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
"Big deal. You choke me I'll just pass out or die or whatever." It was easy to be tough outside of the arena, she was born and raised to be tough even if a lot of it was bluster and years of practiced responses.
no subject
His sternness, just the hint of a scowl, seems all the crueler than her grimace.
no subject
"I'm not very good at following rules." She smirked with the dumbest expression of self satisfaction on her face. Like somehow an inability to follow established guidelines was a point of pride for her. "What do you want me to do?"
no subject
Nothing about being Escort is fun to Jason.
"I'm going to talk to you a bit and come up with a strategy for selling you to the Capitol. Then I'm switching out your whole wardrobe and taking you to the gym so you can show me how competent you are." The way he says 'competent' implies, a little more with each syllable, that he doesn't even think it's applicable for Ruffnut.
no subject
“Yeah these outfits are stupid. Where’s all the leather and studs? And I want another helmet. A proper one with horns. Not those cheap plastic things they keep having me sign when I’m out in the streets.” Of course Ruffnut had already been told she wasn’t allowed a helmet with horns. They could too easily be turned into a weapon and considering her past behavior Ruffnut was lucky she was allowed to eat with a fork.
“Everyone looks like…sparkly and those dresses look impossible to move with. And some of them are barely anything at all! How do you people not freeze to death!?” A few months worth of confusion and frustration was coming out here.
oh god he's dressing her up as Avril Lavigne
"Rest assured I've got no interest putting you in a dress, even if we did get the Style team to shave your legs some." He actually looks nearly amused. "No sparkles for you. I've got an idea for where to go with this."
/Instantly adds Avril Lavigne songs to Ruffnut's playlist
The legs comment makes her pull a face. "Every time I get out of the arena they wax me from the neck down. You know how long it takes to get my back hair just the way I like it? I mean the waxing part feels really awesome and hurts like crazy but I feel all weird and smooth after. Like a baby or something." And that just wasn't the viking way of doing things.
no subject
"Can you play any instruments?"
no subject
"Drums." She declares with some amount of confidence. "My brother and I were the best drummers on Berk."
Which is to say they were the most willing to thump sticks on drums as hard and fast as they could. Keeping a rhythm was something that came only when they were forced into it. Honestly she was just in it for the noise and the pounding headaches later.
no subject
If all Ruffnut's good at is making noise and annoying people, then she's got a much smaller and less lucrative audience than if she has any actual talent. Maybe if he moved her to a different instrument it wouldn't matter; she could fake it and backing tracks could work the magic.
"Have you ever played a guitar?"
no subject
When he asked the next question though she shook her head and for a moment actually stopped to think about it.
"That's kinda complicated isn't it? I mean...three strings that make different music? How does that even work?" She was almost positive such complex matters were beyond her.
But...she did like the sounds she'd heard in the music store that day with Beth.
no subject
"It's six, not three. There's four on a bass." Maybe bass would work. He makes more notes, looking exhausted already. "The strings vibrate and- no, you won't understand it. I'm not marketing you as the brains here."
no subject
"Well my brother and I-" She started and had to correct herself. It had been months since she'd seen him. "I mean I've always been kinda wild. Our family is descended from Berserkers on our mom's side. So we just...have fun you know? We like to smash stuff, blow stuff up, fight, and hit our heads together." Even with her original correction she couldn't help but talk more about the "we" of her life then just who she was without Tuffnut.
"We like that feeling you get you know? That rush? When you're hurt or when you're in danger and everything feels so clear and bright and it's like...everything feels more...everything!"
Which was the best way she could come up with describing her love of adrenaline rushes.
"Thinking too much just gets in the way of fun." She concluded agreeing with his initial statement that yes...brains was not the way to go.
no subject
"Alright, well, blowing things up works well for me, but you need to have some sense of self-preservation or you're not going to like what you wake up to." Fear, it turns out, penetrates stupidity more often than not, and threats come easily to Jason. He hopes it'll work here.
"When you feel like that, do you actually act more purposefully or do you just get an adrenalin rush and that's it?"
no subject
"Wait so you mean like...do I act smarter after I've gotten a rush off of things like nearly dying?"
She'd never actually thought about it before.
"Not smarter I don't think...but I'm happier does that help?"
In her case it did because if she was happy she was more willing to take her time and actually think about her actions before doing them. Unhappy Ruffnut was even more impulsive then usual.
no subject
"You're going to need to pick your battles with your adrenalin rushes. I don't want to see you getting cut to pieces doing something stupid and flashy without a plan. You do me no good dead."
no subject
He had a point though, she'd died enough times that even she had noticed that the more fun she was having the more likely she was to get killed.
"I guess you're right though. I'd like to win sooner or later."
no subject
He feels like he's talking to a rather vocal dog. "You done eating? We're going to get you up and sized right. Stig may have skipped that step before he sent you into the last few Arenas, but we're fixing that right now. That changes now."
no subject
"Stick with me and you just might learn something."
He was a jerk. She could deal with that. What was more important was he was a jerk that wanted her to succeed. Things had been stuck for Ruffnut and she'd been spinning her wheels since the failed prison break. She'd had her ups and downs but very little progress had been made and while that normally wouldn't bother her something was changing in the way she looked at the world.
Maybe leaving Berk wasn't such a bad thing.
"Whatever you gotta do let's do it."
More changes to come no doubt, but if there was one thing Ruffnut prided herself on it was knowing how to roll with the punches.
/wrap