Buddy Glass (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
parenthetically) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-08-18 05:21 pm
parenthetically) wrote in thecapitol2014-08-18 05:21 pm
Entry tags:
some fool tries to challenge the throne (semi-open)
Who| Buddy Glass and anyone presently incarcerated.
What| Touring the prisoners to make sure everything's on the up and up and none of that nasty torture business is going down anymore. Even if it actually is.
Where| Central holding where ever that might be.
When| Idk guys. Anytime post-attempted jailbreaks through to the day before the Arena.
Warnings/Notes| Mentions of past torture/mutilation, gore, possible swearing, general unpleasantness.
It was roughly half past some utterly desolate, irredeemable hour in the afternoon when Buddy Glass felt that he was plucked, quite unceremoniously and with as little pomp and circumstances as was possible for a society built on such things, from the criminally disinteresting stark white of his cubical. He was dragged, metaphorically and not literally it should be noted, up several floors to have his security clearance verified once, twice, and a third time, before being hauled (again, metaphorically) back downward to the dank areas in which he usually was loath to tread. To clarify the point, edify for both his own benefit and that of the reader, Buddy was not afraid of the jail cells or their inhabitants. Even if he had a healthy regard for the emotional compartmentalization necessary to make a habit out of killing people on national TV every few weeks, they were harmless enough now. And besides, the same grunts who had so taciturnly scaled the building with him were still around and more impressively armed. There was no danger the jail could present to any of them, particularly not with the others ordered to stick around come hell or high water.
No, his avoidance of the jail was more practical than that. It was, after all, much easier to invent living conditions than it was to actively lie about them. There was something nasty about lying. Inventing presumably but not verifiably false information didn't carry the same weight. He sniffed, the air itself seemed to cling to them and it was noticeably darker here. It made him miss the sterile, white, windowlessness of his cubical. Not that there was sunlight down here either, but all the same. The only decent light came from a forcefield glowing eerily at the entrance to each individual cell.
Buddy was pulled from his distraction by the gruff voice of a member of his escort. The man was reading off information, he realize after slightly too lingering a moment of confusion. Names, dates of arrest, why each individual had been arrested (suspicion of murder, and aiding and abetting seemed to be the common theme, which he had known and so he felt a little annoyed to hear it repeated again), District association, and any personal notes the Peacekeeper in question felt like adding. He wondered vaguely how it felt to have the misfortunes of your life rattled off in front of you to someone else completely in earshot. It had to be difficult to hear, but at least Buddy would wager, not as difficult as it would be to tactfully respond to any questions from here on out. Ignorance had its benefits. To know anything effectively one had to learn as little as possible about it. He was almost entirely sure he'd read a proverb to that end somewhere.
What| Touring the prisoners to make sure everything's on the up and up and none of that nasty torture business is going down anymore. Even if it actually is.
Where| Central holding where ever that might be.
When| Idk guys. Anytime post-attempted jailbreaks through to the day before the Arena.
Warnings/Notes| Mentions of past torture/mutilation, gore, possible swearing, general unpleasantness.
It was roughly half past some utterly desolate, irredeemable hour in the afternoon when Buddy Glass felt that he was plucked, quite unceremoniously and with as little pomp and circumstances as was possible for a society built on such things, from the criminally disinteresting stark white of his cubical. He was dragged, metaphorically and not literally it should be noted, up several floors to have his security clearance verified once, twice, and a third time, before being hauled (again, metaphorically) back downward to the dank areas in which he usually was loath to tread. To clarify the point, edify for both his own benefit and that of the reader, Buddy was not afraid of the jail cells or their inhabitants. Even if he had a healthy regard for the emotional compartmentalization necessary to make a habit out of killing people on national TV every few weeks, they were harmless enough now. And besides, the same grunts who had so taciturnly scaled the building with him were still around and more impressively armed. There was no danger the jail could present to any of them, particularly not with the others ordered to stick around come hell or high water.
No, his avoidance of the jail was more practical than that. It was, after all, much easier to invent living conditions than it was to actively lie about them. There was something nasty about lying. Inventing presumably but not verifiably false information didn't carry the same weight. He sniffed, the air itself seemed to cling to them and it was noticeably darker here. It made him miss the sterile, white, windowlessness of his cubical. Not that there was sunlight down here either, but all the same. The only decent light came from a forcefield glowing eerily at the entrance to each individual cell.
Buddy was pulled from his distraction by the gruff voice of a member of his escort. The man was reading off information, he realize after slightly too lingering a moment of confusion. Names, dates of arrest, why each individual had been arrested (suspicion of murder, and aiding and abetting seemed to be the common theme, which he had known and so he felt a little annoyed to hear it repeated again), District association, and any personal notes the Peacekeeper in question felt like adding. He wondered vaguely how it felt to have the misfortunes of your life rattled off in front of you to someone else completely in earshot. It had to be difficult to hear, but at least Buddy would wager, not as difficult as it would be to tactfully respond to any questions from here on out. Ignorance had its benefits. To know anything effectively one had to learn as little as possible about it. He was almost entirely sure he'd read a proverb to that end somewhere.
no subject
He pauses there to remove his glasses and wipe an awkward film that seemed have formed on the lenses on the corner of his flannel suit jacket. It's a purposed pause, the type more friendly to someone with a greater talent for theatricality, but nevertheless, Buddy makes his attempt with a technical facility that implies it's not first rodeo. "That does seem to be a problem for you lately. There's my hypothesis."
no subject
His next words strike like a blow to her bruised and tender gut. It's true, about her being locked out, about the human fortune, the treasure trove of love and goodwill she amassed from friends and makeshift family here, being plundered and pillaged by her bad luck and worse decisions as of late. That she doesn't cringe doesn't mean that she doesn't show pain. Her chin lifts slightly from stubbornness; her eyes unfocus a little.
It's not that he hit a nerve, it's that the protective skin around her heart has been burned away. She is nothing but nerves.
Buddy's demeanor doesn't scream benevolence, just detachment, feigned interest, and the casings of professional dedication with none of the contents.
"I'm a good interview. If you need one." Something about the way she says that makes me feel dirty, and she casts a glance over to the sleeping forms of Wyatt and Maximus nearby, hoping they can't hear her, wondering if they'd feel disdain if they did.