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)
thecapitol2015-03-10 09:48 pm
whatisay) wrote in thecapitol2015-03-10 09:48 pm
Flecks of the Heavens' Spat Out Spit [OPEN]
WHO| Jason Compson and Open; Jason and Swann; Jason, Rick and Daryl
WHAT| Jason gets a migraine and is helpless; Jason beats an Avox; Jason gives Swann a gift; Rick and Daryl get the shotguns.
WHEN| Week 6
WHERE| D7 Suites; Swann's place
WARNINGS/NOTES| Avox abuse, migraines, general Jason awfulness. If you're going to tag the second prompt, please PP or PM me first so we can figure out where it's going and how far to take it, because Jason won't hesitate to put someone in jail.
I. Open
He knew he was going to have one of his headaches from the beginning of the morning, when every light seemed to have a ring radiating off of it and everything seemed to smell like rainwater. The one upside to the curse of these migraines is that he usually gets a few hours head start on them, with the feeling of deadly premonition, and so he spends most of the day trying to finish up everything as quickly as he can and clock out early. The calls to Sponsors and thank you cards to donors becomes a race against time, one which he sees himself losing too late to actually prevent disaster.
First he can't see, and then he can't move. Even breathing seems to put too much strain on him, and the throbbing, tightening hammering in his head gets worse with every exhale. The inside of his body feels like a live wire, sparking away inside his skull at camera-shutter speed. Nausea roils inside his throat and stomach, furling and unfurling like the tide.
When he opens his eyes the light is too bright, speckled with floating spots and halos, and he feels like the universe itself is trying to cram itself through his eyesockets and that his bones have made the opening too small to fit. So he keeps them shut and rolls over on the District Seven couch until he's facedown in a pillow, sweating slightly, trying not to whimper.
He has no hope of driving himself home, and even the idea of getting up seems a cruel joke. He tries twice, and both times a surge of nausea and a thunderclap of pain force him back down. So he lies there, hoping to whatever powers that be that his Tributes stick to their schedules and don't come bother him.
II. Open (please read note)
What started off as a strong Arena quickly loses those good odds as the District Seven Tributes die in the field and the District Suite gets repopulated. The worse it looks, the worse Jason's temper gets, until he's liable to throw something at the slightest provocation, which the Games video updates seem eager to supply him with. At least twice this week he's broken a glass, and yesterday smacked a table so hard that he has a ring of bruising around his finger like a wedding band.
With only Nick left in the Arena, Jason and Emily's chances are getting desperate, and the worst blow comes to Jason's ego when he realizes that no amount of fawning and flattery and networking seems to be enough to get Nick more supplies in the Arena. It stings to feel powerlessness, and to make it worse the only person willing to spot Nick a fire-starting kit's funds will only do it on condition that Jason go drinking with him - no sobriety allowed. Jason turns it down, but doesn't leave with his head held high so much as rankled and humiliated, and every ungrateful glance from his Tributes reminds him of how his family used to practically own this damn country and yet here he is, exposing his belly to anyone with money, helpless and inept and so, so frustrated with his life. Dressed in a suit he got from someone else's charity and supporting a home full of ingrates and lonely and with a fury as endless as the sky.
Whatever it is that set Jason off this time, it isn't sated just by smashing a piece of kitchenware. This time he backhands the Avox who rushes in to try and clean up the coffee mug he throws against the floor, sending them into the couch.
III. Swann
For someone who usually agonizes over every half-assi that goes to a necessary cause, Jason doesn't seem to mind spending money on Swann. He complains about it, at times, but it's more to go through the motions of complaining than because it actually bothers him. He buys her coffee when he can and tells her to save her money when they get lunch, getting sulky and defensive when she insists on splitting the tab. Sometimes he buys her a pastry on his way to pick her up for carpooling, although he doesn't let her eat it in the vehicle, and he has yet to ask her to help pay for fuel.
Today he shows up at her place with a large carrier in the back of his car, covered by a blanket, with a towel underneath it to protect the seats. Something inside is making scratching sounds. Jason looks a little frazzled, and shows up a few minutes late from a different route than he usually takes. He presses a button inside the car and the door opens for Swann.
"You coming, Honeymead?"
IV. Daryl and Rick
The rumors spread quickly after the Crowning, and all of them rub Jason the wrong way. A few photographs of him and Beth at the Crowning, him whispering into her ear, have made the rounds on tabloids, some of them even frontpage for the publications hungry enough to fabricate a scandal for readership. Jason's certain that he wouldn't ever touch a Tribute like that, but the fact that people are so eager to believe it of him leaves his pride feeling excoriated.
For his part, Jason doesn't treat Beth any differently, except for being a bit more stiff and cranky with her than he might have been before. But whispers swarm around them like a plague of mosquitoes, making a to-do out of something as simple as him Escorting her to a photoshoot with horses (A PONY FOR A PRICE?, a headline questions; another goes even more outrageous and wonders if Beth will say 'neigh' to marriage). He can only imagine the explanations she's making to the passel of Southerners who seem so eager to protect her.
Right now he's in the District Seven kitchen, glasses parked precariously on the tip of his nose as he writes by hand some math for the District budget. He's taken to putting most of his notes on his phone lately; he used to be able to leave writing around, but that was when most Tributes were entirely illiterate. His suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. A cup of coffee, long-cooled, sits beside him, and he occasionally asks his phone to answer some percentages questions for him.
WHAT| Jason gets a migraine and is helpless; Jason beats an Avox; Jason gives Swann a gift; Rick and Daryl get the shotguns.
WHEN| Week 6
WHERE| D7 Suites; Swann's place
WARNINGS/NOTES| Avox abuse, migraines, general Jason awfulness. If you're going to tag the second prompt, please PP or PM me first so we can figure out where it's going and how far to take it, because Jason won't hesitate to put someone in jail.
I. Open
He knew he was going to have one of his headaches from the beginning of the morning, when every light seemed to have a ring radiating off of it and everything seemed to smell like rainwater. The one upside to the curse of these migraines is that he usually gets a few hours head start on them, with the feeling of deadly premonition, and so he spends most of the day trying to finish up everything as quickly as he can and clock out early. The calls to Sponsors and thank you cards to donors becomes a race against time, one which he sees himself losing too late to actually prevent disaster.
First he can't see, and then he can't move. Even breathing seems to put too much strain on him, and the throbbing, tightening hammering in his head gets worse with every exhale. The inside of his body feels like a live wire, sparking away inside his skull at camera-shutter speed. Nausea roils inside his throat and stomach, furling and unfurling like the tide.
When he opens his eyes the light is too bright, speckled with floating spots and halos, and he feels like the universe itself is trying to cram itself through his eyesockets and that his bones have made the opening too small to fit. So he keeps them shut and rolls over on the District Seven couch until he's facedown in a pillow, sweating slightly, trying not to whimper.
He has no hope of driving himself home, and even the idea of getting up seems a cruel joke. He tries twice, and both times a surge of nausea and a thunderclap of pain force him back down. So he lies there, hoping to whatever powers that be that his Tributes stick to their schedules and don't come bother him.
II. Open (please read note)
What started off as a strong Arena quickly loses those good odds as the District Seven Tributes die in the field and the District Suite gets repopulated. The worse it looks, the worse Jason's temper gets, until he's liable to throw something at the slightest provocation, which the Games video updates seem eager to supply him with. At least twice this week he's broken a glass, and yesterday smacked a table so hard that he has a ring of bruising around his finger like a wedding band.
With only Nick left in the Arena, Jason and Emily's chances are getting desperate, and the worst blow comes to Jason's ego when he realizes that no amount of fawning and flattery and networking seems to be enough to get Nick more supplies in the Arena. It stings to feel powerlessness, and to make it worse the only person willing to spot Nick a fire-starting kit's funds will only do it on condition that Jason go drinking with him - no sobriety allowed. Jason turns it down, but doesn't leave with his head held high so much as rankled and humiliated, and every ungrateful glance from his Tributes reminds him of how his family used to practically own this damn country and yet here he is, exposing his belly to anyone with money, helpless and inept and so, so frustrated with his life. Dressed in a suit he got from someone else's charity and supporting a home full of ingrates and lonely and with a fury as endless as the sky.
Whatever it is that set Jason off this time, it isn't sated just by smashing a piece of kitchenware. This time he backhands the Avox who rushes in to try and clean up the coffee mug he throws against the floor, sending them into the couch.
III. Swann
For someone who usually agonizes over every half-assi that goes to a necessary cause, Jason doesn't seem to mind spending money on Swann. He complains about it, at times, but it's more to go through the motions of complaining than because it actually bothers him. He buys her coffee when he can and tells her to save her money when they get lunch, getting sulky and defensive when she insists on splitting the tab. Sometimes he buys her a pastry on his way to pick her up for carpooling, although he doesn't let her eat it in the vehicle, and he has yet to ask her to help pay for fuel.
Today he shows up at her place with a large carrier in the back of his car, covered by a blanket, with a towel underneath it to protect the seats. Something inside is making scratching sounds. Jason looks a little frazzled, and shows up a few minutes late from a different route than he usually takes. He presses a button inside the car and the door opens for Swann.
"You coming, Honeymead?"
IV. Daryl and Rick
The rumors spread quickly after the Crowning, and all of them rub Jason the wrong way. A few photographs of him and Beth at the Crowning, him whispering into her ear, have made the rounds on tabloids, some of them even frontpage for the publications hungry enough to fabricate a scandal for readership. Jason's certain that he wouldn't ever touch a Tribute like that, but the fact that people are so eager to believe it of him leaves his pride feeling excoriated.
For his part, Jason doesn't treat Beth any differently, except for being a bit more stiff and cranky with her than he might have been before. But whispers swarm around them like a plague of mosquitoes, making a to-do out of something as simple as him Escorting her to a photoshoot with horses (A PONY FOR A PRICE?, a headline questions; another goes even more outrageous and wonders if Beth will say 'neigh' to marriage). He can only imagine the explanations she's making to the passel of Southerners who seem so eager to protect her.
Right now he's in the District Seven kitchen, glasses parked precariously on the tip of his nose as he writes by hand some math for the District budget. He's taken to putting most of his notes on his phone lately; he used to be able to leave writing around, but that was when most Tributes were entirely illiterate. His suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. A cup of coffee, long-cooled, sits beside him, and he occasionally asks his phone to answer some percentages questions for him.
I
Worry is a second skin for her, so she might as well put it to good use.
She heads down a floor, looking around for anyone, but finds the entranceway empty. She slowly walks inside, peering around, almost like she's timid to be somewhere she has every right to be, looking for a colleague.
Heels clicking gently on the wooden floor, she's about to turn around and leave when she just barely spots Jason's hair contrasting against the sofa, and it starts clicking into place for her, what's happening, why he hasn't contacted her. She sighs and turns off the lights in the room before going to him.
"It's all right, Jason," she murmurs, crouching down and gently rubbing his back.
Re: I
He turns his head slightly so he can talk to her and not just breathe into the pillow, eyes still closed, a stamp of pain across his face. It knits an extra twenty years into his brow, makes the muscles of his neck stand out in tension.
"I can't move. I can't see." The second sentence is quieter, as if he realized through the speaking of the first how sensitive he is to even the sound of his own voice. "I can't even open my eyes, Swann."
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III, two tags so gross
When he finally appears (it's been minutes but her worry stretches it longer in her mind), she peers inside the car with a slight frown before getting in and setting her things down at her feet.
"Are you okay? You're late and..." She trails off when she hears the scratches, looking vaguely alarmed as she glances over her shoulder. "What's... what's in there?"
omg who even are you
"Oh, that? I thought you might like it," he says, trying to act casual, as if he wouldn't be tempted to leave it by the side of the road if she didn't, as if it wouldn't wreak havoc on all those insecurities he has about being able to afford to keep a woman. "Take the blanket off."
Inside is a male tiger cub, 'rose-colored', expensive with white fur and lavenderish pink stripes. It's scrabbling at the door to its carrier with little trimmed claws.
a stranger with candy, get in my van
wow this van sure has dark windows
it's just so no one else sees the candy
where are we going lady i've never been in this part of town
don't worry about it, i'm definitely not going to put you in a cage
are you going to use my skin to make a lamp
no i need it for my jacket
the most fashionable jacket
it has eyeball buttons
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II
"If you're mad about your District's performance, don't take it out on the nearest person you find," the former guard snapped as he helped the Avox pick themselves up and with the cup. So this was the infamous Jason Compson IV...seeing him in action really did more justice than any of Emily's kind words or watching other Tributes experience that hell in a cheap suit. "It's not their fault you supplied the means to your Tributes' end."
Bitter about his own death? Maybe, but at least now Phil had someone to pin the gun on.
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"Really? You're holding a gun against me? Maybe you want me to have sent in a machete, so Nick could have hacked you up nice and proper." His face is flushed, and it makes his lips look white in comparison, makes the cruel smirk he gives Phil all the more ghoulish. It's an expression without humor, without warmth, all callousness.
"What are you even doing in here?"
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I
The time of his visits varied and he never lingered long.
He didn't even fight how the candle kept disappearing, despite how it grated between his teeth. He simply came prepared, a spare at the ready to replace it. Crouching near the door jam, he pushed the glass against the wall - as out of the way as he could make it - and carefully struck a small match to light it.
They'd already taken everything else, he'd be damned if they'd take their faith as well.
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"Could you not slam things?" It may not be actual slamming, but the same way that a kitchen light seems like peering at the sun from up close, in this state every sense seems turned up to an incapacitating volume. Jason moans and grimaces into the pillow, not getting up from where he's facedown. "Don't I have all of you scheduled for something?"
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II
Stephen is standing in the doorway, staring at the scene he'd just accidentally witnessed. He knows he's just walked in on something he wasn't meant to see, but the feeling of awkwardness is overpowered by a strong sense of disgust. He can't walk away and pretend he didn't see it.
"Jason, what the fuck."
[cw: jason being awful]
"If I have to deal with one more Sponsor canceling on me, or one more of my Tributes defying direct orders not to kill each other, or one more of Stig's godawful mongoloid ideas for what his brain damage tells him is a color scheme, or one more fruitless Sponsor meeting at a restaurant that costs a whole paycheck, I'm going to burn this entire Center down with everyone in it."
He's surprised to see Stephen there, but he launches himself into that rant as if desperate to get someone to agree with him about the unfairness of it all, the injustice, as if the rage is a birthday cake that he's serving out at his pity party, completely missing the point of hitting the Avox because it doesn't even occur to him that someone of Stephen's stature would care about that sort of thing. A second later it clicks that Stephen's probably just upset by the destruction of Training Center property.
"I don't mean that. I'll replace the mug."
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II
One such person is Nill, of District 9. She's already saved him from snapping badly very recently, and he owes her a quieter, gentler thanks now that all the excitement has died down. He takes the stairs to give himself a chance to rehearse some of what he wants to say, but when he's approaching 7's floor, he hears a series of sounds that seem consistent with the noise that's been coming from upstairs for the last week, with a slightly more alarming edge. Maybe it's because Linden's closer, and maybe it's because it sounds like a person was involved, but he's striding toward the suite's door and letting himself in, newly sharp gaze taking in the... frankly deplorable scene in front of him. The Avox has taken the blow to the mouth, mashing her lip on her teeth and drawing blood, and she stares up from her place on the couch as she hastily tries to regain the silent composure she's supposed to affect at all times, regardless of circumstances or abuse.
"Hey, what the fuck?" he demands snappishly, turning toward the source of the violence and fully expecting to see an unruly Tribute from another world who took things too far. "You don't hit the..."
...oh.
The corner of Linden's mouth twitches. It's not the beginning of a smile, but more of a tic, acknowledgment with scarcely-contained contempt glittering behind his dark, bruised-looking eyes. Even during his Tribute days, he heard whispers that this guy was the Escort you didn't want. While he did his job well, all things considered, he had a reputation as a nasty piece of work. In the following years as a Mentor, Linden's come to see that proven definitively, and the bad blood was only amplified by the fact that District 10's boy had come in third in the 63rd Games, stabbed by Scorpii while Linden held him. Jason had held a petty grudge over it long after Linden's Victory Tour; rumors indicated something about a vacation supporting his Tribute that late into the Games had prevented him from taking.
"I hadn't heard you were reassigned to 7," Linden says stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. He does't strike a formidable figure; though he's of average height, years of drug abuse and their substitution for actual nutrition seem to have stunted the growth of his bones and musculature, both of which have changed little since he was a rangy teenager. Derisively, he adds "...you should know better. What with your good breeding, and all."
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He doesn't even remember what the District Ten male's name was, nor how he tried to market him. When he thinks of Linden, he remembers a District budget in the red and losing money on illicit gambling on his own Tribute, and then having to cancel going out to District Eleven after the Crowning because of how the funds weren't there. Instead, he'd spent it the same way he always did, wrangling his brother and niece and mother, listening to them bitch and scream and whine as if they were being paid handsomely for it.
After long enough, it sort of blurs into a long line of frustration, split only by the steady and mindless divisions of years, months and days.
Jason doesn't back away from the scared Avox, nor make any motion to clean up the coffee cup. He just knocked it over this time and didn't like the Avox reminding him of his own clumsiness by intervening. That's what set it all off. The coffee pools into a place on the floor where the floor's uneven, and Jason rolls his eyes at that, that the Tribute Center was so quickly renovated for the Neverending Quell that they couldn't even get the hardwood flat.
"I don't see what my family name has to do with how I treat the furniture." Nor does he see why this gangly slip of a man who looks like he hasn't even bothered to try fitting in with the Capitol's demanding standards of presentation thinks he has any right to even speak to him. He knows Linden's a Victor, one of the addicts, if Jason recalls, and it makes his lip curl.
"I hadn't heard you'd been released from rehab. That's where you were last, wasn't it? If not it should have been."
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II.
He gives Jason a few feet of distance as he approaches, his expression the kind of neutral that implies disapproval he's not bothering to make overt. See if that outburst is over. He stops just short of the spreading puddle of coffee, keeping it off his shoes.
The Avox hardly knows what to do with itself. It's still on the floor with its back to the couch, staring at a smear of blood on its hand with dumb terror. "Get up," Cyrus tells it, without turning to look; he's looking at Jason, with an annoyed set to his mouth.
"You should consider punching a pillow next time," he says. "Still Tower property, but less expensive to replace."
If it were anyone else, he might not have stopped, might not have said anything; there's nothing wrong with striking Avoxes. It's not an atrocity so much as a distinct show of a lack of class - and Cyrus knows Jason's better-bred than that.
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He feels like his insides are a crumpled up wad of paper, and then Cyrus comes in and strikes a match and sets them alight. To already feel hapless and stuck and then to have one of the Reagan brats come in, to so suddenly flash back to when they were children, to Cyrus, petulant and rigid, insisting on being respected despite his cracking voice and pocked face.
"Yeah? You want me to replace it, maybe you can introduce some legislation so your brother and I can get paid a decent goddamn wage. Nine Tributes, Reagan, and we're still at the same salary that we had when I was working for Ten."
The Avox gets up, and Jason raises his eyebrows and lurches towards it for a second, sending it skittering away from him, and then he folds his arms. He knows what Cyrus is saying, and yet he'll play stupid about it if it'll goad Cyrus into actually saying it out loud, letting Jason escalate it into a full fight.
"Besides, this whole Tower property should be replaced. It's awful. Plaid."
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I
She shuts herself in the Mentor's suite and makes phone calls, going through the list of business cards to get sponsors for Nick, feeling that she's at the point where she'd accept almost any condition to get aid for the last remaining District Seven Tribute. She periodically pokes her head out the door to check on Jason, and after a while she sends an Avox for a cold glass of water and some analgesia.
"Here, take these. You feeling any better?"
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"I wouldn't be lying here if I were." Maybe he'll thank her tomorrow for her efforts to keep the Tributes at bay, or maybe he'll just pretend that none of this ever happened, that the exhaustion that always sets in after one of these episodes is typical overworked sleeplessness and not the aftershocks. That he was at no point so helpless, so embarrassingly helpless.
He doesn't take the pills, but he does turn his head slightly to talk to her, eyes screwed shut still. "What are they?"
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I, I'm so sorry
That wasn't even remotely friendly but then again, Leo didn't particularly care for Capitolites who thought the ground they walked on was sacred. It was hilarious to see the proud, proud man so broken and...was that whimpering? Oh that's committed to memory.
Of course Leonidas knew of the Compson family, who didn't in District 2? Such a rising star of a family, what prominence, and now they're in shambles with a hypochondriac matriarch and a mess of children that would guarantee the rest of Panem with lurid stories for generations to come. It was commonplace that some of the workers home liked to talk about what escapades they'd come up to.
But one can't say the Cora heir was a cruel man as he offered Compson a mug of tea and some painkillers.
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He groans and turns his face sideways, eyes opened to slits and half-focused on the mug of tea and the bottle of painkillers, neck stiff.
"What are those?"
He doesn't know Leonidas well enough to trust he won't be poisoned; it's no secret that District Two, a former career District, was well-known for subterfuge and sabotage in their heyday. The District spat out the likes of Billy Bickle, after all, and even though Leonidas could probably just smack Jason upside the head if he wanted to ruin him at the moment, he still eyes the pills skeptically.
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[cw: suicidality]
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I
Now, generally speaking, he avoided Jason like the plague when he could manage it, but something about the way his brow was furrowed in pain called to Dorian with a sweet, tempting song.
"Ah, Jason, just the man I wanted to see," he said, much louder than was necessary, as he came over. Well. Stomped over might be more appropriate.
Re: I
"What do you want?" He's aware that Dorian probably doesn't want anything except to make Jason squirm, but he doesn't give up the hope just yet.
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ii
Because of all that she's not expecting to see much of anything in the norm when she gets off the elevator. Needless to say, she never expected to go to any floor and see someone hit ones of the Avoxes. She makes her way over good and fast, immediately putting her herself between Jason and the Avox. Behind her her wings are spread out to their full length, and she holds up her hands, palms out, but it's an entirely different demeanor than the one she usually has when in the process of breaking up arguments. Typically it's concerned and careful - right now it's much closer to anger. The gesture is not meant to placate him, it is meant to tell him to cut it out right the hell now.
Re: ii
Jason is an average-sized person, and yet he tries to tower over Nill, nose slightly flared like a caricature of a bull. Blotches of red travel up his neck like the spots on a koi, hot with flush.
"Back down, Tribute." He raises his hand to smack the Avox again, and Nill instead if she gets in the way.
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II
His time in the arena may have only been just over a week, but he hadn't expected to wake up at all, let alone to also learn that he has to participate in this game over and over again. Isn't death supposed to be permanent?
Vivi was told that he had a room assigned to him in the suites, so he figures he could have some time alone to think there. The elevator isn't too foreign, but it's so sleek and shiny compared to the moving platforms he has seen back home. Right as the doors open, he jumps at what sounds like a mug shattering, following the noise to its source. He rounds the corner of the suite to catch the sight of a man striking another - a servant it looks like, from what he has seen while wandering about.
"W-What are you doing?!"
It's none of his business and he knows it, but the sight is enough for him to conclude that it's straight up wrong. Standing barely at 3'9, he does not remotely appear intimidating but the bright glow of his eyes speaks more loudly than his actual voice.
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Still fuming, body made all the clumsier for it, he turns towards Vivi, realizing with a start that the guy's actually tiny and looks all the more like some kind of stuffed toy in person than on television.
"Vivi." Jason rifles through the records in his head, tries to remember if he managed to send anything to Vivi in his first week of the Arena. He's drawing a blank.
With a sarcastic bow to his back, he gestures at the District Suite living room, bleeding Avox, shattered mug, plaid couches and all. His voice is sharp, like he's biting down on the edge of each word. "Welcome to the Capitol. Hope you didn't have plans, because now that you're back you're mine for the day. Grab yourself some coffee and breakfast, because you'll be on your feet until evening."
Jason will need to make a few calls, but then it's fitting, interviews, focus groups, exercise routines, administrative work, a physical - the basics for a new Tribute.
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I hope this is ok!
yep! it's good! sorry mine's short
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IV
Realistically, this wasn't one of his better calls; under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have pursued it. The presence of the peacekeepers left them significantly declawed and, truth be told, Rick couldn't say that Jason was an entirely negative force in Beth's life. He'd been sending her a steady flow of supplies throughout the arena and loathe as he was to admit it, the sponsor support would only benefit her in the long run. The minute they took up arms against him, that support could very well vanish and land the pair of them behind bars... or worse.
Unfortunately for all of them, Rick wasn't of the soundest judgement in that moment. The wounds left by the previous arena hadn't healed over, having cut far deeper than he'd cared to admit. Avoidance of the issues would only carry him so far, and try as he might to clamp down and carry on, it was an inherently flawed process. The lingering feelings of ineffectuality gnawed at the back of his mind, the memory of the knife and Daryl's laboured breathing still to fresh. He hadn't been able to watch the replays of what Beth had been forced to do, nor could he completely dispel the fragmented images left from his brief period as a walker. Even on familiar terrain, it had all fallen apart; Rick hadn't managed to protect either of them.
There hadn't been a conversation - Rick didn't want to have one. Instead, it had been boiled down to a shared glance, followed by a slight nod in Jason's direction as he altered his course. It left little room for argument, not that he'd expected one.
He was hardly dressed for first impressions. Since his return, he hadn't bothered trying to conform, leaving his beard untamed and his hair slicked back out of utility rather than style. He was long past caring about his appearance, and he didn't expect Jason to be all that surprised - After all, there was little doubt that he didn't already know who they were. The notes tacked onto Beth's supplies had left little room for that.
Rick was sure to keep the table positioned strategically between them as he approached, standing just across from him; it was a solid barrier, there more for the other man's safety than his own. The tension he felt was absent from his frame, his stance loose and his expression neutral as he sized him up; it was in moments like this that he most keenly felt the absence of his sidearm, fingers closing on air in the space it should have occupied.
"It's Jason, right?"
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These frivolous matters had been far from his mind when he and Rick had touched base with Beth, but that shared glance afterward and Rick's obvious intentions brought them to the forefront of Daryl's scattered thoughts. It was undeniably poor timing for a confrontation, the decision surprising enough to put him even more on edge, and all he really wanted to do in that moment was to take Rick by the arm and steer him right the hell away from Jason and out of the Tribute Center altogether.
But it was too late for that. If Rick was determined to see this through, there would be no deterring him. Despite Daryl's misgivings, loyalty dictated his actions. He had Rick's back, falling into step with him and pacing into the kitchen behind him like it was a well-choreographed routine.
In contrast with his companion's appearance, Daryl had already gotten trapped and somewhat worked over by District 9's management team. Oceana's hand was most apparent in the absence of his usual flannel and ripped jeans. Rather than looking fresh from the backwoods, there had been a recent attempt made to style his hair and he sported the remnants of a suit — slacks and a dress shirt, with the tie and jacket lying discarded somewhere back in Rick's suite.
He drifted a little further into the kitchen without a word, hands hooked casually in his pants pockets, instinctively mapping out the layout of the room and mentally cataloguing potential weapons, in case. Always in case. And then all eyes were on Jason.
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i
It's creepy. She doesn't go out into the city unless she really has to, which is exactly why she's currently playing hooky and entertaining herself by walking Charlie around the district 7 suite instead. Being unable to stop him as he leaps up to the couch where a prone escort is currently lying. Licking his face with happy noises before Beth manages to pull him away.
"Sorry about that, I guess he was sorta lonely while we were all gone. Are you...alright?" was he asleep? Jason doesn't exactly seem like the type to fall asleep in the middle of a suite of tributes who sort of hate him.
Re: i
Hell. At least it's Beth and not Dorian. He can't even find it in him to scold her for breaking her schedule, nor even remember what her schedule was. It's lost to the maelstrom.
"Christ. Do I look alright?"
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