thecapitol | (no subject)

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Who| Emily and YOU
What| A day in the life of a Mentor
Where| Around the Training Centre
When| Sometime after Cyrus' post
Warnings/Notes| No warnings inherent. Prose or brackets both welcome!

a) District Seven suites
The Arena's not even started yet, but Emily's doing all she can to promote her Tributes. This morning she's occupying the table in the common area of District Seven's floor of the Training Centre, pictures of her Tributes in front of her, holding up different colour swatches next to the faces in the photographs, her brow furled and her lips pursed into a tight frown as she tries to figure out what colours suit them best. Between her memories of how Stig had dressed her for her own opening ceremonies and Jason's reminiscence of him dressing the Tributes as marijuana leaves one year, she's decided to go over his head and figure out a little about the costuming for herself. It's not going well. After a while she just sits there with her elbow on the table and head propped up in her hands, eating her way through a large bowl of brightly coloured boiled sweets that an Avox has brought out for her (one of the many things she wished she could have had in the Districts as a child and was making up for now), looking thoroughly defeated. Later, she's moving sponsor logos around the pictures instead, figuring out who'd be the best pick to represent different brands she might be able to get a deal with.

b) Training Area
She goes from station to station, offering advice freely to her own Tributes - especially on trapping, hunting, identifying herbs and poisons: things that were second nature to her growing up in the forests of Seven. When she sees a Tribute belonging to another District struggling with the same activities she tries to guide them as best she can without giving away that she's doing so: Cyrus' announcement had scared her enough to make her stop openly helping, but she can't help herself. She feels like she owes it to the other Districts to give everyone as fair a chance at winning as possible, to give back the best chance of another person that she'd so brutally and underhandedly taken away.

c) Still in the Training Area
There's a loud clatter of steel, a yell from one of the Tributes training, and the loud noise makes her visibly jolt. Her eyes turn wild and distant, and she gazes about as though she's not actually seeing the room around her at all. For a moment she's not a Mentor at all, just a frightened girl back in the Arena, and she knows deep down that she'll never escape from there even though everyone tells her she's won.

d) The rooftop
Posted under the door to the floors of all the districts is a note with four words written on it: Come to the roof. Anyone who does so will find Emily sat cross legged at the edge of a blanket laden with food, beckoning them to come and sit with her, to take some time out and just enjoy the picnic.

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"Ah. You say that now, but I wonder whether you would change your tune after a few centuries in a cave." His tone is rather gentle, though, and he smiles as he casts on a few more stitches. "One can say a great deal for solitude and rest cures, if one wishes, but there's no denying that the damp crawled its way right into my joints. Ah, well. It can't be helped, I suppose." Taking both knitting needles in one bony, age-spotted hand, he proffers the other to her to shake. "I've had a few names in my time, but these days I mostly go by Merlyn. I'm led to understand that, by whatever arcane ritual they placed us (for all my magics and all my wisdom quail in the face of doddering bureaucracy), I have been attached to District Two. Whatever that means."

He shakes his head, reaching for a pastry. "Well, in any case, pleasure to meet you, Emily. And I must say, delightful to come across some staff with a modicum of professional courtesy."

"A little time away in a cave sounds pretty good, actually," she admits. There wasn't much she wouldn't do to get back to the relative solitude of the forests of Seven rather than being stuck in the busy, artificial, facile Capitol. She hesitates at his remark, looking at him apologetically. "Don't tell me you've met Jason Compson."

"Oh, quite pleasant for the mind, but hell on the joints. Is that tea? May I?" Reaching for the pot, Merlyn pours himself a cup, tsking quietly under his breath. One could, he considers, grow to quite miss silverware that pours itself and takes care of these matters for one. Even if his sugar-bowl at home is inclined to give itself airs.

He doesn't hurry, stirring the tea thoughtfully and raising it to his lips before answering. "I don't believe I have, in point of fact. Is he as boorish and pig-headed as that Cyrus fellow?"

"I haven't met Cyrus Reagan personally, but..." She's a little nervous to say anything too negative about one of Snow's cabinet ministers when she knows that the Capitol's eyes and ears are everywhere, but she nods briskly in response to his question. "Jason's my co-worker in District Seven. He's not the most popular amongst the Tributes."

"Ah, I see." Merlyn takes a long sip of his tea, and the cup combines with his beard to thoroughly disguise what might be a smile. "I'll take that as due warning that he isn't a man interested in a philosophical debate, then. Not," he adds with a deep sigh, "that many people here seem to be. It's very tiresome, but I suppose it can only be expected in such a drattedly self-conscious regime. You know, it's rarely a sign of anything good when those in power aren't prepared to justify their decisions."

"In some cases, it's less that people aren't interested and more that they know the authorities have eyes and ears everywhere." She glances around instinctively now to look for hidden cameras or bugs, unsure if saying even this much is dangerous. "Even abstract philosophy that disagrees with the official viewpoint sometimes isn't worth the risk."

"Oh, I thoroughly understand. But it's drattedly inconvenient." Merlyn shook his head, putting his tea to one side and picking his knitting back up. "I mean, what is a man to do with his time, when there's no books worth the paper they're printed on and no-one willing to engage in a civilised debate? I shall go quite mad," he added, in a very comfortable tone, as his needles started to click-clack again. "Besides, what's life without a little risk?"

"There's a lady called China, the Escort for District Eleven, who runs a library." She brightens up as she mentions it, glad that she can actually suggest something useful here. "There must be something there worth reading, instead of the Capitol tabloids." She had to read far too many of those herself to keep tabs on how her Tributes were portrayed by the media, and every time she picked one up she felt her IQ dwindle.

"Marvellous. China, you say?" He smiles, as much at her own change in mood as at the information. "Whatever she might have, it can't be worse than the drivel I've found so far. Thank you very much for the tip, Emily." He's quiet for a moment, thinking, before he goes on: "Eleven would be farming, correct? And seven is... woodcutters?"

"That's right." She looks impressed that he's done his research. "We provide all of the lumber products that are used in both the Capitol and the Districts." And even though the position was in some ways outright slavery, she can't stop a hint of pride from escaping into her tone at the thought of the craftsmanship of her family and her District.

"A very necessary service." Merlyn nods, sipping his tea. He has nothing but respect for woodsmen. Well, all right, maybe a few things that aren't respect, but even if they aren't the most educated of people, at least they're producing something of value. And isn't that the backbone of civilisation? "Although, I have to say," he adds, "I don't understand why on earth anyone would arrange their supply chain in such an irrational way. It's not as if wood can only be grown in one place. Still less farming... my goodness, there must be acres upon acres of arable land going to waste!"

"There are hundreds of miles between districts," Emily agrees. "I know they do it this way to keep us under control, but it certainly isn't the most efficient way." She thinks it would have been nice to have people farming and manufacturing goods in Seven as well as producing lumber, she'd have enjoyed the diversity and would have loved to learn the different skills herself, but President Snow would never allow the Districts to be so self sufficient.

"Ridiculous. Quite ridiculous." Clicking his tongue disapprovingly, the old wizard looks down at his knitting with a frown. "One would have thought that by the time Man reached this level of technology, he might have let go of his pettier nature. Then again, Man's progress through political ideology has never failed to disappoint."

Emily shrugs, not wanting to disagree as he seems so knowledgeable about this, but also scared of going against the official line of Capitol thinking. "I can't imagine anything different. And it's been this way for this long, anyway."

"Ah, the strength of inertia." Merlyn sighs, shaking his head. "There's no accounting for taste, I suppose. Speaking of taste, this is really rather good tea. Which District is that grown in? Eleven, or elsewhere?" He recognises her discomfort, and, for the moment, determines that he'll back off. A little, at least. It doesn't seem likely he'll get much meaningful political debate out of her, and she doesn't seem like she has a great deal of say in the matter, either.

"Yes, Eleven." She looks gratefully at him for changing to a safer topic of conversation. "The climate there's ideal for it. I heard once that the land down there was used for farming cotton and tobacco hundreds of years ago. It's nice in a way that something's continued for this long."

"Hm." Merlyn sips his tea, nodding. "Hm, yes. I must say, that's something that's always appealed to me about nature. Once it settles into a place, it can go on and on for a very long time indeed. Until it is shifted." He sighs, rather nostalgically. "I remember... oh, goodness. Centuries of the same plants, around the Welsh marches. That was before the introduction of things like potatoes, of course. But still. Plants do have a way of continuing on." He puts his cup down, goes back to knitting, and looks around at the rooftop garden thoughtfully. "I've always thought it must be a very peaceful life, to be a plant. Just sitting there, photosynthesising and ruminating on one's existence. Perhaps, when I get back, I shall try it for a while."

She's only half listening for a moment, daydreaming about plants and fields and all the natural things away from the Capitol, thinking how wonderful it would be if she could settle down somewhere like that. Then his precise wording hits her and she looks at him rather oddly.

"You'll try ... being a plant?" She repeats it a little dryly, unsure if he's meaning it as a joke or whether he actually is a little senile.

"Oh, yes. I can't say I've ever tried it before, but it can't be that much more difficult than being a fish or a bird, can it?" He reaches for a pastry, taking a bite. "Oh, this is rather good. Almond? Splendid."

"I ... wouldn't know." She laughs sadly, nostalgically. "Although when I was a little kid I'd dream about being a bird all the time."

"It isn't so good as it sounds," Merlyn assures her, reaching over to pat her knee. "Most birds are, shall we say, somewhat jealous of their place in the world. Then, of course, we have the owls, but if you are not in Athena's good regards, they will naturally scorn you. The chaffinch and the wren are, by and large, peaceful, but the rook and the magpie can be positively vicious. If I still had my magic, as I should, I would offer to show you that lesson. Alas."

Emily smiles wistfully. "If I had magic I'd have turned myself into a bird long ago." She looks up at the sky, wondering how far it goes, how far she'd have to fly to be out of reach of the Capitol. "My last name's Finch, so hopefully I'd be one of those little peaceful birds." She's sure even that's too much to hope for, there's too much blood on her hands for that.

"It grows wearying. The constant jabber, and the nerviness, always on the lookout for a snake or a raptor..." The old man half-smiles, following her gaze up to the sky. "But flight is a marvellous thing. True flight all the more so. The trouble is, one finds that no matter how high you fly, there will always be something bigger and stronger that wants to fly higher." From the look he gives her at that, he's clearly guessed at some of what she's thinking. "As I told a pupil of mine once, many years ago - or is it in the future now? No, it must be the past from here, I suppose. Anyway, as I told him, we all want to fly away from our problems. But it turns out, you fly into new ones just as often."

"I guess you would," Emily agrees sadly. "But I'd still take being able to feel free of problems even for a little while, even if I flew into worse ones, than knowing I was stuck with them forever."

Merlyn hesitates a fraction of a second, then reaches over to clasp her hand between his. His skin, papery and age-spotted, is warm from the tea; his eyes, when he catches hers, are filled with nothing but concern. "My dear girl," he says gently, "take it from one who's lived through many, many horrors. None of them are forever. In the end, with courage and conviction, the light of humanity always finds a way to shine through."

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