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

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"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.

"That is the name I answer to, yes, though usually people are inclined to say it with a little more grace," he replied, his tone one of a casually instructing professor.

"And, generally, I prefer to be given a name before marching orders. I'm simply too old-fashioned, you see. I play hard to get."

"If you want your name said prettily, you'll have to look to the media for that. I don't waste my time or mince my words."

Jason gets up so fast he smacks his knee on the corner of the coffeetable; the coffee mug, filled to the brim, spills a little over the side. The Avox rushes in with even more speed than usual to try and sop up the minor mess.

"Why the hell did you fill it up so much?" he shoots at the slave, then back to Dorian. "Jason Compson. I'm your new Escort."

"Yes, why did you preordain his gracelessness?" Dorian asked the Avox mildly, fully aware that it couldn't answer him.

"I don't need an escort," He said blandly. He knew exactly what Jason meant, of course, but he hadn't exactly given a good impression so Dorian was all too happy to toy with him. "Have you seen my face? I have never had to pay for it in my life."

"Not that kind of Escort, although if you're not sure what I'm talking about, either my predecessor was worse than I thought or you're completely dense." Jason picks up his coffee cup and uses a napkin to wipe the ring of liquid off the bottom. "And I'd like to hope that my charges aren't stupid."

He doesn't particularly like Dorian so far, but that just lumps Dorian in with the rest of the entire population. "You and I are going to be cooperating from here on out. If we aren't, I'll have to remind you exactly what position you hold in a civilized world."

He raises an eyebrow at Dorian's hair, at the mustache.

"You seem very sure of yourself," Dorian said, smiling brightly, completely ignoring the attempted jab at his intelligence. They both knew where they stood on that.

"And I would dearly love to hear your description of my current position. Because here I thought I was a glorified trophy on a pedestal, brought solely for morons and ignoramuses to gawk at while I died horribly upon threat of existential endless torment. How that implies my explicit cooperation with being man-handled, I'm not too sure."

Well, Jason's not going to pretend it isn't an accurate description, but it doesn't make him like Dorian any more. Smarter Tributes don't necessarily survive longer and they tend to be more headstrong. There's a certain amount of stupid that Jason finds a relief in other people before it becomes a demerit.

"It implies you cooperate because you don't seem to have any idea what the people here can do to you. Think of everyone you love. I understand that usually has some sort of effect on people. Or think about everyone you are, everything you think you are." He takes a step towards Dorian, entirely unafraid, unintimidated by a Tribute. "Imagine that being taken away from you because you don't know your place. My job, my position, is keeping you in line and putting you in the best light possible, and I like to look like I can do my job.

"I don't want you to end up dead on Capitol TV, because that looks bad for me. But don't think I won't report you if I think you're jeopardizing operations here or making me look worse, because I will and I'll sleep soundly at night. And you and your fellows will be right there on television with your brains blown out, or in someone's bedroom being used as everything your father wanted you to be." His lower lip twitches slightly. "So you should want to cooperate with me."

Edited 2015-01-06 05:30 (UTC)

Dorian had faced many threats before. Had, in fact, already nearly lost everyone he'd loved, and had long ago proven that he could destroy anyone's perceptions of him. He weathered most of the tirade with an annoyed, but stoic look, until the end.

Being used as everything your father wanted you to be.

Dorian's blood ran cold. That was a very specific threat, far too specific to be accidental. The rage - potent, absolutely consuming and nearly equal to the very real and ancient surge of fear - blew through him like a whirlwind, though he stood unmoved.

His eyes, however, told a very different story.

He'd needed someone to focus all his hatred of this place upon. It seems that he had found it.

"Repeat that again." Was all he said, finally, a slight quiver in his voice as the fury made his throat tremble.

"I don't think I have to."

Jason's never averted his eyes from a threat in his life. He feels anger more than he does self-preservation; the world's dangers are nothing more than inconveniences. Sometimes he wonders if he doesn't have a drop of his brother's blood, but while his brother took Death to bed Jason only eyes her sidelong as they pass in the streets, his gaze lingering around her waist. He meets Dorian's eyes with equal rage, although unlike Dorian's, his is old and firmly at home in his, as if there's no other place for it to be.

Jason snaps his fingers and the Avox hustles back to the kitchen, collecting dishes and juices for Dorian. He holds the folded paper out, a schedule, handwritten because Jason doesn't like to print things. "Here's what we'll be doing today."

For a good fifteen seconds, nothing happened. Dorian didn't move a muscle, his gaze didn't waver. But after fighting a battle with himself and losing, he reached out to snatch the paper from Jason's grasp so sharply that it tore the edge off, leaving the corner still gripped between Jason's fingers.

He didn't look at it, he just held it, gripped so tightly it bent and curled under the pressure. He doesn't look at the Avox, or what he's doing.

"Are you going to explain it or will I be forced to attempt to decipher your scrawl?" He snapped, which was somewhere between an agreement to cooperate and a petulant stand against him, and to be honest Dorian couldn't decide which.

It bothered him. It bothered him, more deeply than he could say, that Jason would know to say that.

"That's more like it."

Jason waits for the respond, waits those fifteen seconds as if he's bloating himself with that feeling of success. It's not a satisfaction that will last, but it's as if loosing water from behind a dam; the pressure will build up again but for now, there are no cracks.

"You can read, can't you? I suppose you wouldn't be the first who can't." He outlines it all with his finger. "First we're going to get you properly fitted with your Stylist, then we're going to a trainer and I'll be taking notes on your skills. Then I'm be taking you to a focus group to get feedback, and we have an event for dinner to oil palms and rub elbows. Eat up now, I don't want to have to stop halfway through the day because you're feeling faint."

He doesn't even look down at the words as Jason outlines them - he has yet to take his eyes off him.

"You can't take notes on my skills," He said, in a low hiss. "You and your people have conveniently stripped me of my skills. Possibly because otherwise this entire city would be crawling with undead. And your Stylists have already had their filthy hands all over me, if they need more measurements I can provide them without them gawking for an hour and half."

The avox tried to press food up to him but out of pure defiance he completely ignored it.

"I didn't strip you of your skills. I've got a petition in with Blackwood about that, not that I expect it'll go anywhere. They've tried to level the playing field and all they've done is rig it against anything more than swollen muscles and basic camp skills."

Just like the old Games, but Jason doesn't see the point in bringing in offworlders to do this and then taking away the most interesting parts of the show.

"Eat. Eat now or you won't get anything until tonight whether the Avoxes have to drag you to appointments or not." He folds the schedule back up and puts it in his pocket. "And they aren't my Stylists, they're yours, and half the measurements are medical screens anyway. Some idiot brought tuberculosis in a few months back."

Edited 2015-01-06 06:41 (UTC)

"Yes, I'm sure starving me will have an amazing effect on both my ability and your credibility," He sniffed, before pointedly looking at the Avox. "Thank you, my dear, but I never eat before noon. Feel free to leave some fruit in my room, but otherwise, you can ignore him trying to feed me."

It was a lie, of course, but Maker help him if he wasn't going to rebel in every small way he could muster.

"Tuberlosis. The names you people give to things. I assume it's some sort of disease? Actually - never mind. I don't care."

"I sure as hell didn't name it, and the Avoxes listen to me before you. There's a hierarchy here. Learn it." Jason sure as hell doesn't want to have to keep repeating himself to get it through Dorian's head. "I didn't build tea parties into our schedule for the day. Suit yourself if you don't want to eat, but you'll be the one paying for it."

The Avox continues to try and give Dorian food, looking absolutely tortured between commands. Jason grabs his coffee again and brings out his cigarette enough to take another long drag of vapor. He closes his eyes and holds it in his lungs before releasing.

"And don't be nice to them. If they wanted to be treated with kid gloves they wouldn't have committed treason." He knows that Dorian won't do as he says anyway, but he may as well elaborate. Won't hurt anything.

He only ends up taking the food because the Avox is looking at him so pleadingly.

"He is a charmer, isn't he?" he says to the Avox, rather than to Jason. He much prefers their company, all things considered. "Treason, how very scandalous. What did you do? Look at someone the wrong way? Complain about the latest shade of green?"

It was all very flippant, but hid the gears in his mind stepping into overdrive. So. Slavery as a punishment. Not any sort of slavery, either. A silence he had never known, combined with an inhuman obedience. He pitied them.

He slowly chewed the food, the rage still there - thrumming, overwhelming - but he was pushing it down, hard, into his gut. Where he could keep it, and feed it, and not let a whisper of it free.

"As it is obvious I have little choice in the matter, I suppose I must follow you around on your little date of sorts. Though, I really don't see how all this will look well on you."

"Well, you don't know what it even is we do around here, do you?" Jason snaps and leans over the counter, taking another drag, eyelids fluttering. He can feel the headache barely at bay, pressing at the walls of his self-control, can feel Dorian aiding the foul force. It's not a great start to the day, not promising to need to start minding bright lights and loud noises before even noon.

He could kill Dorian right now for the sound of chewing.

"So until then, I don't see how your opinion is worth the air that carries it."

"Oh, I'm not sure it's quite that difficult to follow," He said, a smirk raising to his lips as watched his barb hit home. "Inane, perhaps, ridiculous, but hardly so complicated as to be beyond human understanding."

He smiled sweetly. (Maker, how he hated hated the man.)

"It isn't only me that needs to cooperate with you, I think, if you want to keep your reputation safely untarnished."

Jason pauses for a moment, blinking at the flower arrangement on the kitchen windowsill, thinking he couldn't have possibly heard him correctly. And when no possible other interpretation of the comment bubbles up from the morass, Jason actually laughs.

It's a strange sound, like a hinge grating itself, one that Jason clearly doesn't make often. He can't remember the last time he laughed, certainly not the last time a Tribute made him laugh.

"I don't respond to threats."

"Then don't take is as a threat," Dorian said with a shrug. "You've made your position clear, and we both know who holds the power in this situation." The words were calm, the fierce undercurrent of complete and utter disdain mostly subdued.

"However, I think we can agree that there is a massive difference between a tribute merely forced by threats into obeying, and one who is actively working to your benefit." He hated himself, trying to make this deal, but he needed some sort of leverage. Some bargaining chip. Some tool.

"It may not be worth training the horse to bite if you mean to take it to show."

"It's for your benefit more than it's for mine."

Jason's unwilling to bend, unwilling to cede even the semblance of ground to someone so beneath him. It's like cutting a deal with the vacuum cleaner to get it to work. Bargaining with the refrigerator. There's the mud the Compson name has been dragged through and then there's this. He clicks the button on his cigarette out again and slips it back into his pocket, closing his eyes again to the light of morning still lancing across the room.

"What is it you want? Free rein? Control over your schedule? I need to manage twelve of you, I'm not about to kowtow to each of you with an attitude problem. I can always have you taken off my hands and replaced."

"Nothing nearly so extravagant, I assure you," Dorian said, offering a smile as sharp as a blade. "Free rein and control are both things that are obviously not on offer."

He paused to pretend to look thoughtful.

"Candied dates," He said finally. "I am extremely fond of candied dates. I am very particular about my clothing - I'm willing to work with the stylists, of course, but I can nearly guarantee you that they will agree I have a perfect sense of style."

Candied dates and being able to have some control over what he was wearing.

It was quite sad, the amount of freedom he was being forced to bargain for.

Jason seems to spare little thought to the bargain, as if the answer for something so small is foregone. As if he's tossing away paper plates or locking the door when he leaves, something automatic, something disposable. "Fine. Can't say I'm much a fan of your Stylist's tastes anyway. I'll drop him a line to give you leeway."

He paces around the kitchen for a moment, feeling the way his nice shoes are starting to split a seam, how he's going to have to get those fixed because he can't afford a new pair.

"You're aware what you get if you win, aren't you? That the children in your District will have enough to eat this winter?"

"Oh, good, yes, let's attempt to guilt me into feeling as if their starvation is at all, on any level, my fault," Dorian said blandly. "We, alone, are responsible for their empty bellies. Please. If you cared about their food supplies, this would not be the job you would be taking."

It wasn't that he didn't care. It was that he couldn't seem to.

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[cw: bidding, execution]

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