I Said This Life Ain't No Love Song [Open]

[whatisay]

WHO| Jason Compson and you!
WHAT| Jason meets his new Tributes and runs errands.
WHERE| D7 Suites, the elevator and lobby, and out getting groceries.
WHEN| After the broadcast.
WARNINGS| None yet.

LOBBY AND ELEVATOR

Jason Compson's never been the kind to get jitters on the first day of the job, and today's no different. It's not self-confidence so much as a sort of impenetrable aura of indifference, as if even the greatest catastrophe would be entirely dissipated before it impacted his ego. He's like a transient moving through phases in his life, dedicating himself to none. The task of maintaining the Compson name sucks all the concern out of him long before he can commit it to anything else.

Besides, he's done this before, wrangled Tributes for the cameras in District Ten. Seven's no higher up on the totem pole, and even if the Games have changed he doesn't expect the work will have. He's decent enough as an Escort, not particularly sociable but good with the connections he salvaged from his parents' name and quick to seize opportunities.

He has an electronic cigarette in his mouth before he even gets to the elevator, smelling vaguely of camphor and eucalyptus. The headaches have been better since he found vaporizers for those plants, and the white stick can be seen hanging off his lips near-constantly now. It doesn't look proper, but it's better than calling in sick half the time.

He doesn't walk across the lobby with the wonder or fear of one of the Tributes, nor is he dressed like one of the Stylists. He moves as if he has somewhere to get to, and any delay in getting there is a matter of his constitution rather than the importance of the place in question. His clothes are simple but contemporary, expensive enough to be fashionable but not enough to declare wealth.

The last time he was here, the whole place was different, the floors suited to a handful of people instead of a baker's dozen. In the elevator, he reaches for the button that says '10' in embossed text, then pauses, remembering his change in position, and hits '7'.


DISTRICT SEVEN

Figures that they're all sleeping in. That Jason arrived while dawn was still smudging light into the horizon doesn't really occur to him; the point is that he's working and his charges are snoring and drooling on themselves like pigs in a sty. He snaps at an Avox to start brewing some coffee and loosens his collar, resting on a couch with a device telling him about some more hubbub on Panem Nightly. He has no respect for people making fools of themselves on television, but he supposes that's why he's backstage, helping shove people into costumes and telling them to smile while he scowls.

When each waking Tribute comes to the kitchen, he doesn't get up from the couch.

"About time you get up and moving. You'd think we were running a coma ward with how much activity there is around here."


GROCERIES

If Jason had it his way, the Avoxes would be doing this, but the last time he sent them to buy food they got the wrong sort of seafood and he had to listen to his mother act as if she'd been poisoned for the better part of a week. If he really had it his way, he'd be living off of boiled noodles and toast, rather than spending his hard-earned money on fresh produce for his invalid mother. Instead, he's in an upscale market, examining turnips like some old biddy and brushing elbows with Avoxes and Tributes and all sorts of people beneath him. He can only hope that not too many people who recognize his face will see him here.

He makes a list of what items are on sale, what he can tell the District Seven Avoxes to substitute to save money in the Tribute budget for something else. When he's selected everything, he makes sure it'll be shipped home so he doesn't have to carry it through the streets. And when he leaves, it's back to the camphor cigarette, and for as desperate as he was to get out of that crowded and unpleasant store, he finds he's no more excited to go back home. He all but drags his feet on his way to his car.

Comments

D7

[silverskymagician]

Kaito yawned, though he was at least polite enough to cover his mouth while he did it. He had a serious case of bed hair at the moment -- and he was actually one of the earlier risers.

"What time is it? And who're you?"

Re: D7

[whatisay]

"Jason Compson. I'm your new Escort. Seems the old one ran off on you guys." He shrugs and sets his device away. "Can't imagine why."

There's a sort of wry antipathy to his tone, as if he'd feel disappointed with this District even if he came across them as the shining example of productivity and enthusiasm. He brings in a bias so thick a knife could cut it, a resentment made solid from the circumstances beyond him needing to take this job again, and it has nothing to do with the young man standing in front of him.

"Kaito, right? I have your files on hand. Saw you didn't last long in the last Arena." He clicks the button on his cigarette and tucks it into his pocket alongside his pen and a handkerchief. "It's about six a.m. now."

[silverskymagician]

"Jason Compton." The name didn't ring any bells, but Kaito wouldn't forget it since it seemed like this guy planned on sticking around. Whether the name would have positive or negative associations, well... that was still up in the air.

"Yeah, some psycho shoved me and that Marco guy out of an airlock. Imagine my surprise when I woke up after that." Honestly, Kaito still wasn't sure what to make of it. Humans died once, that was the deal -- and yet not here, apparently.

"...Six a.m.?! I don't even wake up that early for class!" Jesus why was he up. Why was anyone up.

D7 suites

[tricksandmischief]

In the District 7 suites, Loki gives the man a look of irritation when he hears the remark. He may have wandered in here later but it wasn't because of any sleeping. In fact, he'd gotten very little of that since he'd been returned from the Arena. Not only had it been a humiliating experience and a complete failure, things had only gotten worse here with first no news of Thor and then news he didn't want to hear. Oh, hearing that he had disappeared and then was possibly dead was something not so long ago Loki would have gleefully welcomed - at least for a brief moment before reality set in. The truth was he did love his elder brother despite their differences and fights and he was upset over the recent events.

However, he tries not to let all of this show. Mostly he just seems to be very irritable at this moment, which could be chalked up entirely to losing the Games and lack of sleep.

Re: D7 suites

[whatisay]

"You heard me, didn't you? Or did I get deaf Tributes alongside lazy ones?"

Loki's irritability does nothing to assuage Jason's; in fact, the two foul temperaments together seem to feed upon each other. A muscle in Jason's jaw works away, fluttering like a pulse deeper back than his teeth.

"Loki, is it?"

Re: D7 suites

[tricksandmischief]

"Yes, and it seems I do not have the pleasure of likewise being so knowing of your name," he replies dryly.

"And if you already know so much about me then you would know that I am neither lazy nor deaf. Who are you?"

Elevator

[currupted]

It's been a long time since any job of Cyrus' required sociability. His attention has been a valuable commodity for close to ten years now; you got high up enough in politics, and people just came to you. It's yet another thing that makes the Tribute Center different - here, you're expected to smile at your coworkers, to engage with people, to act like this job is some kind of passion.

He tried, when he first got here, to imitate that. He doesn't try anymore. He's looking straight ahead as he steps into the elevator, his mouth set into a I'm thinking about something more important than you line, and he jabs the button for 6 almost without having to glance at it. (Stephen's floor-- nothing wrong with checking in. Something of a habit at this point.)

It's the smell of the cigarette that makes him glance up. Who uses those, these days...? It feels like it has to violate some protocol, unwritten or otherwise; someone who just doesn't care, or someone who's important enough not to care...?

...Not the latter, certainly, Cyrus concludes in the space of a glance. ...But the man isn't unfamiliar, either. Cyrus is sure, in the instant he sees his profile, that he's seen him before, that they've spoken before-- he has the sensation of seeing someone in a place he's not accustomed to seeing them, that kneejerk mental reaction of You don't belong here.

It's when Jason Compson pauses over the button that it clicks. I did know you. Not "does." It's been some time. There's a distance that comes with someone else's hardship; a discomfort that hangs over every interaction, that makes not speaking just... easier. There but for the grace of... something go the Reagans. There but for the whims of fate go all of them. He can't decide if he's glad or not that this guy is still around.

Cyrus lets the silence hang one more second, as the doors bump quietly shut. He feels his weight in his feet as the glass box moves; and he takes a decisive breath and says, with the sidelong glance of the pointedly polite, the cautiously friendly, "Been a few years, Jason."

(Are they still on first-name terms? Has everything that's happened to both of them - to Jason especially - changed that? He'll find out, he supposes.)

Re: Elevator

[whatisay]

"Cyrus." If Cyrus hadn't started the conversation, Jason might have had to waffle over whether or not to call him Minister, had he decided to say anything to Cyrus at all. Jason isn't typically the type to waffle. He likes the world as simple as possible, likes getting to the root of things and then digging those roots up and putting them on display in the museum of his mind. When he can't dig up a root, he assembles one out of anecdotes and observations and holds onto the ramshackle thing as if it were as valid a truism as the real ones.

Jason's own tone is not unfriendly, but not particularly inviting, either. He sighs as if he's about to say something about the state of the elevators and then decides better of it, and clicks the button on the edge of his cigarette before tucking it into his breastpocket. Then his hands return to his pockets, their natural home, as if they're guarding the emptiness there like a dragon over its hoard.

Unbidden, he imagines himself in Cyrus' suit, in something that wealth rolls off of like fumes. He imagines himself in Cyrus' position and the fact that it's so easy, that he could picture every bit of it, poisons the wine of that fantasy. They went to the same schools, received the same tutoring, assembled in little gaggles of youngsters at their parents' events when they were too young to understand anything but keeping from being underfoot. Jason was older than Cyrus, but the circles they ran in were so tight that that didn't terribly matter; when there are only ten children in the same age bracket, they tend to group together, not closely but on a semi-regular basis.

And then that bitch had to destroy Jason's life, and the rest of his family fell in line in what seemed like an outright conspiracy to bring ruin to the name, and Jason was never extroverted enough to try to cling to shallow relationships with people trying to forget him. And nearly two decades later, he's here.

An Escort with a Minister.

"I can't say I was expecting to see you here. I guess a lot has changed since I was working in Ten, if they've got you paying housecalls to this brood here." It isn't an admonition, it's curiosity.

[currupted]

It's difficult not to take it as an admonition. Not because he assumes the worst of Jason, but because Cyrus himself is so thoroughly disgusted with being here that he almost mistakes it for something he's thought bitterly to himself in recent weeks. It takes him a second too long to smile, to make the appropriate I know, right? kind of laugh.

God, how long has it been? A lot of his memories of Jason are early ones, pre-politics ones, so old they feel like they belong to another person, a kid who might not even have been him. They'd probably watched the Hunger Games together before, argued over their favorites, run through the same ornate gardens and echoing marble halls. And now here they are-- down a few parents, sitting on far different rungs of the same teetering ladder, and both mired in the Hunger Games.

"A lot has changed," he says, wry. "Don't know if you've been watching-- they bring them from other worlds now." Ha ha. He shrugs, easy, saying I have every reason to be here. "You've got the logistical mess to clean up; they left me with the legal one."

D7

[nineofwands]

Cassian's sleep scheduale was all kinds of weird. When he'd been in London working for Delilah, sometimes he and the doctor would be working till five in the morning and would still wake up at nine to go about their business during the day. Sometimes, there'd be nothing to do and he'd go to bed at nine and wake up well before the sun did, it just sort of depended. Here, it didn't really matter, he could wake up at five, he could wake up at noon, no one cared. He was usually up by six or seven, though.

This morning felt like a six-thirty or seven morning -he hadn't bothered to look at a clock yet- and the first thing he noticed when he stepped into the commons was the guy on the couch. He was pretty sure he hadn't seen him before, but then Cass was hardly the sociable type, it wasn't like he even knew the names of everyone on his own floor yet. Consequently, he ignored him at first, expecting to be ignored right back as Cassian headed into the kitchen to find something to eat. Instead of being ignored, the guy opened his mouth and started Cassian's day with utter annoyance.

"Didn't realize there was anything that needed doing so early that I ought to be up. Who the hell are you?"

Re: D7

[whatisay]

"I'm your new Escort," Jason says, not bothering to sugar the way his voice has a natural bitter cadence to it, a sharpness to his consonants that makes it sound as if he's always a breath away from snapping. "Cassian."

Jason thinks better of putting away his cigarette for now. He doesn't have patience for troublesome Tributes, and he's been warned about the temperaments of these offworlders. He can feel his blood pooling between his eyes, the hum of a headache waiting like a predator for a chance to pounce, and he takes another drag, long and blue-scented with eucalyptus.

"It's near seven o'clock. If your last Escort didn't impress on you that there are things you should be doing with your day here, then that's just more work for me, isn't it?"

He flicks his fingers, gesturing for the Avox to refill his coffee. "And find something to eat for Mr. Sunshine here, won't you?" He blows on his new piping coffee and sets it down on the low table in front of him.

"My name's Jason. I already know yours. Obviously." He would introduce himself as a Compson, but what has his family name ever got him here? The word will mean nothing to Cassian except convey that Jason's proud of his name, and that's a lie Jason's not terribly fond of.

[president_evil]

Wesker does not run for the elevator. Or, at least, it doesn't appear like he does. On moment, he was at his leisure, long strides carrying him through the lobby, thumb dancing over the screen of his communicator - the next, long, pale fingers were slipping between the close door and the jam.

He wanted it. He got it.

A simple, but effective system.

The door glided open again and Wesker entered the cab, nose twitching at the smoke before he looked up. There was a full heartbeat of silence, the black pits of his sunglasses fixed on Jason's face, then he leaned and pushed the button for 11.

[whatisay]

Jason's looking forward to a nice few minutes alone in this vertical death box when Wesker commands the doors to part before him as if he were splitting the sea. It's an intimidating look. Jason's never quite seem anyone turn catching an elevator into a dramatic piece.

"Cutting it close, there, aren't you?" He takes a long drag of eucalyptus, letting the vapor out through his nose and closing his eyes as if to draw the full effect from the steam (or to draw the poison from a wound).

"Albert Wesker, right?"

[tevintage]

Dorian as a rule woke up every day relatively early - he was not one to waste daylight while he had it, and even the leaden despair that had settled upon him wasn't going to change his routine. In fact, it meant he needed it more than ever. So, when he appeared in the common room around 8 in the morning, showered (best invention ever), immaculately dressed and is moustache waxed, he took the comment to be one more of sarcasm than anything else.

"Well, I have an incredibly busy day of hedonism and pandering ahead," he said wryly.

[whatisay]

"Says you."

Jason pulls his glasses from his breastpocket and slips them onto his face, then unfolds something from his pants pocket.

"Dorian Pavus? You and I have a full schedule today. I already got a few of your roommates started, so you best feel yourself lucky for sleeping in as long as you did. This bitch's already had to make a fresh pot of coffee after the first one went cold." He gestures at the Avox in the corner, who doesn't respond to the insult.

3 (forward dated)

[gardienne]

Fresh air.

Eponine breathes in deeply, turning her face up to the sun. That jail might have been cushy compared to Paris, but still, it is jail, all locked doors and artificial lights and no windows and OH - how glorious it is just to be allowed to go where she wants.

She wanders down to the market - she has a couple of assi left from killing Sandy, and she has a mind to buy something nice for herself - some apples, perhaps. Or no - strawberries. And some flowers, perhaps.

She almost skips along, just enjoying herself, singing in her croaky voice. She isn't really looking where she's going when - BAM - she walks straight into Jason.

"I'm sorry, Sir." She gasps out.

Re: 3 (forward dated)

[whatisay]

"Watch it." He staggers back, using her shoulder without permission to steady himself from tipping over off the curb. The cigarette falls from his mouth and rolls along the sidewalk. "You looking to push me into traffic?"

But he pauses as he pulls his hand away from her, he pauses. He knows her face, he knows her- she's a Tribute. The French whore. Jason's had his dealing with whores, and ultimately he's found it a respectable enough profession, and a scene he enjoys more than trying to date. How's he supposed to keep a woman with his idiot brother hollering at all hours, with his mother calling down the stairs and rousing the whole house, with Avoxes underfoot all the time?

"Well?" He glances down at the cigarette, at her. "You going to pick that up for me?"

[schnapp]

Beth hasn't slept in for the last two years, and now that she has the ability to, it's hard to keep herself from doing it every morning. But there's really nothing that compares to having a real bed of her own, with clean sheets and blankets instead of sleeping on a dirt floor next to a dying fire, day in and day out. But she drags herself out of bed every morning when the sun rises out of sheer habit - when you're unused to having electricity, every moment of daylight is precious.

She throws on a sundress and some cowboy boots and heads down to the kitchens, stifling a yawn. Supremely unprepared for an intolerably grumpy man first thing in the morning.

It's too early for this.

"Sun just came up," she points out, slightly irritated. "And I think some folk deserve a break after what they've just been through."

Not her, though. She died the very first week.

[whatisay]

"Folks'll deserve a break when they win an Arena. Until then they have to work as hard as the rest of us."

Jason seems entirely unwitting to the irony of saying that while an Avox brings over another cup of coffee for him. He pulls his glasses from his pocket and puts them on, rubbing at one ear as if the act of hanging spectacle-arms over it is going to cause chafing.

He raises an eyebrow at her outfit, imagining how that's going to play to the viewers. She looks like she might as well be representing District Nine, but the citizens of the Capitol are simple types, Jason thinks; they'll care more about her looking like a District simpleton than they will which place she looks from. He doesn't see the point in finding Districters quaint but then, he isn't the one throwing all his hard-earned money at Tributes who're just going to die anyway.

It's an angle.

"Breakfast is ready. Your schedule's all laid out for the day, so eat up. I don't want you wilting on me halfway through the afternoon."

Groceries

[infinitemayonnaise]

You know what makes a crowded and unpleasant store even better? A loud guy with a basket full of mayonnaise blocking one of the aisles. He's got a bone to pick with one of the clerks, it would seem. "What do you mean, that's all the mayonnaise you have? I need more than that!" Even though it looks like he's got every jar and bottle of mayo in the store in that cart he's blocking all that space with. Even though a sane person would have given up long before now. Surely someone will stop his reign of mayonnaise-based terror...or at least get him to move his ridiculous cart of mayonnaise out of the way.

Re: Groceries

[whatisay]

If Jason didn't have a headache going into the grocery store, he certainly does now. He rubs his nose and his temple for a solid several minutes while Nitou argues. The blood in his head seems to build, to pulse as if his brain were nothing but an overloaded circuit.

Finally he reaches over and grabs Nitou by the shoulder.

"There's another store down the block. If I give you directions, will you leave and scourge some other place?"

D7

[ruffntumblenut]

Ruffnut came stumbling out of her room late as per usual, with her hair a mess and her face distorted by sleep, the scent of coffee was like a siren's call to her and so she came shuffling towards the kitchen in an adorable set of fleece pajamas that were red and black lumberjack plaid.

At first she didn't realize the words were directed at her, but after they settled in her sleepy head she rubbed her eyes and squinted at the newcomer.

"What's a coma?"

Ruffnut had never encountered such a thing outside of tales of vikings who were trapped in a "Never ending sleep".

Re: D7

[whatisay]

"Look it up." Jason waves a hand, then brings it back into his pocket to fish for a folded-up schedule. He finds one with Ruffnut's name and pulls it out, flattening it against the coffee table to see what notes he's made for her.

The Avox lingering around the corner of the room refills his cup with coffee. He takes a long sip and winces a bit as it goes down, too hot for comfort.

"It's nearly nine. I hope you're rested, because your schedule is booked for the whole day. You'll be on your feet until midnight."

[on_fire]

After trying to explain a dish 3 times to the avoxes, she gave up and asked for the ingredients.

After several attempts at that she'd given up and headed out to find her own ingredients. It was strange that she knew some things she'd prefer wouldn't be able to be gotten here. She doubted the grocer carried squirrel, and she'd just love to see the news headline if she tried to procure that on her own.

Stepping up next to him, she began to quickly pick through the turnips, hands clearly use to seeking out the best pieces in a market like this. So much so she wasn't entirely sure what to do with having a selection that was pretty much all quality.

Except the one that guy was holding.

"It's about to turn." She said, barely glancing over.

[whatisay]

"Huh?" Jason's hardly even paying attention as he picks over the vegetables. As far as he's concerned, no one in this grocery store has the standing to even polish his shoes, much less speak to him. They're mostly Avoxes, with the occasional Tribute or even a Mentor - all either traitors or the backwater refuse of the Districts.

Except when he looks up it's Katniss Everdeen, and she isn't an ordinary Mentor. She's the dulled-out, ashen hunk of coal that once lit the fire behind the Neverending Quell.

So he does engage in a conversation. He holds the turnip out and raises an eyebrow. He imagines her, the genesis behind all this upheaval, to possibly be some kind of unintentional Cassandra. "You mean the turnip, or something else?"