thecapitol | There's a String That Runs Through All Our Bad Days [Closed]

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There's a String That Runs Through All Our Bad Days [Closed]

WHO| Cyrus and Black Tom
WHAT| Two douchebags being douchebags.
WHEN| After the reaping by a few days.
WHERE| A fancy wine-tasting place in the Capitol.
WARNINGS| None yet.

Tom's made it a point to use his curfew pass whenever possible and as conspicuously as he can. Typically, that means loudly closing the door behind him on the way out of District Ten and going to places he knows he'll be photographed, usually with Molotov, and tonight is no exception.

He has his pass pinned to the lapel of his fancy coat as he passes through the streets. The weather's gotten just cold enough to whisper over his skin and the wind tangles its fingers in his hair. The city opens up before him like a clam glutted with pearls. He's more than just an unbranded, uncuffed Tribute - he's favored, a gem among the pebbles of the other minor celebrities sharing his living space, and the citizens are eager to let him know as much with smiles, discounts, favors.

It's almost enough to make him forget that this is nothing more than a larger, plusher prison than the ones he's used to.

The winery he's visiting is boasting grapes from District Eleven, as if that means anything to him aside from a price tag several tens of assi higher than anything else in the Capitol. He may soon find himself a spokesperson for whiskey, which, he imagines, means that any public alcohol intake will have to be run past a board of marketing executives and handlers. Might as well enjoy some red while he can.

The set-up is something of a free wander, and it reminds him of chickens scratching at feed, honestly. Citizens, many of whom are wearing more feathers than the average bird, flit from table to table to try the finest the winery has to offer. Tom paces himself, making shallow conversation with the populace as he savors each mouthful. He bumps elbows with the elite. He smiles and makes the women and quite a few men feel seen, as if they are, for a few seconds, the only other person in the room.

He doubletakes when he sees Cyrus, not immediately placing the face he's only seen in papers. "Sorry, have we met?"

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Cyrus hasn't decided how to feel about Tom yet. He's come to resent, in fact, the idea that he needs to feel anything about Tom. His feelings about Tributes do not, as a rule, get more charitable than tolerant, and the majority stay firmly in the realm of indifferent and disdainful; but the tabloids have decided that he should feel differently about Tom, and that alone makes him want to refuse out of spite.

...Spite. There's something else he isn't used to feeling in connection with Tributes. It grates.

But he stays polite, of course. Nods graciously, accepts the apology. This is his territory, or so he's come to think of it in these short moments-- this is his place, his piece of the Capitol, and here the Tribute is the outsider.

"Immensely," he replies, giving the dark red in his glass an illustrative swirl. "I'm entertaining next week; it says a lot, I think, that the host choose the wine himself." And not foist the responsibility off on one of the legion of people actually planning the event. Wine tasting: A heavy responsibility, clearly.

"Though-- you're certainly out late," he adds, with a brief lift of his eyebrows (and a glance at the pass pinned to Tom's lapel). There's a subtle weight to the words, though he speaks them politely enough. Reminding them both that at this hour, Tom can only be here with someone else's permission.

"Aye. And given the sorts of parties your sort throw in this city, I can't imagine there's any room for sloppiness. There's quite a high standard set."

Tom knows a barb when it's slipped into a conversation. It's a razor slipped into a bar of soap. He also knows better to retaliate, because while he has a temper, while all the restrictions placed on his freedom certainly tempt it to snap quicker than a metal trap, he's not stupid.

He would have been dead long ago in the criminal underworld if he sweat every threat.

"It wasn't difficult to procure one. I only had to promise to do my part for the Capitol. It makes me unpopular with my peers, but I was hardly winning hearts and minds there anyway." To tell the truth, it doesn't bother him to be disliked by people he doesn't respect. It's not even that it makes it easier to kill them later (that would imply he'd care). He's mostly just chafed at the hypocrisy of it.

He takes a sip of wine, raising an eyebrow slightly at the taste of this one. Like most things in the Capitol, it's exceptional. "To tell the truth, I'm surprised at how...well, I don't mean to be rude. But it seems they have the wrong impression about this place."

Cyrus hadn't seen all of what Tom did in the Arena. But he'd seen enough. Seen the important part, the part that set off the most cannons, and won him the ire of half the remaining contestants. The Games have changed - they don't reward child murder like they used to, now that they make up such a small minority of the competitors. It's not only the Capitol the Tributes have to impress anymore - not now that they have to face their peers after the Arena's over.

The Games used to be so simple.

"Not at all," Cyrus says. Not rude at all, he means. He allows mild surprise to show in his face - to hear this man talk, one would think he hardly considered himself a Tribute. He talks of his peers, but nothing he's said has implied that he feels any kind of kinship with them. Unusual - Cyrus is used to dealing with a defiantly collective we, when it comes to their otherworldly visitors.

It seems they have the wrong impression of this place. "...And you don't," he says-- a question without being a question. It's an invitation to explain.

He could make his excuses and walk away at any time. He could. But-- he finds he'd like to hear the answer to that.

"Does any man who takes a contrary opinion from his peers really doubt the belief he's nailed himself to?" The words and tone are soft-edged, non-accusatory, crisp but not confrontational. He's opening himself up to Cyrus like a letter from an envelope. Ask, he says. You'll see I'm an open book filled with pages of things you know to be true.

"I think the other Tributes are so wrapped up in missing the world they knew, one where they were free to come and go, that they don't actually like to contemplate that that isn't their reality anymore. They're taking out all their frustrations on the people around them as though they think that if they're petulant enough, they'll get anything they want." Tom rolls his eyes and one side of his mouth pinches into a pensive frown.

"Granted, most of them are young, and they don't understand that the world doesn't revolve around them, and that they should understand that every person putting clothes on their back and food on their table has to work, too." At 52, Tom's only younger than one other Tribute here, barring immortals, who, let's be honest, act like children half the time anyway. "They don't understand that being a Tribute is something like employment, and that they could have it a lot worse off than spending a few weeks in the Arena for the security of food, shelter and protection from the Rebels."

Tom doesn't believe it (under his skin, his blood burns that his powers were taken) but he can accept it. It's a truth he'll happily try to internalize until the time is right.

"And then, of course, they ostracize those of us who'd rather not make everyone else suffer just because we're unhappy."

Edited (ugh used the same word twice in one sentence) 2014-11-25 23:05 (UTC)

...Well. There's an opinion Cyrus hasn't even heard anyone around him try to pretend to have yet.

Is Tom pretending? He doesn't know. It's not the slavish, obsequious obedience of one overcompensating in an attempt to mollify. It sounds reasonable. There's danger, however, in how many thoughts of Cyrus' it mirrors - it makes him feel, in places, too easily read.

But, well-- now he wants to know.

"They ostracize you," he says, and while he doesn't bother making his concern look genuine, it's clear his interest is, at least. It's in the more settled grip he takes on his glass, and the hand he slips out of his pocket; the way he starts to look at the way Tom's face moves when he isn't speaking, to take a measure of him that begins, rather than ends, with Tribute. "How unfortunate. I understand that you haven't been here very long-- but it was my impression that the Tributes are, on the whole, inclined to favor solidarity over such petty division."

He pauses to sip, and gives it a second, to let the wine spread over his tongue; to savor it. "Of course," he goes on, as though he'd not interrupted himself, "That's much different from the way it used to be."

"Yes. They've made their disdain for me quite clear, actually." Tom leans up, pushing aside that flared collar with two fingers to reveal faded bruising around his throat. "Twice now I've had one of my peers attack me in broad daylight for my 'crimes', so to speak, in the Arena. One might have done worse had the Peacekeepers not interrupted. I guarantee you that I've never been so relieved for law enforcement's intervention."

He looks angry more than he looks hurt, bitter and resentful rather than insecure. He's more upset about losing his foothold with the other Tributes because it will hurt him in the next Arena, having so many enemies. It's not a position he's never been in before, but it's still not a pleasant one.

He lets Cyrus measure him up, and the ease of it comes from not really having to affect anything. He's transparent in his desire to get into the good graces of the upper class; he sees no need to cloak lies over a intent that should be painfully obvious. He doesn't want to hide that so much as overshadow it. Yes, he wants to befriend people with power, but more importantly, he wants to connect with people who are sensible, who understand his position, who share his values.

"I'm sure a man such as yourself understands that one of the integral parts of solidarity is excluding others. It just seems they've drawn a tighter circle than our mere status as Tributes." He sniffs a bit and tries another type of wine brought over by a white-clad Avox. While excellent, this one is less to his taste.

"I can't pretend I'm entirely satisfied with the situation, but that's hardly your fault. I want my powers back, but lashing out at you or any of the rest of the citizens here won't change that less reliable superpowered Tributes like Thor and the Hulk might cry out about disparate treatment. Some things," he shrugs it off, as if it's really nothing. It's something he'll get used to. He's certainly become accustomed to worse, "are just non-negotiable no matter how much my fellows kick and scream about it."

There used to be a great deal more in-fighting among the Tributes than there is now. There used to be competition. They used to hate and fear each other, whether out of some sense of societal obligation, or just because that was the only way to survive. It's something Cyrus doesn't like about the new Games (one of so many, many things) - even when they kill each other now, they tend to do it out of some misplaced sense of justice.

He frowns at the marks on Tom's neck, and not just with polite concern. He doesn't much like to see those kinds of injuries outside of the Arena. There's something mildly obscene about it-- there's a place for these things, for that kind of anger, and the Capitol isn't it. Barbaric.

He allows the same Avox to refill his glass from a nearby bottle. Perhaps he'll order a few bottles of this one before he goes. He isn't quite decided yet; if it seems a good after a second glass, it might be the one. He has time.

Anyway, this conversation is really beginning to interest him. Tributes talking sense isn't something he often gets to experience.

"It's a strange way of seeking change, I've always believed," he says, with sympathy, and a smile pulls at just one side of his mouth, cold and insincere. "They blame the Capitol because they're not given exactly what they want; they lash out against anyone who dares to disagree about what they think they deserve; and in the end, it's the more cooperative among them who pay the price." Magnanimously, he allows Tom into that group by implication. "Our Tributes aren't children anymore, but sometimes you'd think...!"

He's thinking of names, of course. Of faces, of interactions. Of Eponine spitting in his face, of Eridan sidling up to him at the funeral, of the hatred in Eva's expression. "Though it's interesting," he finds himself adding (friendly, joking, wry, unconcerned), "to hear something so level-headed from someone so close to Molotov Cocktease."

Quite a blind spot for someone speaking of less reliable Tributes, in his estimation.

He chuckles appreciatively.

"I've raised a child. I can attest that these Tributes are closer to toddlers than they are to adults." He takes another drink, pursing his lips slightly as he washes red wine over his tongue. "And because of the more forceful personalities in your captives, those who aren't as stubborn as I am get pulled into it to avoid the social consequences of being cooperative."

He tilts his head. He still rationalizes to himself that this is why Theresa went off to do heroing, that it wasn't because of any innate impulse on her part but because of peer pressure, because of social manipulations both conscious and subliminal. Such is the way that loving someone can prevent a person from understanding them. In defending Theresa from his disappointment, he's refashioned her into another person entirely.

"Minister Reagan, I'm sure gentlemen don't need to question why it is that I'm close to Molotov Cocktease." He raises his eyebrows, as if chastising in the most gentle way. "We come from similar lines of work. I'm not an island. You can understand how I would want the company of someone who doesn't ostracize me because I played according to the rules."

There's a connection between them, there, in the transformative nature of their love. Tom has his Theresa, and Cyrus his brother, whom he has spent so long making into the person he has decided he should be. Stephen bends, too, in Cyrus' eyes, and that's why he needs protection and the strictest kind of guidance; Stephen is, in some ways, like a Tribute, unable to look past his own sense of entitlement to see the bigger picture into which he fits.

People like Theresa and Stephen need people like Tom and Cyrus, Cyrus would say if he knew.

He allows himself something close to a real smile at gentlemen - no, no, his expression says, we don't need to question it. He has eyes, after all. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to be forward." There are so few things he cares about less than Molotov's love life. So few things. "I only meant that... well. Miss Cocktease is many things, but I certainly wouldn't call her cooperative."

If she had been, maybe they'd still be on speaking terms.

Tom knows that his dalliances with Molotov undercut any facade that he's loyal to to the Capitol, rather than just complacent. It's a sacrifice he's willing but unhappy to make to keep the company of such an enticing and beautiful woman, one whose presence he doesn't find certain like he does with the ones he usually beds. Were he to wake up to her absence he'd be sorrowful rather than insulted.

"Perhaps I can change that." Not that he could change Molotov - he'd have no greater luck catching fire with his bare hands - but that he could redirect her, introduce her to the concept of the true enemy here. "She isn't entirely beyond listening to reason. A woman of her stature just can be blinkered by the power she used to hold."

Tom's afraid that the rest of his peers are far too far gone for that.

"Now, this isn't meant to minimize your work, and speaks only to my own ignorance, but could you explain the specifics of your position, Minister? Where I'm from, the title can be bestowed on anyone from an outright dictator to a mere bureaucratic vessel."

How sad is it, that someone asking is so unusual? It's a trait so many of the new Tributes share - a stubborn unwillingness to understand anything about the Capitol, for fear it will make them somehow complicit. As though not understanding the nature of his power over them makes it vanish, or something.

And, well, he's not unhappy to leave the topic of Molotov behind them. He'd thought he'd be better-equipped to bring it up, but no, it still leaves an ugly taste in his mouth - most unpleasant, considering he's got three more wines he intends to try before he leaves this evening.

He switches out his glass for another, borne on an Avox's tray, before he responds. "There's only one cure for ignorance, as they say," he says, with a wave of his hand that absolves Tom of any wrongdoing. "And here in Panem, it means that I occupy a seat on President Snow's cabinet."

A sip of his wine; a second's consideration; an approving nod in Tom's direction, Feel free to try this one. "Specifically: My office supervises District-Capitol relations, and the laws that govern them - which, of course, require careful consideration and constant change to ensure a proper balance of prosperity and control." The two, it implies, must be to some degree mutually exclusive. "Historically, the job hasn't put me in such close contact with our Tributes - but, well, times change, and the laws must change with them." A brief lift of his glass, not quite a toast-- "You're a real catalyst for change, you Tributes."

Tom does as Cyrus gestures, not because the wine strikes him as particularly interesting or because he trusts Cyrus' tastes more than any other Capitolite, but because even slight disagreements can fray a tentative allegiance. The wine isn't to his taste, but he pretends admirably.

"I can't imagine the sort of work that must entail. Your position must be dealing with new challenges on a daily basis."

There's a sour note to his tone, as if by 'new challenges' he's singling out a few Tributes in particular. He loads that word up like a mule-drawn cart with jailbreaks, assassinations, disobedience. It's not just difficulties he's referring to that arise accidentally, but ones that are caused, caused by the ungrateful and the stupid.

"Has the change been generally positive, you think?" Is the empire falling? Tom asks with entirely different words, with plausible deniability if he's asked to vouch for the Capitol's magnificence.

Cyrus takes an even broader definition of challenge, personally. The entire idea of the Games as they exist now-- the imports from other worlds, the new rules, and all of it-- that's all one enormous, overarching challenge, in which the individual catastrophes are like stars in a galaxy.

Which is not to say they're small, or insignificant, or forgettable. They are terrible, dangerous, and far less distant than any star. And, of course (as Tom's tone so correctly implies), they are not remotely accidental.

"...I've always believed," Cyrus says, "That change, in and of itself, is neither positive nor negative." He says it seriously - but with the smallest hint of wryness, being fully aware that it is the most stereotypical kind of politician-speak. "Whether it's good or bad depends, in the end, on how we decide to respond to it-- we being all of us here in the Capitol, citizens and Tributes alike."

A shrug of one shoulder-- "I think, personally, that our citizens have adapted beautifully to the changes in the Games, challenges notwithstanding. I truly believe that the system we've established is sustainable - so long as the Tributes are willing to make the change a positive one, as well."

There is a great deal behind these words. There is the implication that the Tributes have not heretofore been willing to adapt. That they are the only thing standing between these changes and the stability against which Cyrus has been throwing all his weight, in a desperate attempt to keep it propped up.

...And it is a confession, though implicit, that that stability is conditional. That without the Tributes' assistance, the system they've established would not be sustainable.

"And if they don't?" Tom raises his eyebrows, sympathetic, receptive, a welcoming face of soft humanity hiding clockwork and calculations behind it. "What's to stop the Gamemakers from wiping the slate of their current brood and starting clean?"

An Avox floats by, and after consideration Tom takes a small pastry filled with minced lamb off their plate, a little triangular thing with meat tucked with more tenderness into the dough than most people would show their own children at bedtime.

It strikes Tom as absurd that so many Tributes have sought to make an enemy out of Cyrus, and he finds that he's both comforted and worried by that notion. On one hand, that means that making himself stand out as an ally will be that much easier; on the other, he's still in the same crowd of people susceptible to group punishment. No amount of flattery will remove him from the lineup; it's his position here, until he wins an Arena or petitions out.

"And would it be you who gives that order, if that's a potential?"

If there is to be a threat, Tom would like to know who it is, whether it's the man with barely-hidden frayed edges to his patience before him or some shadowy figure even further back and higher up.

A brittle laugh, at that first question. "I should make clear - the Gamemakers would never resort to something so drastic." It's a bizarre distinction to draw, to be sure - after all, only a few years ago they killed twenty-three of their twenty-four Tributes every year, without remorse. But the Capitol has always drawn this distinction, in name at least, between the indiscriminate murder of Tributes by each other on the screens, and the indiscriminate murder of the Tributes outside of the Arena. One is the natural order of things. The other would be an atrocity.

The distinction is one ingrained into Cyrus' belief system, into his upbringing and his political understanding, into the assumptions on which his place in the world rests. The two ideas feel, to him, almost irreconcilable, at the least only tenuously related.

In truth, Cyrus doesn't know whether or not the Gamemakers would consider such a drastic move, considering that the Tributes no longer come from the Districts themselves. He doesn't think they would; but he finds himself reluctant to declare the idea impossible, if, say, true rebellion were ever to break out. ...Not that he sees any wisdom in explaining these nuances of opinion to a Tribute. That's all he needs - a rumor that Cyrus Reagan was actively out for all their deaths. Absurd.

There is no shock at the idea in his tone, or in his posture. He doesn't look uncomfortable with the idea. His rejection of it is a light warning, a gentle reminder that he's only entertaining a hypothetical.

"...If such a suggestion were to come before the Cabinet-- well. The decision would be President Snow's." Cyrus would have a vote, of course. A case to state. A yea or a nay that carried terrible weight. But that was different from the culpability of being the one to point the finger and say, Do it. "But, of course-- as I said-- it would never go so far." With a smile-- "President Snow enjoys the Games as much as any of us here in the Capitol. Why wipe the slate, as you say, when we still have so much to learn about all of you?"

(We have come too far to reverse our course now.)

"Aye, I suspected that," Tom says lightly, laughing as if he were just relaying a paranoid conspiracy theory to Cyrus and wasn't actually concerned. "I didn't know Snow himself was an avid watcher of the Games, though. Tell me, does he wager?"

Is that really the lie they tell your Citizens, that the President has no ulterior motive for this?

Tom drums his fingers along the neck of his wine glass, looking first one way then that, then leaning forward as if imparting a secret on Cyrus. Cyrus whom he's deemed a worthy ally, one as snake-bellied as himself.

"I am planning at, if I don't win this upcoming Arena, perhaps putting in a petition for citizenship. I wouldn't even mind being made an honorary citizen and continuing participation in the Arena, but I think that I have skills beyond what can be displayed on television that could be useful to you all."

And that's true. Unlike the other Tributes, it's not that Tom hates the Arenas or finds anything too terrible about being forced to kill for entertainment. That's hardly what perturbs him about this place. It's the inability to rise through the ranks, to be on equal footing with someone like Cyrus, so long as his station is as an offworld lab rat and dancing monkey than as a free agent. Naturalization wouldn't heal that wound but it would stitch it.

"You must know from the footage and all that a terrorist I am, with a lengthy history and plenty of experience." He casts a glance towards a television on the wall, displaying news footage of some debutante who broke her ankle on the steps of a wealthy family's mansion and is planning on suing. "From my understanding, these rebels, as uncoordinated as they are, have been quite a thorn in the government's side. It would do you well to have an ally with experience in that field providing...consultation, as it were."

Cyrus lets the question of President Snow's betting habits stay a rhetorical. It's the second question - implicit though it is - that catches his attention. So much so, in fact, that he sets his wineglass down on the table behind him; a slow gesture, without looking away from Tom, a gesture that says Now, now, I am listening.

"Consultation," he repeats, and all his tone says is that he understands every meaning the words is intended to imply, knows to a close if not perfect degree what he is being offered. He hadn't intended to talk rebellion tonight. And if this had been brought up just a few minutes ago, he might have made his excuses politely, and left. But--

--well. Then he had to allow himself to be intrigued.

He slides his hands into his pockets, lets his weight fall back on his heels. His head tilts back and to one side slightly, so that he can look down and listen at the same time. It's not a position to which one treats with an equal, but one from which one hears a petition; a reminder, not entirely conscious, of the relative places in which they stand.

"It seems," he says, "That even lacking the government's resources-- intelligence, surveillance, departmental guidance, and so on-- you've formed an opinion about our rebel problem." There's no great sincerity in his respect. He's not going to say Who do you think you are outright; but honestly, he'd still like to know how Tom would answer that question.

"Do you think we could sit down?" Tom asks, buying himself a little time to craft that perfect response without giving anything away. Part of knowing how to crawl through the gunfire of a conversation unscathed is not only having a quick retort, but knowing when to give yourself a little time to polish it. "I have a bad leg, and all this standing can try it at times. You understand. Old injuries."

At Cyrus' permission he walks to one of the nearby seats and rests, still holding a glass of wine at his knee, straight-backed, attentive.

"It's not as informed an opinion as I would like, but I feel that if the government wanted to keep us from making an opinion at all then the entire thing would be much more hush than it is."

There, giving the impression that it's not that the Capitol can't prevent news of the Rebellion from spilling over like water in a tub, but has a strategic reason not to.

"In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you lot were showcasing some of the issue just to see if an enterprising Tribute such as myself would step up and offer a set of fresh eyes. I don't think I'm injecting myself into the conversation so much as answering a request. You brought in heroes and soldiers and yes, terrorists, and I would be shocked if your government didn't consider their skills a resource for more than entertainment."

There's a smile growing on Cyrus' face that he can't suppress-- attentive, and a little incredulous. What audacity. As though he were some answer to the Capitol's prayers. As though they'd been combing through the dregs of inferior worlds just looking for someone like him to come and save them.

A bullshit proposition, but one that says more than it appears to, Cyrus thinks. An audacious suggestion that says that this man has spent time deciding how best to fit himself into the world into which he's been pulled. A niche to fill that he wrote for himself, where the Capitol wouldn't have thought to do it for him. Clever.

He'd be loath to admit it aloud, but it's not a thought he's had before, to use a Tribute in quite that way. The divide between Capitolites and Tributes is opaque in Cyrus' mind, a border not made to be crossed. Tributes have one purpose, and it is to fight and to die; to hold stable the world that people like Cyrus are tasked with protecting from rebels and all their ilk. When he's asked them before to conform, it's been a veiled way of saying Stay exactly where you are. The ones who have acted in defiance of that command have never done it in search of power.

"...A flattering theory," he says, with a quirk to his mouth that says You know it's not as neatly planned as that. He doesn't need to speak on behalf of the government at this moment - it's neither the time nor the place - but neither does he need to withhold an honest answer. "And a hell of a resume. Should I be thanking you for coming to me, instead of to the rebels?"

A sidelong way of getting at what he wants to know: Are you making an offer, or a threat?

"Hardly. From what it seems, the rebels don't even have a fraction of what the Capitol could offer someone. I may be able to tolerate sleeping in the dirt and eating canned food from the Sponsors, but I prefer fine dining and high thread counts."

He waves a hand slightly, as if dismissing the clear angle at his loyalties. He won't make bones about it. He can be bought, and there's no use pretending otherwise. But he won't be.

"Besides, I prefer to align myself with winners."

That's a little bit of a lie, not because it's untrue, but because he knows the Capitol's in an epoch of decline. There's something desperate about the way the Capitol government continues to propel the Games to new heights, as if they are prostrating themselves, obsequious, to some bloc of audience that holds ultimate power and yet waning interest. He doesn't actually believe the Capitol will win in the long run, even though he doesn't believe the rebels will be the ones to topple them.

He smooths out the pant leg over his bad leg, resting his cane over his knee, and raises his wine glass to Cyrus.

"A toast to all the harmonious Tribute relations with politicians?" He grins, laughs, understands how anomalous this must be for Cyrus in the face of all these ungrateful foreigners, how routine it is for Tom, if in a different world.

If Cyrus' society is just passing the weightless peak of its arc, just beginning to tip nose-downwards, to feel the unstoppable weight of gravity pulling it toward a spectacular explosion on the rocks below, he knows nothing about it.

The Capitol will endure. The Capitol will always endure. He speaks words like Panem forever with an ironic twist to his mouth, a signal that he knows the propaganda for what it is - but the idea's ingrained core-deep in him, woven into the fabric of his upbringing. Panem's success is the Reagans' success, Cyrus, and Panem will never fail.

Tom speaks of the winners with such easy conviction, and Cyrus buys it. He wonders, even, if it might not be possible for a Tribute to understand in some distant tangential way that truth that is at the center of him; if there aren't some clever enough to accept the fact of Panem's immortality.

Cyrus takes a glass off a passing tray, and raises it. "I'll drink to that," he says. "...Even if this is, perhaps, the first I've enjoyed."

He drinks, and his every gesture is level, measured. Not a free granting of favor, not an enthusiastic endorsement. Just a simple acknowledgement: This doesn't have to be our last conversation.

Tom takes a drink too, after clinking his glass delicately against Cyrus'.

"I'll take that as a compliment to myself, rather than as a condemnation of everyone else." Tom reads it for what it is, understands how delicately these matters must be handled. If a single winsome conversation could draw in real favor, then even the most thickheaded of Tributes would have worked on their sense of charisma.

"You must be busy, though, and I have Sponsors to court. Until next time, Minister Reagan." His tone is knowing, because there will be a next time. He's certain of it.

There will be. There's nothing like trust between them, of course - a single conversation that doesn't go terribly, a moment's thought that there might be a common purpose to exploit - that's not trust. But Tom knows that, and that knowledge, devoid of any inconvenient expectation, makes a second meeting not an unpleasant prospect.

He's a strange, ambitious Tribute, and Cyrus can't yet tell how laughable his goals might be; they've got Molotov, if not between them, then at least hanging at the fringes of whatever strange acquaintance they've begun; but he is more than interesting enough to warrant a second conversation.

"Of course. Best of luck." He considers, maybe, wishing a Sponsor or two good evening himself before he leaves - if he's going to be cultivating relationships with Tributes again, it might not be unwise to be prepared. "I wish you a successful evening."

A cordial smile, and he takes his leave - to go and do a final run through the wines on offer. That last one-- he thinks it might be the best he's had all evening. Most certainly worth trying again.

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There's a String That Runs Through All Our Bad Days [Closed]

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