thecapitol | All I know is the steak tastes better... [OPEN to D6]

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All I know is the steak tastes better... [OPEN to D6]

Who| Kevin and anyone from D6!
What| The new Mentor wants to get to know everyone - so he's going to take YOU to lunch! Yes, you!
Where| D6 Common Room, then off to other places if your character agrees.
When| Just before the Arena.
Warnings| Kevin.

Hans had made the suggestion, and it had left an impact.

It was more than apparent that Kevin was going to have to get to know the other Tributes of District 6 to be effective as a Mentor - and gosh, wouldn't you know it, but so many of them just hadn't gotten the chance to meet him yet! Everyone has been busy, of course, and he knows that. Now, though, it's officially time to make time. Can't sell a Tribute you don't know! His team is counting on him!

So when you walk into the District 6 common room, you are immediately met by a familiar bright grin, neatly pressed suit, and a clipboard with a big list of names on it. He checks off your name as he approaches you before you get the chance to flee. Whether you have met or you haven't, he greets you with the same level of clinical, professional warmth.

"Hey there! Are you ready for a lunch date with your Mentor?"

No one can save you now.

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He would never be ready.

Edward was dressed with plans to go down to the restaurant in the Central Commons for lunch, outfit simple for the Capitol but he didn't feel like peacocking. He just wanted some lunch. That lunch did not involve Kevin. That lunch did not involve anyone except himself, his server, and the food he would be choosing to eat.

So he stops when Kevin greets him, still like a deer in headlights. His reply is the first thing that pops into his head.

"Sorry, I'm underdressed!" And he turns tail and runs right back to his room, locking the door behind him.

A beat, a quizzical blink - and then Kevin is sprinting after Edward, bounding in too-quick strides, blond hair bouncing as he runs. When he meets the outside of Edward's room, he taps on it first...then slides down, laying on the floor so his eye (or lack thereof) is peering in through the crack under the door.

"You looked just wonderful to me, friend!" Muffled, but manic as ever. "We have things to talk about, you and I!"

When Edward looks down to see the not-eye peering from underneath the door, he nopes quite verily to a corner of his room out of sight. Beside his closet, he slides it open and just starts sliding hangers around to make it sound like he's looking through things.

"W-well," ahem, "perhaps to you, but if we go out somewhere, I'd like to make a good impression should anyone in the public want to talk about the arenas at all. Every citizen is a potential sponsor! 'Dress to impress' is quite the code to live by here," he calls through the door.

This was happening whether he wanted it to or not, he knew that already, so as he's making shuffling noises, he starts actually considering other things to change into. Kevin would notice if he didn't. It's not like the guy was blind, though that'd be advantageous in this situation.

Kevin's sharp ears pick up on the rattle of hangers, and he's pleased. "Well, I thought you were fine - but gosh, I do like the initiative! I'll wait right out there."

With that, he picks himself up off the floor, instead standing against a wall with his clipboard and making little notes under Edward's name. 'Fastidious, concerned with appearances. Self-aware of public image.'

While the grinning man may seem clueless a lot of the time, he's got more going on in his head than one might think.

Molotov is working intently on her tablet as she walks, answering emails containing interview questions that she apparently has to approve or disapprove. Not that she really trusts the Capitolites to honor her wishes, but they seem afraid enough of her on a personal level to at least have the courtesy to ask.

She looks up at Kevin's greeting, eye widening to see who it is, and she immediately backs up a few steps, almost unconsciously. He's really the one person she's seen in old Games footage who really creeped her out. Mostly because of his face. His face is really disturbing.

"That's not on my schedule!" she laughs awkwardly, pulling it up and turning the tablet to face him, so he can see. "So sorry, Kevin."

Yeah, Kevin gets that reaction a lot.

He advances forward when she backs up, either oblivious or uncaring that she was trying to put distance between him and her. "Oh, no! Well gosh, it's good to see that you have an itinerary," he croons, his smile not budging, "But I'm certain you could at least spare a bit of time for some coffee. I really do need to get to know you! You know...for sponsors."

His pen lingers over Molotov's name on his checklist.

"Unless, of course, you really are too busy today - in which case I can just...keep trying until you DO have time."

Quite frankly, Molotov isn't sure her mind's ever churned so quickly before. His horrible smile, his empty black eyes -- she's actually physically repulsed from uneasiness, and that's not something easily accomplished in a woman who comes from a world where people are frequently in "super science" experiments gone awry.

"You know, it would be so wonderful to get coffee with you," she stutters, eye darting around, then widening again when she hits her answer, "but I think the others really need you more than I do! Stephen and I have my sponsors under control, really -- haven't you seen all my interviews and photoshoots? But the others here, they hardly have any publicity, and they need your skills so much more than I do!"

Her voice is placating, filled with seemingly genuine concern for the other Tributes of District 6, even though all she really wants is for Kevin to go away and never be in the same room as her again. Fucking hell, why won't he stop smiling?!

That smile isn't going anywhere. The way he moves his face, the way the muscles are contorted and sculpted, it's easy enough to surmise that it is carved into his face, lashed in place, bound up underneath taut, tanned skin.

"Oh, please, don't get me wrong," he chirps, checking her name off of his list anyway. Nope. Not getting rid of him that easily. "You're doing just wonderfully at getting sponsors! But as your Mentor, it would really be nice for me to get to know you personally, instead of by proxy. I promise, I will not keep you long. Just a quick refreshment, a little chat, and you can get back to your busy schedule!"

There's another unconscious step back, a grimace, and she holds her tablet close to her chest, as if it can protect her from him, force him to stay away or something. It can't, of course.

"But... what do you need to know me for?" she asks, cringing just slightly, and shaking her head. "Why does it matter if we know each other, if I already have my sponsors? Isn't that your job, to help me get them? I don't need your help."

The way that his already-fixed smile goes sort of cold and static might indicate that he doesn't like what she has just said - but he gives a weird little laugh, continuing on in a would-be friendly fashion.

"Oh, Molotov, that may be part of my job, but I'm also meant to give advice! And even if you have some sponsors secured...if I am able to get you even more, isn't that better? I need to get to know you personally, if I'm going to be able to do my work properly while you're in the Arena." He advances by a pace, something in his voice getting a bit...chilly.

"Unless, of course, you have problems with the way that I am doing my job?"

It's possible that Molotov doesn't even notice the change in his face, given how fucking weird and creepy it already is, and how she's definitely eyeing the exit anyway. She's never been one to run, but Kevin... Kevin makes her stomach turn, fold in on itself.

Except that she doesn't like the way he's trying to intimidate her. It makes her angry, and that instantly changes her, flips the switch inside of her that controls her barely-contained temper.

"I couldn't care less about the way you are doing your job," she hisses, looking for all the world like she's had a surge of courage as she steps forward, even if the 'courage' is really more 'blind rage', "and I will never take advice from you. I watched your arena, you didn't really win. You were only the luckiest freak left alive."

She pokes at his chest, fury glistening in her eye.

"When I need advice about how to win the lottery, I will ask you for it. But I am an assassin, and I plan to win by killing people, not eating them like an animal."

For a moment, Kevin doesn't seem to react. He certainly doesn't back down, standing still and strong as she prods his chest (which is firmer than perhaps expected); that fixed grin dials down by a degree, the voids where his eyes should be widen.

"I hate to break it to you," he begins, voice a cold hiss that sits at odds with his grin and demeanor, "But when you put a bunch of people in a cage together, they're all going to be animals one way or the other. I don't deny that I am one. You are one, too. Not admitting that you're an animal when your chosen profession is killing people for rewards is - oh! Well, now, there's something I could use."

He jots something down, under Molotov's name. 'Hypocritical.'

"The arena that I won in went the way it did, and I don't regret that. I don't remember very much of it, to be honest with you - but the fact remains that I won. I won, and now I am your management. Like it or not, Molotov, I am management to you. You can let me work for you, or you can keep calling me names."

Kevin broadens his grin, and it looks like it may split his head in two.

"So. How do you take your coffee?"

She wants to vomit when he keeps talking, wants to punch his face until there's nothing left but pulp on her fist and his horrible teeth are broken into shards. It wouldn't be the first time she's done it, but the looming threat of Peacekeepers forces her fists to stay in place, shaking at her sides.

"You aren't management," she tells him acidly, eye narrowing. "You are just the pissant that no one likes, Kevin. Good management is liked by their team, and I know because I had a team at home. My own company. You, if anything, are an asset that no one will choose to use, because you didn't win through any kind of skill, you just... got... lucky. Anyone could have done what you did. Anyone can be a monster. Don't call me an animal, you bastard, because you could never do what I do. I am an artist. You are trash."

Molotov suddenly grabs at the paper on his clipboard, intending to rip it off and throw it away.

"Stay away from me. In fact, do the whole District a favor and give up your pathetic attempt at help."

The paper is grabbed, torn away, and it's hard to tell, but his gaze tracks it - watches his notes go to pieces, the way the tatters of paper sit behind in his clipboard from where the sheet once was.

He's silent for a moment - disconcertingly so - and then he takes the rest of the papers from the clipboard, holding them and letting the board itself fall to the floor with a clatter. Bloodstained fingers slick against white pages, leaving sticky smears under his grip. Two black voids are fixed now on Molotov, staring her down in uncomfortable quiet until finally, words fall.

"Is that it? Well, gosh...if you're looking for some big reaction, I'm sorry to disappoint!"

A flash of electricity behind him - the smell of burning flesh, smoke from under his collar. He scribbles something on the page facing him with his pen. "But I am, in fact, a man of business...so let me address your grievances. Working backwards -"

He turns the first page so she can see it - it's a chart, listing his duties and busy itinerary as a mentor. "Contrary to what you may think of my help, it's important for me to carry it out. Sure, I could go about my job without getting to know you...but if people ask me what you're like, it's a lot better for me to be able to tell them. I've been working hard to get things ready for the Arena! And gosh...all I did was ask you to coffee."

Without warning, his hand moves in a violent arc, shredding the sheet in two. He lets it fall and draws another - this time, it's a profit read-out for Strexcorp, graphed out just a little bit too well from memory.

"Second - I don't think you knew about this, Molotov, but I'm actually very good at what I do. Back home, when Strexcorp asked me to do something, I did it! I did it, and always with a smile. Smiling is, as you can see here, a lot more productive than what you are doing right now. Even in the Arena...I carried out my work with a smile! Even when," his voice shifts a little, distortion kissing his words, "Forces tried to take that smile away from me."

RIP.

"As for the first complaint...do you think you're going to shock me, saying that? Because here we go - let me show you. Our last chart, haha!"

The paper that is held up has only one thing written on it - 'People who actually like me.'

The rest of the paper is blank.

He tears the rest of the thick stack up, grinning all the while.

"I mean, gosh, I'm not stupid! I already know none of you like me. None of you! I know an unhappy face when I see one, and I see a whole lot of unhappy faces when I talk to anybody here. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to try to help you."

Kevin stands now in a flurry of papers, the back of his collar smoking, grin twitching on his face. His voice carries the whine of static, the distortion of a bad speaker.

"̧͉̦W̶͙͇͉̣̺̟h̰̲̱̤̜y̬̞̠͔ ̛̥̗͚͚c͙͔͕ͅan̨̬̹͔'̠ͅt͚̭̠̟̬͠ ̞̞y͙ͅo̩̼̯̣̭̫̫u̞̻ ͠ju̶̺͖̫͕̻̰̞s͖̫͔̘̬t̛̰̠͔͔͙͎̮ ̗̣̪̦l͙̥̫̣̳̖̙e̖̥̩͎͠t̞͙̖ ̥͈m̻̝͍ḛ̰ ͎̟͘dǫ̰͓̺ ̭̯̰̗m̸̦͙y̧̖̘͓ ̡̜j͚̯̩͍͉ǫ̮̲͖̤̙̪b͓?͉"̧̖̹̹̣̙̭̫

It's the argument that catches Stephen's attention. He would be ashamed to admit, though, just how much he didn't want to deal with it. From his room, he sighed, stood, and headed to the door -- just in time to catch the scent of burning flesh.

Oh, no.

He rushes out into the common area just in time to catch the last minute of Kevin's diatribe.

His eyes widen. Guilt lances through his gut, and heat creeps unbidden onto his face. Stephen feels like he's been caught, which he has -- he's been caught in a lie. For a second, he hesitates.

Then he steps forward. Honestly, it's the distortion in Kevin's voice that does it: it tells Stephen that he needs to step in, that this situation cannot be left alone.

"Kevin?" he says, reaching out an arm, making a placating gesture. "Kevin, I think it's time you took a break."

Molotov has backed up by the time Kevin's voice turns into... well, she doesn't even know what it's doing, but she's backing up because the sparking and smoke has her a bit worried that maybe Kevin is actually going to explode. She didn't think he was a robot, but it turns out that you never know about these things.

She didn't actually care if he exploded. She just didn't want him exploding on her. Bits of Kevin all over her blouse, ew.

When Stephen steps in, her eye darts to him, as if to ask what, precisely, was happening here. That look doesn't manage to make it to the rest of her face, though, and her expression stays cold and hard, exactly like her voice.

"Yes, I think it is," she sniffs, taking the opportunity to walk a fair distance away, lest there suddenly be exploded bits of robot man flying everywhere.

Stephen. Another on the list of people who Kevin is pretty sure doesn't actually like him. That's okay, he doesn't have to. They're in business together, that's all.

His bloody fingers twitch at his sides as he's spoken to, his gaze moving from Stephen to Molotov and back again. He steps backward, paper crinkling beneath his deep red tennis shoes.

"...Of course! Wouldn't want to break with protocol or labor laws. They're so...weird...around here." Something in his tone of voice is still not quite right, but at least it's not coming out like a bad radio station. "But you might want to have a word with your Tribute, here. Sour faces aren't going to hurt me, any, but a bad temper might be detrimental to her success."

Kevin turns his face to stare right at Molotov. Pointedly.

"And I still owe you a coffee."

"I'll handle it," Stephen promises. "Thank you," he says, and it is as heartfelt as he can make it, "for your hard work."

Standing up to Kevin is easier, now: Stephen doesn't feel as afraid as he used to. He had stood up to Molotov and survived not so long ago. He could handle Kevin.

Molotov scowls at Kevin and gives Stephen a withering look as she stomps away. He'd better not say a word to her -- Kevin started it! She'd tried very nicely to get out of it, he was the one that got angry and refused to let her be! Who didn't know how to just let it go and leave someone alone?

That freak had brought it on himself, she hopes Stephen knows.

"Thank you, Stephen," Kevin breathes, chip sparking away as it takes the fire out of his temper. The look he's giving Stephen indicates something - he knows that Stephen had probably heard what he said. "And thank you for the acknowledgement."

With that, he turns on his heel, moving off to go and spend a little time praying.

The Smiling God will help him center again.

Maybe he'll even pray for Molotov.

Stephen looks from one to the other and gives a helpless shrug. He absolutely will talk with Molotov later, to give her advice on the best ways to get Kevin off your back.

He will also talk with Kevin. Stephen feels horrible -- he feels called-out, feels embarrassed, and feels like a liar. If Kevin was really that self-aware, maybe it was time Stephen stopped hiding things from him. But before he does that, he has a recording to compile.

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All I know is the steak tastes better... [OPEN to D6]

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