thecapitol | Tell Me I'm Gonna Be Alright [Open]

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Tell Me I'm Gonna Be Alright [Open]

WHO| Howard and OPEN
WHAT| Binge-eating is a public sport.
WHERE| Below Timberline
WHEN| A few days after the rave.
WARNINGS| None yet.

It was a bad idea to give Howard a credit card. At least, unless the Gamemakers intended for him to get himself into ridiculous amounts of debt in record time eating out, which they probably did. As soon as he found a restaurant and the fact that the credit card apparently meant 'infinite money' to him, his mind was set on milking it for all it's worth.

Which is, at the moment, a few plates and some doggie boxes full of food to take home. It doesn't matter that there's foods in the suites. For the moment, he's living in the land of plenty, and he's going to take every opportunity he can to enjoy it. His stomach perpetually aches and cramps with the feeling of being too full, but after too many months of brutal starvation, he'll take that feeling over hunger. After two plates he's even managed to stop eating with his hands and go back to using silverware, although he still brings each plate close to him as if certain the other patrons are going to try and take it from him.

He just wishes people would stop staring at him. He knows it's inevitable, he's a tribute, and while he isn't one who did very well he did bash someone's head in. Every time they look at him, he's reminded of that. He tells himself that Lottie's alive and death isn't real in the arena, but just the idea of it makes the otherwise delicious food seem tasteless.

"There is a limit on this card, you know," someone says as they ring it up for another plate.

"Shut up," he says in return.

And when there's another full plate in front of him he starts on that, too, the taste on his tongue reminding him that here in the Capitol, he's safe. In this place, the bad things are temporary inconveniences until you come back to this life of luxury. He's going to be okay.

Another forkful, he's going to be okay.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Nah, this is just worth plastic. But I mean, bring back some phones, or cameras, or man, even just penicillin or something. I bet you can find medicine here for half the shit you have back home."

He laughs back. "Yeah, someone yelled at me because I was pulling stuff from a bin. I was ready to pull a knife on them or something, but then they noticed I was a Tribute and laughed it off."

He nods. "Yeah, it's...creepy. And insulting. Like the stuff we scrape through is a fun story for them, even when we're right in front of them with scars all over and all."

"People stare at my neck. Here."
She gestures. "And one man, he made me sit and tell him how it felt when that man in the arena had me, and before he killed me. And if I could feel blood and the such. I do not wish to remember that."
She sighs.
"But as that woman said, our opinions do not matter. We just have to let them kill us more and more."

Howard remembers seeing the footage of Eponine dying. His death was longer, from infection, but in some ways seemed preferable to hers. He runs his hand over his nose.

"And what did you tell that man?"

"That I was hungry, and I was surprised when the man grabbed me, but I wasn't scared, not even with the blade to my neck. That I had had a blade at my neck many times already, and probably more when Montparnasse finds me - well, I did not add that last bit, but...

And then I said of course I felt blood; it was the warmest thing I had felt in a long time, and it came into my mouth too, and it tasted funny and I couldn't breathe. I said it hurt when the man put it in my neck properly, but I knew that it was nearly the end so I did not mind so much. He asked if I was scared because I must have died alone in the dark because the canon did not boom for a few minutes, and I said I wasn't scared. I just thought about home and heaven and then... that was it."

Eponine talks about it all matter of factly, and shrugs.
"And then he wanted to touch my neck and kiss it where it had been cut, which was not nice, but he said he had paid for my drinks so I owed him, so I let him. They are strange to want to kiss where another has killed."

Howard looks a bit sick as Eponine recounts what it was like to die, although that might just be all the eating they did. He's died twice now, or so he thinks - once back home and once in the Arena. The Arena was slow, agonizing, losing control of his body as infection and fever cooked away his brain. In the FAYZ, it was fast, but no less terrifying, held down on the ground while another boy choked him to death.

Maybe the memories will get easier to tolerate the more they die. He never had such dignity as Eponine did - he was scared. Scared and pleading for his life even when he couldn't speak.

"People here are fucked up." He's glad no one's made such propositions to him, although that might be because he's a boy. "I don't think they see it as dying. More like...acting, I guess."

"I wasn't acting."

Eponine doesn't ask about Howard's death. Frankly, she'd rather not know. Quite honestly, she doesn't particularly care.

"Were you acting? Are you acting now? I am not pretending to be anybody; I can't pretend. I don't know how. It was acting and - and it HURT. And I am NOT doing it again!"

"I didn't say you were acting. I said that's what the people here seem to think we're doing," he says tersely. Just because he hasn't gone into detail about how scary it was to die doesn't mean that he enjoyed it, or didn't care that it was happening. "They don't think it's real, they don't know what it's like to be afraid and in pain like that."

"I know. And it isn't fair. Why should they have to do it to us? Why not experience it yourself if you want so badly to know what it feels like? I would stick a knofe in that man's throat, I'd do it to all of them!

Well... no, I wouldn't. I will not kill. I will NOT be like my Papa. But if anyone deserves it, they do."

Howard raises his eyebrows at Eponine. He wasn't expecting that kind of outburst from her, whether she means it or not. To tell the truth, it scares him a little, and he takes a step back from her. He's had too much experience taking the brunt of other people's anger - and he's sure she has to.

"Keep your voice down, they might be watching us," he whispers. "Or listening in with their cameras and microphones."

"I don't care if they're watching us. I am not scared of them, and neither should you be."

Eponine raises her voice a little, just to prove that she isn't scared.

"What will they do to us? Throw us into an arena to fight for our lives? Ha! I am not scared of that!"

"No, they just won't resurrect us, and we'll be dead for good," he hisses, hoping that she'll take the cue and lower her voice.

"I'm not scared of death, either. It would be better than dying over and over." She lowers her voice a smidge.

"Perhaps that is better than the arena. Besides, was it you who said that they would not just let us die because they wanted to watch us? They will not kill us for good, then, surely? I'm not scared. I will spit if they come near me to hurt me."

"Unless you have acid spit, I don't think that's going to do much good." He wraps his arms around himself. "And I'm plenty scared of death."

"It will show them that I don't care for them."

Eponine stops walking, and turns to face Howard properly. In a much softer tone than she had previously used, she asks,

"Why are you scared of death? It is the end of pain and hard work, no? Like a sleep you never wake up from and people can never make you do anything again. It's a good thing, you know?"

"That's what I hope death is like. I like sleeping." He laughs, but it's a weak, transparent gesture. He really is genuinely scared of this, and it shows all over his face. "But what if that's it? What if that's the end, and I'm fifteen years old and have never seen snow before? Or the Atlantic Ocean? Or a solar eclipse? What if I die before I ever get to, I don't know, fall in love or get a real job or do anything besides just scrap around surviving?"

"Then you... You'll be ordknary. Just like so many other people. I will tell you, youare lucky not to have snow. My Papa used to send me and 'Zelma - my sister, you know - to stand for hours and hours in it with no shoes and no shawls between us. Sometimes I were sure my feet'd drop off; they would go bright red all over, and it'd feel as if you stood on glass and rubbed needles into your legs. After a bit, the skin goes blue. It is not nice. And the while, your arms are blue and your face is red from the cold and the snow makes your hair wet and wealthier men find it funny to throw more snow at you and make suggestions like these lot. You truly are not missing much."

She pauses. She's never heard of the other things, bar love. And that is the most painful thing she has ever experienced. She's lost her home, her allies, for her love. Her Papa hit her, though that was nothing new... And he doesn't even notice her, never mind love her. At least, that's what she thinks love is. She's never received any sort of love, though, and she doesn't truly understand it, or know what it feels like, and she isn't able to truly love. Eponine's greatest tragedy, ladies and gentlemen.

She goes to take Howard's hand, nervously laughing.
"I promise, M'sieur, when snow comes and we have nothing, you'll wish you were dead."
Eponine lets go just as quickly. She starts to walk fast, lest her own need for physical contact, for comfort, was misconstrued as something else.

"Well, it's not just snow," Howard says quietly, letting her hand go. He makes no gesture to cling to it - he's not terribly fond of physical contact, and more than that, he thinks she's missing the point of his fear. Maybe it's because she comes from a different time when people are used to dying at young ages, whereas where he's from, it's something everyone's still adjusting to.

"Anyway, the point is I'm scared. That was the worst part of dying, for me, the fear. I almost wanted it to be over just so I could stop being so terrified." Even talking about it now, his hands start to shake, and he buries them in his jacket pockets. "But maybe you're right, and once it's snowing I'll reconsider."

"Do you really want to admit that to me?"

Howard, Eponine thinks, is immature. Not in a bad way; she wishes she could be scared and admit that she was scared. But it shows that for a long time, death hadn't been a reality for him; she'd escaped death for going on ten years, and how she'd managed it, she wasn't quite sure. But Howard, his home had seemingly been secure for a long time before he was left homeless, and it seemed to Eponine as if he hadn't toughened up yet or worked out how to be streetwise.

First rule of the streets: Never admit you're scared.
Second rule: Never tell anybody anything that they can use against you - a rule that Eponine too often forgets. Howard doesn't seem to have learned it.

"You might get sponsors, you know, if you do not say such. If you are scared of dying, you will need them."

"I guess it's not much of an admittance. Most people are scared. I'd assume unless someone was saying otherwise, they're probably scared too." He seems a bit abashed, though - she's right, he shouldn't have admitted that to her. Just because they're in the same lot doesn't mean they're friends.

He shakes his head. "If we play the game, we're going to die anyway. It's either that or win, and let's face it, neither you or me are winner material. But the plan's to get a few sponsors, once I figure out how, and then at least they'll try to bring me back each time, and that'll make the dying not so bad."

The key to getting Sponsors seems to be a bit beyond Howard - he knows it isn't as simple as appearing unafraid. He has to learn to be entertaining, according to the insane standards of this place.

"Perhaps you are right."

Eponine sighs. "I do not want to be a winner. Not if it means having to kill. I don't care. But you - you're young, and you look strong."

She laughs, apprising him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
"And you are not bad looking. In fact, I would say that you are good looking. People will like you, I think, if you smile and kill. Maybe at the same time. Do NOT kill me, though. If you do, I will make you pay for everything next time we both have these credit cards."

She laughs, embarrassed, but trying to hide it. Eponine thinks she knows how to flirt and tease but it tends to come off as awkward, because she can't maintain the eye contact needed to make it seem genuine.

"I think the thing is not to play their game, but if you wish to survive, then you must. And that is your choice."

She shudders as the Training Centre comes into view. "They teach us to kill - and yet they are not afraid that we will rise against them. That was what was happening in Paris too, you know?"

He holds an arm out, rolls up his sleeve, and flexes with a cheeky grin. If his bicep looks pronounced, it's only because there's so little extra flesh to smooth it out. "Yeah, I'm a real knockout. Maybe if you come to take revenge on me, I'll just woo you into submission with my charming smile."

The truth is he never really thought about it that way. He's never found himself ugly, really, but he's always just been the scrawny black kid in the back of the class, putting people off by attitude and general antipathy. No one's ever called him good-looking, except for his grandmother, and like all kids he assumed she was biased.

But maybe his stylists - and Eponine - have a point. He's as awkward with flirting as she is, though, and looks more at the space behind her head than at her face.

His face falls a bit, though, as he reflects on her next statement.

"But I don't want to be that person, someone who kills 'em with a smile. I don't know if I can be. I mean, in the arena...if I have to, I will, but I don't want it to get to that point. I'd rather just eke it out entertainingly." He blinks. "You can't be talking about a revolution."

Eponine doesn't respond to his joke about wooing her. She's never been wooed in her life, though she wants to be, and badly. No, she's come to the conclusion that she's ugly and poor and stupid to boot, destined never to be loved. It hurts, but it hurts less when she doesn't think about it. So she changes the subject as soon as possible.

"I don't know what happened; I was brought here before those students did anything. But they had been chattering about it - Gavroche told me. They wanted us all, well, the men, to rise against the rich and the National Guard and fight. I do not know. If it happens, it does. But it seems silly to me that they train us to fight. Do they not know that we could? Or perhaps that is why we kill each other? To make us hate each other? I do not know. It just seems... I'm not learning to kill there. I know how to kill well. I do not need training. "

"What's the point if we can only kill each other in hand to hand combat, or by traps? They have tanks and guns and bombs. Even if everyone who ever won these games and everyone who came close rose against them, we'd be toast." He taps his temple. "Besides, who's saying they didn't think about that and just put a self-destruct switch in our brains when we were lying dead on their operating tables?"

Howard may be immature, but he is endlessly paranoid and cynical. Give him a few years and he'll be a full-fledged tin hat-wearing conspiracy theorist.

"Maybe they're just teaching us to be okay with killing, so they can turn us on their enemies."

"What are tanks and bombs?"
They won't be invented for at least another fifty years from Eponine's time.
"Can they really put things into our heads, do you think? I don't think I'd like that. Though, it is that they don't care, isn't it? I do not know about you, but I never, ever want to kill."

She keeps trudging resolutely towards the centre though. Where else is she to go?

"They're like really huge guns that can take out a thousand people at once." And he nods. "Sure, they can put things in our heads. They can bring us back from the dead, can't they?"

He winces as his stomach seizes, pausing for a step. "For all our rage, we're still just rats in their cage," he lightly sings.

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