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Who| Sadie Doyle and Jason Compson
What| Old acquaintances reunite
Where| Random Capitol party #567
When| During the Sabertooth tiger attacks
Warnings/Notes| Normal Capitol awfulness?

Sadie Doyle, capitol citizen and toast of the upper crust, had recently decided to venture into the dubious business of having interests outside of her own marriage and personal gratification. And, really, patronage of the Games were simply the thing to do these days. Or had been forever, technically. It had always been a thing to do. She simply had been content with her purely spectator position before. But throwing money and gifts at the tributes may just suit as a first venture into this whole 'hobby' business.

She'd come to this particular party to dip her toes into the whole patronage affair. Tragically, she was less than enamored with the newest arena, so very much...nature. Which she supposed one must tip a hat to tradition, but she'd grown father fond of all the many little metal bit and whirly-woos. Yet she had ventured so very far from her home and haven for a purpose, and she wouldn't let a little bit of caves and lakes put her off her goal. Just a touch more spirit would be required. There was, at least, some new item of interest being premiered tonight.

"Cats! Oh, I certainly do hope there are no bits of string laying about which- despite their common appearance- shall both entangle the ankles of the unwary and provide hours of adorable entertainment!"

The barman placed the ordered drink on the bar beside her and, in a dramatic stage whisper, Sadie leaned in towards the person closest to her and confided:

"I secretly hope there are such strings."

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There's a certain change that comes over Jason Compson when he has to actually care about posture and etiquette, rather than putting in the bare minimum effort not to topple over the line of casual into rude. It's not something that comes about often, but it's a skill he necessarily employs during parties where Escorts will be fraternizing with Sponsors. Sadie may be here to enjoy the show, but Jason is here to work, to secure some gifts for his Tributes so that maybe he can pull a winner out of this sorry bunch and go home with enough of a bonus to take the occasional sick day.

And so, when he leaves the green room of staffers, his back is straight and he smells like cologne instead of his favored camphor cigarettes. He doesn't drink, he never does, but he isn't casting judgmental glances at people's gin and champagne. The difference would be as obvious as two separate stages on a chart of human evolution.

"If there aren't, there should be. It'd serve them right for not watching their steps." He stands next to her at the bar and orders a seltzer water. "Sorry, couldn't help but overhear. You got a favorite?"

"Oh, I simply couldn't choose. I love them all equally...If pressed, however, I suppose I would have to say...gin. No- vodka. No! Whiskey. I simply adore a good whiskey. And the naughty ones aren't too bad, either..."

She trailed off, her attention now thoroughly removed from the games on the screens before them as a far more heinous event took her mind away from her newest dabbling into hobby-having. She looked at the bubbly water being poured with a heavy frown, positively disturbed by this latest development concerning this newest conversation partner. He hadn't quite caught what he'd been ordering, but she was certain this couldn't be right.

"Oh, darling, are you trapped in some terrible feud with our barman? He would appear to be playing a trick of rather poor taste on you."

"I meant the Tributes." He takes a seat, relaxing enough to rest on one elbow on the bar, raising one eyebrow when the seltzer comes with a wedge of lime and a cherry in it. Going all out here, aren't they? Maybe he should be glad they didn't shove a whole grapefruit in there for appearances.

"Eh?" He glances from the drink back at her, realizing belatedly what she's talking about. "No, this is exactly what I ordered. It's to my taste, poor or not. I want to be sober to meet everyone here."

It's a lie through his teeth - he can't imagine anything more dull and irritating than listen to a woman like Sadie wax on about her favorite flavors of alcohol - but he can't afford to put people off him. His budget for his District only goes so far, and if he expects any of his Tributes to make it very far this time around they're going to need fresh water.

"Maybe I'm just bad at holding my liquor and don't want to embarrass myself too badly."

The look of horror is not put to rest with his reasoning. It only gains a faint edge of concern. Particularly at that want to be sober bit. She couldn't imagine facing anyone beyond her own husband in such a state- and even that was only because Frank was nothing if not a pillar of emotional support, as well as a damn fine bar tender himself. Most of these people were simply wretched, up to and including those she counted as her very dearest friends among them. Sobriety certainly could do nothing to improve them.

"There is nothing but practice for that. And it may do you wonders for making acquaintances. There is something simply off-putting about a lone dry man standing in the midst of a flood. Slightly sinister."

"There's nothing sinister about it. I just prefer to keep my wits about me." He keeps, barely, from sounding defensive about that, drawing upon the shallow well of his charm to try and dissipate her horror. He didn't realize that his own preference on what to put in his mouth was going to start the night off on such a bad foot. He tactfully, but firmly, replies.

"Besides, my father had enough to drink that I'm sure it runs in my veins by proxy."

This entire conversation was not lessening in the level or concerning- but before Sadie can continue along that particular trail he suddenly presents a rabbit to chase after instead. Drunkards were hardly a novelty in the Capitol, but it a certain kind of lifestyle was suggest in making that ones drug of choice. In a world where far harder drugs which offered far more 'bang for one's buck' could be found, inebriation tended to be a bit more expensive form of suicide. Judging by the young man's age and the past-tense reference to his father, Sadie doubted she would have been personally well acquainted with the man. But even Sadie Doyle had once spent her time as a youth clinging to her own father's hand at various social events. And there was something about those cheekbones tickling at the back of her memory...

"He sounds a delight. Now that you mention it, darling, there is something slightly familiar about your particular style."

Powerful families run in the same circles, and bit by bit her face starts to come into place. He saw her at parties when she was young. They were among the children occasionally shuffled off to playrooms while their parents rubbed elbows and discussed politics and each other and the dreadful state of the Districts. Jason was always a bit of a solitary kid, lingering around his siblings but rarely engaging, except during his odd business ventures with the Patterson kid.

She's not that much younger than him, and her first name eludes him, but her last one comes to mind. Doyle. He holds his hand out to shake.

"Jason Compson. My father was a Jason Compson too. My mother was a Bascomb, too, if that jogs your memory any."

Neither of those surnames carries the same weight it did once upon a time, and something inside Jason tenses up, as if waiting for Sadie to dredge up the old scandal that cast the Compsons from the realm of respectable, reputable, influential families into the laughingstock of the Capitol.

"I think- it must have been nearly twenty-five years ago now- I think we met before, at a party at the Reagans. They had an ice sculpture of an elephant that my older brother climbed up on, and when he fell off they took him away in an ambulance."

"Oh, oh- and I was put off peanuts for a year after! I remember. You were an absolute block of ice yourself, darling."

Her laughter at the memory doesn't hold any edge of knowing just how far the family has fallen- she'd far too occupied in her own affairs to note such trivial matters for no reason. She will look into it now of course, dredging up what she can once they've parted. But for the moment, she can only view him through the tinted glass of childhood nostalgia. A comrade in arms, so to speak, in the battle that was being raised among the elite.

"Oh, Jason, my dear. You simply must let me buy you a drink. Never mind about your wits, I promise I shall protect you for the evening! And Sadie Doyle never fails at her word."

"I got my nose done since then. That's why you don't recognize me." Adulthood has been kind to Jason, at least physically, as it is to so many gawky Capitol children. Plastic surgery and weight loss are nothing to be ashamed of here; in fact, they're nearly a matter of parental responsibility. Growing up with a deviated septum or an overbite is something of a sign that your family doesn't really love you enough to want to see you succeed.

"I like to think I've warmed up a little since then. And I'll take you up on that, but only if you let me have my seltzer water instead of anything alcoholic. It's nothing sinister. I'm just allergic," he lies, hoping that sets her on a different trail. He raises his glass of tame beverage to her, raising his eyebrows as well, as if asking her to make a deal.

"Now that is a shame."

She's not entirely sure what his reasons are- the whole idea of 'working' wasn't one that would enter her head- but they've moved far enough along in the conversation to make it a boring point to press after.

"Taking up the challenge of drinking for the both of us may prove a tall order, but that is just the way I like them. Oh, bar man!" She waved a hand, beckoning the keeper of the booze back over. "But, come. It's been ages and noses and perhaps an augmented breast or two between now and then. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"I'm sure you can manage." Besides, the drunker she is the more likely she is to either make him a promise of a few assi, or be so blackout drunk that he can pretend she did and not have her correct him later.

"Oh, around." He had to work not because he needed something to do, not because becoming an Escort was his calling, but because his family was broke, always one late bill payment away from getting the servant's quarters repossessed. But that's hardly party conversation; it's just the internal monologue that folds in on itself and soils itself while it crawls around in Jason's head, the rage he can't put a voice to for reasons of propriety. "Decided to involve myself with the Games, since my mother enjoys them so much. I'm the Escort for District Seven."

He loathes too much that he can't even claim title to a prestigious District. Seven, Districts of lumberjacks and pine needles. "And you?"

He doesn't mention the Brutus scandal, just like she doesn't mention Candace.

"Ha! I am on to you now Jason Delano Octavia Compson."

A few of those names may or may not have been randomly added on based on whomever her eyes happened to pass over as she threw back her first drink. Her smile is still in place- nay, larger- as she places the glass back down and waves the bartender over for another. His question, sadly, is ignored for the moment as she pushes forward along her own point.

"Such a innocent question. 'You got a favorite,' indeed, sir. Come now, point out which are yours. Or which particular bloodstains formerly crawled out from your forest domain, I suppose."

"Bascomb Richmond," he says, only affecting the sound of chiding. He has no great love for any of his names; as far as he's concerned, they're the only things his parents gave him that he didn't have to fight for. They're old names, too, names that survived whatever war leveled historical knowledge, the earth from which Panem grew. They lack the Latin affectation of many of the newer names here.

"You caught me. I was going to try and direct your eyes towards one of my charges. But now that we're both being honest about it..." He looks at the screen and winces. Once of his is, in fact, a bit bloody now. Dammit, Nick.

He points to a screen showing a blonde with large eyes running through the tall grass. "That one, Beth Greene, is probably my personal favorite. I'm going to try and get her a cooking show, you know, to pass the time between Arenas. She isn't scored high but I guarantee she has more personality than half the scarecrows the other Districts got. And that one-"

He gestures to another screen, where Loki is sneaking through reeds. "That one's just quaint. He insists that I address him as a god whenever he walks into the Suite. I don't, of course, but it's like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. Almost charming."

Edited 2015-02-16 21:55 (UTC)

"Gods and chefs? I do believe I should like to watch that show. Great sacrificial dinners."

Sadie takes a moment to laugh at her own mental image- perhaps the meals could be served upon alters- but obligingly directs her attention to the screen to observe the selected tributes. Blond girl- the favorite, she would remember- and a sharp cheeked loony. Neither of which, she very much noted, were currently attempting to tangle with the kitty, bearing string or otherwise. Intelligent, likely, but still a touch off-putting for a first introduction.

"Hm, well now. They're both certainly pretty enough, in their own ways. It is such a bore, darling, to try and squeeze out a little pleasure in watching some poor wretch with only a stunning personality to recommend them scamper around for weeks on end."

He takes a long sip from his seltzer water and watches the television over the rim. "They are pretty. And thank goodness for that, because you can have the most brutal killer the Arena's ever seen and you still have to know how to tap dance if you want to get anyone to put their money behind them. But keep an eye on them both, because-"

He sets the seltzer aside, leaning in as if he's telling Sadie a secret. "-they're going to try and win by wits, and underneath that girl-next-door smile Beth has a mouthful of razors. She'll direct someone towards those murderous cats without batting an eyelash if she has to, and then sleep well at night. Sociopathy makes for quite a show, what I say. Especially in such a guileless package."

He makes as if he's watching the television, but truthfully he's trying to see how well his sales pitch is working on Sadie, whether she responds to certain words he wraps his teeth around like Christmas paper.

Edited 2015-02-19 23:10 (UTC)

"Jason, you wicked man."

Sadie bit her lips lightly between sips, head tilting slightly as she evaluated the girl for just a moment longer. That certainly was more exciting than simply watching some grown man or another jumping over an ugly boulder and clubbing one wretch or another over the head with...a slightly smaller boulder, she supposed. It was all so terribly naturally themed and all.

But his air of secrecy, no matter how manufactured, was having the desired effect, adding just that touch of excitement to the whole game. And that was what she'd been looking for, wasn't it? Some new spark of excitement to break the days up a bit. No reason to look any further than the fruit which hung the lowest, simply begging for her to pick it and get back to her martinis.

"Since you've put it so very, very well, here are my terms. I will put forward a...certain amount for the pair, in a sign of good faith in your excellent taste. When all is said and done for this particular game, you bring your whole merry band to one of my lovely little socials for introductions. Then, the very next time the gaggle is tossed off into combat, I will put forward somewhat more, based upon how very charming you and yours find it within you to be."

She leaned back sightly as she finished, making room to take a good, long pull of her drink. Then, with a light laugh, grinned at him again. The expression, along with the nearly giggling tone, somewhat in contrast to what comes out next.

"Unless they're simple disasters on the screen or in my parlor, of course. In such case of such tragedy, I fear I may be rather forced to toss my many charms towards some less tree-themed district."

"That sure seems like a fair trade. If you're going to be purchasing their luck for them it stands to reason that you should be reimbursed with their company."

Something tight inside Jason's body seems to go slack, relaxed. He didn't expect it to be this easy tonight. Even if the rest of the Sponsors here turn him down he has at least one conquest early in the night.

"I'll be sure that they won't ruin your parlor, Miss Doyle. I may not have much control over them but I can still instill a few manners into them." And they probably obey him more than other Tributes obey most of their Escorts, if only because Jason is, as Maxwell described him, a little bit of a pitbull. It's easier to bend to his will than to keep fighting it.

Unless they smother him in his sleep someday.

He raises his half-empty glass of seltzer water. "I'm sure you wouldn't be opposed to a toast to the deal, right? You seem the kind of person fond of them."

She gives a soft sigh as that little water glass is, once more, given a most disapproving look. But it melts nearly instantly as she offers hers up to tap against his for a near-musical clink.

"To times old and new, darling. I do look forward to whatever your little monsters have in store."

"Chin chin," he says quietly, the way his mother always did over toasts, the relic of some bygone era that wound like a river through the Compson family from long before Panem.

"I'll teach them how to do the tango if that's what will make you happy, Ms. Doyle."

She couldn't help a small giggle at the idea of it- really, dancing at her request. A reasonable offer, all and all, but given the...well, arboreous origin of his district?

"I would settle for a well mixed drink. I'm sure the less talented in survival can manage to pick up that skill between now and my gala, hm?"

"I'll have Emily teach them. I hear that those lumberjacks out there are quite good at concocting something to take the tension out of a body. It's all that swinging axes around, I think - they get their muscles all tight and go to the tavern for a remedy."

He speaks of District Seven as if it's a zoo attraction, some strange and unexplained phenomena to a different species of meerkats or something like that. Science hasn't explained why Tributes are so loath to participate in the Games, but researchers speculate that they have more finely-honed survival instincts than the average Citizen.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you again, Miss Doyle."

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want to wrap it up here? :) what a delightful intro