Temple Stevens (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clotting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-07-13 02:35 am
clotting) wrote in thecapitol2015-07-13 02:35 am
Entry tags:
The Whole World in a Dark Hue [Closed]
WHO| Temple and Swann
WHAT| D8 Staffers Gonna Staff
WHERE| D8 Suite
WHEN| After the last D8 Tribute dies.
WARNINGS| Probably some capitolite awfulness and some wannabe-Capitolism.
For the most part, Temple and Swann have been ships passing in the night, both flitting in and out of the Suite for the last few weeks performing parallel and separate duties. There's been the exchange of gift baskets - neither of which were in person - and occasional post-it notes left on the kitchen counter, usually to the tune of "can you pull some strings with your father to get [Tribute from Eight] in a room with [producer Temple's buttered up]? thanks! -Temple" or "borrowed from budget to repair [something Tribute broke], thanks! -Temple". Temple rarely asks permission so much as just effusively thanks from afar, and unlike other Mentors, she seems hellbent on avoiding any of her responsibilities in combat training. Not a single Tribute has seen her at the gym, and she has yet to meet most of them anyway.
There are hints of her around the District Eight Suite, mostly in the fact that her five year-old and his possessions have made occasional visits and left the predictable kindergartener residue, discarded toys and terrible drawings and handprints on the hologram wall, that sort of thing. It, and the contracts she's been securing for the next Arena and noting in the budget, are enough to prove she exists and must be doing something with those odd hours she keeps. Maintaining a social network like Temple's requires diligence and an affinity for the night life, which is as much a ball and chain as it is a calling, she thinks.
But tonight, rather than going out and socializing and slipping her hand in the back pocket of anyone wearing an expensive enough watch, not fondling for a wallet but for a thrill and a connection, she's staying in to mourn yet another fallow season. Dressed as if she expected to go out, in a black and white dress and pearls and a birdcage veil, she takes a seat on the edge of the living room couch and turns off the ever-awake television.
An Avox brings her a bottle of gin. Temple tends to nurse the wound of District Eight's losses with getting shitfaced drunk. She probably would celebrate a victory by getting shitfaced drunk, too, but as she has yet to rear up a winner that's a bridge she has yet to cross. She's watching the Avox pour it, looking apathetically at the liquid, when Swann enters, and Temple's head seems to turn too far on her neck to see who entered. When she does, she gets to her feet, a broad, if tired, smile across her face.
"Swann Honeymead, in the flesh. And here I thought it was some industrious fairy keeping this place together." She holds a white-gloved hand out. "How are you holding up?"
Jolie had warned her that Swann took failures hard, that she'd been miserable after the last time Eight lost.
WHAT| D8 Staffers Gonna Staff
WHERE| D8 Suite
WHEN| After the last D8 Tribute dies.
WARNINGS| Probably some capitolite awfulness and some wannabe-Capitolism.
For the most part, Temple and Swann have been ships passing in the night, both flitting in and out of the Suite for the last few weeks performing parallel and separate duties. There's been the exchange of gift baskets - neither of which were in person - and occasional post-it notes left on the kitchen counter, usually to the tune of "can you pull some strings with your father to get [Tribute from Eight] in a room with [producer Temple's buttered up]? thanks! -Temple" or "borrowed from budget to repair [something Tribute broke], thanks! -Temple". Temple rarely asks permission so much as just effusively thanks from afar, and unlike other Mentors, she seems hellbent on avoiding any of her responsibilities in combat training. Not a single Tribute has seen her at the gym, and she has yet to meet most of them anyway.
There are hints of her around the District Eight Suite, mostly in the fact that her five year-old and his possessions have made occasional visits and left the predictable kindergartener residue, discarded toys and terrible drawings and handprints on the hologram wall, that sort of thing. It, and the contracts she's been securing for the next Arena and noting in the budget, are enough to prove she exists and must be doing something with those odd hours she keeps. Maintaining a social network like Temple's requires diligence and an affinity for the night life, which is as much a ball and chain as it is a calling, she thinks.
But tonight, rather than going out and socializing and slipping her hand in the back pocket of anyone wearing an expensive enough watch, not fondling for a wallet but for a thrill and a connection, she's staying in to mourn yet another fallow season. Dressed as if she expected to go out, in a black and white dress and pearls and a birdcage veil, she takes a seat on the edge of the living room couch and turns off the ever-awake television.
An Avox brings her a bottle of gin. Temple tends to nurse the wound of District Eight's losses with getting shitfaced drunk. She probably would celebrate a victory by getting shitfaced drunk, too, but as she has yet to rear up a winner that's a bridge she has yet to cross. She's watching the Avox pour it, looking apathetically at the liquid, when Swann enters, and Temple's head seems to turn too far on her neck to see who entered. When she does, she gets to her feet, a broad, if tired, smile across her face.
"Swann Honeymead, in the flesh. And here I thought it was some industrious fairy keeping this place together." She holds a white-gloved hand out. "How are you holding up?"
Jolie had warned her that Swann took failures hard, that she'd been miserable after the last time Eight lost.