thecapitol | Thicker Than Blood Start

Thicker Than Blood Start

For Tributes with keen eyes, they'll notice that Peacekeeper presence seems increased and yet infinitely more ineffective in the last few weeks. Peacekeepers seem harried, as do the Stylists, and most of the Escorts titter and plot without alerting the Tributes as to what, exactly, is so exciting. They simply say that this weekend they'll know.

And so it happens that on the weekend in question, the Tributes are woken by their Escorts early and brought to a restaurant for a hearty breakfast. The restaurant is nothing spectacular, although they seem to be trying to make an impression on the television cameras that float around. The sleepy, cranky meal goes by and then the Tributes are led back to their Suites for a mandatory meeting.

Sitting on couches and the floor, in chairs and on windowsills, standing off to the side - people from the Tributes' homes are waiting to greet them in each District Suite. Some are confused, some accepting, some frightened and some elated to see their beloved. Either way, it should be an eventful reunion.

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Cyrus Reagan stands apart from the crowd as much as he can. The suites weren't made to accommodate so many people, and he has no interest in sharing a couch with any of the cow-eyed otherworlders crowded into the room; so he waits with his back to the far wall beside the window, his arms crossed and the morning sunlight spilling over one shoulder. Gloved fingers tap an impatient rhythm against his upper arm.

It irks him a little, to be included this way - to be counted among the others here, as though he were a stranger to this place and not the one in the room most intimately familiar with the gears turning behind this organizational nightmare. It'll look good for you! is easy for the publicists to say - those with the luxury of thinking only of how it looks.

There are things that aren't optional - not for Tributes, not for Escorts, and not for presidential cabinet members, and meeting his brother elsewhere was not optional. Not when the cameras are here. But he keeps his irritation off his face-- his expression is clear and neutral, a smile hovering around his eyes, which are turned to the door through which Stephen, he knows, will come at any moment.

There's the one upside to all this: Whatever fear, confusion, and uncertainty the Tributes' loved ones are feeling around him, he has no part in it. He's known for weeks that he's here to see his brother - the one person in all Panem who might make this bearable.

Edited 2014-04-14 19:50 (UTC)

When Stephen comes in the door, he doesn't immediately go to Cyrus. He's herding his tributes, after all -- getting them into the suite and paired up with their visitors is his job, and he can't ignore that.

But when everyone is situated and the room is abuzz with conversation, Stephen turns to his brother as a smile lights up his face.

"What's this?" he says, as though he hadn't known this would happen for weeks. "There has to be some mistake. Everyone else has found who they're here to see. Who are you waiting for?"

Cyrus stands and waits while Stephen attends to other people. He considers taking his back from the wall, standing up straight with his arms ready to hold open, but then he doesn't-- he doesn't want to look impatient, doesn't want to look like the one who's being made to wait. He is, though. And that makes his jaw tighten under the smile he made sure to widen when Stephen walked in.

But even so: He can't help how genuine his smile turns when Stephen finally approaches him. His irritation can wait a moment. How long has it been since he's had the time to talk to Stephen face-to-face? Six weeks? Longer? Too long.

"Thank goodness," he says, finally stepping away from the wall. "A native." He has to speak up over the noise from the rest of the room - the racket of fifteen ongoing reunions is incredible. "I'm looking for my brother-- He's about this tall," (as he puts a hand up level with the crown of Stephen's head,) "blond hair, probably wearing sequins? You might have to peel him off someone else, but he's here, I'm sure of it."

Stephen had missed Cyrus rather less -- not because of a lack of brotherly affection, but truthfully, because he'd just spent the better part of two years growing more and more restless, often in his brother's company. It's been nice to be out on his own again, back in the Tribute center.

But he still chuckles at the teasing, gives a shrug -- what can I say? -- and shoots right back, completely missing how serious Cyrus is about his disgust for off-worlders. It's a joke, right? Totally a joke.

"That's funny," Stephen says, "because someone told me that I was going to find my brother here. I told them there had to be some mistake, because my brother is married to his office and is rarely spotted outside of it."

Cyrus laughs, and with that the conceit falls apart. "No mistake, little brother. The office and I are seeing other people this week, by presidential decree." His voice is still light, still joking, and the implication that he is not here by his own choice entirely incidental.

He slides his hands into his pockets and steps up beside Stephen, both to give them a view of the room, and to better speak over the Tributes. And he hasn't failed to consider where in the room the cameras are, of course, or what a clear line of sight from the lens to their faces this offers, or how well their looks complement each other. He never fails to consider this.

But to Stephen he gives only a playful nudge with his elbow, speaking in the same light tone: "Is that why you left me waiting? Has it been so long you don't recognize me?"

"Never," protests Stephen, also at ease in front of the cameras. "But what good is it to be the only person in Panem that Cyrus Reagan will wait for if you can't exercise the privilege once in a while? Besides, I do have responsibilities. This is an ambitious project, which I'm sure you know, and we can't spare a single pair of hands right now!" His manner is light, cheery -- he knows this will be broadcast as news across Panem. "It's very important that all this goes smoothly."

"And no expense has been spared to make sure that it does." There is the ghost of a lot of paperwork and who-knows-how-many-million assi behind that cheerful statement.

His own involvement is part of the expense, too, in his eyes - his relationship with the Games has always been distant, and even when he and Stephen would play Tributes or argue over their favorites as children, he'd never had any interest in the idea of being nearer to them than the screens kept him. Standing here in the Tribute Center suites, forced to raise his voice over the clamor of the competitors, is not a place he has ever pictured himself.

He casts his gaze over the Tributes now, picking out the faces of the ones he's seen compete, and the ones he's heard Stephen talk about. "You've got quite a herd of them on your hands," he says, for all the world as though he understands Stephen's responsibility. "I just hope they'll be able to spare you long enough that I'll get to see a little of you, before they're shipped back to the Districts and me back to my office."

Stephen, completely missing every passive-aggressive dig Cyrus makes at him, laughs an easy laugh. "What, two years wasn't enough? I have a job to do, you know -- herding this bunch is a challenge at the best of times!" There is nothing but fondness in his voice, though. "Besides, you and I both know what's in store for our Tributes and their loved ones this week! We'll have plenty of time."

He glances sideways at the camera, acknowledging it for the first time with a broad grin. "Whoops! I'd better not say anything more -- I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise for any of the Tributes, or anybody watching at home."

Cyrus takes the aside to the camera entirely in stride, letting his smile widen, turn cheerfully conspiratorial - there's nothing unusual to either of them about sharing a conversation with an invisible audience, and all of his behavior is pointedly in keeping with protocol.

If they were alone, he might say, No. If they were alone, he might say Two years was not enough. He'd hoped so much, at the beginning of Stephen's hiatus, that it would be enough time to turn his attention (always so fleeting before!) in another direction-- one pointing inward, toward the Capitol, toward the center, and not out into the rough and unstable Districts. It's taken only these brief minutes, watching Stephen shepherd his Tributes, to see how utterly dashed that hope is.

They're not alone, though, and so Cyrus says, "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. I almost wish I didn't know, honestly-- I envy them all the surprise." He leans in a little closer, dropping his voice (but not with any intention of making it inaudible)-- "You know them better than I do - how do you think they'll react?"

The wheels turning in Stephen's head are practically visible as he considers the question. He runs through his tributes: Anna, Perry, Kevin, Punchy, Ian, Guy -- and for a moment, his smile freezes.

It's Guy who gives him pause, Guy who wasn't afraid to let Stephen know how much he despised the Arena and the Capitol. Guy's wife or daughter, in the mini-Arena -- Guy wouldn't take well to it.

But it's only a split second; Stephen's recovery is smooth. "It's going to be exciting," he says. "It'll give their families a little taste of our Tributes' experiences in the Capitol. I'm sure we'll see a lot of close bonding, ah -- families and friends brought closer together through shared experiences. And I'm sure that just seeing their families again is a real treat," he continues, his smile coming more naturally. "These are people that some of our Tributes haven't seen in a long time."

Cyrus' enthusiasm for the upcoming event is about on a level with Guy's, truth be told. It was an opportunity to give Stephen something to talk about, to let him make it all about the Tributes-- he's good at doing that.

He smiles warmly out at the room, and lets the conversation shift to a place that won't require him to pretend he has any real positive feelings about his participation in the coming weeks. "Yes," he says, "Those are the moments that make all the planning worthwhile. I'm so glad I get to witness them personally." He sighs-- "That's a downside of my work. I see all the numbers, all the planning reports, but I have to watch the human side on the screens with everyone else. When I find the time."

Stephen's brows crease in sympathy -- how very sad -- for a moment. "I'm sure we all understand and appreciate the hard work that goes into these Games, especially now that they're held year-round. It's easy to remember the Gamemakers and the Stylists and the Escorts, but there's so much more that goes on behind the scenes that makes the Hunger Games run smoothly." Gosh, your job is so important, Cyrus, even if it's not as exciting as his.

"I'm looking forward to showing you the human side of the Games," says Stephen, with real honesty in his voice -- nothing about that is put on for the cameras. My job is important too, and legitimately cool, and please let me show you how awesome it is.

He takes the implied compliment with grace and a fond smile, taking a hand from his pocket to sling it around Stephen's shoulders and tug him close for a friendly, one-armed hug. "I'm looking forward to seeing it," he replies. "You've worked so hard for this. Who better to show it off than you?"

If he holds on a few seconds too long, it's imperceptible; if the smile in his voice has no real warmth behind it, it doesn't come through for the cameras; if he has no interest in Stephen's delusions about the humanity of the Hunger Games, he isn't going to say so here.

"Actually," Stephen began, excited, "once the tributes and their families are settled in, I was thinking of--"

Cut off abruptly by a cry of stay back, you monster, Stephen was affronted for a moment (who was rude enough to...?) but then he actually looked at the source of the disturbance.

"Oh, no."

That didn't look good. That didn't look good at all, and it was getting worse by the moment.

Cyrus' brow furrowed at the interruption-- the voice rose over the rest of the murmur, louder and more urgent than the voices around it. It took only a second to find the source - that bizarre black-eyed otherworlder with the fixed grin, and-- was that his visitor--? His loved one...?

It didn't matter. They were at each other's throats. Cyrus searched automatically for a peacekeeper, twisting to scan every corner of the room-- where were they? Twenty otherworlders in one room and not a single peacekeeper?

With none in sight, he put out an arm, seeking to push Stephen behind him as he himself stepped back - both of them out of harm's way, but Cyrus between Stephen and the fight. "Stay back," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the scuffle. It was meant to be calming-- to keep Stephen from panicking in the face of this unexpected danger. "The peacekeepers will be here any moment." They had better be, if they know what's good for them.

Edited 2014-04-19 23:13 (UTC)

Hands had curled around necks, and horror filled Stephen's face. He didn't see any peacekeepers, and if no one stepped in --

Stephen reached the decision in a moment. He strode forward, pushing Cyrus's arm out of the way as he went, intent on breaking it up.

"Stephen!"

It's barked out, short and shocked, before he can begin to think of getting his voice under control. He grasps at Stephen's arm, his clothes, any part of him he can reach, but it's too little, too late-- Stephen is already all but between the two furious otherworlders.

Cyrus takes half an instinctive step forward. Halts. Scans the room again for a peacekeeper. Sees none. Looks back at Stephen. Feels fear curling in his stomach, tinged at the edges with the beginnings of panic.

"--Security. Security!" He bulls into the crowd, seeking a peacekeeper to drag back here by the hair, if he has to. He throws one last glance over his shoulder at Stephen, and hopes he hasn't taken too long to act already.

"Aren't we being antisocial."

Finnick knew Cyrus didn't want to be bothered, which was all the more reason to bother him. He had to be here, and misery did love company. His bits of information on this family always made it interesting to interact with them, although his opportunities to see Cyrus were few and far between.

"No one here is out to get you, you should relax a little."

"...Finnick Odair." Cyrus' smile is suddenly tight around the edges. He gives Finnick only the briefest of acknowledging glances before he turns his gaze back to the room at large; a colder shoulder has never been given.

His tone, though, is polite, if utterly devoid of warmth. "I'm perfectly fine, but thanks for your concern." A frown-- "But what about you? Are you lost? This is District Six, you see. District Four's visitors are two floors down. You can ask any peacekeeper for directions. I'm sure they'd be glad to help you find your way."

There's the problem with the District herds: They don't stay where they're put.

Edited 2014-04-16 18:27 (UTC)

Finnick just smiled through the comments, used to taking a little abuse from people who were supposedly above him. This wouldn't be the first or last time someone insulted his intelligence or questioned his motives.

"I happen to have some good friends here and I was hoping they would be as gifted with visitors as I was. Looks like I was half right; I see a visitor, but he's hardly a gift."

Finnick could afford to be a little less cautious here. This was more or less his turf and it was clearly Cyrus wasn't happy to be here. That afforded him a little more leeway to give as good as he got.

In some ways, it was refreshing, talking to Finnick. Having to pin a smile to his face around a crowd of strangers about whom he cared very little was grating. Finnick's... history with the Reagan family meant that Cyrus felt no real obligation to be pleasant.

"Me, not a gift? Really?" he replied, with a mock-surprised lift of his eyebrows. "Because I certainly wasn't offered anything in exchange for my time." No one bid for government officials' hours off; funny quirk of the system, there.

Finnick had to know it was going to be this sort of conversation when he started it, but things had deteriorated faster than usual. His smile hadn't faded, though.

"With that attitude, it's not surprising. And while we're on the subject of people no one wants to spend time with, how is your mother? I've been far too busy lately to pay her a visit."

He wants to make sure Cyrus understands that he doesn't think their family is important enough to bid on him at the moment.

It was a good thing there was no camera nearby to catch the tightening in Cyrus' jaw, the sudden tension in his smile.

"She's well," he said. "Also busy. I imagine you've slipped a few notches on her priority list lately, as well." He thought he might have been able to feign sympathy, but-- no. Not even a little.

"--You know, Finnick," he added, more conversationally, "I'm disappointed. I was honestly expecting a thank-you, when I saw you coming over here. Believe it or not, we didn't just wake up this morning to find that a hundred people had crawled in here from the Districts! Some planning did go into your... gift."

None of this would have happened if not for me. "I hope you spared a brief thought for me, at least, when you saw your friend Mags this morning."

Finnick shook his head a little. "It wouldn't be a visit from you without some kind of disappointment."

He had to bite down more serious anger when Cyrus brought up Mags. He may have brought up Cyrus's mother but he didn't expect it to come back around so quickly. "No, you would have to start by thinking of the citizens of the districts as people first." There's no small amount of bitterness there.

"I might have guessed you had a part in it, I just wouldn't have been sure it was really you until the whole stunt collapsed under its own weight."

Edited (tense agreement ahoy) 2014-04-22 20:48 (UTC)

It irked Cyrus, that that stung. The mistrust (and even open dislike) of the District-dwellers he was used to, and it did not usually trouble him at all - they were the disgruntled mumurings of the perpetually ignorant, the complaints of people who stood on the surface and thought they understood the intricacies of the machinery moving under their feet. They mattered only when they became loud enough to disrupt the peaceful workings of the Capitol.

Finnick Odair, though-- he had that tiny sliver of power, that smallest bit of influence in the Reagan family, and it was like a hangnail that Cyrus' pride could not stop worrying.

"What a shame that would be," he said, and kept his voice level only by looking away-- by keeping his eyes fixed on Stephen, who was still moving among his crowd of Tributes. "I went to a lot of trouble for a few days with my brother. Ingratitude I'll have to accept, but if the Districts are that prepared to spit in the face of our generosity, well--" He shrugged. Not my problem.

The implicit threat was clear. If this collapses, I won't be the one blamed for it.

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Thicker Than Blood Start

Cyrus Reagan, for Stephen

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think we're good to end here!

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