[to be quiet like I should]

[vox_tacenda]

Who | Atlas Fairweather and the Initiate; Atlas Fairweather and YOU
What | Come and socialize with your friendly neighborhood Avox wrangler!
Where | Around the Training Center; in the Avox quarters.
When | Following the changes in Tributes' finances, but flexible otherwise! Just, between Arenas. In the Capitol. Around. u know.
Warnings | There will be a lot of talk about Avoxes, and there might be mention of the conditioning process, meaning torture, brainwashing, slavery, etc. There will be no abuse of any kind in this log, but Atlas will not speak to or about them as though they're human beings. Just a heads-up, if that's something you'd prefer to avoid!

I. Ground floor common area
Atlas works in the Training Center. He's got a sparsely-furnished set of quarters not far from the Avoxes down below, even, so he can keep closer guard over his charges in case of some emergency. You'd think he'd get sick of spending time between the wall of the Tower, that he'd take his free hours in the day to walk the city, to change up the scenery - but he doesn't.

Not today, anyway. He's come up here on break, where all the walls are banks of glass and the afternoon sunlight streams in. It's nice after a morning down in the Avox quarters to remember that sun shines on the rest of the Capitol, and people go out of their way to be too loud, to draw attention to themselves. Atlas lounges on a chic green couch not far from the bar, his stiff left leg propped up on a provided footrest and a half-empty beer in one hand. He's out of uniform and everything. An Avox handler in repose.

It's a good vantage point: He can see everyone who comes in or goes out through the front doors. He's become a good observer in his years working with Avoxes. He remembers faces well; he recognizes near every Tribute who walks by, can call their District affiliation to mind just by looking.

Any Tribute who passes too close (or anyone, really, whom he's seen on a screen recently) will hear a friendly, booming "Hey!" from him, and get a wide one-armed beckoning motion if they turn to look - Here. Sit down right here. Maybe you know him by sight - have seen him in his Peacekeeper's uniform, walking the halls with an Avox or two following docilely behind him. Maybe you recognize his face, but can't place it. Maybe you have no idea who he is, beyond some Capitolite. Either way: It's clearly you he's talking to.


II. Suites - all Districts
Among the more important of Atlas' duties is making sure, in all circumstances, that Avoxes act like Avoxes. He's well known in his own employment circles for his ability to tell the moment when conditioning begins to slip. When an Avox has forgotten its place. When they are no longer afraid enough.

He's here in your District Suites to make sure their duties are all being done according to the Traning Center's standard, as laid out in the Properties Manager's Handbook he carries in tablet form in one hand. He's here to ensure that there are no marks left by shoddy cleaning, no linens left unchanged, no food left out to attract flies, no signs that any Avox has been anywhere it's forbidden to them to be. He makes a round of every suite, slowed by a desire for precision as much as by his limp, knocking politely on Tribute's doors before he leans into their rooms to make his quick inspection, marking his tablet with an air of satisfaction at the end of every round.

He approaches the Avoxes as well, while they move about the room doing their mandated tasks. He follows them closely, watching them for illicit reactions; leans down to catch their eyes and nods with approval when their glances skitter away from his face; tugs lightly at their arms to see whether they pull away (the test is passed if they don't). None of it is painful, but there's a casual indifference in his movements. Like he's running a program to check for error. Like he's giving a table a shake to make sure none of the legs wobble.

...Though if you catch him making an inspection in an unoccupied Suite, you might come in to find him standing in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle and looking around him at the luxury laid out for the District residents. Keep silent a second, and you might even hear a low, envious whistle.

Comments

I

[impaledqueen]

Peggy stiffens at the sound of the voice. Then she spins around to see a man she hasn't seen in a long, long time.

"Atlas!"

She's immediately smiling and walking right towards him, positively beaming. Oh, thank goodness that someone she knows from the Districts is here.

[vox_tacenda]

"Peg!" His grin has grown wider, and as she approaches he hauls himself up straighter, putting his propped-up foot back down on the ground. Here's a face he's seen a lot on the screens and less often in person than he likes. Not often you see a face from the Districts out walking among the Capitolites.

"Come here! Let me look at you without a camera in the way." He shakes his head at what he sees, pleased and approving; there's something in him that still sees her as the kid he pulled out of her scraps, and the Tribute he cheered for. "Long way out of District Ten, huh?"

II

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's recovering well from his operation, healing sped by the high-tech medical care available in the Capitol that is top-of-the-line for someone as nationally treasured as a Victor. It came at a considerable price though, and one that was impossible to reverse once he learned about it too late.

Of both of his parents, she'd been the one to retain something of herself. His father was well broken and conditioned to an ideal temperament, but his mother wasn't completely obliterated. A spark of clever intelligence continued to exist behind her dark eyes, and since Jason got them brought to the Tower just to screw with him, he's started to feel like he could develop some kind of connection with her at least if he was clandestine about it. But blood is blood, and matches are matches, and Avoxes, for all their value as beasts of burden, are disposable.

The middle-aged, dark-haired Avox in District 6's suite was assigned to District 9's, and occasionally he seems confused about it and attempts to return to his post three floors up. He's never allowed to get far, though, because the younger spitting image of him is no longer even attempting to be careful. He hates the Avox for what he's beyond understanding while feeling compelled to keep him close. Sober and sharp even if he's still a little slow on his feet, he's coming up with all manner of tasks for the hijacked Avox and physically blocking his path if he attempts to wander outside 6's suite, even at the end of the day when they're all returning to their quarters.

The creature doesn't know the nature of his relationship with the Mentor, and he's too well-programmed to acknowledge the death of his wife or even be exasperated with the way he's being pointlessly corralled and prevented from going about his actual duties. As Avoxes go, he's perfect, and Linden is doing whatever he can to get some kind of reaction out of someone he knew was brilliant and human once. By the time Atlas comes around to 6's suite, he'll find the older Avox dutifully scrubbing the absolutely pristine walls that are in need of no such attention. Linden's dozing on the couch, but the sound of the door has him sitting up, awake and alert.

"Yes? Can I help you?" he asks, no apprehension or contempt coloring his expression or his tone.

[vox_tacenda]

The Capitol reconditions Avoxes as they get older, on the same schedule they do the newer ones. It's a fact not know to many that after enough time, most of they have probably stopped needing it. Younger Avoxes, they believe what they're told to believe about their own worth, do what they're told to do, because they fear to do otherwise; they cover up who they are with what the conditioning tells them to be. The older ones, some of them, have nothing left to cover up.

All it means to Atlas is that older Avoxes need a little less watching, generally; a little less guidance.

Atlas shuts the door behind him as he comes in, giving the room a quick glance (and noting the presence of the Avox wiping down the walls) before offering a greeting nod to Linden. "Just routine inspection from Properties Management, Mr. Lockhearst," he says. "Making sure everything's in place." The fact that he looked at the Avox at all is a good indicator of the reason he's there. No other citizen would have bothered to look.

It's clear from the way he greets Linden, the way he looks at him, that he recognizes him. There's respect in his tone, the same kind that might come through in a genuine statement of I'm a big fan of your work. He's not here for that presently, of course; but his interest in Linden is as clear as his interest in the Avox.

"Had any problems with the assigned Avoxes recently, Mr. Lockhearst?" he adds. "Performance pretty good overall?"

I

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland does in fact recognize this particular face, even if he doesn't know the name attached to it. In order to keep his distance from any of the powers in this place, be they Capitolite or Peacekeeper, it's important to be able to recognize most of them no matter what they're wearing. But there's keeping a distance and then there is keeping an obvious distance, and so Roland turns away from his path toward the elevators to make his way to the couch and to the man sitting on it. The fourth floor and the quiet stillness of his room inside it will have to wait a while.

"How d'you do, sir?" It would be going far to say that Roland's tone is deferential, although it is in that general area. Blandly polite, that's a little closer. Ever since arriving all those arenas ago that's been the manner Roland tries for with people like this, who could have him killed with their slightest whim, but since that business with the Initiate it is even more important that he be careful. Maybe no one thinks much of the fact that Roland's relationship with the Signless connects him, in a secondary way, to the now-silent traitor who reportedly seduced all those around him into treachery. But maybe someone does. Or might, if Roland does not seem to know how to keep to his place.

"Something I can help you with?" Even with the polite tone, the words could maybe be taken as abrupt. But he's aiming for polite, not fawning. Besides, anyone who's seen him in one of those interviews the Capitol newsmen do ought to know what to expect, calling him over.

[vox_tacenda]

Atlas' manner is much more open, much more friendly, than Roland's - not that he seems to mind that at all. He has seen his interviews, and doesn't seem at all put off.

"No sir between us," he says, with a wide, dismissive wave of the hand not holding the beer. "I'm no Peacekeeper-- just another guy from the Districts." His uniform isn't unlike a Peacekeeper's, when he's wearing it, and he's got the privileges of a naturalized citizen, but he really believes this. It's not an attempt to create a sense of equality he doesn't actually feel.

He points at Roland, with a grin spreading over his face-- "You're Roland Deschain. Second-oldest Tribute in District Four, and you made it five and a half weeks in the last Arena." He shakes his head in disbelieving amazement and lifts his glass. "How could I let you pass by and not drink to that?"

[closed to Initiate]

[vox_tacenda]

It's the final change in shift for the day. Every service elevator that comes down this far has four or five or six Avoxes in it, and as the door opens, they all begin to shuffle silent and hollow-eyed toward their racks of pull-out bunks. To sit for a moment before they seek food, or turn to the maintenance of their own communal quarters, or just go to rest nearer to each other (as they do, and as Atlas allows, so long as it is done in moderation).

But they all turn at Atlas' voice, which rings out at each arriving group, cutting harsh into the near-silence (broken only by soft breath and the movement of feet over the concrete floor)-- "Hey! Inspection! Line up!"

And they all know what to do; if they don't, they look to the ones who move first, or are prodded in the right direction by the older Avoxes standing nearest them. They move in a single-file line toward Atlas, who sits to receive them, an easy smile on his face as he beckons them nearer, one by one.

He performs the inspection quickly and impersonally. He talks to them while he tips their heads back, checks their mouths for infection and their hands and arms for sprains and bruises. He eyes them carefully as they walk up, looking for limps and stumbles. Careless chatter, Had a good work day, Red? Up in Twelve today, right? (...Hold out your left hand. Like that. Fine.) Enjoy the view? Gorgeous, I know. --Hey, if it isn't Patch! Sores are all closed up, I see... You should talk to Victoria, you know, commiserate. Compson decked her good last week...

None of them are the Avox's real names. They don't react to his questions. (If they did, it would go on his chart, and that Avox would vanish for a week and come back not reacting to anything.)

His smile turns wider, though, when he sees his one and only troll, towering over everybody in line ahead of him. "There he is," he calls out as he beckons him forward-- "There's the Titan!"

He gave him that nickname within his first week here. It tickled Atlas still, how much he stuck out among this homogeneous crowd - like a yellow-and-gray daisy in a field of white.

[carnagecarnival]

He doesn't respond but he knows all their "names". Red, Patch, Victoria. He doesn't always know why there names are what they are. Some are easy enough to tell, but others don't have an immediate association but for what he would presume must exist in Atlas's mind.

It's almost good he's not supposed to feel. He doesn't know how he would feel about Atlas. He looked after the other Avoxes. But on the other hand, he didn't. It's easier just not to think too hard about it, to accept it as it is in the moment.

His voice always sends a thrill of fear by default, as any voice at all is apt to do. He adjusts the shirt on a newer Avox, a silent tugging for them to get into position. His eyes stay down as his fellows are prodded and peered at. His breath is steady only because it's supposed to be.

The Titan. It's not long enough to be a title, but it sounds like one. Grand and imposing. He understands why it's for him, but it matches odd with this skin anyway.

He steps forward on silent command. He's almost certain Atlas finds amusement in his threatening bits, but he wonders if he's going to have his claws shorn and teeth all pulled out one day anyway. Even if the Capitol knows they'll grow back. It would hurt, and he'd lose more pieces of himself, but he'd also stand out less.

He thinks he thinks too much even for his own liking. He makes sure his head is still down until Atlas directs him otherwise.

II

[cigne]

Eight's Suite is empty save for Avoxes when Atlas arrives, but it doesn't stay that way long; Swann emerges from the elevator soon enough, almost completely hidden behind bags of groceries and bottles of alcohol, and everything else she thinks her Tributes might need for right now, until she can round them up and ask them personally what they need and can't afford.

She staggers forward until she reaches a table and can set the bags down with a pant and some heavy breaths. Looking up, she notices Atlas and smiles, retrieving a hanky from her purse and wiping her forehead and hands before stepping forward to greet him.

"Atlas, hello!"

It's only from knowing who's who in the Tower that she recognizes him, and her wide, genuine grin hides a host of other emotions at seeing him. Swann is always as kind as she can be to the Avoxes, more out of general politeness and respect for the world than anything else -- she couldn't imagine hitting them or screaming at them just because she can, in the same way that she wouldn't break a vase on purpose.

[vox_tacenda]

Atlas, for his part, knows where his Avoxes come back from in the evenings, and marks carefully where they've been when they come back with signs of abuse. Eight doesn't send them back with black eyes and torn clothes and coffee burns, and that's at least part of the reason he's smiling as he gives Swann a polite greeting nod.

"Ms. Honeymead," he says, and leaves off his close inspection of a leather armchair to point his smile her direction and step a little closer. (He's a naturalized citizen, but it'll always feel more professional, somehow, to address the Tributes' staff with a little more respect. "You should have had an Avox help you in! Those bags are bigger than you."

(The Avoxes are standing still, waiting for some signal, spoken or otherwise, that permits them to start putting the contents of the bags in their proper places.)

I

[lionhearted_victor]

No way...no freaking way...Leonidas was damn sure he'd spiked his coffee, because that was a voice he expected from District 2 rather than the Capitol. That fullness that comes from the mountains and hard work.

"Atlas Fairweather?"

For Cora, the fact that Atlas didn't make it to his Arena was a goddamn shame because THIS was an example of a Career, a man who lived for Panem and was willing to die for Panem. And what's more, a Districter.

"Well, this is a sight for sore eyes!"

[vox_tacenda]

Atlas hadn't been entirely sure he'd recognized the man in front of him - which was why he'd shouted, to make sure. When Leonidas turned toward him, his suspicions were confirmed, and his grin turned wide, warm, and familiar.

"Leonidas Cora! I didn't think I'd woken up back in Two this morning, but now I've got my doubts."

They were just far apart in age that they'd never have been considered for the same Games. But you knew people doing the same thing you'd done, back in District Two; Atlas had followed the hopefuls after his own chance had come and gone with as much enthusiasm as he'd followed his own competitors for that coveted Tribute spot.

He's already waving a waiter over, beckoning Leonidas closer in the same broad gesture. "Come on. Wherever we are, I need to buy you a drink."

I

[drinkupmehearties]

Jack is swaggering towards the elevators in that usual wavering gait of his -- as always, suggesting he's had more than his fair share of alcohol -- and paying little mind to sparse population of Capitolites that frequent the common area. Most times, Jack was able to make it to the D8 Suites without incident. Atlas' voice, however, catches him mid-stride, and his arms swing in an effort to keep himself balanced as his feet force him to an abrupt stop.

He gives the man a sideways glance, wariness lurking beneath the questioning expression. The face is somewhat familiar, but Jack is, at most times, horrible at connecting faces to names to titles when it came to Capitolites. Could be a fan. Could be someone important. Could be nobody. Either way, the pirate moves to settle in where Atlas had indicated, sprawling onto his seat.

"Do I know you, mate?"

[vox_tacenda]

He's seen that gait on the screens so many times - like Jack Sparrow can only control so many of his muscles at one time, and has to wait for some to come to a halt before he can move on to the others. He grins, and pulls his leg down from its footrest (bending it only carefully) to turn more fully to the man now on the couch beside him.

"Well, we haven't been introduced, but I've seen plenty of you around-- on the screens, and so on." He puts out his hand to shake, and manages not to say I'm a big fan. "Atlas Fairweather. Properties management and security." And, with a grin that says he knows how stuffy that sounds, he adds, "I don't come up here much-- not much use up here for an Avox wrangler."

He laughs, friendly and booming.

II

[revvinguptheharley]

Harley was always suspicious of anyone who came sniffing around the Suite and wasn't already Avoxified. With how much trouble she'd gotten into in the past she was of the assumption that her district must be on the high watch list. Even if not just for her, the previous two mentors had caused more then their share of trouble. Especially Eva.

Peeking around the corner watching him admire what used to be Mindy's room once upon a time she decided there was no time like the present and leaned on the door frame in what she imagined was a casual and sultry pose.

"We may not be the highest floor in the building, but I still can't get enough of that view. Especially at night." She commented in a clear voice.

Along with her on again off again attempts to appear more professional today she was wearing a black skirt with red diamond pattern sewn into it as well as a red blouse with black diamonds. A bit of a mix and match from one of her previous outfits. Her hair was up in a simple bun and her cosmetic use only glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

[vox_tacenda]

Atlas startled a little, clearly not having expected a voice to come from behind him. (You worked almost exclusively with people who couldn't have made a sound if they'd wanted to for long enough, you stopped expecting people to come up and talk to you in words.) He recognized her on sight, and it showed in his face-- here was a longstanding Victor, somebody who'd seen five-- five!-- Arenas. Unimaginable.

It took him a second longer to process what she'd said. He looked at her, draped on the door frame, and then over his shoulder at the cityscape out the window. ...And then at her again, all of her at once, and then again out the window. It was mid-afternoon, not night, so--?

"...It is a nice one," he replied after a second too long, with a real smile. "I don't get to see much like it down in the sublevels-- inspection day's always something of a treat."

He made sure to show the tablet in his hand, and the stylus with which he was tapping at the boxes to check-- Official business, he was trying to explain. Official.

I

[letthemburn]

Iskierka doesn't make a whole lot of effort to remember the Capitolites she doesn't run into on a regular basis. As such, while she can at least recognize most of the people associated with her own District, she is somewhat less able to pinpoint anyone else - she might well have run across Atlas before, but if she has she certainly doesn't remember him.

On the other hand, she very much has a tendency to stand out. It comes of being the Capitol's resident dragon and even if her last go in the Arena ended more than a little terribly (she always hates the ones where she doesn't make it past the first week), she does have a tendency of standing out in the recaps of the Arena.

She blinks, a little, at being called out to, but after one of her almost-shrugs (a flick of her wings, half-spreading and then closing) she makes her way over in his direction. Actually sitting where he's indicated is going to be a bit of a problem - she's not built to easily fit on any kind of furniture short of sprawling and even that is hit or miss - but she figures it hurts nothing to be at least reasonably polite. Case in point, the fact that she offers a nod as she draws near, even if the question that follows is... not quite so, although it's clear enough that it's more one of curiosity than any actual attempt to be rude.

"Have we met? It is only that I do not think I have seen you before."

[vox_tacenda]

Atlas is staring at her openly. It's one thing to see a dragon on the screens (where she looks a little more at home, to him, like a bigger, smarter muttation), but another to see it crawling across the floor toward him. It's strange, the war this prompts within him - a mix of excitement and slight trepidation, the knowledge that she's just a Tribute like any other and the instinctive intimidation that comes of something so foreign.

"We haven't met." He wants to put out a hand to shake, but realize as he's extending it that that might turn out problematic. He withdraws it with a grin that acknowledges the mistake, and lets it go. "Atlas Fairweather. Property manager for the Tower. You wouldn't have seen me-- they keep me down below these days, and we don't let often let Tributes down into Avox quarters." You being Tributes.

The mental image pulls a booming laugh out of him-- "Though I'd pay to see that! Man, I bet they don't know what to do with you. Do they?"

II

[tucky]

"Fancy, right?"

Tiffany is used to seeing strange people in the District 1 Suite. In addition to her fellow Tributes and their guests, the eerily silent servants - those Avoxes - are a common sight. This guy clearly isn't one of them, though. Not only is he making noise, but he's just kind of... standing there. Looking.

He's probably another Tribute.

"You just get here?"

[vox_tacenda]

Atlas turns, surprised, at the sound of her voice. Most of the people he works with don't make noise from behind him. He looks, for a second, a little guilty-- like he's been caught doing something forbidden.

It passes quickly, though, because he's only been here looking for a second. Not like the Avoxes are waiting for him, right? But it takes him another second after that to process the question. When he does, his expression turns knowing, and a grin breaks across his face.

"Oh, I've been here a whole fifteen minutes," he says. "Why? Were you waiting for me?"

He wouldn't rib a Capitolite this way, but Tributes - even offworlders - are just more Districters. He can allow himself this much friendliness.

[yoknapatawpha]

"It's something, ain't it?"

Bayard emerges from the elevator with a wide grin, delighted at having finally managed to get all the sway up to Twelve without getting confused and walking off on a different floor, and finds a strange man looking around at the beautiful hearth the layout of the Suite folds around. The District Twelve Suite is generally less bright and sunny than the other floors, if only because so many of the colors are grey or black, but it does have skylights that cast squares of sun like spotlights on people, and a massive fireplace with intricately-wrought iron and a smokestack. The hologram windows show a beautiful, quiet forest.

"Evening," Bayard says, although unlike with most adults he doesn't append the usual 'sir' onto his statement due to Atlas' skin tone. It doesn't occur to him to. He grabs a package of cookies from the District Twelve kitchen and goes to sit on the couch, ravenously chewing a cookie he's shoved into his mouth scarcely a second after he ripped open the bag. "Are you one of the new Tributes? I'm Bayard Sartoris."

[vox_tacenda]

District Twelve is where Atlas acquired his limp. The Suite mimics the aesthetic, but lacks the pitfalls; it's been long enough that he feels almost no connection between the familiar forests (more pristine in virtual form, like a memory) and the persistent stiffness in his left leg.

He turns, a little surprised, when he hears Bayard behind him-- a little guilty, too, like he's been caught doing something he didn't intend to be caught at. But he breaks into a grin at that question, because it's clear enough there's no ill will there at all. Nobody to take him to task for dawdling on the job. (Jeez. He'll be cowering like an Avox next.)

"Good evening, Bayard Sartoris," he replies, and tucks his tablet into his elbow instead of leaving it hanging down at his side - to show he brought it with him to use. That he's here with a purpose. "I'm Atlas Fairweather. And I wish I could tell you I was up here to stay, but I'll be gone just as soon as I'm done checking up on your Avoxes."

He shakes his head, with a mock-wizened sigh-- "You know, when I was your age, I'd never have asked someone as old as me if he was a Tribute. Kids these days."

II

[itscalledfashion]

For a rich Capitolite, the inspection of Avoxes are on the same level as a safety inspector. It's hardly anything of note, and any annoyance at a stranger poking around your space is worth it, to make sure that things keep running like they need to be. Cassian's out in the living space, at work with a pad of paper and pictures of flowers, patiently trying to sketch out the petals and complicated structures. He keeps an eye out for Atlas, in case the man needs a locked door opened, or has any questions.

But Cassian is a chatterbox, and after a bit, he speaks up. "They did a lovely job helping me redecorate the space, you know." He waved his hand around, to florescent branches in shockingly unnatural colors plastered to the wall, pictures of forests in vivid colors. And, of course, the apple-shaped glowsticks resting in the fruit bowl. "You've been doing an excellent job with them, haven't seen so much as a twitch or a twist." Naturally, any praise for the Avoxes performance falls to Atlas, because their performance is a reflection on him. They're parts of a machine that he runs.

"You know, have you thought about touching up their wardrobe? Jazzing it up a little? I don't know if you went to the Crowning, but they had Avoxes dressed up to match the rest of the scenery, and it really just added to the whole thing. Maybe little uniforms for each district that they're assigned to...? Or do they switch districts?" He glanced over an Avox cleaning up as he spoke, tapping his pencil to his paper thoughtfully. "Maybe just matching with the current fashions..."

Cassian isn't particularly rude to Avoxes, but he isn't particularly kind. He treats them like machines, gives them an order, and expects it to be done with the same expectation he has when he presses the buttons on a microwave. The idea of dressing them up is in line with the decorations he's placed all over the suite--It would look nice. He has a fondness for aesthetics, after all.

[vox_tacenda]

Atlas moves over to the Avox cleaning as Cassian speaks, dutifully keeping up his job as he listens. Not like what he's doing requires a great deal of concentration. He stops the Avox, turns it around, examines its blank white uniform; smiles and nods, gracious and genuinely pleased, at the compliment.

Ugh. Dressing them up-- that's always a logistical nightmare. Nobody ever thinks about who's taking all their measurements, who's lining them up to affix headdresses to them or face paint, who's got to organize them when half of them have got their faces covered. Sure, it looks nice, but it's a bigger hassle than dressing up the furniture. The furniture can't flinch.

But his voice is even, neutral, and respectful as he replies-- addressing a Capitolite, and trying not to startle the Avox standing mute and wary before him.

"It's been discussed," he says, diplomatically. "But can you imagine, divvying them up by District? You know, they used to be Districters, some of them." Not anymore, of course. They belong to nothing and no one now, unless it's the Capitol, and the fear it's planted in them. "Wouldn't want them to get the idea they still are. One day you're pinning little flowers on every Avox headed up to District Ten, next day you realize they think they belong there." He shakes his head. He doesn't need to explain to a Capitolite why that's unthinkable.

II (hope it's okay to drop in this late)

[beckstitch]

Beck is in the kitchen, baking cookies. It helps her keep her head straight, and it doesn't hurt knowing that District 12's Tributes, following the removal of their credit, will probably appreciate the treat. She looks up at Atlas when he comes into the District 12 complex, her shoulders tensing a little as she pulls a hot tray of cookies out of the oven, but gives him a warm smile nonetheless.

"Atlas Fairweather, right?" She holds out the cooling rack next to her, already covered in sweet-studded cookies. Her hand is covered by what might be the world's most fashionable oven mitt, a brightly iridescent glove made of a heatproof fabric that's clingy and almost sheer. "Cookie? Don't worry, I won't tell." And she gives him a wink, hiding her discomfort. Avox handlers always set her on edge. She's grown up with Avoxes, treating them with a kindness and humanity you're really not supposed to, and part of her's always a little afraid that people trained in the subject will notice her weird relationship with the tongueless servants and take it as a mark of treachery.

no problem, yo!

[vox_tacenda]

It's a friendlier greeting than Atlas expected - not because anyone's been rude to him, but because most people see no reason to do anything other than let him get on with his job. Most don't bother learning his name, either; people associate his job with anonymity, and some of them like him better anonymous. For the most part, he doesn't mind.

His eyebrows go up at the offer, and he glances back and forth with mock-furtiveness, as though he'll be caught at something he shouldn't be doing. "Lucky for you, Ms. Scordato," he says, "They haven't thought to add Avox handlers to the list of bribe-able officials yet. So I think one won't hurt."

They haven't met, but he knows who she is - he makes it a point to keep up on who's who in the Tower. Who the Avoxes are serving, yes, but more importantly, who's in the immediate orbit of the Tributes.

He moves his tablet to the opposite hand and reaches for one; takes a bite and makes an approving sound. "...Mm! Now there's something to make you appreciate having a tongue." He laughs, a rich and booming sound.