If you ever get to the place where the sun is shining everyday

[cigne]

Who| Swann and maybe you???
What| Gotta shape up these Tributes. And maybe have a drink.
Where| D8 Suites and also the bar in the lobby
When| TODAY

a. District 8 Suites
Swann enters the Suite with her heels clicking on the floor, peering around for any sign of life in here. She carries in her shopping bags, each labeled with the name of her Tributes. The bags overwhelm her tiny frame, the sheer amount of them and their size. Even her sky-high stilettos can't balance it all out.

She approaches the sitting room and carefully arranges the bags on the coffee table, placing them just so, very intent on the appearance. She wants everything to look just right when the Tributes come in, wants to see their eyes light up at how pretty the bags are, with their pristine edges and rich black shine and ribbons on the handles.

They have to show up first, though.

b. Lobby bar

All she needed was a single lemon drop martini, and she has it. Sitting on the high barstool, Swann looks out over the lobby, watching people come and go, watching the crowds ebb and flow as the Tributes enter and leave the building. It's interesting enough, made nicer by the drink, and the screens replay all the best scenes from the past Arena.

She occasionally fiddles with her communicators, checking emails and messages and the tabloids, making sure everything's in order while she dares to lounge for just a few moments.

Comments

[whatisay]

"Of course I'm missing out on something. That just doesn't mean the old bitch is going to loosen her hold." He shrugs. "Whatever, she'll be dead soon. Then maybe I'll see what I've been missing out on."

It's always difficult to tell if Jason means it when he speaks ill of his mother. On one hand, the hatred is palpable; on the other, a few years back when the Compsons were audited, the records showed that every cent Jason made went right to Caroline's personal account. It had been such a surprise it had made the blotters for a half-second.

"What about you? Last I heard you were with Whatsisface, the guy with the big teeth." He contorts his mouth, pulls his lip back to sneer and make buck teeth.

[cigne]

"We broke up a while ago. Nothing important. It just ended."

She finally looks away from him, to frown at the glass of water he left her, her hands folded in her lap. He shouldn't talk about her ex that way. He's so mean, but he's not mean to her, at least not directly, and she doesn't know how to feel about that.

"You shouldn't talk about your mother like that," she says quietly, still not looking at him. "Your mother loves you."

Everyone knows that Jason is his mother's whole world. Hell, Swann remembers it even from childhood, at the parties her mother never attended because she was always at the beach for sun, or breathing fresh mountain air for her head. Wherever it was that Swann wasn't.

There is a brief moment when she says it that she doesn't care if Jason gets mad at her or leaves, because no matter how bad he has it in other ways, he will never know what it's like to have a mother who chose the world over him.

[whatisay]

"Yeah? Look at my competition. She couldn't well give all that loving to my brothers and sister." Jason juts out his lower lip and then takes another long lungful of smoke. "She loves me to death."

Then he looks at Swann as he sucks in again, exhaling the smoke across the rings on her finger, across the perfectly-manicured nails when she brings her hands back up. He tries to see through her, analyze her, read everything about what she's saying and the girly makeup as if it were a checklist of all her secrets.

"Mrs. Honeymead wasn't a very good mommy, was she, Swann?" There's a smirk there, a little basking in someone else's unhappiness. "No worries. Grass is always greener. I would have expected you to be her little angel, though."

[cigne]

She takes her hands away when the smoke crosses them, balls them into fists that she presses into her skirt. The crinoline underneath the brocade silk crinkles from the pressure, folds and makes room in the dip where one thigh crosses over the other.

"Well you must love her just as much back, or else you wouldn't stay." It's still quiet, like she's intimidated to say anything but compliments loudly, and even the pitch of her voice has lowered, from the docile, sweet highness it usually bears. "The only thing keeping you there is you. So why complain? You could leave them to fend for themselves, if you're really so unhappy."

The whole time, Swann has kept her gaze fixed on the counter, as if there's a spot there that hypnotizes her.

"Viatrix is a fine mother," and it's a lie that comes easily, after all these years of telling it. "I couldn't ask for anything more."

[whatisay]

"Oh yeah, that's just what the Compsons need. Abandonment. It'd really complete the picture, wouldn't it?" But no, Jason thinks, Swann doesn't understand it. Jason himself doesn't understand it most days, when he gets up out of bed disappointed that the house didn't burn down in his sleep. "There's a lot of things that motivate people besides love. You know that. You reported on it plenty."

He makes a sound that's almost like a laugh, but dryer, and kind of sad. Like the remains of life in a pressed flower. He watches Swann, not lustful, not hungry, but maybe some echo of amused by the way she stripped out all that syrup from her voice.

"Okay. You always call her by her first name?"

[cigne]

"And you think you'll save your family's reputation?"

She finally flags down the bartender for another drink, her hand steady when she reaches for it.

"I did report on those things, a lot. Helps you learn about people and the way they tick, you know? And you're not staying for money, or because you have some dark secret lurking around, or because you're legally obligated. So all that you have left are love and pride, Jason, keeping you around. But maybe it's just that you secretly like it. Because you know that if you leave and go make some kind of life away from them, that you can't blame them if you're still angry and mean."

There's a long sip, and she finally turns her gaze back to him, blinking slowly over an intense look, her lashes long and dark but not fake like so many other peoples'. It takes a fair amount to make Swann drop her sweet little girl act, and she hates doing it, but she didn't become a television power player without a layer of shrewdness and cutthroat cunning behind it all.

"Sound about right? And my mother prefers hearing her name. Makes her feel young."

[whatisay]

For a good solid moment, he considers putting a hand around her throat. He never would, of course. He couldn't. But for a moment he considers what it would be like to watch that pale throat tense up, to flush red and mottled white, and that's what keeps him from getting up and walking away. That fantasy of a world very different than this one, where no one could sink their fingers under his flesh like that and walk away protected by the trappings of society or decency.

Because she may be right, on some level, and it's not like he walked into this conversation hoping for her to psychoanalyze him. Hoping for her to ghost her fingers over his brain until the static electricity made some of the sinewy little nerves perk up.

"Seltzer, bartender." His hand is steady too, but artificially so, almost stiff and rigid. Then he finally looks back at Swann, and her neck is still pale, her lashes low. "I must have hit a nerve to get you to retaliate like that."

[cigne]

She shrugs, takes another sip and then fiddles with her communicator, foot swinging idly. The diamonds that decorate her shoes glitter when they catch the light. Swann didn't want this, didn't even imagine it would come to this, but she can only be pushed so far before she has to lay down the law.

She took Joel's cookie earlier, and she'll take Jason's too, since he asked for it.

"Maybe I just got tired of listening to you be so mean for no reason. It's a little bit taxing."

[whatisay]

"I was trying to have a conversation. It's hardly my fault you're thin-skinned." He nods in thanks to the bartender and swills some of the seltzer water in his mouth before swallowing it down. He rests his elbows on the table, as if he's going to stubbornly stay here until she leaves rather than ceding anything himself.

He pulls out his device, scrolls through general Sponsor stuff, checks the tracking page that shows him in real-time where in the city his Tributes are, deletes a text from Lorraine. Finishes off his vapor cap and tucks the cigarette away.

"Aside from Joel, any other Tributes catch your eye?"

[cigne]

"I've been talking to you this long, so my skin must be thicker than you give me credit for."

She glances around the bar, eyes lingering on a huge but silent screen, close-captioned -- they're doing some kind of special on Thor, with experts going over what made him go mad and get himself killed. She thinks it's a little sad, and that he was interesting to watch in the Arena.

"Brock Samson is my best, I think, and Jack Sparrow could be a real wildcard. And Maxwell Trevelyan is a special kind of marketable."

[whatisay]

"Trevelyan seems like a good, upstanding type. There are people in this city who like to fool themselves into thinking they value that." Jason makes a sound that's like a chuckle, except it seems wiser than he is, and bladelike for all its cynicism. He glances up at the TV, sighing with relief that Thor wasn't one of his, as if it's all happening right now and isn't an exhumation of actions past.

"I wonder if Jack Sparrow detoxes." He raises an eyebrow. "I bet he's flammable from all the drinking. You're not going to be able to get him alcohol in the Arena, right?"

[cigne]

"He's like Prince Charming, in terms of marketing. Very, very easy, and even more palatable than that." Swann allows herself a happy little smile -- she's very pleased with some of her Tributes.

Using her glass, she gestures at the screen, at Thor's face. "I might be able to. Remember when they sent him all that gin in Arena 11? Hundreds of bottles of it? Besides, maybe Jack's more useful when he dries out. It would only take a few days of hiding to get him fully sober."

[whatisay]

"Don't tell me you're crushing on him, Swann. You know that kind of thing's a no-no." It's hard, again, to tell if Jason's joking or not, if he's actually teasing or just couching condemnation in good humor to avoid being taken to task for him.

He nods a little bit, more dipping his chin than anything. "Fair enough. Good luck getting him to do anything useful while he dries out, though. Believe me, they're completely helpless when you cut off their source."

Jason Compson the Third's death to alcoholism is common knowledge in the Capitol, and for his part Jason sounds more bitter than he does sad.

[cigne]

She rolls her eyes, because she can't fathom having a crush on Maxwell. It's like having a crush on an idea, and he's so proper. Swann might look and act like a living doll, but she's never really been after a fairytale.

"Helpless is fine as long as long as he does it up in a tree or something," she murmurs, gesturing vaguely. "I don't care if he wins by killing everyone or just by outliving them. All he has to do -- all any of them have to do -- is win."

[whatisay]

And Jason laughs, as if getting her to roll her eyes was the point, the same way he teased her when they were younger (only then, the point had been to make her cry).

"Which is easier when there's less competition. But your point's made." He alternates between the cinnamon vapor and the seltzer water, although the carbonation from the latter is enough to make his frown a little each time he swallows, despite having been so cocksure with the lemon earlier.

"I'm getting a Mentor shipped in, at least. So I won't be doing this alone. Stig's so useless as a Stylist he practically counts against the number of staffers."

[cigne]

Swann is surprised to hear him laugh, and she blinks once, in silence, like she's just heard a foreign sound and needs to decipher what it was.

"Didn't Stig's brain get all rattled around in his head?" She sighs, feeling bad for him. "Well, at any rate, you'll have help soon. I have Samuel, but he's not necessarily the most enthusiastic Mentor I could hope for. It's really more up to Jolie and me to handle them. Know who you're getting yet?"

[whatisay]

"If it did, that'd explain a lot." Of course, Jason knows about Stig's...disability, but he doesn't have a drop of sympathy for him. If he had ever had an open heart for the disabled, his brother would have tapped that well dry long ago.

"Samuel? Which one's Samuel?" Jason nods tightly. "Emily Finch, the one who won with a score of Five. Was kind of wishing we had someone who could toughen them up physically but maybe psychological readiness will last longer with the resets anyway."

[cigne]

"Oh, gosh, he won... nearly twenty years ago, I think? He had a very low score as well, but he just sort of made it through. I think his Arena was the one with the giant temple in the middle, remember that? He has lots of tattoos now, all over him, and a very low voice from getting hit in the throat."

She remembers his Arena mostly because her mother happened to be home that year, and they sometimes sat together in the same room to watch while the Games were on.

"Your Tributes aren't that weak, don't worry so much about them being tough," she reassures him. "Don't you even have a 12 in there? They just need someone to teach them to survive."

[whatisay]

"Oh, right, that one!" Jason remembers that Arena with a touch of bitterness - he recalls making a bet with Caddy back in the day about who would win that Arena, and when her favorite bested his, she'd gotten forty of his assi. Granted, hers ended up dead anyway. "He was kind of the dark horse of that Arena. He's probably got some good advice."

He takes another drink, draining the last of the seltzer.

"I do have the twelve," Jason says, a smug expression playing about his mouth like flickering candlelight. "I don't want to say that's the ace up my sleeve, but it sure helps, doesn't it?"

[cigne]

"I hope he does." She sighs and looks at her drink. "But he's not particularly... excited about being brought back from his District. I think he preferred the peace out there, compared to the city. A lot of them do, the Capitol is so different for them."

The corner of Swann's mouth quirks when he takes on that expression. She could rain on his parade, remind him that Clara Murphy, of all people, took a crown, mention that it only works if your high-scorers want to play the game. But instead, she smiles.

"It does! So it's fine. You have a good shot."

[whatisay]

"I can't imagine wanting to spend time in the Districts. I only go to the Districts on rare occasion for business, and every time I do I feel like I need to take a few dozen showers when I get back." Jason shudders; the sole bright spot of his ventures out to District Eleven are his evenings with Lorraine, and the relative anonymity of being just a 'bigshot from the Capitol' and not a Compson that he gets out there.

"Hope he gets his head on straight and thinks better of it. We'll need either your District or mine to try and overthrow District Six's reign." If only because Jason harbors some unpleasant, inexplicable resentment for Stephen. Stephen, who lacks ambition, who sailed into his Escortship when Jason would have done so much more with those opportunities.

[cigne]

She shrugs a little, takes another sip of her drink. "It's what he grew up with. You and I are used to how things are here, but I imagine it's a lot to take in when you're used to something different. I've been to Eight, and it's not colorful and bright, like here -- I bet it's overwhelming. But the people work hard, and they're nice, and we owe them for all they do for us. Everything on your body came from Eight, Jason."

Swann is a Capitolite, but she does have a soft spot for Eight, if only because she's spent time in those factories and with the designers. Eight brought her the start of her fame, and so she feels inclined to take care of them, enough so that she's willing to speak up about it.

After her first visit, she always used to bring them gifts. Cookies and toys for the children in the textile mills, the little ones who worked there after school.

But she nods. "I want another District to win. It was good for Twelve to win. I'm not sure they've had a winner since Katniss and Peeta."

goddamnit, Swann is too precious

[whatisay]

"Well, well, well, look who grew up to be right sentimental." Jason snorts a little, teases, the smile on his face almost genuine with amusement. "Tell me you don't go on holidays. That would just be too much. The powers that be might start keeping an eye on that little tongue of yours."

It's a dangerous line to walk, sympathizing with the Districts, like nearly anything that isn't toeing the party line. A few false steps and you end up an Avox, or in some sort of rehab facility like that ill-fated correspondent on SWANN.

[cigne]

Her cheeks burn pink, and she fixates on the bar counter, the shine of the marble under the lights. "I haven't been in a few years, no. Not since Stylistic. I didn't have time, and now with this job... I don't know when I'll make it back. I just know that there's good people outside of the Capitol, too. That's all. Not everyone in the Districts is a crazy rebel."

Stomach turning, she pushes away the rest of her drink. She doesn't want it anymore.

[whatisay]

"With our luck they might send us on District Tours again, and you'll get your wish. And I'll get hives." Jason snorts, still looking gleeful at the expression on Swann's face, the embarrassment, the backtracking.

"I'm not saying they're all crazy rebels, Swann. But they're not- they're not like us. And they never will be. And you best remember that, because it's what this country's founded on."