Jason Compson IV (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whatisay) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-01-05 01:16 am
whatisay) wrote in thecapitol2015-01-05 01:16 am
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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
It wasn't that he didn't care. It was that he couldn't seem to.
no subject
"You want to feed these kids, you win. Or if you don't care, that's fine, but I'm still expecting your best effort."
no subject
It was a careful statement - not quite an outright rebellion, but it certainly implied he thought little of Jason's placid acceptance of his role in it.
"That being said, I have absolutely no interest in dying again, so you don't need to lecture me on that point."
no subject
"Good. Then you'll want to swallow up that pride and work with me instead of against me. Believe me, I don't get anything by letting you lose." He raises an eyebrow at the Avox, still hovering around between Dorian's food and the cooling coffee. "You gonna reheat that?"
He takes a seat at the counter, still looking as if he'd rather be pacing, as if restless energy is his lot in life. "So. That's out of the way. I'm petitioning for your magic back. What else can you?"
no subject
It was more than a little sardonic.
"Other than that? Very little, I'm afraid. As you can probably understand, it wasn't exactly required."
no subject
"Writing? Cooking? Socializing? Wooing men? Wiping your own ass without instruction? Anything?"
no subject
"What a very particular list," he quipped. "Yes, to all the above, ironically enough, though I'm afraid to say that you're not quite my type."
no subject
"You couldn't woo me if you were Don Juan himself. I'm not like that." He lifts his lip a bit. "What I need to find out is why people should care about you, out of ninety-six Tributes, inside and outside the Arena. Right now, I'm not seeing much that makes you stand out from the pack except a trashy mustache."
no subject
"I've never been exactly popular, even with people I was routinely saving the lives of. Though I may be incredibly handsome, people tend to either dislike the 'Tevinter' bit or the 'Mage' bit, or the 'Wooing Men', so I rarely come off well in any company. Perhaps you should go ask Cassandra - I'm sure she'll give you a ready laundry-list of all my faults and why she very much wishes she could boot me from the Inquisition."
no subject
Jason's pen flicks out, viperlike, and makes a note on the schedule in front of him. Cassandra. Even biased testimony is useful; it'll highlight what faults the audience may zoom in on.
"We could go for tragic and mysterious. Wounded lamb."
no subject
"In my experience the truth rarely matters, so I assume you'll easily be able to spin whatever you want out of whatever I do."
no subject
"Can you fight with a knife?"
no subject
"That being said, I wouldn't want to be at the other end of a knife fight if I could help it." The last was said wryly, because he was all too aware that he couldn't help it at all.
no subject
"Alright, I'll leave a note for Emily to have an instructor work with you on knives. They're the most plentiful weapons in the Arena. What about wilderness survival?"
no subject
"I've survived Ferelden this long. As long as I'm sent somewhere that has something to survive on, unlike our last Arena."
no subject
"Okay. You showered and everything? Because I need to make some calls and see you work in the Training Center." He gestures at the food with his pen. "Finish up already, Princess."
no subject
But he could play the good little 'Princess' for a little while until he figured out how to shove a blade between the man's eyes.