Dave Strider (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shenunigans) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-07-31 10:15 pm
shenunigans) wrote in thecapitol2015-07-31 10:15 pm
Entry tags:
I shiver on the one, I breathe for two.
Who | Dave Strider and Karkat and then Dave Strider and Luke, Cassian, Harley, Sam and Temple.
What | Dave is petitioning out, Karkat finds out about 4am the day before his interview. Then, interviews happen.
Where | Various suites.
When | Backdated to before the Dream Event.
Warnings | None yet, will update.
[Interviewers.]
Sleep hadn't exactly been on the charts for Dave the night prior to his interviews, but thankfully that's what coffee is for. He's had enough to feel like a real person and then a little bit more to feel wired. He's paced around his room throwing around phrases and answers he's been stringing together for hours, keeping himself limber so he doesn't stiffen up and withdraw under pressure.
Eventually, it's time to get ready and he does so quite well. He thinks. His sense of irony in dressing has been neatly folded and tucked into his front pocket with his small, signed photo of Caesar Flickerman. He's not sure where the ironic root of that obsession lies, but it's gotten him through some tough times all the same. His suit lacks any sense of humor, it's all class in his signature colour and the shades are a permanent fixture on his face.
He can feel his knees shaking every time, even after the first interview is over. It's like a Russian Roulette of people and he's waiting for the bullet. Black Tom. Gary. Jason Compson. Joel. Someone who has no tolerance for his antics or someone he plain doesn't want to put on airs for would be a damn nightmare. He needs to take these things as they come, though. He needs to use what he's picked up from skulking around the network and reading gossip magazines and he needs to apply it well like any good Escort. Christ. This is lame, he's lame. He's a sell out and he should leg it now before this becomes anything truly serious.
But each time he walks in the room, nodding politely and adjusting his tie as he crosses toward his victim with as polite an air as he can manage. He can barely remember the series of events that lead him to this, but the time is now and he is going to seize this opportunity or something along those lines. He'll be charming and sophisticated and mature and he will nail this, he will nail it for all the people who up and left his life and all the people who need his invested interest when it comes to Arenas.
"Sup."
This is going to be tough.
[Karkat.]
Needless to say, the past month has been difficult for Dave. The turnaround of Tributes is tough for anyone. Anyone with. Y'know. A heart. Connections. Dave pretended he didn't care for so long, he almost forgot how much it hurts when you let yourself feel this shit. It's like a strip of wax slowly dragging down his legs, slowly ripping away his warm layer of fur and leaving him raw and cold and exposed. He didn't just lose friends, he lost family. So much of his family, too. Connections he'd fucking built from the ground up, repaired from nothing and relied upon for a certain sense of sanity. The rug could not be more out from under his feet. He's disembodied and discombobulated and floating in an abyss of shit he cannot begin to comprehend.
He's ached and he's cried and he's screamed at nothing, both alone and with company, but the aftermath of explosive feelings can be just as fucking cumbersome. He can't sleep. Guilt is a fucking weight on his chest. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to be lying here like a useless sponge. Useless is all he ever feels lately. He can't protect anyone, he can't do shit for anyone. He's stuck in a self-fulfilling prophecy and it's like a hamster wheel maxing out on speed as his little legs scoot around aimlessly. It calls for a change, it needs to be drastic. He needs to withdraw in on himself and come out with a plan that amounts to more than breezing about and waiting for things to happen.
It's probably a bad idea. He's probably not cut out for it, but the classes take his mind off other things. Escorting certainly hadn't been an idea until recently, but it seems like an answer that's been staring him in the face for months. He's already almost entirely self-managed, he has friends in the business, he has ideas and he could almost imagine himself being good at this. More importantly, it's a wage. It's money for him and his friends and it's a chance to help people from the outside in. He'd probably be a thousand times more useful from the Capitol than he could be inside Arenas.
He wishes he could tell if he were just telling himself that.
Alas, it's a little late to figure it out. His application, one he'd fully expected a rejection for, is pending. He's lined up for interviews, he's finished his course and it's all happening so god damn fast. It's a lot to take and he needs all the naturally harvested charisma and charm he can muster. But he can't sleep. And it's like a cruel joke. There's a weight on his chest again, the ceiling is the only thing worth locking his eyes on and oh god. He doesn't even know what he'll wear. What does he want to wear? He wants to wear the Caesar Flickerman suit. Should he? No. He wants to look professional. He shouldn't fuck this up being himself. So what should he wear? How much does he even have? To say his wardrobe hasn't increased in size since Oceana left would be a lie, because he's solicited as many free suits as he could in a panic when she left and when they made money cost money.
The lights are on and he's out of bed, rooting through his closet and tenderly laying options on the end of his bed before he realises he just has no fucking clue what to do with all of this. Someone else would know. Probably Tony. He's a professional. It's just that Dave isn't quite ready to wake him up at 4am. He doesn't want to inflict himself on Feferi either, he isn't ready to tell Anna and it occurs to him that he hasn't told Karkat. Truthfully, he doesn't think for a second that Karkat has good taste or relevant opinions, but he's fooling himself into thinking he wants advice and not comfort.
So it's 4am and his arms are burdened with glorious suits. He's slinking out of his room in D9 and he's making a beeline for D6. He knows where he's going and he gets there fast. He doesn't bother knocking, rather, he lets himself in and shuts the door behind him before he sets his suits down on top of a stray chair and THEN raps his knuckles against the nearest surface.
"Yo, Karkat. I'm in a kerfuffle, wake up." He shifts closer, close enough to give Karkat's legs a gentle jostle. "It's important, I promise."
What | Dave is petitioning out, Karkat finds out about 4am the day before his interview. Then, interviews happen.
Where | Various suites.
When | Backdated to before the Dream Event.
Warnings | None yet, will update.
[Interviewers.]
Sleep hadn't exactly been on the charts for Dave the night prior to his interviews, but thankfully that's what coffee is for. He's had enough to feel like a real person and then a little bit more to feel wired. He's paced around his room throwing around phrases and answers he's been stringing together for hours, keeping himself limber so he doesn't stiffen up and withdraw under pressure.
Eventually, it's time to get ready and he does so quite well. He thinks. His sense of irony in dressing has been neatly folded and tucked into his front pocket with his small, signed photo of Caesar Flickerman. He's not sure where the ironic root of that obsession lies, but it's gotten him through some tough times all the same. His suit lacks any sense of humor, it's all class in his signature colour and the shades are a permanent fixture on his face.
He can feel his knees shaking every time, even after the first interview is over. It's like a Russian Roulette of people and he's waiting for the bullet. Black Tom. Gary. Jason Compson. Joel. Someone who has no tolerance for his antics or someone he plain doesn't want to put on airs for would be a damn nightmare. He needs to take these things as they come, though. He needs to use what he's picked up from skulking around the network and reading gossip magazines and he needs to apply it well like any good Escort. Christ. This is lame, he's lame. He's a sell out and he should leg it now before this becomes anything truly serious.
But each time he walks in the room, nodding politely and adjusting his tie as he crosses toward his victim with as polite an air as he can manage. He can barely remember the series of events that lead him to this, but the time is now and he is going to seize this opportunity or something along those lines. He'll be charming and sophisticated and mature and he will nail this, he will nail it for all the people who up and left his life and all the people who need his invested interest when it comes to Arenas.
"Sup."
This is going to be tough.
[Karkat.]
Needless to say, the past month has been difficult for Dave. The turnaround of Tributes is tough for anyone. Anyone with. Y'know. A heart. Connections. Dave pretended he didn't care for so long, he almost forgot how much it hurts when you let yourself feel this shit. It's like a strip of wax slowly dragging down his legs, slowly ripping away his warm layer of fur and leaving him raw and cold and exposed. He didn't just lose friends, he lost family. So much of his family, too. Connections he'd fucking built from the ground up, repaired from nothing and relied upon for a certain sense of sanity. The rug could not be more out from under his feet. He's disembodied and discombobulated and floating in an abyss of shit he cannot begin to comprehend.
He's ached and he's cried and he's screamed at nothing, both alone and with company, but the aftermath of explosive feelings can be just as fucking cumbersome. He can't sleep. Guilt is a fucking weight on his chest. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to be lying here like a useless sponge. Useless is all he ever feels lately. He can't protect anyone, he can't do shit for anyone. He's stuck in a self-fulfilling prophecy and it's like a hamster wheel maxing out on speed as his little legs scoot around aimlessly. It calls for a change, it needs to be drastic. He needs to withdraw in on himself and come out with a plan that amounts to more than breezing about and waiting for things to happen.
It's probably a bad idea. He's probably not cut out for it, but the classes take his mind off other things. Escorting certainly hadn't been an idea until recently, but it seems like an answer that's been staring him in the face for months. He's already almost entirely self-managed, he has friends in the business, he has ideas and he could almost imagine himself being good at this. More importantly, it's a wage. It's money for him and his friends and it's a chance to help people from the outside in. He'd probably be a thousand times more useful from the Capitol than he could be inside Arenas.
He wishes he could tell if he were just telling himself that.
Alas, it's a little late to figure it out. His application, one he'd fully expected a rejection for, is pending. He's lined up for interviews, he's finished his course and it's all happening so god damn fast. It's a lot to take and he needs all the naturally harvested charisma and charm he can muster. But he can't sleep. And it's like a cruel joke. There's a weight on his chest again, the ceiling is the only thing worth locking his eyes on and oh god. He doesn't even know what he'll wear. What does he want to wear? He wants to wear the Caesar Flickerman suit. Should he? No. He wants to look professional. He shouldn't fuck this up being himself. So what should he wear? How much does he even have? To say his wardrobe hasn't increased in size since Oceana left would be a lie, because he's solicited as many free suits as he could in a panic when she left and when they made money cost money.
The lights are on and he's out of bed, rooting through his closet and tenderly laying options on the end of his bed before he realises he just has no fucking clue what to do with all of this. Someone else would know. Probably Tony. He's a professional. It's just that Dave isn't quite ready to wake him up at 4am. He doesn't want to inflict himself on Feferi either, he isn't ready to tell Anna and it occurs to him that he hasn't told Karkat. Truthfully, he doesn't think for a second that Karkat has good taste or relevant opinions, but he's fooling himself into thinking he wants advice and not comfort.
So it's 4am and his arms are burdened with glorious suits. He's slinking out of his room in D9 and he's making a beeline for D6. He knows where he's going and he gets there fast. He doesn't bother knocking, rather, he lets himself in and shuts the door behind him before he sets his suits down on top of a stray chair and THEN raps his knuckles against the nearest surface.
"Yo, Karkat. I'm in a kerfuffle, wake up." He shifts closer, close enough to give Karkat's legs a gentle jostle. "It's important, I promise."
no subject
And sometimes it's easier. Sometimes he sinks right in and solidly rests, even in absence of someone calming to sleep near. The sounds of Dave coming in, setting the suits down, and knocking against whatever it was don't stir him out of his blanket cocoon. No, it's when Dave jostles his leg: then he shoots up like something bit him. His eyes flare open and scan around, he scoots against the headboard, and--and--
Okay, he's not in the arena, there's nothing here to hurt him, and--
"Jegus, Dave, would it kill you not to freak the fuck out of me when I'm sleeping?" He's breathing harder from being startled, but in absence of danger it calms quickly. He's not even embarrassed, really; he knows he's not the only one to equate a sudden jostle to get up and move.
But now that he's calming, he can better see that it's the middle of the night, and that there are...
His eyebrows scrunch. "What are you doing with suits in here at 4 am?"
no subject
He feels guilty for a moment. Well. More guilty. He already feels guilty. He feels like a kid who got in over their head and needs their parents to bail them out with sage advice and all that bullshit. But as every child knows, that situation involves explaining just how badly you fucked up in the first place. Not that this is a mistake, and he can't keep letting himself think it's a mistake, but it's a complicated situation. He just needs to hope Karkat won't hold it against him, but even he knows being worried about that is at least a little irrational.
"Something big is happening." He breathes out, because that's the only footing he's found in a coherent answer. "Nothing urgent, I mean. It's just.. fuck me. This doesn't need to be dramatic. Fuck it. I petitioned out. I have an interview tomorrow. I need to look.." He circles his hands through the air. "Good. And we both know I don't need your advice, but I could go for some of that honesty. Like volts to the nipples on a rainy day." He shrugs, trying to play up being casual even though they both know he's far from it. "So like. Help? I guess?"
no subject
Dave almost hitches up the ranking with his reaction, though. Something big, he says, after he came in to wake him so suddenly. But no, it's just stupid, like the suits on a chair and the plain way Dave often manages to be.
His face wrinkles up, mouth propped ajar in some sort of offense before he even finds the words to go with his gesture. "You picked now to tell me? Now, four damp farts from midnight and however many to your interview? I'm your best friend, douchebag. Was Feferi in on this? She told me when she was only thinking of it before you even died, and you can't ass yourself to the job until you have pressing fashion questions you know I don't care about?"
He tugs his feet free from the last tangle of his blanket cocoon and slips out of bed. He's in the t-shirt and boxers of lazy sleep, hair a mess worse than usual, eyes darkly circled. He paps a hand at his chest; if Dave doesn't prevent it, it won't hit that hard.
"Here's your nipple jolt, dickweed. Talk to me." He's frowning, not in the tantrum upset that ends with him huffing and ridiculous, but the serious way. "I'm not your friend for you to drop this on me like it's nothing. Why are you petitioning out? Why didn't you say anything?"
no subject
"Yes, now, Karkat. Calm down." He makes the appropriate gestures that will quite obviously work like a charm on Karkat. Being ushered to hush up always works on this guy. But if he gets too frantic about it, it makes it more real and more people might here and it's more commitment than Dave is willing to put in at this particular moment.
"I am talking to you. That's why I'm here, isn't it? I'm not dropping it I just.. I dunno. I didn't think I'd get this far?" He shrugs his shoulders with an exaggerated kind of casualness. Look, he's so calm his arms are like noodles, Karkat. "It doesn't mean it's not a big deal and it's not like I don't trust you, I just had to. You know. Feel it out?" To continue with his oh-so-casual stance, he tucks his hands into his pockets and lets his shoulders slump back. "I've been doing things. Taking courses. I didn't want to freak you out with it, that's all. Feferi had.. something to do with it? But she's not why I did it, I'm not that clingy. Couples don't have to do everything together." He knows damn well he's rambling himself into a circle now, so he's going to sidle toward the suits as if they'll protect him.
"You know I've been in like, seven Arenas by this point, right? Seven. Not to be bleak or anything but, it doesn't get easier and you- or at least I- don't get better."
no subject
The frown stays in place as Dave continues into his explanation. His arms fold somewhere in the middle, and he watches Dave feign casualness and cross to his suits, away from him. It doesn't help much.
He motions at his clock. "And telling me last second was supposed to not freak me out? You could have talked to me before. You know I'm an automated advice dispenser when people get asking, right? Feferi talked to me about the same thing, and I was sympathetic even though she's been in less arenas than you have. You think I'm going to fault you for that part?"
Standing here's doing him no good, though, so he moves back to sit on his bed. His blanket gets draped over his shoulders; it's warm and he didn't want to be woken early.
"So what things? What courses? I've had my schedule backed up my ass between sponsors and schoolfeeding, and I still find time to talk to people."
no subject
"Dude, don't be a boner. It's not like I'm dumb enough to think you'd hate me for wanting out of Arenas or something stupid like that. I'm being honest when I say I didn't want to dump it on you without knowing how far I'd get with it. And hey, maybe some of that was some weird insecurity about how you'd take it, and maybe I am guilty about stepping off on my bro at pretty much the most crucial time- but it's mostly because I didn't want to set myself on anything without knowing how legit it all was. Alright? I hate to say it, bro, but it's not you, it's me this time."
He pulls his mouth into a deep frown when Karkat gently pokes his guilt gland with his last scathing comment. "I'm talking to you now, aren't I? And Escorting courses. I've been doing Escorting courses."
no subject
"Don't pull time technicalities on me. That's not my aspect, and you know that's not the point. Just don't pull this wait-'til-the-last-whatever thing on me again, you got it? Even if you messed up and this all went nowhere I still would have been there to talk you through it."
He tips his chin at him, turning the topic. "So what about Escorting courses? You're not too young? What district?"
It sounds ridiculous in his ears, Dave taking that job, but the full weight sits somewhere else yet. He's still absorbing the mass of him stepping out the games if the interview goes right, and even he knows they won't get anywhere if he just explodes at him about it.
no subject
"I didn't need talking through it. I just needed to do it. This isn't something I needed help with, it's just something that's happening. The only thing that matters is not having your back in the Arenas but.." He falters, just barely, and he really does try not to show it. "I've thought that far ahead too, and it's better this way."
He expects he'll have to explain, but questions are coming at him like Hydra. Knocking one off replaces it with three more. He needs to keep on top, so he steps back to brush at one of his suits idly. There's no dust, it just feels right.
"I figure if I'm old enough to die over and over again for show, I can make a case for a junior position. It's not like I don't have the capacity to do all the shit Escorts do, I basically do it for myself now." And now, a shrug. "I don't pick. They pick. I haven't thought about it."
no subject
It sounds unlikely, but he's not denouncing it all at once. He trusts Dave to have the capacity to think at least some of the time. He had to fill this span of not telling him with something, after all.
He adds, "I'm not opposed to you taking a different route, you know. Even if you insist you 'just needed to do it' or however you're putting it for yourself, all I want is a heads up in a more timely fashion."
It's not said so much as an argument but a closing point, and this time he holds off the barrage of questions. He's asked the one, and he figures it will lead well enough.
no subject
The words spill out before he can manage to hold them back or present them as a joke and he can't help but cringe. He tries to mask it at least a little by turning and flopping backward onto Karkat's bed, looking blankly at the ceiling.
"Acknowledged. No promises." He says, like he won't take that into more careful consideration. He's just tired of disappointing people too, so why get their hopes up?
"I have no idea what to wear." Can they please talk about that and not the futility of everything. Let's talk about the pink suede suit or the checkers or something.
no subject
"Show me your ugly suits, then," he says with a motion to the chair. "Don't even pretend you haven't brought like half of them just to offend me with grossly inflated parodies of whatever 'fashion' is meant to be. I will call each and every one of them out, and you will be suitably chastised before the night is through, mark my words."
dave and luke
It's why Luke's here, just as the Capitol expects of him, instead of out in the park or in the training centre. There's not much to do before he arrives other than to read and reread the questions on the clipboard handed to him and take stock of the room he's in, instinctively acknowledging all escape routes. Even with its lavish touches - some lush, potted tropical plants, a shiny mahogany desk he chooses not to sit behind, paintings, and some important-looking shelves without a single book out of place, the room is still cold and unfriendly, not lived-in, like something straight off the page of a department store catalogue. But he hasn't been asked to judge interior design choices.
Luke stands from his chair when a dressed-to-the-nines Dave enters, meeting him halfway with the offer of a firm, comfortable handshake worthy of a job interview applicant. Only this time he's in the position of power, so to speak, even if his get-up of jeans and a flannel shirt doesn't suggest it.
"Hey there," His tone's neutral but not unkind. There's enough on the line for there to be enough pressure and he's not looking to make this more difficult for this tribute than it likely already is. "I'm Luke, an' I'll be one a' the people interviewin' you today. We can get started now or in a couple minutes, if you want. Jus' pull up a chair an' let me know when you're ready."
He nods, giving a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes before sitting back. One less person in the arena means one less potential threat to him and the others – but he still'd like some sense of this guy’s character before wrapping up their interview.
no subject
Dave's handshake has had practice in being here so long, but he's still not entirely smooth with the process. He jostles a little too fast and it's at least a small indication of his nerves at the moment.
"Dave." He cuts in quickly, nodding his head and urging himself to slow down before he blurts out walls and walls of unnecessary information to ease himself into the situation. For Dave, it's particularly difficult, so he thins his lips for a moment before drawing in what he imagines is a subtle breath. Be confident, asshole. You want to be an Escort.
"Now is good for me, if it's good for you. I figure if I rehearse it in my head one more time, it'll come out like some Freshman adaption of a Shakespeare production. You know?" He inclines his head to the side, pulling out a chair and placing himself in it, folding one leg over the other in what he hopes is as casual as it is professional. Business casual. Nailed it. "Fire away, I'm aiming for the lightning round."
no subject
“Well, s’nice to meet you, Dave.” Then he huffs a soft laugh at the joke, not expecting to under the circumstances. "A'right then."
If he senses any restlessness he politely refrains from pointing it out. Any sane, sound-minded person would be itching to escape the arenas and never look back. Clem had been denied her chance, for all the preparation they had done, but maybe there was hope for Nick. There had to be.
"So, cuttin' straight to the chase here..." He looks up from his clipboard, his expression thoughtful and patient, "Why're you lookin' to leave the Games?"
no subject
At least Luke's demeanor helped. If Dave knew better, he'd ask if he was a Teacher or a TA of some sort before his world went to shit. He has that disarming Southern Charm that reminds Dave of the parts of home that he finds himself missing more and more lately.
But even charm doesn't make these questions any easier. He still feels like a coward and a quitter, but he's here and he knows he's doing something with his chance. He needs to use it, he can't keep muddling though Arenas on courtesy.
"Well, I've been here well over a year. That's over seven Arenas I've participated in and, honestly? I'm not sure what more I can offer in them. Trust me, I am all about the entertainment business and being on TV has been a goal of mine for years and years, since I was watching sitcoms in my apartment in Texas as a sproglet. It just saddens me to think I'm not really utilizing my abilities because I'm floundering in Arenas. I've laughed, I've cried, I've accidentally murdered a few people and I've been murdered in turn. I think I have more potential outside of the Arenas that the Capitol deserves to know about." And there it is, he feels pretty disgusting for it. He can only hope Luke understands the necessity of laying it on a little.
no subject
There's a troubled knit to his brow at the thought. Dave says it so matter-of-factly, but he suspects this is as rehearsed as anything else out of his mouth today. Only those who seem well-adjusted - which is a nicer way of saying 'indifferent to senseless slaughter' - will have a place in the Capitol.
Luke has slogged through three arenas, each taking chunks out of him and leaving him hurting long after the fact; he can't imagine what he'd feel - if anything at all - after seven.
"So what you're sayin' is that you ain't realized your full potential yet." He nods, willing to play along. "...Y'know, I can agree with that. There's a whole world outside them Arenas that'll offer a wide range a' complex situations to challenge you and let you demonstrate your skills to your fullest advantage."
no subject
"In a sense. I think it's more like I haven't had the chance to realise it. It's like pushing a square peg through a round hole? You're gonna get the same sort of resolution every time it happens." He does, of course, try to mime the metaphor before he drops his hands and nods. "That's it. That's exactly what I'm saying. I mean, if you're an incredibly talented painter- that's great. But nobody should be making you the quarterback in the basketball team, right?"
no subject
He cocks his head, thinking his relaxed approach to posing questions might help him get a better feel for the kind of fellow Dave is. Little said thus far counts for much on that front, but he can’t fault him for that as it's the sort of filler the Capitol wants to hear. Fluff Nick would have to fall back on for his own shot at weaseling out of the arenas.
"You got a job in mind?"
no subject
This part is yet another difficult set up. He can almost envision these questions as hurdles and himself as a runner trying to keep up a decent pace through the tracks. Too fast and he could get tangled in the damn thing, too slow and it looks like he's playing it too safe.
Plus he can't help feeling like at least a little bit of a traitor when he admits where his interests are right now.
"Escorting, actually. I've been doing courses in my spare time, but I feel like all the first hand experience I have with The Games might do something for my viability too. I can offer something people who've never been a Tribute can't, right?" He gives his shoulders a slight shrug, inclining his head when he does as if hoping for some form of agreement.
no subject
"Yeah," He answers, though he's reserved in his agreement. "I think it'll give you a leg up. An Escort Tributes can relate to will keep 'em happy an' motivated."
Luke might not have the best bullshit detector at all times but he can sure churn out his own when the situation calls for it, and he's able to deliver this smoothly as if he's convinced, no flicker of emotion betraying his outwards calmness. Tributes weren't so easily appeased, and shared experiences didn't always make for a sympathetic relationship between people. Run-ins with many dangerous survivors at home is proof enough of that.
Only one hurdle left for Dave, but it might be the more difficult one.
"Some might say it's a pretty ambitious leap you're makin'." Luke keeps his own opinion out of it."So, what's your plan? How'll you adjust to the Capitol?"
no subject
"Hmm. I think that color would look better with silver buckles. When we're done here, go to the store and get a pair of those, too, just in case." She glances up at Dave as he walks in. She knew that interviewing this petitioner would stir something up in her, that she'd feel that pang of resentment that it's even an option for this brood when she had no choice but to be the winner of her Games, that it would war with her awareness that Dave's even younger than she was in her Games. But it hits her harder than she imagined to look at a face. Her eyes go all pupil, her blinking innocent and guileless, a bit of a surprised 'oh' between her lips as if she were just touched on the inside of her arm.
She knows already she'll be approving the petition, but Temple knows, as any Capitol climber does, the importance of procedure and appearances.
"Mr. Strider! Take a seat."
She smiles at him and gestures for him to sit on the pillow next to hers. A gesture directs the Avox to head to the fridge for Dave.
"Drink? I always find it's the best way to break the ice." She bats her lashes. "And you look like you need it."
no subject
In this moment, he doesn't regret going for the suit. She's dressed like she should be rubbing elbows with more important people and he's dressed like he's hoping to be a more important person. He's not sure what to make of the reaction, so his lips press together as he takes an almost sheepish approach toward her. It's only when she calls out his name that he realises he needs to square his shoulders and step with more confidence.
He nods obligingly in greeting and sits when she indicates for him to do so. "And here I thought it was hot air and pickaxes." The words roll off his tongue so effortlessly that he surprises himself, it makes him pause for a moment before he lifts the corner of his mouth as if he means to smile. "Juice, if it's not too much trouble. Any fruit, surprise me. I'm in a gambling mood." His heart says apple but his brain says requesting that specifically is childish.
"I hope it doesn't come off as a huge schmooze if I say it's cool to finally meet you personally." It is a schmooze, but he's hoping that using his own casual kind of wording will make it less structured and more easy.
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There's a bit of an awkwardness to the way she says 'nicely', because back home it would have been 'go nice together', and the Capitol's dialect and grammar still isn't perfectly absorbed. She keeps smiling at him, because friendliness is eighty percent of charm, and because he's got a little bit of awkward charisma himself. It's something that could be molded. He could become a Capitolite, she thinks, given time and an opportunity.
"Oh? I try not to cultivate too much of a reputation. I hope you haven't heard anything too sordid." She reaches over and shakes his hand. "Of course, your reputation precedes you, but I don't watch the Games that much these days so you'll forgive me if I ask you to introduce yourself a bit? Your file had quite a lot of reading."
By which Temple's not saying that she's borderline illiterate, although she is.
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So he'll just patiently await his nasty ass cider, only faintly aware of the awkwardness in her diction. He isn't precisely an expert on the nuances between a true Capitolite and a Districter, but he can already see that she's different from any other mentor he's met before.
"Nothing bad, I promise. Just the regular illustrious fanfare, I'm sure you're used to it. Nine is so close to Eight, we like to thrive off all the excitement you guys cultivate. All we have are tumbleweeds, which is pretty fitting, all things considered." Nobody can deny the fact that District Eight is one hell of a place to be, lately, either.
"Oh right, of course." Dave stumbles over the words, not because he's offended but simply because this is a particularly important part of the interview and he's already thrown. "Dave Strider. Sixteen. Originally from Texas, America, Earth. My Earth. Then I lived in space for about three years with some aliens. Trolls, they call them. I've been in Panem a year and I've been in seven Arenas so far, representing District Nine. If you know my name, it's probably because I had a brief creative stint with Celebrus with some art of mine." There. He thinks he might have mixed a relaxed approach with a professional one. Should he smile? His lips twitch. It's probably not a smile, but it's close enough. "Does that shed a little light on me?"
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Then Dave begins to tell her his story, a narrative that might be as crafted as hers is and which a Capitolite might not question, but Temple's idle frippery is a cover for a desperate, suspicious, rat-like core, instinctively skeptical even if she is benign. She watches him with a bland, vacant expression, a smile that can best be described as acquiescent or unspirited, but behind it the gears are turning. Seven Arenas, hell. He's so young, but Temple's been victimized by people younger than him.
It's the awkwardness that endears her, because once upon a time she was a terrified young woman too scared to answer Flickerman in full sentences. Sometimes she still is. She takes a shot of liquor off a tray from the Avox as it comes back with Dave's 'juice'.
"It does. Is it art, then, that you'll be helping Panem with? We have a merit program for Districters, you know, out in the fields, but I don't believe they ever take anyone on account of art. Mostly it's for science prodigies. How do you feel about the culture here?"
As far as she's concerned, assimilation is the most important part of becoming a Citizen.
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He explains it politely, choosing not to be thrown by the vacancy in her expression. He doesn't know if she's interested, he doesn't know if that will be a bad thing. There's a twist of worry that she'll reject him based entirely on a lack of entertainment, but the cider provides a momentary distraction. He takes it, acts as if he's about to sip and then pretends as if answering takes priority over drinking.
"Art is only a factor of what I'm hoping to bring. Entertainment encompasses most of what I'm interested in." And it ties in well, when he bastardizes stories he's heard about alternate versions of himself that happened to be lucky enough to grow up and live their lives. "Back in my world the closest thing we have to the Capitol is called Hollywood. It's all glitz and glamour, fitting in there is a sure sign you've made it big time. I always wanted to be a part of that, actually. We call it the All-American Dream." He drums his fingers on his bottom lip, barely aware of the fact that he's doing it. "Maybe I watched too much TV growing up? But I always wanted to be there. Right in the middle of it. Vibing on the creative energy. And I won't lie, there's a part of all of us that wants a life that's all about silk sheets and suits and having a reason to celebrate literally every day."
The scary part is, he's not sure just how much of that is a complete lie. He's pretty sure every person has a little part of them that would give anything to live in that bubble of assured luxury, given the chance. It isn't his intent, but it's a little too easy to tap into that urge.
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She listens to him extol the virtues of her new home (chosen, maybe, if her decision was considered between the Capitol and a coffin) with a dazzled smile on her face, nodding slightly from the chin. She doesn't understand the dream - no one from the Districts has the audacity to dream of coming to the Capitol - but she guzzles up his description of the Capitol as if she herself had a hand in making it the paradise it is today.
She fondles in the dark for a connection to this young man, not a reason to accept him because she already has, but a balm for the profound loneliness that glimmers from underneath her fashion and baubles. Temple reaches out like a plant with extending roots to people, trying to find something in common, always seeking kinship.
"I'm so glad you recognize that." She takes another drink of her alcohol and all but raises it to him. "So you want to be- a television personality? Oh, or are you trying to come on as a Stylist's assistant?"
She hopes he didn't write it in his petition, that she isn't betraying her ignorance here.
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A long white coat with a dark red blouse, a black pencil skirt, her hair in a bun and fake glasses perched on her face.
But the smile she offers him a little too wide, a little too bright. This is no professional.
"Exciting moment isn't it? Like every job interview you've ever had rolled together with every time you've been stuck on a sofa talking to your dates parents while she gets ready." She chuckles not even fully aware if he's experienced those things.
"Come on let's chat." She pushes the chair opposite her back with her foot under the table.
He really shouldn't have much to fear from her...right?
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Surprisingly, he's pretty comfortable with Harley. She's not a bad mentor, she could be a lot worse. Of all his interviewers, he probably feels the most relaxed, though he has to wonder whether having his Mentor interview him isn't counter-productive. He won't question it, he'll roll with it.
"Yeah, it's exactly like TV has lead me to believe situations like this should feel like. Luckily, I know every worst case scenario and I've taken great lengths to avoid any sitcom cliches." He sits down and pulls his chair forward, leveling an appraising look on her. "So long as you're willing to avoid the pitfalls of 90's comedy, I'm ready."
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"Aw, but those pitfalls are classics!" She teased with a wink and a grin before she twirled a stylus between her fingers and tapped on her tablet.
"But you're right let's get started. The sooner we have our witty repartee the sooner you can start your new life, which would involve doing what exactly? Have you already sorted out what kind of career you'll be pursuing as a citizen of the Capitol?"
She had to bite her tongue to keep from sounding extra pompous and stuffy when saying "Citizen of the Capitol". They were being recorded of course and she didn't want to come off like she wasn't taking this seriously.
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With that aside, he quirks an eyebrow at her so she knows he's being at least a little ironic with the whole no-nonsense cosplay he's donning here. Look at her, using the fancy words. She knows what she's doing.
"Well, I'm glad you asked that because it seems as good a time as any to admit that I've been taking courses in Escorting. I'm sure you know the lack of one has set our District back considerably in Arenas- not that you don't do a great job with what you have but let's be real, it's a disadvantage. I'm very interested in the role Escorts play in their teams." He feels just as stuffy and dirty having vomited all of that out sucky little spiel.
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"Thatta boy! And what a wonderful choice! You're absolutely right, Tributes need a dedicated escort. And being a former tribute yourself I think you are uniquely qualified to attend to the needs of the offworlders." She gushed for the tape that was recording every word. If he could barf up pleasantry so could she.
"But that does lead nicely into the next question too, gosh I'm good at this." She chuckled. "You ARE an offworlder after all. And some people who aren't aware of your particular skills at adaptation might wonder how you're gonna adapt to life in the big breadbasket! This is Capitol City after all if you can make it here...well you really wouldn't want to leave even though you could make it anywhere."
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The praise makes for a mix of pride in his conviction and irritation in his conviction. It's such a strange place to be, like he's lying down on a damn crosswalk or something. At least she's highlighting the important parts, and he can't even tell how much of that is play or sincere. She's good, maybe he has more to learn from his Mentor, but there's a thought for later.
"I dunno if you're supposed to say you're good, even if you are good. Kind of takes some of the cool from it." He says, like cool is her intent here. "It's like you say, I've got the first hand experience. I can work it from both angles. I know how to play the game on the inside and the out, I've got experiencing falling out my ass. It's like I've got an intolerance for the amount of knowledge I've got in me." He pauses, thinning his lips when he does. "Feel free to redact that to a nice little quote from me about how I've lived and breathed the games for a year. For seven Arenas. I think I have a few tricks up my sleeve."
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She made her notes appropriately with only some minor editorializing in his favor before winking at him.
"You've already danced around this last question in you're previous answers. But you know how these forms are. Gotta dot the T's and cross the I's." She teased. "So Mister Cool, stylish and stable, why have you decided to opt out of the games?"
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Cassian seems to be comfortable enough in it, though, as he looks up, a bright smile on his face as Dave appears. He's dressed for business, or at least, Capitolite business, in a white button up with a floral-print vest, and matching pants. It's pretty a pretty serious get up for him, and he feels pretty serious wearing it.
"Heeey! Look at you, aren't you fancy? If you get through this whole interview stuff, I'll tell you where the best places to buy suits and stuff like that are. There's this one store that takes a 3D scan of you, so that it has your very exact measurements." He drummed his fingers on his clipboard as he chattered, eventually gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit down, sit down! Oh, this is so exciting. I've never given anyone an interview before...! Usually, I get interviewed. Heh! I promise I won't give you the 3rd degree, though, alright?"
You know, in case Dave felt particularly threatened by Cassian.
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He just isn't really worried.
"Thanks." He says coolly, but he recognizes that being cold won't get him far. "I could use the help, to be honest. With Oceana out of the game I've been playing Russian roulette with my wardrobe in the hopes I look halfway presentable." He sits with a small nod, trying to ease himself away from rambling. He doesn't imagine Cassian would mind, all things considered, but he can veer into strange places. "But if a Stylist thinks I look decent, I might not be doomed after all." He waves a hand lazily. "I can take the heat, trust me. If anything is intimidating me it's the fact that I'm a big fan. I read your Celebrus interview and I was like- shit. This guy is gonna make all the other Districts look like fancy chimps in comparison."
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He speaks like he does with everyone, like he's divulging a secret between trusted friends. He giggles then, waving his had around at the praise in a fake show of modesty. Don't fall for it Dave, stroke his ego. "Oh, you're a flatterer! You'll do great in the Capitol. But thank you, you're a sweetheart." Despite his fake abashedness, he's clearly taken in by the compliments, puffing up a little bit. There's more than a little resemblance to a peacock, colorful feathers included.
"Okay, so...first question." He looks down at his notebook, bright pink and emblazoned with cartoon animals. "What made you decide that you didn't want to go in the arena anymore?" Unlike any tribute who would scoff at such a question, Cassian looks forward with a real, genuine curiosity. Like it's not completely obvious why he wouldn't want this, and anything he said would be a fascinating answer.
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"I guess times are a changing, right?" He adds that in so naturally, so seamlessly. He's great at this. Times are changing because now Tributes can do cool things too, it's genius. Flattery is an additional benefit, but he just needs to focus on keeping Cassian on track with the right angle here.
The ease with which Cassian can ask a question like that will never not make Dave's skin crawl, but he's at least adept at keeping his expression in check rather than succumbing to a memetic look of surprise. "Well, I've been in seven so far. You probably know I haven't won a single one, I think everyone knows I haven't won a single one. Not even close. Thing is, after seven times? I'm pretty sure I've shown everyone just how I handle aggressive survival situations. I think I have more to offer than that, I think that given the chance, I could flourish in a less.." Fucked up. Don't say fucked up. Don't. "Formulaic situation. Does that make sense?" Hopefully that didn't sound as condescending as it felt
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For a moment, all he does is silently stare, looking vaguely confused, and a little irate. The Games were far from formulaic, each one was unique, with different styles and challenges! Cassian could remember many individual ones off the top of his head. But after a moment, his eyes go back down, and he nods sympathetically. "I guess that makes sense. It seems like...the odds really aren't in your favor." At this hilarious joke, he giggles, and whatever tension there was seems to dissipate.
"Alright, then. What are you planning on doing in the Capitol, then?" Cassian continues earnestly, leaning forward again. "If you don't know, I can just put something down, and then send some questions along the grapevine. I bet we could get you a pretty fun job! I'm sure no one would even mind, minds change about careers all the time!" It's a nice enough offer, as if that moment of tension hadn't even happened. No need to dwell on the strange things that tributes say, sometimes, after all. Maybe they took a few too many blows to the head in the last arena.
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Especially not because it's Dave. He got in the car with the kid on pretty much his first time driving, when he was being taught by Tony, there's no way he's going to turn down his petition.
He looks up when Dave enters, raising his eyebrows a little at the suit, then offers a small grin. "You'd think this counted as cheating, seeing as we're almost family, but I'm guessing the Capitol doesn't care much about nepotism."
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The noise he makes is something between a cough and a laugh, but it seems to shake off his confusion (and painful fanboyish convulsions) well enough for the moment. "I've learned by now that there are some things not worth questioning because questioning them runs the risk of making them less awesome." He'll smooth his jacket, just to emphasise that he is simultaneously calm and ever so fucking stylish. "Thanks for doing this all the same. I know you're practically my uncle and this kind of thing is just plain courtesy, but I appreciate it."
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He's so not buying Dave's super smooth act, but all right, yeah, he is looking pretty damn stylish. "Not a problem, man, it's not the first time I've done an interview like this. I figure you got reasons for wanting out of this."
Beyond the reasons they all want out of the arenas, of course.
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"Sure. I'm not surprised you're the kind of person who generously offers your ear for prattling about petitions. Hopefully I can make this interesting for you." And hopefully it's for the better and not for the worse. He'll take a seat, fold his hands together and sit upright with the caution and precision of a student awaiting the beginning of an exam. A student who thinks he gets points for posture, anyway.
"Lay it on me, dude. I've studied. If this is a pop quiz, I'm the needle."