thecapitol | The inside scoop

It has not been an easy few weeks for Cecil. Between Carlos' arena confession and subsequent un-confession, the stress of his death and subsequent anti-death, the demise of Finnick Odair, and the increasing deadliness of the illness sweeping the Capitol, Cecil has found daily tasks rather difficult to concentrate on. He's found himself staring off into space at work, thinking of things too large and too near, growing larger and nearer all the time, and failing in every attempt to direct his attention to things distant enough to be comfortable.

However, it is the responsibility of a radio host to keep personal matters as far as possible from the sterile world of the broadcasting booth. He knows this, and so he dredges up all of the enthusiasm he has not been able to muster for days to reply to Joan Watson (Joan Watson! The Joan Watson!):

Ms. Watson,

I'll be at Cafe Fieri at peak hours tomorrow, with a microphone. Shall we say 2:00? I will wait for you.

Yours,
Cecil Palmer

It's a bustling place in the city center with tables set close to the street - an unimpressive hiding place at first glance, but words spoken under one's breath with a smile will go unheard, and a striped awning hides guests from the blank stares of the cameras gazing down upon the street. This is where Cecil will be, wearing a hat and comically oversized sunglasses over a recent light-fuchsia dye job, watching for one Joan Watson (Joan! Watson!).

Joan isn't at all sure this is a good idea. Cecil definitely sounds like someone who may sympathize with the resistance and the Tributes, who would be willing to choose the truth over the Capitol. But he is still a Capitol figure. He might be the only person able and willing to help her, but at best it will be a huge risk to him, and at worse he could just hand her over to the nearest Peacekeeper.

But good idea or not, this is what she has to do.

She arrives at the cafe about ten minutes early, and looks around to see if there are any more Peacekeepers in the area than usual. Seeing none she starts walking among the tables, looking for the radio host.

She walks right past him.

He'd arrived early in the hope of flagging her down subtly - while this place, with its central location, saw quite a few celebrities, two public figures in the same place at the same time might attract attention. On top of his hat and sunglasses, he had his menu up in front of his face (it was printed on a small single card, so this mostly just made him look nearsighted), the better to see without being seen.

When Cecil saw Joan, he coughed. It was loud and blustery and, he hoped, said Look at me! in a way that indicated that he was looking for the attention of a specific person, but that no one else should look at him. That was a lot to ask for from a cough, though, so he did it a second time, louder, just to be sure.

Joan isn't the only one whose attention is caught, but luckily the other diners that look Cecil's way don't give him a second glance. Joan, however, blinks, then gives Cecil a faint smile of recognition. She quickly looks around for people paying attention, and sees a couple citizens looking at her. There isn't much to do about it, she thinks wryly. At least they don't look like Peacekeepers. She turns back to Cecil and sits down across from him.

"Nice disguise. Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Palmer."

"Please," Cecil says, "There's no need for such formality! Cecil will do just fine." He sets down his menu, and with it a button-sized microphone, of a kind that can be slipped into a pocket or even into a communicator. No light is blinking on it, but he keeps his hand close, ready to switch it on.

"And really-- thank you, Joan, for being here today." He keeps his voice a little lower than normal. "It means so much to me, that Tributes like you are willing to take the initiative in keeping Panem informed about all that even the most attentive of us cannot see on screens alone!"

He leans in close, peering over the top of his sunglasses, his grin wide and conspiratorial. "And of course, there is nothing more exciting in these frantic, tumultuous weeks than news from the Arena."

Joan gives him another faint smile at that, getting the sense that he may be on to her subterfuge.

"Actually, I need to apologize," she says. "I wrote that I wanted to talk about the Arena because I couldn't be sure that the letter wouldn't be intercepted. I actually need to tell you something else. And ask for your help."

Cecil's stomach drops. His grin falters.

He'd wondered, honestly, what this might be about. He'd hoped hard that it really was about the Arena. That it would be some cheering, stupid piece of gossip about some freshly-revived Tribute's final moments, or another romantic confession, or a romantic confession on someone else's behalf-- anything. Anything, so long as it was harmless. So long as it was meaningless.

"...I see," he says. He hasn't given up on his smile yet, though it no longer quite touches his eyes. His hand drifts away from the microphone between them. Leaving it off.

"I-- I cannot promise my help, Joan." The smile also does not quite touch his voice. "I can promise nothing but my discretion, and my good intentions. I will do what I can for you; but it may be that all I can do for you is listen."

How many dangerous things is it possible for one person to know without looking like the kind of person who knows dangerous things? he wonders. "...But I am prepared to listen."

Her stomach tightens, and she nods, a small motion, any smile left on her face fading away. She had misread Cecil's possible interest in something that was not Arena related, in something that was dangerous. But she has to push on.

"I understand," she answers. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important, and if I didn't think you were the most likely person to be both able and willing to help. But it is dangerous. If you decide that you can't or won't help me, I won't hold it against you. I appreciate just being able to talk about this with someone."

Hopefully his discretion and good intentions are enough that she doesn't have to fear how he reacts to what she has to say. She believes they are more strongly that she fears they're not.

To say that Cecil is interested in learning more about the gross injustices that his home city is capable of would be... misleading. Nothing he has learned thus far - about District 13, about Carlos' punishment, about the lies told in the exposés - has been what he would call interesting. He is less interested than transfixed - now that he has seen, he cannot look away. Could not if he tried.

He takes a slow breath. He's been in enough danger in the past weeks, he thinks dismally. How much more dangerous could this be?

"Tell me what you have come here to tell me," he says, his voice low and even, "And I-- I will do whatever I can. This much I can promise you, Joan Watson: To do what I can."

It's all anybody can ask for. Joan nods and leans back a little in her chair, looking relaxed. Like they're making small talk. Discussing the latest plot twist in the Arena.

"I ran into a man in the Tribute Tower. He was new to the Capitol, totally full of himself. I blew him off, but he grabbed me. He kept telling me he was a genius, and he got angry when I didn't believe him, and said something he clearly didn't mean to. He said...that he was so special, that the Capitol chose him to save from his district."

Cecil wants to frown. But he schools his expression, reaches for his water glass, tries as much as he can to look like he's being told something meaningless.

"Uh-huh," he says slowly. "And-- what district was that?"

Being chosen by the Capitol for anything is a mixed blessing. He knows that. But in his experience the Capitol isn't much in the habit of saving anyone.

"District three." She shrugs. "It could have been just more bravado, but once he said it, he was scared. Looked around, as if he was being watched, then ran off. I figured it was worth looking into."

She shifts in her seat, leaning closer as if to share a juicy bit of gossip.

"Do you watch the news reports from the Districts?"

"Sure I do!" Cecil says, a little too emphatically to be completely genuine. "I mean-- I haven't had much time in the last couple of weeks. You know how it is. But I have, in the past, watched the news reports from the districts. I am a journalist, after all."

Translation: Nope. Not really.

Edited (agh a paragraph didn't copy over) 2014-06-25 03:50 (UTC)

"I know how it is. So much stuff has been going on recently."

Joan is aware of Cecil's...interest in Carlos, and Carlos' very public love confession. Doubtless he was upset about the "expose," and worried about Carlos' safety as the scientist investigated the illness that has the Capitol terrified.

"I've sort of found myself with a lot of time recently." It helps that she's been totally anti-social and thrown herself into investigating the Capitol so that she doesn't have to think about Sherlock (and her father, and Gabriel...) "I've been watching a lot of reports, both recent and from a couple years back. All the recent reports from District Three? They're all pre-recorded from years old reports, edited to make them look like they just happened. There have been no actual reports out of District Three for at least a week."

A small crease appears on Cecil's forehead between hatbrim and sunglasses. One does not necessarily expect the truth from district news reports; but one does expect the reports themselves to, like, exist.

"...Well," he says, in the tone of one who is ready to consider anything so long as it isn't horrible, "Maybe-- maybe it's just that nothing has happened in district three this week! I mean, we've all had weeks like that, right? Where every day you wake up with the uncomfortable feeling that nothing in your life has changed meaningfully since the last time you woke up, and you find yourself unable to justify the usefulness or relative merit of any action you've taken or plan to take until the next time you wake up?" He laughs good-naturedly, but it's weak. "Man, I get that all the time!"

Even as he listens to himself, he knows he's wrong, but he continues on helplessly. "So-- maybe district three is just-- just having an off week. I mean-- what else could it be?"

She can understand his reaction (and appreciate the way he goes about it...those rhetorical flourishes are one reason Cecil fascinates her). Coming up with reasons why everything is just great seems to be a common talent among the citizens in the Capitol. The government has certainly been encouraging it for decades.

"I think something is happening in District 3. Something they don't want the rest of us to see. Something they rescued that man from. Maybe the sickness is worse there and everyone's dying. Maybe they're doing experiments on them. I don't know."

She takes a breath.

"I need your help to find out."

Cecil swallows hard.

That's impossible, is what he very much wants to be able to say. Over the course of his life, he's gotten very good at relegating things to the realm of impossibility, whether or not they truly belong there. The existence of foreign worlds governed by strange natural laws and connected to Panem by interdimensional threads might be perfectly acceptable in his worldview, but he cannot help but dig his heels in against the idea that the government would-- would hide such a calamity from its citizens.

Just because they hid the existence of District 13 doesn't mean they would hide this. Right?

...Right?

"...I know someone. Several someones, in fact." His voice is slow enough that it sounds almost reluctant, but his expression is thoughtful. "I mean-- obviously, I know many people, as an engaged and active member of the community and a public personality of moderate renown. But in this case I am talking about specific people, among those I know. I am talking about journalists for the districts."

He is staring at the inactive microphone beside his hand. "I do not know if they would know what's going on - but it may be that they know others who know." He looks up at Joan. "You know of one who knows. Between the two of us, I think we are not very many degrees from the truth. If there is indeed a truth to discover." He's not ready yet to rule out the idea that nothing is wrong.

He listens to himself say, "Perhaps-- perhaps if you gave me his description, I could..." The sentence ends with a meaningful list of his eyebrows. I cannot in good confidence finish this sentence, but you know what I mean.

She raises her own eyebrows in response. She's able to fill in the blanks.

"If at all possible, I'd rather not get him involved any more than he already is. He wasn't exactly the nicest person, but he was scared that he had been heard, and of course we both know that he was. If someone were to come around asking questions, it probably wouldn't end well for him."

Not that it's likely to end well for her and Cecil either, but Joan wants to minimize the collateral damage as much as possible.

"Talk to your contacts. If they've heard something, great. If they've heard nothing..." She presses her lips. "Then it's bad. And we'll probably want to track down Mr. Genius anyway."

Her words are a reminder of just how much is at stake here. Cecil has seen the punishment for attempted sedition - if, between the two of them, they find something terrible behind the Capitol's cover, he has a feeling they won't just get away with light burns or a month's confinement.

"...Yes." Everything she's said is true. "I... I will speak to them. And I will tell you what they say."

He looks at her over his sunglasses, his mouth set. "That is all I can promise to do right now. I wish I could promise more-- I wish, for example, that I could promise an explanation for this that is simple, concise, and which does not involve any corruption, deception, or untoward behavior on the part of the Capitol whatsoever. But that-- that is, for now, impossible."

I'm sorry that my dystopia is so indefensible, he wishes he could say to Joan, and to every Tribute.

She shakes her head a little, eyes on his.

"That's not something you need to answer for," she answered. "That's on the Capitol."

The very fact that he is willing to help her with this is proof that he is part of the solution, not the problem.

"Do you have any suggestions about what I can be doing now? I've basically been spending a lot of time watching TV."

It means something, that in this situation, at least, he is not being counted as one of the Capitol. He is not entirely sure that it means something good, necessarily - after all, he has always been one of the Capitol. He has, for most of his life (except for the most recent month or so), been glad to count himself one of the Capitol. He is not sure what it means that he is relieved to hear Joan Watson set him apart from the Capitol with her words.

"...I think," he says, after a moment's consideration, "That you should continue to watch TV. I think that you should watch the broadcasts coming from other Districts, as well. I think that you should ensure that District Three's... situation... is an isolated case. Whatever that case may be."

He glances around them. No one seems to be paying their conversation any mind at all; but just to be sure, he puts on a wider grin. "Also," he adds, propping his elbows on the table between them - engrossed in the interview, clearly - "I think that, before you leave this place, you should think of something both exciting and irrelevant to reveal to me about your time in the Arena, and deliver it to me with what you consider appropriate and believable enthusiasm."

The inside scoop

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject