thecapitol | (no subject)

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Who| Roland and Venus, Roland and you?
What| Roland delivers a message, then wanders around
Where| District 5 common room and the city in general
When| soon after the d13 post, although feel free to make a prompt at any point between that and the arena if later works better
Warnings/Notes| none yet

[closed to Venus]

It is easier to find a tribute's assigned district when you are comfortable asking around. Roland isn't. He has not spoken with Venus since arriving in this hideous gift of a place, for no reason other than that they have not spoken. There's never been a need. Perhaps he should have found one - she's certainly lasted longer than any of the other friends he might have found here. Longer, too, than a couple of the friends he did find.

Regardless, the two of them aren't known to speak. It means him seeking her out now might be seen for the oddity it is, so it's best no more people know about this than those who are going to see it. So it takes some time and some observation, but he does figure out where to look.

The main room of this floor is arranged identically to the other floors he's seen, barring the small, personal touches people don't even realize they're leaving when they spend enough time in a place. He pays very little attention to any of it. He only looks around, peering down the little hallway that, if the identical layout continues, leads to the block of tribute rooms. He isn't going to go down it, but if no one appears in a few minutes he is going to start searching through the kitchen for anything that could be used to make himself some tea.

He picks up a bag, interested. Opens it, and sniffs. Makes a face. Best leave that one be, probably.

[open]

Of course, that conversation leads him to thoughts of Susannah. Whether his message will get to her, wherever she is in district 13. Wherever she might be in district 13, because he knows as well as anyone here that there can be no guarantees. He tilts his head back to study the tops of the tall, beautiful buildings littering this place, and thinks of his first clear, safe memory of her. Remembers kneeling on the plush carpeting that covers a good deal of the tribute's tower. Remembers Susannah's arms tight around him, her voice warm and low in his ear.

He passes some distance in this way, only paying so much attention to the crowds as deeply ingrained training demands. Which means he will react to quick movement, grab the wrists of pickpockets and instinctively move to catch anything that might be thrown at or falling near him, but he will not quite realize where he is going, or pay attention to anyone's face.

Panem being itself, of course, there is only so long he will go without being jarred to wakefulness. This time, it's by a scream. It came from the building next to him, which he realizes is shaking with with a low, deep thumping that he supposes is probably music. The same voice screams again, and he pauses with the two metal fingers of his right hand hooked around the building's doorframe. There's a tone to that voice he hadn't picked up the first time - ecstasy, rather than pain. Nothing he hasn't heard before, walking the Capitol's streets. Clear as it is that nothing unusual is going on in there, he still hesitates, because going in there to check would at least give him something to think about for a few minutes.

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Beck's actually coming out of that building when she sees him. It's not one of her old haunts, but it is somewhere she knows people, and she's been working like hell for the last few days, so she figures she's earned a break. She's leaving, heading back for the Tribute Center and the pile of work she still has to do, when she sees Roland.

It's hard not to. Even by the standards of Tributes, he's pretty difficult to miss. There's the height, and the fingers, but there's mostly the face, which sticks out like a sore thumb in among the perfect, surgically-flawless Capitolites. In a way, she kind of likes that. Approves of it, even. It's never a bad thing to stand out in a crowd.

"Hey." She stops in the doorway, cocking her hip and looking up at him. "Deschain, right? You're up in the suite on and off with the Signless?"

Edited 2015-05-21 23:52 (UTC)

Ah. The approval of a stylist. Too bad Roland doesn't know he's got it, his expression at the notion might be something to witness. As it is he only eyes her, his look sharp for half a second as he tries to tell as much about who she is and what she wants from him as he can with a single glance. But then he remembers - as a citizen, all this Capitolite has to do is decide to make it look like Roland's hurt her, and he would be at the mercy of the peacekeepers.

He drops his hand from the doorway, takes a step back. "Aye. May've seen you up there somewhere." There's a pause and then, figuring he may as well, Roland twitches his head toward the building she's just come from. "Everything alright in there?"

"Huh?" She looks back over her shoulder, then laughs. "Oh, right. Yeah, it's all good. Eudie's act gets a bit loud sometimes. Girl's a screamer." She says it with the sage attitude of someone who's seen the act in question multiple times. "You could always drop in and take a look. Matinees aren't her best, but you never know, it might actually make you crack a smile."

Laughing, she tosses her hair back and steps out of the doorway to let a short man with bright violet sideburns pass. She's still watching Roland, though, as shrewd and suspicious in her own way as he is. "Might not be your scene, though. Lots of crowd-chasers in there. Didn't expect to see a Tribute down this end of town?" It's a question that's not a question. Whether he answers it or not, well, that's up to him.

"Suppose not," he says, glancing around and taking in the part of the Capitol he's wandered into. And will he elaborate? Tell some vague, safe version of his troubles in answer to a question not even directly asked?

Ha.

At some other point in Roland's life he might end the conversation here, and he's tempted to. But long imprisonment does things to a man, even imprisonment that looks at first glance like freedom. Things like leave someone so in search of distraction that they'll make smalltalk with fools, and do it willingly. "Anywhere I'd be less an oddity? Could use a place to pass the time for a while."

Beck considers for a moment. They're a fair way out from the fashionable parts of town here, and Roland's already getting plenty of curious looks. Of course he is. He's a Tribute, and the locals of this area usually aren't front-row for meeting Tributes. Still, it's not exactly great for someone who wants to keep his head down. She smiles at him almost apologetically, shrugging, and turns her mind to the problem in hand. It's been a few years since she lived here full-time, but she knows the area well enough.

"There's a cafe just up the street, if that'd do. Or there's a drug joint round the corner, morphling and stuff. Not a nice place, but everyone there'd be too stoned to know you from the President. If you head back towards the Center, five minutes or so up that way-" and she points down the street "-there's a shopping centre, very crowded, you can lose yourself there no problem. I mean, my old house is just round the corner, you can always kill time there for a bit if you want."

"And if I did 'kill time' at your old house? What would I find there that I wouldn't in yon tower they keep us in?" He tilts his head in the direction of the tribute center, watching her curiously. Roland has never heard the phrase 'stranger danger'. If he had, he would probably decide it doesn't apply to him.

Beck looks around the street for a moment, rather furtively, then shrugs. "Well. No cameras, for a start. And fewer people." Another shrug, for good measure. "It was just an idea."

Probably a bad one, at that. But it wasn't as if she was using the place. The only people who ever spent much time there, any more, were the Avoxes responsible for keeping it clean. She kept some of her things back there, but that was all. If he was looking for somewhere to get his head in order, privately, he couldn't do much better.

She doesn't seem sure, and that gets a look from Roland, not quite impatience. "If it's an idea you meant, lead the way and I'll take you up on it. But if you've other places to be..." He backs out of the way of someone else passing by and twirls his two metal fingers at her. Offer it or don't, but even bored and nearly-restless as Roland usually is in this place, he only has so much patience.

His confirmation is all she needs. His manners aren't the best, but hey, she's met worse. Anyway, so far as she knows, he isn't under suspicion or anything, so the worst rumours she's likely to set off by bringing him home are that they're fucking. A rumour she doesn't hugely mind, even with the rules about fraternisation, because nobody who knows her at all would believe it.

Her mind made up, she turns on her heel and beckons him with her, starting down the street. "Haven't lived here for a while," she supplies for him over her shoulder. "Might be in a bit of a state, is what I'm saying. That's what happens when you move up in the world. You leave shit behind." And she turns down a little alleyway lit as much by neon as sunlight, looking behind her to make sure he's following.

He is. At a safe distance, but following. Staying within arm's reach of a stranger in an alley is not in Roland's plans for the day, well lit or not. "Mhm. Up to the very top of that tower. What other shit did you leave behind to get up there?"

'Personal question' is, for the record, just as absent from Roland's vocabulary as we have established 'stranger danger' to be. Besides, now he is going to spend some time with her, it's never too early to try and get to know one of the people sharing a floor with the Signless. She knows where he sleeps. On the off chance she answers honestly, whatever she says is going to be worth knowing.

Beck's rather glad he can't see her face as she considers that question. Glad he can't see the moment the mask slips, because sometimes, when she's back down here, she wonders if it was worth leaving. But she quickly gets herself back under control, shrugging easily and gesturing at their surroundings. "This," she says, frankly. She's not keeping any secrets here - not because she isn't willing to lie, but because there's no need to. She's not protecting anyone. "Friends. Lovers. Places I know. My job. My clients. Hell, half my name stayed down here."

Sometimes, she misses being a Mattock. She'd rather be a traitor's daughter, in a lot of ways, than in any way associated with her bitch of a mother.

Shaking the thought off, she leads him down a little flight of stairs, out of the mouth of the alley, and up to a tall, narrow house. And it is a house, not an apartment or a condo or a mansion. Just a house with lots of windows, joined at either side to the houses next to it, standing like a wall in front of a row of narrow, neat yards. There's a thumbpad at the gate, which she presses her hand to, and smiles as she ushers Roland in. "Home sweet home."

There's no hiding the way Roland looks around, studying every part of the place as they walk up to it. It's more lavish than anything even back in Gilead would have been, but the house is one of the least obnoxiously rich buildings he's seen in this city thus far. Not saying much, but saying something.

He notes, too, that thumpad and that gate. He notes it closing behind him. "Don't take your meaning," he says, having observed her smile and seen no reason to return it. His eyes are moving over the structure of the place, noting any hallways, windows, exits. He takes a couple steps further, and another look around before focusing again on her. "Half your name?"

Maybe it isn't a surprise that he doesn't, given he doesn't even know the half of her name that did make it onto the twelfth floor with her. Somehow someone's name never seems an important question to ask.

Firo's been trying to spend more and more time out of the Tribute quarters. While he's always grateful for those times when he has four walls and a ceiling around him, those elements are starting to feel oppressive in this place.

He's walking back from the other direction when he spots Roland. Being a busybody in the purest sense of the word--and because, hey, he knows the guy--he stops by to peek at him while he peeks into the building.

"Somethin' interesting goin' on in there?"

He frowns as he looks around, wanting to wince at the throbbing sound of the music. "...Just seems like a racket to me."

And not in the fun, criminal sense of the word.

Beck's looking around, too, although less with an eye to exits (there are plenty, if you know where to look) and more with the assessing expression of someone looking to see what's changed. She notes a few things Roland, not knowing the area, wouldn't; change of tinted glass in the building next door means another new resident there, three cars outside the house two along means they're struggling - must be, they're sub-letting. Little things. Little touches of home.

Shaking her head, she skirts past Roland to ring the doorbell. "I was Beck Mattock when I worked down here," she explains, while she waits for the door to open. "Didn't seem like a good idea to keep that on when I headed up to the Tribute Center. They're not big fans of Districters up there." Let alone traitor Districters. "Scordato's my mother's name. Better for a Stylist. But not mine."

He grunts, eying the building. "Nothing I want to know about, I expect. Ought to know better than want a look at every odd noise I hear in this city." Roland frowns a moment more, obviously thinking about doing it anyway, before looking back at the other tribute's familiar face.

"Care to come along? Unless you've some other way I could pass the time, instead." The words themselves could maybe be taken sarcastically, but Roland's expression is honestly curious, his tone likewise. He isn't too fussed about what exactly he does next, so long as it keeps introspection at a minimum. Had enough of that for one day.

Now, if he were back home - back in the empty stretches of yellowed dust and one other face every few weeks, if that - heading inside a stranger's house could lead to any number of things. In Panem? Well. Circumstances are very different, in a setting where they both have lives to be getting on with. A part of him knows that, and knows too how disappointing it's going to be to have that knowledge confirmed. Old habits, though, and as she waits in front of the door those old habits keep him ready to act.

"You'd keep your father's," he says, eyes moving over the windows set near the door. "Why take the risk telling me that? Sounds like I could make a bit of trouble for you, telling that to the right people."

"I wasn't born yesterday, thanks." The door opens, an elderly Avox standing in the hallway beyond. Beck does something most Capitolites would consider unthinkable; she not only hugs the old woman, but kisses her on the cheek before leading Roland down the hall, towards the living room, which is fairly small but airy and open. Over her shoulder, as she walks, she continues, "Who my father was is on the record. All above board. And his name was one of my big selling points for most of a decade." She turns, smiling just a little, as they come into the living room. "Besides. You could tell anyone you liked anything you liked. The only person it'll make trouble for is you. You're an offworlder Tribute, I'm a Capitolite Stylist. They'll take my word over yours, whether I'm going by Mattock or Scordato. It's not fair, but that's just how it is."

None of that is said in a remotely threatening tone. It's more matter-of-fact. He asked why she'd take the risk; she's telling him.

"Anyway. I like getting to know people. Got to give a little to get a little, right?" She flops down in a worn, comfy armchair, kicking off her high heels and draping her legs over the arm of the chair. "Or give a lot to get a little, which I'm feeling might be the case with you. Want something to drink? No alcohol in the house, I'm afraid."

Her explanation is taken as it's meant, as an answer rather than a threat. If anything is strange there, it's that she says it isn't fair. He doesn't expect a Capitolite would notice that, or if they did, would care to say so.

And, of course, nothing particularly dangerous seems to be waiting for him here, save the same old Capitolite nonsense. Searching for blackmail material, gossip fodder. At least it's the same old thing with a different arrangement of furniture. He settles himself in an armchair opposite, keeping aware of any avoxes who might be nearby but not letting his gaze stray to them. "Water, if you have it. What exactly is it you're looking for? As you pointed out, I'm a tribute. Anything worth knowing about me surely's already common knowledge."

Beck shrugs, looking up at the Avox. "Water, we've got. That might be all we got, I'm not sure. Ama, water?" Then, as the Avox shuffles away, Beck turns back to Roland with another little shrug. "I told you. Getting to know people. All that's common knowledge is that you're grumpy, good in a fight, fucking the Signless... that's not you, that's facts. And a big helping of gossip and rumours, if I know anything about this city." She laughs, stretching like a cat, and shifts a little to face him better.

When she speaks again, her voice is rather softer. "Look. Clearly something's up. I'm guessing you don't want to tell me what it is. I mean, why would you? People don't go wandering the streets when they need to talk it out, they either find someone they know or they go and get drunk off their asses. But something's clearly bugging you. Just wanna know you're okay, is all."

Oh, Roland believes that last one. Sure. That look on his face? Don't let that look you. Total belief.

He doesn't let the look linger more than a second, though. Long enough to make a point, that's all. Not long enough to be rude. "Mhm." He leans forward, hands hanging between his knees. He thinks of a couple of the Signless' interviews, wonders if the troll might make something up here. Some ridiculous lie, just scandalous enough that the gossip-hungry hordes would convince themselves to believe it. Roland doesn't have that in him, he's well aware, but for a moment he thinks of it anyway.

"Than-" Roland frowns, feeling his tongue still itself. Really? Thankee? Of course that word wouldn't be allowed either. Now it's started, though, there's no choice but to fight through the rest. "Than- thank you s-" Roland lets his head hang, knowing what's coming out next. "S- Sa- sir."

He takes a slow, audible breath, then looks up at her again. "It's a generous offer," Roland says, a little quieter. Is there any better demonstration of just why he shouldn't be honest with her than what happened just now? "Is it an offer? To drink with you? Afraid I've lost the habit of drinking my troubles away, but th-" He stops himself, this time.

"Appreciate it anyway." It's clearly a nicety. Roland does appreciate things, on occasion. Attempts to prize out his secrets in order to fill the latest gossip column is not one of them.

Edited 2015-05-25 03:10 (UTC)

"Shame. There's some great bars around here for drinking away your sorrows. Some of them are even themed around it." She's joking, mostly, and if she's fazed by his obvious disbelief and mistrust, it doesn't show. "It wasn't an offer. I mean, I wouldn't say no, but you strike me more as the type for drinking alone. And I've got other people to go drinking with. People who actually like me, I mean." She smiles crookedly, reaching back to take a tall glass of water from the Avox. "Thanks, Ama."

The old woman doesn't respond. Face blank, like any other Avox, she moves to pass the other glass to Roland. Beck waits until she withdraws back to the corner of the room before looking back up at Roland. "But you are okay, right? Got people looking out for you? People you can talk to?" Either she's genuinely concerned, or she's a phenomenal actor. Or both.

He laughs. "'Cause everything's odd?"

Firo came from a bustling metropolis, but even he has to admit there's just something too loud about this city. The lights and sounds bursting from every corner of New York were just different. Better.

"Sorry, pal, but I don't even have anything better for myself to do." He shrugs. "So I guess I will come along. Wanna lead the way?"

How bad could it be, really?

Roland straightens to take the glass, very briefly glancing over the avox as he does it. Persistent of her, to keep asking. Likely still wanting him to name anyone he's close to, the easier to hold the knowledge over his head. Those names aren't closely held secrets. Can't be, living in that tower together as they all do, and watched every moment. But maybe it isn't easy for someone so low in the Capitolite rankings to find out such things. High enough to be dangerous, as all citizens of this place are in their way. Low enough to make real information a little trickier to come by.

"If I need to talk, I'll find a way to make myself heard," he shrugs, taking a small sip of the water. "What of you? Taking in near-strangers and trying to soothe their troubles. Not trying to escape any troubles of your own, are you?"

Beck half-smile, rolling her eyes and sipping at her water. "Wow. Cynical." Not entirely untrue, even she has to admit that. But cynical, nonetheless. She's uncomfortable with the idea that she's helping people because of her past. It makes her feel small and selfish and childish, even if it is probably true. Easier to pretend to herself that she does it out of pure altruism. "I see a guy who's looking for somewhere to go, I offer him some options. He's obviously bothered by something, I try to help. Doesn't have to be an escape from anything. I know you've had a bit of a rough life, but surely you know that sometimes people do nice things just 'cause they're nice?"

She's quiet for a moment, considering. Then, sighing, she adds, "And maybe 'cause they know what that looks like, being stuck. I wasn't lying, Roland. I like getting to know people. I like helping them. Why do you think I got involved in the Games in the first place?"

"Mm." He nods, turning more toward the doorway. "Because everything's odd in fairly predictable ways."

The city of Roland's youth may not have been a bustling metropolis - especially by the standards of this place - but it'd been busy enough, and his travels after that city fell had seen him things both wild and strange. He won't be deeply disturbed by the shadowy corners of Panem city life, he's confident of that. But he isn't expecting it to be nice.

The inside of the building is dark, the little room and hallway beyond it lit by brief, distant lights that flash in time with the music's low pounding. A figure hulking beside the doorway looks up as they enter, starts to step forward, but there isn't a citizen in the Capitol who can't recognize a couple of tributes and the figure quickly steps back.

There's a board on the wall ahead, a sign whose large, pale letters seem, in the brief moments it's bright enough to read them, to advertise 'the ecstatic Eudie and her amazing-'

Before Roland can try and make out more, someone rises from one of the room's dark corners and heads toward them. Whether they want to sell something, or lead them somewhere, or simply to ask an autograph, he supposes they'll find out in a second.

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