thecapitol | Conscientia

Entry tags:

Conscientia

WHO| Open
WHAT| Night life at the Speakeasy
WHEN| Evenings this week
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WARNINGS/NOTES| Feel free to use this party post style, or however you like if you would like to set any threads here.

The speakeasy was a classy joint. Wood panels, and soft velvet, and usually some kinda of live music, something mellow and easy to relax to. It was big, with low ceilings and with many back rooms, some easy to access, others less so. Easy to get lost in. And it gave off an air of class, of comfort, and being a part of something a little different from the rest. The kinda place where everybody knew your name, and everybody knew to be discreet about it.

It was the perfect place to grab a drink, sit, talk, and relax. No one over heard you, no one got in your business, but everyone was glad to talk if you wanted to find a friendly face. The owner, Conscientia, made her round every now and then, saying hello to her regulars, welcoming those who were new.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I don't know. I asked for a Red Bull and it's this instead." After eying it suspiciously a few seconds longer, Howard takes a drink. It's sugary-sweet and has that noxious cough-syrup aftertaste that most energy drinks do, so he assumes it's okay and starts to drink the whole thing down. Once he starts on part of a meal, he finds it hard to stop. He kills the whole can in a single glug, then turns it over in his hand as if upset it's empty now.

He looks back up at Blaine. Someone's already figured out that they're being constantly watched. It took about a week for the message to sink in for Howard, although he doubts he's said anything that would really turn people off. Granted, not much that would attract sponsors, but he's kept his abilities close to his chest and for the most part enthused about how much he loves the Capitol's decadence, despite verbalizing some reservations about the way they're all treated. But that's normal. That makes it sound like he isn't hiding anything.

"Same thing, then. You're another Tribute. I haven't seen you on any of the recent footage." He wonders if that means Blaine's new or if he just died really early and uneventfully the last round. Howard hasn't really sat down and watched the entirety of the footage yet, but he's caught plenty of images from the displays and screens that seem to litter the Capitol. "At least we get to spend our days out of the Arena here."

Blaine watches him. It reminds him of dining hall shenanigans at Dalton. Guys daring guys to eat crazy concoctions. One night they'd had a milk chugging contest. Good - albeit, disgusting - times.

"I just got here a few days ago," he explains. "I wasn't lucky enough to get any footage." He wants to add a yet, but he holds that back. He knows it'll come either way. No reason to mess with the 'yet' karma.

"Yeah. At least," he replies, trying to sound even a little bit upbeat. "So, you - you went through this all? You've been to an arena?" He breathes out, leaning in. "What's it like?"

Howard shrugs. "How fun do you think dying in public is?" He kicks his foot up and rests it on his knee, trying to look more casual than he feels. He'd rather not recollect on what it felt like to die. "But I got an untraditional welcome. Everyone else got a chance to race for the supplies and I got dropped in a few days in, so I never really stood a chance. You'll at least get to start with the rest of us."

He fiddles with the tab on his empty can, then snaps it off and chews on it. "I guess it won't be so bad for me second round, now that I know death isn't permanent."

Not that it can't be. People have told him as much. He just needs to figure out a way to get enough attention to ensure that the public doesn't tire of him, and that's where he's woefully unprepared.

"Zero," he says, obviously, with a smile. He's getting a little tired of the 'they can see you schtick' but has no proof they can't. "You got dropped in mid-way? No information, just - here you go, fight for your life?" he asks, somewhat horrified. That's not just unlucky. It's horrible.

"Because, that makes it better." Excuse him if he doesn't want to die any time. "I don't care if I wake up a few days later..." he starts, not knowing the real time. "I don't want to die." He pleads as if Howard is his judge, jury, and executioner. His facade breaks, momentarily before he composes himself. "You have an advantage, though, don't you?"

"Pretty much. I got long enough to try and impress the Gamemakers and get a score, but after that it was adios, Howard, have a nice trip in radiation-riddled Battle Royale hell." He holds up his fingers. "I got a five, by the way."

If it looks like he's volunteering information to get Blaine to do the same, it's a bit deceptive: a five doesn't actually tell anyone that much, except that maybe there's a tiny bit more to Howard than his short, gaunt physique and young age would suggest. He's hoping to get more from Blaine than he gives.

"If I have an advantage you know about, let me know? I got nothing." He laughs and clicks the pop tab in his teeth, then gets serious again. "I don't want to die either, so I'm not the right person to beg to."

"Radiation levels?" He skirts over his new friend's score. He wonders if advertising his own score is a good idea. He knows it's a competition and the scores are broadcast when they're broadcast. Or, are they broadcast? It's safer not to share. But, he doesn't act like this is deliberate.

"You did it once," he says simply. He would apologize for begging. He's been in and out of bouts of that for a few days now. Sometimes, it creeps up on him. "Yeah, you died --" It sounds like... "But, you did it once."

"Last arena we all got radiation poisoning. Killed us slowly. It was probably, like, some way of trying to get us to kill each other faster, but it probably just slowed people down since they thought they were trying to ride out the flu and by the time they realized they'd have to kill each other, they were too sick for any dramatics." He chomps down on the tab. "Eye em oh."

There's something cold and pitiless in Howard's expression. "Yeah, I died once. Why do you think that makes it any easier? Because now I just know what to be afraid of."

"I didn't say it would be easier. You went through it. You know what kind of things they throw at you." Radiation levels? Horrifying. The Capitol doesn't mess around. Or, that's exactly what they do. He's disgusted.

"The numbers go up to 11?" he asks, realizing 5 might not be the best score. But, then, neither would 6. He continues to keep his number under wraps.

"Up to 12. We're not Spinal Tap, here." He drums his fingers on the tabletop, fidgety. "You can do research, too. I didn't get a chance to do that. There's like, a whole restaurant around here that's Games-themed, so you can look up the old maps and find out the sort of things they do. Radiation, freezing conditions, all that kind of stuff. They want people to kill each other out of desperation to get out, not that some people need the motivation."

He found kindness in his first Arena. He doubts it'll be the same way next time. The people who spared his life when he stole from them or stumbled on them could be bloodthirsty next time.

"So what's your name?"

This conversation is full of mental notes Blaine is taking. He will definitely drop by this restaurant. He also smiles at the Spinal Tap reference. Humor. He misses humor. Also, everything sounds worse. And if it can't get any worse, it sounds like it can. He will make sure to do all the research he can.

"Blaine," he says, offering a hand. He hasn't lost his manners.

Howard doesn't take Blaine's hand, instead examining it as if it's a snapping turtle.

"I don't really do the handshake thing." He shrugs. "No offense."

He wonders if someday he'll need to come up with an excuse for that. Maybe he can pretend he has a contagious disease, and that it's not just some paranoid leftover from being attacked and abused by his only friend. He spits the pop tab into the can, then puts his hands in his pockets.

"I'm Howard. From California." Not that there's any point to pinning down a reference to where people are from, but somehow, it still matters to Howard to have some identity outside the Games. He's from California. He was in middle school and wanted to own his own business someday, after he outgrew wanting to be an astronaut. He blew up bottlecaps in the backyard and liked the Rolling Stones and Green Day, a long time ago. A very long time ago.

"None taken."

Howard is interesting. But, going through what he went through firsthand, knowing Blaine will be doing that soon enough, he gets it. Maybe he won't be all about body contact either.

"Blaine from Ohio," he shares. He was in high school. A fantastic, talented singer who'd made a few mistakes. But, he was in his senior year and he was class president. Boy, it's sad how much that doesn't matter, now.

"I never been to Ohio. Isn't it all, like, cornfields and stuff?"

Howard rolls the empty can under his palm on the tabletop absentmindedly. It's weird, pretending that they're not in some new Hell. Howard actually prefers this to what became of Perdido Beach, California. At least here there's food and running water.

He scratches at a scab on his hand. It's hard not to pick and fidget. He's so on edge here, uncomfortable with crowds and uncomfortable with acting for the Capitol.

"No, it's not all, like, cornfields and stuff."

He's never heard that stereotype before but he didn't get out of Ohio a lot. And even if he had he'd wonder why anyone would think that was what was in Ohio.

"Isn't that Iowa?"

Howard shrugs. "I never finished eighth grade. I don't know my geography worth shit."

At least California's big enough that there are no overbearing stereotypes, except for hippies, maybe, and Howard's pretty sure he doesn't look the part. He doesn't exactly radiate warm feelings and peace on earth.

"So tell me a little about you and I'll tell you a little about me. Doesn't have to be arena stuff. You don't got to worry about me trying to pick your brain for a strategy to kill you."

"Eighth grade?" Blaine wondered if he could be any more turned off to everything that was going on. He got his answer. "They took you before you finished eighth grade? You're in middle school?" He couldn't hide the horror he exuded at this point but the Capitol was going to have to live with it.

Pot. Pot was a huge stereotype in California but that was hardly on Blaine's radar.

He eyed Howard. He knew he couldn't trust him but he felt like he had to get something out. So, he decided to be general and only share what was shared with him.

"I was in senior year of high school," he offered. "I had just become class president."

"Was in middle school. Bonus to being here is that I don't have to go back." Howard gives Blaine kind of a funny look, before he remembers that normal people think middle school is a young age. He still feels like a kid, but he forgets that the rest of the world is supposed to treat him like one. It hasn't been that way in Perdido for a year.

"But they didn't take me straight from there, my town kind of went to hell for a year before the Gamemakers got me. So I wouldn't be in school anyway."

He's fifteen, barely. He guesses he'd be partway through freshman year of high school now.

He smirks. "If we went to the same school, we'd either not be on each others' radars or be mortal enemies. You sound straight-laced."

"If I were you, I'd want to go back," he replied, knowing full well he wasn't. He didn't understand how anything was a bonus to being here. Big flashing letters advertising their impending battles to the death distracted him enough.

"What kind of hell?" he asked, now worrying about this near stranger. "Maybe. Maybe not." He shrugged. "You probably wouldn't have gone to my last school." It was just honesty. "And, I was in glee club at McKinley - so, you're probably right."

Howard's lips tighten. "Yeah, well, you're not me. At least here there's food and showers and toilets and medicine. Believe me, this could get way worse."

But the expression on his face changes as he laughs and smacks the table. "Glee club? Really? Hahah, nerd." He waves a finger at Blaine, tongue stuck between his teeth, mouth pulled into a grin.

"It does get way worse from what I've heard," he replies. "But, I get it. To some people, this is better. You realize I'm not trying to complain. I'm -- attempting, I'm doing my very best to adjust and it's just not that easy. There's too many things to account for and too much to be scared of."

There. He says it. He's scared.

"A nerd that's probably more talented then you."

"I'm not saying you're complaining, I'm just saying..." Howard picks at his lip. There's a cut there, where he's been chewing and chipping at out of nervous habit. "Don't just the people who think this is a step up. I'm not eating old mayonaise packets and rotten cat food anymore, so this is good for me."

He doesn't look like he's judging Blaine at all. Of course Blaine's scared. Howard's scared too, and that's why he's so fidgety.

"Look at how jealous I am. Sooooo jealous."

"Oh god," he says, eyes narrowing. "And I wasn't judging you. I don't do that." Not out loud and not often. Mostly, he feels bad for people or tries to understand them and where they're coming from.

"I see it," he joked, finally letting down a bit of the guard he's had up from the beginning of the conversation.

"... Did you ever see yourself going to college?"

Howard rolls the can under his hand again, lips pursed in a bit of a pensive expression. "I guess I probably would have if we had the money and I had the grades. I mean, I was thirteen, I kind of wasn't thinking that far ahead and still don't really get why anyone would want to pay to sit in a classroom and get bored to death another four years."

He and traditional schooling never got along. He's a smart kid, always has been, but the combination of a toxic social environment and a short attention span meant he never did any better than he had to to pass. He never flunked a class, but he hovered precipitously close to the edge.

"Why, were you dreaming of singing scholarships before this? Shoulda tried football."

"That's not exactly what college is about," he says, not quite sure that isn't true. But, nobody ever told him it was like that. Rachel said it was brutal but not boring. And Kurt hadn't made it into NYADA.

"I was dreaming of NYADA. New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts," he explains. "And thanks, I can play sports. At Dalton I played lacrosse. I fenced."

"Yeah? Well, frats and parties aren't really up my alley either." He wrinkles his nose at Blaine. "And those aren't real sports."

He figures he doesn't have to say that art school sounds really silly. "Didn't you ever get beat up in school?"

Conscientia

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