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.
Re: D7 suites
At last he seats himself, eyes alert even as his posture appears comfortably lazy. He takes a bite of his apple. "It should not be that difficult to 'sell' me, as you put it."
His entire manner was condescending. He clearly thought himself to be better than this place.
Re: D7 suites
"I sure hope it's not. What sort of Sponsorships did the last Escort get you set up for? Did you even meet the last Escort or was he too busy drowning in his own drool to do his job?"
Re: D7 suites
He then lets out a sigh of irritation. "I did not see another so I expect they did nothing for me."
Re: D7 suites
"First, I figure out what I can sell you as, and before you say 'as a god' just remember that that doesn't mean jack here. What are your hobbies? What are you good at? Do you have comic timing? Work with me a little."
Re: D7 suites
"I have fine skills with knives, for one thing."
Re: D7 suites
Re: D7 suites
"I have no interest in making beings suffer... Well, unless they deserve it," he smirks a little.
"My strategy? It is no secret that I am a trickster and manipulator - I would deny it otherwise and that could have been my strength. However, since many know me to be a liar perhaps that can be turned to an advantage. I do wish for a better position here, so if you have suggestions on what may put me in a better position to win for District 7 then please do tell me. I am one of your strongest competitors, even without my full array of skills."
Re: D7 suites
He does know that Loki's a trickster and manipulator, but given the nature of the Tributes here Jason finds himself wishing for the easy task of a dumb, obedient brute.
"We could try and dress you up as a consummate villain. And there's always the drama you could work up in the Arena. You blew your chances with this current crop but when the next set of new people come in, I want you to get close to them, make alliances." Jason speaks perfectly plainly. "And then betray them. Dramatically, if you can."
Re: D7 suites
He chuckled at the ideas.
"So you think that each time there is a new arrival I should manipulate them for the show? That may not work more than once since everything is being watched. I had enough enemies in the last Arena, but I will consider your idea..."
Re: D7 suites
"You're going to have enough enemies anyway. And specifically go for new-new people, isolated, haven't seen anything before. String them along. Play a romantic angle if you want. The smarter and sneakier you look the more we can convince people you're actually a," Jason sneers during the next two words, "trickster god."
Re: D7 suites
Re: D7 suites
He nods, though. "You win and I might get a bonus. Or pushed to a better District."
Re: D7 suites
Re: D7 suites
He claps his hands together. "But instead I have you all. District Seven. Lucky me."
Re: D7 suites
"Was there anything else you needed to tell me, or can I now go about my day without a chaperone?"
/wrap?
"Sizing. Gym. Workshops and focus groups. You're with me all day, hate to say."
Sure!
"Fine. It is not as if I had any better plans for the day."