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

[quiteliterally]

"In a sense." Chris puzzles out how to explain his profession in a more particular way. "I have certain... parameters I must follow., set out by our President Snow."

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.

[orestes]

"Snow. I see." The reply is dark, clouded by Enjolras' own frustrations with Panem as well as whatever nefarious things Chris is talking around. For his part, Enjolras can't bring himself to refer to the president by his title when not directly forced. That, after all, would lend him a legitimacy that is undeserved.

"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."

[quiteliterally]

Chris isn't offended, he actually agrees to some extent. He nods, a little sad, and wonders how many of such rules he might be breaking just by having this conversation now.

"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.

[orestes]

"And to what end?" The question is dry, curious, a continuation of his analytic tone. That is the most salient question, isn't it? If the ills of Panem are intended to promote the greatest overall good, what is that good? Enjolras doubts Chris has ever really considered it for himself, the the lack of examination does not make the question unworthy of being asked.

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.

[quiteliterally]

"Entertainment." The admission seems to make him sad, looking down at his bright green drink with a measure of guilt. He had enjoyed the games his entire life without hesitation - until now. Until the new games had come and changed his perspective on them forever. "Could we continue this conversation in a forward motion. I think this is the longest I've stood still in my entire life."

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.

[orestes]

Enjolras smiles at that as if, surely, the hyperbole must be some sort of joke. Little does he know.

"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."

[quiteliterally]

Chris does lead, happy at least in a small way that he'd been humored. And that Enjolras hadn't taken that as an out to their conversation instead. He starts toward the front of the gym, eager to get outside. "I'm afraid I've never been privy to anything else. You all come from such amazing places. Places I've never heard of, places I can't fathom..." Chris is Belle it's nbd. "But I'm sure they are incredible, even so. And I've been trying to look at Panem from another perspective."

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.

[orestes]

"I do not think you would last very long in my world, monsieur." Enjolras smiles, and there's only a little sadness in it. Whether that sadness stems from fond nostalgia, homesickness, or disappointment in the limitations of his time, is anyone's guess. "That is to say, we are not so sophisticated where I am from. You could not have your," he gestures to Chris' green liquid filled bottle, "electrolytes."

[quiteliterally]

Oh. Well, fine Enjolras, be that way. Chris' ego is a little bruised by the statement, but his standoffishness is still like way above a normal person's cheer so it isn't that noticeable especially while they're walking. "I'll have you know I'm an expert survivalist. I've taken every course."

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.

[orestes]

"Perhaps," Enjolras says, doing his best to at least try and appease his new acquaintance. After all, it hadn't been his intention in the slightest to offend Chris. "But I think that there is a difference between surviving a limited instance and enduring a way of life."

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."

[quiteliterally]

"Unsteady..." Is that true? He wonders for a moment before he can formulate an answer. His feelings aren't hurt, but his perceptions are a-changing. Instead of a comment, however, he decides to ask a question of his own. "Is enduring the arena anything like - that? Enduring your way of life?" It's a morbid sort of curiosity one might not expect from Chris, and he does have the decency to look a little nervy about asking about it, but mostly he just wants to know what it's like.

[orestes]

"Not at all," his posture stiffens, and his mouth curves from the indifferent expression he'd been carefully sporting to one of intense disapproval. "Life is life, and though we are not all granted the best lives, those that we have are our own. The Arena is a prolonged type of execution. In it, we are neither living nor dead. Until, of course, we are dead. In either case, we no longer can be said to belong to ourselves."

[quiteliterally]

"I don't think I could do it. The arena." And not just because of his upbringing, but that certainly factored in. He didn't think it would come as a surprise to Enjolras in the least, but it was something he felt he had to say anyway.