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
"In the first five minutes? No. In the first day, yes. You haven't done an Arena with Sponsor gifts, have you? My job is to get what you need to you when you need it. Medical kits, knives, food, maps, tents - a few Arenas back they even had guns and bullets." He settles back, hands on his knees. "And I'll want to get it to you first-thing, because the longer the Arena goes on the more each thing costs."
no subject
He was no doctor, but Jezebel had shown him more than enough to tend to any injuries he obtained during a hit. 'Good assistants are hard to find these days, it would be a bother to lose one I'm used to simply from infection or blood loss.' He could hear it clear as day.
"Alright. Fine. What kind of 'ammunition' do you think I'll need?"
no subject
"I'm not allowed to tell you anything about the upcoming Arena, but you're going to want me on your side. That's all I can say. Unless you want to run the odds of someone taking vengeance on you if you try to survive with sticky fingers alone. What are you good at, Cassian?" He waves a hand. "That means anything, not just in the Arena."
no subject
Although, before Delilah, there'd been the circus and the Ringmaster with his whip. He didn't like to think about those years, but they were the reason he'd gotten so good at killing or even why he'd gone down that road to begin with. "My balance is perfect and I've never met someone who can match my speed and reaction time. Is that good enough?"
no subject
It doesn't impress Jason. It annoys him more than anything, to have this many variables, this many egos to manage. And it worries him, because he sees the untapped power of all these Tributes and wonders what the hell the Capitol thinks they're going to do with this many genies out of the bottle.
When the whole place burns, he'll have to be saying 'I told you so' through choked gasps for air. He finally pushes his glasses back up and brushes his hair out of his face, where it's coming free of its product and brushing over his brow.
"Granted, that's a better skill set than some people have here, but it isn't everything. Trained killers are a dime a dozen."
no subject
He finished the bowl of fruit and stood so he could push it into a waiting avox's hands. "Doesn't sound to me like you've got a whole lot to offer, Jason, so I think I'll go ahead and stick to my knives." He didn't have to waste his time here, he could be in the training center or, hell, anywhere else and it'd be better.
no subject
He stands too. He's taller than Cassian by enough that he doesn't have to put much effort into looming. "I'm telling you how it's going to be. When we go to the gym today you're getting a regimen, and you're going to learn more than just knives."