 pm
orestes) wrote in thecapitol2014-01-31 12:15 pm
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.
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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It's also different from the rest of the conviviality so typical to the Capitol. It seems somehow desperately genuine. It's disturbing.
"It isn't, actually," this answer carries a bit more thought. A pensive frown accompanies it. "Catalan, in origin. Or possibly Provençal, though I suppose none of that matters now."
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Drinking some of his water, he lets out a little 'mmm' sound. "It really does taste like green. Are you sure you wouldn't like to try some?"
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Devaluing small talk as a whole, however, means that while Enjolras has nothing else to say, had nothing to say originally, he has no idea how to disengage politely. He could cut and run, of course, but he had a reputation to maintain now. If not for his own sake, than for the sake of his friends currently fighting for their lives in the Arena. "Are you from the Capitol originally, my friend?"
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"That's what friendship is all about." Obviously!!!! "And yes, I am from the Capitol, originally. It is literally the greatest place I have ever seen. As I'm sure Catalan must be."
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"I will admit, however, that your Capitol is far grander than the city in which I was raised. By Panem's standards, Bordeaux hardly measures. Our means were quite different, however, and I suppose that should count for something." It was hard to imagine the France of his day with the reach and technology of Panem. Then again, if the government had had that much power, it wouldn't have been the France he knew. It would be something different entirely.
"I have not seen you around here before. Did you live in another area of the city by chance?"
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His smile took on a more subdued note and he shook his head. "Oh, no. I have always lived in the Capitol. But I do travel a lot, for work, to the Districts. I am usually there when the tributes return." Which is what made this season so special indeed. He would get to meet and greet every one of them, in person, without the convolution of his job and money clouding the air.
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"What is it that you do, mons-- Chris?" Old habits die hard. He's barely learned to call people something other than citizen, breaking the formalities of his upbringing will prove more difficult. "Are you a Peacekeeper?"
That would make for a difficult image. He could identify with the noble-born officers of the National Guard sooner than he could connect this man with that band of sociopaths.
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And he simply loved traveling to all the different Districts and meeting with all the people down the line. But until these new games, he hadn't truly been able to meet with mentors or their individual tributes as such. It was terribly exciting.
"What did you do in Bordeaux, Mr. Enjolras?" Since he's getting all formal and shit!!
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"I rode horses on my family's estate, primarily. And read, when the weather was not so good." He offers a very slight, but mischievous smile before explaining more fully. "That is to say, I was raised in Bordeaux, but I left when I was a very young man. I studied law in Paris. That is my technical profession." Which isn't to say that he's ever practiced.
"What sorts of budgets do you generally oversee?" If he's to be honest, Enjolras' mind immediately jumps to those of starvation rations and other unpleasantries, but he tries to keep that from reading too obviously on his face.
slaughters u with italics
As if the fact that he'd never seen or heard of it is merely an afterthought, what's truly important is how impressive this all but fictional place is.
"Oh, more-or-less everything, though there is a heavy tilt towards the budgets of the Tributes and their various helpers." Which was another nice way of saying that was where most of the money went. Alas, he was only contracted to meet the budgetary requirements already set out by President Snow and not solve world hunger.
ded doge
"If that is the case, I find it very odd that we have never had the opportunity to meet before now."
revives gently
He really shouldn't say anything about it to anyone, he knows, but there's no express rule against it. And this Frenchman seems a trustworthy fellow. Chris will just have to follow his gut on this one, and being that it was a gut free of all toxins, it was one to be relied upon indeed.
"The economics of Panem baffle even me." A beat and his smile turns a bit wan. "Sometimes." Chris lifts a hand then puts it down again. With all of these otherworldly people he's surrounded by, it becomes harder and harder to understand the merits of the way his own country does things. Which isn't to say he's lost any faith or patriotism, but a bit of skepticism is healthy, right?
curls around
"Pardon me, mon-- Chris," he begins, treading softy on the words. He doesn't want to offend his new acquaintance, and there is the chance of doing so here. "But could you elaborate on what you mean? Did you not say that you handled the Districts' finances?"
It implies the question of how Chris got his job in the first place. Nepotism, of course, is a logical conclusion and nothing Enjolras would put past those in the Capitol, but unfortunately, it seems unlikely. While can be said to be many things, inefficient from an institutional standpoint is not one of them.
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Even he can't find it in himself to sound pleased about this. He does love his job, and the numbers it's accompanied by, but cooking numbers to benefit one's self? Was there anything in the world more sinister?
"The rules do exist for a reason." A purposefully vague reason, assuredly.
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"Rules exist to keep people from harming one another and yet many rules in Panem seemed designed, in actuality, to do just the opposite." It's a gentle musing, a critique masked in complete theoretical analysis. Hopefully it won't offend his enthusiastic new acquaintance. "It is a curious thing to me."
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"Panem encourages people to hurt one another, as you know." On all-too-personal a level. It's something Chris has been conflicted about all his life.
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He shuffles again, turning his focus from the man in front of him to the towel resting limply, tucked under his arm. What are they all to do, honestly, if such things remain unexamined? To Enjolras, such an event would seem despairing indeed.
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That arresting smile came back, but the sincerity is gone from behind it. As much as he wants to consider the implications Enjolras is bringing to the table, he also doesn't. There's a very big part of him that wants to remain ignorant, if it will keep him further from that endless pit of despair.
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"As you like," the Frenchman replies, extending his arm politely, so that Chris can guide them. His new acquaintance is peculiar, even by Capitol standards, and, as he's the one having trouble with their lack of forward momentum, it seems both wise and correct that he should lead. As Chris moves, Enjolras falls instep alongside him. It isn't natural for him, necessarily, to be a follower, but he accepts it with a friendly sort of resignation.
"More to our conversation," he begins again, softly picking up on their previous thread. "I will confess that I find your government incredibly confusing in that regard. While the Games may have originally began as a sort of punishment --the wisdom of which I have some reservation regarding as well-- they have changed into something nigh chimerical. They may keep the people of the Capitol amused, but they effectively render your society stagnant."
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He holds open the door for Enj as he pauses to gather another thought. "If only I could see your world, and everyone else's." Can't they have an exchange program? Seems fair to him.
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A Capiitol drone who took Tribute classes. Ones only the first few Districts could have afforded, back in the day, naturally. Chris was not your average Panemian bear.
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He pauses, looking up to study the man's face. There is a delicate way to say these things, and he's never been much good at considering the feelings of others. "For as much as I find problems with the Capitol, you at least have properly running water, and the medicine is far more advanced here than anything I could have ever hoped to see. Progress, it seems, is an unsteady march."
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