thecapitol | OPEN CATCH-ALL SAFEHOUSE LOG. THE SWANKIEST SAFEHOUSE YOU WILL EVER SEE.

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OPEN CATCH-ALL SAFEHOUSE LOG. THE SWANKIEST SAFEHOUSE YOU WILL EVER SEE.

Who| Any well Tributes who took Stephen Reagan up on his safehouse offer!
What| Catch-all log for mansionanigans, though you're of course free to start your own!
Where| Jove Manor, a few miles outside the Capitol: a lavish estate up in the mountains.
When| From his announcement up until the end of the disease plot!
Warnings/Notes| What you bring with you! Also, a reminder: if you're visiting, please comment either to Stephen's IC offer or this OOC post! Also, feel free to make up details about the house. If you want an indoor pool or a chandelier you can swing on, I'm not gonna tell you no.

If you accepted Stephen's offer, you were driven up a few miles out of the Capitol, into the mountains. You stopped at a checkpoint, where a doctor or two scanned you with some kind of futuristic device and performed a quick test or two to make sure you were in good health. Then, you were ushered back in the car, and as you turned a corner of the winding mountain road, Jove Manor came into view.

It is a gorgeous house, nestled in a secluded cleft in the mountains. The grounds are not so expansive as they might have been, but there are sloping lawns leading up to the house, trails that lead through cultivated patches of woods, an outdoor fountain, and a pool in the back courtyard.

The exterior of the building itself is that delightful Capitol blend of Roman and twenty-first century American architecture, with gleaming white walls and marble columns. However, the inside is -- there's no other word for it -- old-fashioned. The floors are shining hardwood or lush carpets, and the elaborately carved furniture has none of the streamlined contours and space-age chrome that characterizes the Tribute center. The patterns, the materials, the design, it's almost baroque in its elaborate complexity. It makes a clear statement: we are old money.

The Tributes will be in the east wing, which can run independently of the rest of the house. It has a ballroom with gold-rimmed, fancy mirrors, a painted ceiling and a crystal chandelier; a dining room that can seat a hundred easily; an underground room with one wall a giant screen that picks up both live broadcasts and plays recorded documentaries about the heavily censored history of Panem from a Capitol perspective -- more specific descriptions will be in the subthreads.

The bedrooms are spread out over four floors: two underground, two above. The above-ground rooms have large, airy windows; the underground ones have screens that will show several views, like a jungle, a desert, a mountaintop, or a cityscape. They're furnished less ornately than the rest of the house: the furniture is fairly simple but high-quality; the sheets, soft.

Tributes will have free run of the East Wing, with its ballrooms, intercom system, underground theater, pool, bedrooms, dining hall, and well-stocked wine cellar. Supervision is minimal: though Peacekeepers are around and can be called, they can't keep an eye on all of you all the time. Avoxes on loan from the government will bring you almost anything you ask for, within reason. You should be very comfortable.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He stands back as Stephen worms his way on. There's a smirk on his face and for this short moment of time, he's forgotten any reason it shouldn't be there. Stephen is right up there and so he starts his own few steps back.

Then he's running again, reaching, and curling his hands up in the crystal on the opposite side of it. He pulls his legs up, hooking them on inside, and then he hangs from his knees. He lets his arms fall down with the braid behind him.

He swings the chandelier ignoring the creak and the sounds of magic. His eyes close. He doesn't know what makes him say it. Maybe the soft in his veins? Maybe he's just reached that point.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKERS ARE SO DIFFICULT," He says, real idle as if he were just continuing on a conversation from before. "Take so much. BUT GIVE ALL THE MORE IN TURN. It would be so damn easy to loathe." He spreads his arms wide as he sways. "BUT BEHOLD THE MOTHERFUCKING GIFTS WE ARE GIVEN, THE GLORY AND GREATNESS, BEHOLD FOR WE ARE THE MOST PRIZED OF POSSESSIONS, THE KINGS OF SLAVES!" He cackles loud and his arms fall back down. It's hard to say if he is being sarcastic or genuine. Most likely, both. "How can he hate for gold loves they dost take, when they weave him a crown and let all thirsts be slaked. MOTHERFUCKER, GRANTED TO HE IS DRINK AND FEAST WHENEVER HE SO GETS DESIRING! Motherfucker, I can do anything I fucking want. HE IS THE MIDAS OF FABLE."

Edited 2014-07-01 20:10 (UTC)

Stephen listens, head cocked. For a moment, he doesn't understand a single word of that. He opens his mouth to say, sorry, I didn't get it, but another few seconds tick by and the meaning begins to take shape in his head.

"You mean us," he said. "The people of the Capitol." It's a request for confirmation.

"Is there anyone else?" He hums. "IS THERE ANYONE THE MOTHERFUCK ELSE? You have no true gods here. AND SO IT AIN'T THEY TO WHICH HE SPEAKS." Not that he would anyone. He was a faithful servant to his Messiahs. "Yes he refers to you. HE REFERS TO YOUR BOUNTY AND GIFTS. He refers to your grace. AND THE LIKEWISE." Is it cruel, to do this now, whilst a motherfucker is trapped? Maybe. But he is also cruel. Besides. It's harmless. Mostly.

Stephen feels his disobedience high slip, a little. He hooks his hands around a higher tier of the chandelier, and he looks at the Initiate.

"I don't think of you as possessions," he says. "That isn't it at all. But I also don't think you really want to hear my thoughts on it. Tributes never do." Stephen gazes up at the ceiling, painted with portraits of spear-wielding, nearly naked heroes, and sighs. "I can understand why. It doesn't matter how I see it. Nothing I have to say will change the position you're in." It's said sadly. Stephen has been shown the ugly side of being a Tribute over the past few months, and hasn't been able to shake it off.

He gives Stephen a hard look before he speaks. He tries to pry him open just by expression alone.

"You ain't know that, motherfucker. USED TO BE AS WHERE YOU ARE UP LIKE TO BEING. Only less motherfucking jewel bits and hive to split... and he didn't much fancy owning no more than the freeing... and motherfucking... MORE FAITH, MORE POLITIC, THAT WAS HIS BUSINESS. Close e-fucking-nough still." Just like a grinning mind-addled indigo, ain't that an encouraging thought. He's rambling.

"THE POINT, BROTHER," He says pointing up. Or down rather. "-IS THAT YOU AIN'T KNOW SHIT FOR WHAT HE THINKS! Go on. SURPRISE HIM. Or don't. BUT YOU GOT A THOUGHT TO DAMN BROAD IF YOU AIN'T THINKING TO HAVE NO AFFECTINGS UP AND ON. Still the me what is new up in. STILL THE HE WHAT IS OLD. You can sway one of us, surely. SWING AND MOTHERFUCKING SWAY, MY BROTHER, AIN'T NO HOLDING BACK UPON THE GREIF TRAPEZE LEST YOU WISH TRULY FOR THE SPLIT SPLATTER OF NUG BELOW." He cackles like it's not a bad idea. Then hangs loosely again to try and swing the whole chandelier with the swing of his body. The blood is rushing all right down to his head.

So the Initiate had been high up in politics, Stephen realizes. He feels the chandelier begin to sway. Fortunately it's big enough and heavy enough not to rock much, but Stephen feels every millimeter of the displacement.

Is he threatening to push me off if I don't talk? Stephen wonders to himself, but doesn't say it out loud, in case accusing the Initiate of threatening him on-camera would get the Initiate in trouble. Instead, Stephen draws a breath and moves his hands to a different part of the chandelier, and talks.

"The way it was told to me," he says pensively, "is that the Hunger Games keep Panem stable. We need the Districts and they need us, and the Hunger Games bring us all together. The Reaping gives young people the chance to become more than what they were, and gives us in the Capitol a chance to get to know the people from the Districts. The Victors are our heroes. They remind us of how strong humans can be, something that we in the Capitol don't usually see firsthand." Stephen shakes his head; he knows that in the Capitol they're soft, and weak, and pretty, and wouldn't last ten minutes in an Arena. These are all words he had believed, at one point, but they don't ring as true as they used to.

"It's different now, of course: the Tributes are no longer from the Districts, but they also never die. So while it doesn't serve the unifying purpose it used to, I -- I honestly prefer it to the old Games," Stephen admits. "I was an escort for five years, and District 6 didn't have a single Victor. That was ten children who didn't make it." His voice is sad -- this is something that had begun to bother him even before the Quell.

He might reassure that ain't the case if he knew Stephen thought he might push him. Or maybe he'd just laugh. As it is he merely continues to sway and smile, humming with his eyes closed until a set few words pass and he stills.

"That's a lie, brother. WE DIE. We die and some of us don't come the fuck back. SOME ARE DEAD BY MERE ACT OF NOT MOTHERFUCKING BEING HERE." These words are cold. They are said sharp so that any disagreement would firmly be not allowed and he really might push him if such came to be. But then the moment passes and he's swaying again.

"A good motherfucking story," He says, like it's a fairytale what just got told. "BELIEVABLE, COMPELLING. Fits as to your weird-ass human moral contradictions." He laughs. "NOW FOR THE MOTHERFUCKING FUN BITS! Taking the wicked shit to pieces my brother, really getting you LOOK up and ON for what's being inside."

"YOUR DISTRICTS. Your mother fucking lowbloods. THEY DON'T GET THEIR BELIEVING ON FOR THE WORD NOW DO THEY? Why motherfucking should they? SPEAK YOU DO YOUR OWN SELF OF WIGGLERS LOST. Your kind gets real sentimental up for that noise, he's been told. SOME SORT OF FUCKING UPLIFTING OF THE YOUNG AND WEAK YOU'VE ALL GOT." He waves his hands. Truth told, it still sounds foolish. What did age even matter? "So for each and every one what ain't got no victory, that's a people what ain't got no chance as you called it. THEY AIN'T NO HEROES. They're a motherfucking reminder of their place. THEIR OWN BLOOD A SPIT IN THE FACE TO REMIND. Certainly there will be exception, but the grander whole? IT AIN'T SOLD THE FUCK ENOUGH, MY BROTHER. You can't let them know they are all GOING TO DIE." He waves a finger and tuts.

There's more to poke, more to prod. He wants to take it all apart. "How do they need you here? WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK DO YOU EVEN UP AND OFFER THEM?"

That was true. Stephen knows that, of course; it's just easy to forget in the light of the many who do return. He doesn't argue.

Instead he chooses to answer the direct question. "We organize," says Stephen. "If Panem is a body, the Capitol is its stomach, brain, and heart. We take what they produce, we turn it to energy, and we give back what they need. We ensure it all runs smoothly."

"Organize. YOU BRING ORDER THEN?" He asks, raising a brow. Though it may be hard to see. "True shit, motherfucker, on my world, Highbloods are motherfucking highbloods. BUT THE THING ALL WITH THAT, BROTHER, IS THAT WERE IT SWITCHED? Were the low to become the high? IT WOULD NOT HURT THE LOW RUSTS, AT LEAST SO LONG AS THEY MIND THEIR GENERATIONS. They plan for short term as their blood affords, the high plan the long. IT WOULD BE THE HIGH WHAT PAY. And the rest would not lose second of sleep." He doesn't seem particularly unnerved by this notion. He's not at all thrown off from his ranting.

"IF THEY MAKE WHAT IS NEEDED TO SUSTAIN YOU, THEN WITHOUT YOU, THEY WOULD HAVE MORE THAN ENOUGH FOR THEIR OWN SELVES, WOULDN'T THEY NOW? They would not need you, now would they? BUT YOU. You most certainly motherfucking need them. DON'T YOU? And you have... WHAT? Organization for them? YOU COULDN'T EVEN SURVIVE A FIGHT AGAINST THEM." He flips back and forth between the two worlds, like together and overlapped they make an even more marvellous picture. "So what then, my brother, keeps yours in line? YOU KNOW WHAT KEEPS MINE? It's a fish." He laughs. "IT'S JUST A FISH IN THE MOTHERFUCKING OCEAN." His laugh stops. "It's a fish what can make a noise so motherfucking powerful it would pop the brains of every dissenter and troll with in a hundred fucking miles in whisper of displeasure." It's a trick, one done purposefully. It's a grand joke to know that for all the power in the world one is still slave to the whims of a squid. "THE QUEEN STAYS QUEEN FOR IT IS HER BEAST. The royal stay royal. AND THE LOW STAY LOW. Of course there are still dissenters, of course. BUT THEY ARE MADE quiet. THEY ARE SILENCED. And so the beast stays quiet. I ASSUME THEN YOUR PEOPLE HAVE A POWER IMPENETRABLE, HM?" He raises his brows again, this time much more noticeably. His body swings up and his hands are reaching into the chandelier to grip. After several moments repositioning, he's no longer hanging upside-down, but sitting as Stephen is, only on the opposite side.

"The difference between my kind and your is twofold." He holds up two fingers. "WHERE YOURS LOOKS ON THE VICTORS OF YOUR GAMES AS FIGURE OF STRENGTH, THINGS WHAT YOU CAPITOLITES ONLY MOTHERFUCKING DREAM OF... all my kind would be of Victors. WE GO THROUGH TRIALS, JUST LIKE YOUR GAMES, BEFORE WE EVEN LEAVE THE MOTHERFUCKING CAVERNS AND MEET OUR CARETAKERS. As long as a troll is still alive, they are victorious and remain so until they are culled. THERE ARE NO WEAK LINKS. The high have strength, longevity. THE LOW HAVE NUMBERS, POWERS. With all stripped aside, we match each other. WITH ALL STRIPPED ASIDE, WE ARE EVEN GROUND. If such was stripped away until it was just us versus them, our people could almost bleed as equals..." His smile is wiped away for a moment. His face unreadable, curiously blank.

He continues as if the moment didn't happen, "THE SECOND THING; THERE IS AN HONESTY. Every motherfucker with functioning pan knows how the wicked shit works. YOU FIGHT HARDER. You comply. YOU SURVIVE. If one does not like it the culling fields are free and open to lay down in. WHEN WE HEAR THE SCREAMS NEXT FUCKING DOOR WE KNOW ONE JUST GOT ENDED AND WE ROLL OVER IN OUR COONS. When someone gets out of line, they are removed entirely. NO ONE QUESTION NOR SHAKES THEIR HEAD. For we all know the goddamn rules. WE SPIT ON THE LOW, WE SNEER AT THE HIGH, WE SPEAK OUR GODDAMN GRIEVANCES AS ALL WE WANT... AND AT THE END OF THE NIGHT, WE ALL FOLLOW IN LINE. Order, my brother." He smiles again, extra sweet. "WE ARE NOT SO DIFFERENT, YOU SEE! Not motherfucking entirely. BUT HE DOES STILL WONDER AT THE GIFTS YOU UP AND BESTOW. That's new. IT GETS A CONFUSION UP AND ON, YOU SEE. It's harder to guess attack when gifts come too." He rests his arms in the mess of glimmering jewels. His eyes close. "HE DOES APPRECIATE THOUGH. It is a miracle to get rest."

It would be so easy for Stephen to turn off his brain, to stop listening, to let the words just wash over him. A few months ago, he probably would have. The temptation is still very real. Stephen could just go to sleep, let the words wash over him, and be none the wiser.

But the meaning seeps through. There is a lot of meaning; a lot to take in.

What if the Districts ruled themselves? is one thing the Initiate is saying. If they didn't pay tribute to the Capitol, they could support themselves. The Capitol does nothing productive for the Districts; therefore it would be in the Districts' best interests to overthrow the Capitol. Stephen disagrees with that, instinctively -- they're only so hard on the Districts because of the uprising seventy-five years ago.

A murderfish with incredible power keeps the troll society stable, Stephen learns. So what keeps Panem stable? A murderfish seems to him like a terrible way to ensure obedience, and he's a little taken aback by the fact that the Initiate assumes that Panem is kept stable by force, but --

-- but isn't it, though? The Capitol might not have a genocidal fish, but it did have a Peacekeeper force, and cameras everywhere, and the Hunger Games to...to do what? What was the real purpose of the Hunger Games?

There are two differences between Panem society and troll society. One is that all surviving trolls won something like the Hunger Games as children, and they are all strong. The other is that trolls all know their society is brutal. Stephen isn't sure what he thinks of that last bit. Is it the Districts that Initiate is referring to, who don't know? Or is Initiate talking about -- him?

And finally, Sponsor gifts are confusing to someone who is used to open hostility and attacks. The Capitol's lavish generosity is hard fro him to respond to.

It's a long, long moment of silence, as all this gets processed.

"...are you telling me to watch my back?" he asks finally, eyes opening wide, incredulous.

He snorts, peeking an eye open. He's got his smirk pulled up on one side. He points to himself. "FROM HE? Naw. I LIKE YOU. You've allowed him his grief trapeze jeweled, you've indulged him in politic, and you've given promise of stardust. WHY THE MOTHERFUCK WOULD HE SQUANDER THAT?"

He lets go of the chandelier. His upper body falls back and he is hanging again by the knees. The chandelier shakes with the sudden force and momentum.

"Not to say it ain't no kind of a good motherfucking pondering what to ponder. BUT HE WOULD THINK SUCH FOR ANYONE." He gives a flippant wave of his hand.

"Why, brother? DO YOU THINK THERE BE ANY REASON YOU SHOULD?"

His eyes drop.

Stephen doesn't say anything. The crystals around him clink quietly.

"No," he lies. "Not particularly. Our leaders and the Hunger Games have kept society stable for almost eighty years. I don't see any reason why that would change now."

If Initiate knows anything about reading people's lies, he will know that Stephen is lying right now.

He makes to turn himself around, so he's facing the right way as he hangs. But he doesn't miss the lack of voice, no he does motherfucking not.

He doesn't miss the way Stephen has no more explanation for why things would remain as they are except that they have for almost eighty paltry years. Not eighty sweeps, not eighty millennia. Years. He chuckles.

"Then there ain't be nothing what all to up and worry all on now ain't that right? NOT A THING, BY A BROTHER'S THOUGHTS," He says. "But see? YOU WERE WRONG. That was great fun, he did quite enjoy that. THE SHARING OF THOUGHT AND HISTORIES."

From where he hangs, he extends a hand out to Stephen, in simple gesture of show.

"Now, brother, how all will you be making to descend to the world below where the lowly lay? DO YOU THINK AS YOU WILL SURVIVE A JUMP AND FALL? You're hanging pretty tight there to that motherfucking chandelier." It is in fact a genuine question. But, oh, he does love the metaphor.

The metaphor isn't lost on Stephen.

"It's a long way down." A thrill of fear creeps up his spine as he looks down at the ground.

"But this is an old chandelier. If I try to stay up here forever, sooner or later it'll fall on its own, and take me down with it."

"TRUE FUCKING SHIT," He says. And then he's laughing again. "You got gall. HE LIKES THAT." He certainly wasn't pried from his place and position no way easy. He still longed for that throne, even now, for all it stood for. But he's been a mere toy in their game for a while now too. Stephen must know, when this place comes down inevitably, he may end just as low as the rest of them.

And then he's back to focusing on the task at hand. "Aight. YOU AIN'T GOT HORNS SO YOU MIGHT ALL MAKE AS TO MANAGE. You're going as to want to jump outward and the fuck away. DON'T JUST DROP. Let knees bend but don't keep weight down on them nor bend too far. YOU WANT AS TO DROP INTO A ROLL, TAKE THE HARSH OFF. If a brother fucks up he probably won't up and kick wicked shit, just might hurt."

He grins like this is a decent reassurance.

For a moment, Stephen gives the Initiate a quizzical look, like is this still part of the metaphor or are you just telling me how to get down without breaking a limb?

Then he decides that getting down is more important right now. Stephen wiggles forward a little bit, staring at the ground, preparing to jump.

It still looks like a long way down.

"I'm getting too old for this," Stephen mutters. Then, he jumps.

It isn't graceful, what happens when he hits the ground. It's not a tight roll, and it definitely pulls something in his shoulder, and it's ungainly. The sound is kind of a thudthudthud. Stephen ends up on his back, staring at the ceiling, grabbing his shoulder and wincing.

"Ugh. Definitely too old."

Can't it be both motherfucking things? ...Is what he'd say if he could read Stephen's mind.

He watches first, looking for if the motherfucker might make a mistake so grievious they'll drag him off for murder (what a strange thought to consider, being arrested for a cull). He winces the way one does when watching a movie, with faint 'oof' of only half-there sympathy. And then Stephen is just laying there, lamenting.

He lifts a brow. "WELL, HOW MOTHERFUCKING OLD ARE YOU TO BE?" He'd... well of course he hadn't assumed Stephen was young, his ownself was a troll, age didn't always work like that, but Stephen certainly looked young.

He starts to swing himself, unlatching from the chandelier. He lands on his feet, not too far from Stephen, walks over, and peers down. His head tilts all curious.

"Twenty-seven," Stephen groans. He begins to pick himself up, rubbing at his shoulder, climbing to his feet. "It's always so hard to admit it when you find things you can't do anymore. I suppose tumbling off of a chandelier is one of them."

He dusts off his clothes briskly, forcefully. They're only a little rumpled, really.

He gets out of the way as when all Stephen starts rising up.

"Twenty-seven? HA, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU'RE YOUNG. Even for your own lifespan you're like to be young, you just need as for practice and limbering the fuck up, motherfucker," He says. "GOT SEVENTY YEARS UP AHEAD STILL. Only a fifth the fucking way. GIVE IT ENOUGH DAMN TIME AND YOU CAN DO ON JUMPING DOWN ALL WITHOUT THE ROLL UPON IT."

He walks his way around Stephen until he's all in front. "Ain't your lot train at all ever?"

Edited 2014-07-17 02:10 (UTC)

"Not really," Stephen admits, more than a little shamefaced. "If we do, it's for appearances. What Capitol citizens look like is more important than what we can do." It's an honest answer, if a slightly embarrassing one.

The Initiate makes a brief face of confusion. Then to return to grinning.

"MOTHERFUCKER, THAT BE ALL SORTS OF LIMITING DON'T YOU KNOW? You motherfuckers ain't even got no drones, why all the need when concupiscence ain't being mandatory? YOU SHOULD THINK ABOUT IT, BROTHER STEPHEN! Then when all next you wish to climb up or down from chandeliers you won't make near to hurt so damn much." He gives a sage nod.

Concupiscence? That was a hell of a word, one that Stephen needs a second to puzzle out.

Oh.

"But concupiscence is fun," he argues. "It doesn't have to be mandatory to be important."

"OF COURSE, PREVAILENCE OF THE SPECIES, BLUH BLUH, EVERYONE KNOWS THE GODDAMN SCHPEEL." And he is, clearly, bored by it. He waves his hand.

"Of course it's important, but a motherfucker won't find serendipity just because all he forces it, that just slaughters it all right there it up and does. BESIDES, IF A MOTHERFUCKER IS STRONG, HE CAN KEEP HIS LOVES SAFE AS WELL AS HIS OWNSELF. He can't up and do that if he's just goddamn pretty" He's arguing the value of appearences with a would-be seadweller. This is his life. "FAR BETTER FOR ATTRACTING VIABLE PARTNERS, PENULTIMATE." Another sage nod.

"I won't deny that there is something very attractive about strength," admits Stephen, a little wryness creeping into his tone. "And competence, and protectiveness -- as long as it doesn't cross into jealousy." While a little bit of jealousy could be fun, it usually wasn't worth the drama.

"Exactly, brother," He says, enthused. "YOU SEE? You're starting to get the bigger pictures you up and are. IT'S ALL LIKE AS ON BEING MOTHERFUCKING INTERCONNECTED IT UP AND IS."

He gestures with his hands spreading up and wide with the slow downward movement of his arms, looking at the ceiling but gesturing to the grand universe as a whole.

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