thecapitol | So Heavy In Your Arms

Entry tags:

So Heavy In Your Arms

Who| Miss Gritta and you? (open prompts abound!)
What| The large purple princess has finished adjusting. Now she has to plan and prepare. And learn to handle the kind of psychological aggression that the Capitol has at the ready.
Where| Training Center, around the Capitol, and the District 7 suites.
When| After the credit card cutoff, before the mini-arena
Warnings/Notes| n/a, will update if needed

Around the Capitol

If it wasn't one thing here, it was another, Gritta was coming to learn. The constant alarming events and bad news made her long for the comparative stability of the Castle Terminal and the petty political bickering of Shadow Royalty. At least there, she was guaranteed to be both properly fed and treated with respect. But if it was to be sink or swim, she would swim. She would swim as hard as she could. Jason Compson had somehow proposed that she star in a children's show, of all things... but it wasn't all that bad, once she found herself in the studio and reciting morality lessons and signging songs with puppets. It hadn't gone to broadcast yet, but she was still compensated for her work, and that was what mattered. Couple that with an endorsement contract for decorative nail decals and she no longer had to panic about where her next meal was coming from.

For instance, her current meal was coming from this lovely cafe, where she was seated in the sunlight. Did sandwiches taste better in the sunshine? Was coffee more pleasant on a sunny day? She'd have to answer that one with a 'yes'. Zed's fixation with the wonders of the light made far better sense, now. Sitting here, right in this moment, things feel good. The darkness of this city was far away, as was the fear of pain and terror in an arena. She was a free young woman, earning her own way, answering only to herself. At least for the moment. She'll savor it, just as she savors her lunch. Down goes the last triangle of club sandwich, and as she chews, she considers ordering another. The only thing that would make the moment better would be company.

Training Center

The fear of pain and terror in the arena was, on the other hand, far closer when back in the Tribute Tower and put to work in the training center. Her protests did very little to prevent it from coming to this, dressed in dull monster-sized workout gear and made to run laps. The trainers had assessed her as ploddingly slow, and far too timid to make much use of any of the weapons, but they could at least work on her endurance. It is only the very sturdy construction of the training center that keeps the ground from shaking with her every footfall. It has only been one lap and a half and she is panting, miserable, and desperately wanting to stop, but they said they wanted five out of her before she'd be free to go, so she is going to try her very hardest to manage that. To fail would be unthinkable. She'll succeed out of spite, if nothing else.

She's at risk for plowing into someone, but at least she's not moving very fast. It likely won't hurt much.

District 7 Suites, post-exposé

It had been a quiet evening in the District 7 suites, and Gritta had been content to rest her sore limbs and watch a little television. She had even popped some of the popcorn she had purchased with her own money, and set it out for others to share. Let no one call her greedy and thoughtless. She's happy to chat with anyone that comes by or sits down or passes through, if they seem amenable to it. It's important to get to know as many people here as possible. She's still working out who would be an ally and who would be an enemy.

But popcorn and pleasant company is forgotten when the current show ends and a new exposé starts up. It's about her and Zed. Whatever minor fascination she feels about being the sudden center of attention shrivels and dies and becomes horrified can't-look-away shock once it really gets going. It paints her as a scheming villain, and Zed as a love-struck innocent. And the things it implies about her and General Schwarz...

To her credit, she makes it to the end of the broadcast before raising from her seat and fleeing for the safety of her room. She slams the door shut, crumples into a heap, and weeps noisily. It's all wrong, every bit of it. And now everyone will see her that way. Everyone will know the most private parts of her life, twisted up all horribly.

She'll be better come morning, probably. But for now, she's a mess, and needs to work through it. A knock on the door may or may not be disregarded, depending on who is doing the knocking.

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Linden's on call for District 6's Tributes, even though he's still a little ways from hale and hearty and ready to grab a weapon. That tends to be true ordinarily, though, so he's not that far out of commission, relatively speaking, and since none of his Tributes are down here at the moment, he's more or less wandering, taking occasional breaks by sitting on the machines and occasionally going back to the puzzle games he's long since mastered and breezing through all the difficulty levels.

He's turning away from his machine when a silhouette that blends well into the hulking shapes and forms of the Training Center's equipment bumps against his slight and insubstantial frame, almost bowling him over despite its slow, lumbering pace. For a second he thinks that an iron maiden-shaped storage unit for spears has been moved into him, but then he takes a closer look.

"...Gritta, District 7, with the... puppets?"

No impact is made, but it's almost made, and that's enough to get a dismayed "Oh!" out of Gritta and to make her stumble to a stop. She is immediately regretting stopping because now she's all the more aware of how sore her limbs are and how much her lungs are burning, and though she looks greatly apologetic and sad (which is mostly her natural expression) she cannot quite manage a proper answer.

"I... aah.... haaaah... yes. Yes, that's me, haaah..." She rests a hand delicately upon her chest and leans over slightly, so very, very winded. "I, I'm sorry!"

It's close, and fortunately she doesn't quite bowl into the scarecrow creature of a man that is District 6's Mentor. Even if she regrets stopping, he certainly doesn't.

There's so little delicate about Gritta, but Linden's eyes linger on her hand as she leans over.

"No, don't apologize," he says quickly. "No harm done. You're not... human, are you?"

He's curious, rather than repulsed. He's used to Offworlders not always wearing a familiar face, but Gritta's is certainly an interesting one.

"But I was... I almost hit you! I'm sorry." There, two apologies. No more than that. She'll have to resist the urge. It isn't fitting for a lady of her upbringing and stature to grovel. She straightens, breathes deeper, and slowly lets that hand drop away.

"I'm not human, that's right. I'm a Shadow Monster." She's not the least bit embarrassed to say it, and not terribly concerned about what his response might be. She is what she is, and people thus far have been accepting of it. Perhaps its easy to reach a strangeness saturation point in this place. "I take it there haven't been many of us here before...?"

"Please, you'd hardly be the first person to overlook me..." he jokes feebly. It's true that his body has changed pitifully little since he was a rangy teenager, and he's small for his sex and his age, standing at 5'10" but weighing a willowy 110 pounds. His eyes follow her as she straightens to her full height, and then her hand as it lowers.

His eyebrows raise when she describes herself as a monster; somehow, it's not what he expected. She's clearly that, of course, but it hardly seems like a flattering description, more like something frightened humans would call something unfamiliar and abnormal. He nods to confirm that he understands, and then that there haven't been many of her kind up until this point.

"As far as I know, you're the first," he admits. "Actually, when I first saw your silhouette, you startled me; I thought that you were one of the iron maidens. Even though I have seen you before... I enjoy your show... I suppose it's different in this dim lighting."

"No one should overlook you. That's impossibly rude. You're one of the mentors, aren't you?" Though his name is escaping her for the moment, his face is one that she can place. He's distinct in his smallness.

"Ah." She offers her own nod of understanding in kind. And just gently omits that Zed is technically one as well. He's sensitive about it, and she's kind enough to play along with him. No comment is offered on possibly mistaking her for an iron maiden (she's more marshmallow than iron, to be honest), but the rest gets a curious sound from her. "Oh? You're a fan? It's a children's show, but I do here there older fans as well. Either for the songs, or for the humor." Humor that she's often the butt of, but such is show business.

He nods quickly to confirm his identity. "Yes... I'm Linden Lockhearst. District 6. I won the 63rd Games." He's one native to Panem in other words, the sharp-featured, pale face with its dark hair and eyes very distinct to the "look" of his District. Unfortunately, his history as an addict contributes further to making him something of a stereotype for that District, but there. Offworlders tend not to know enough about it to make that joke.

"I'm actually a very big fan. I don't care that it's a show for children... it's gentle, and sometimes the heart asks for a little bit of gentleness and innocence in this world. You understand. So... while the songs and humor are fine, it's not the biggest draw for me."

"Oh, Mr. Lockhearst! Yes, right..." She nods quickly, being sure to commit the name to memory. It wouldn't do to be forgetful, having now met him. "That's an impressive accomplishment." She means to be nothing but complimentary and flattering. The finer details of what his district means, or even how he came by his victory elude her.

"Really?" She's quite flattered to hear that. It's surprisingly sweet an answer to hear from someone that belongs to this world. There's a little more warmth in her eyes and her voice, now. "I suppose everyone can use a pleasant diversion now and then. I'm happy that I can provide that." Hmm, she'll have to see if she can get him one of the stuffed toys, when they come out. Would he like that? She'll have to ask around.

The name has a ring to it; for as odd as some of them in Panem can get, it's about as memorable as Linden himself, which is to say it does rather stand out once it's noticed in the first place. "Thank you," he says, tone free of sarcasm or bite; when Offworlders say things of this ilk to him, he has little trouble accepting it graciously. It's not like the cheesy and insincere praise of Capitolites.

"Yes, really. It's not so hard to believe, is it, especially when you put it like that?" he asks, canting his head sidelong and offering a pale smile. "I know a boy who would enjoy your show; the next time I see him, I'll have to either ask him if he watches it or recommend it to his mother, who's a good friend of mine."

Gritta's not the only one affected by this expose, though Zed's own response is considerably different. He'd been getting something to drink in the District 1 suites when he saw it, and it was probably a minor miracle that he didn't spittake a mouthful of wine everywhere once he realized what was going on. This expose was so hilariously wrong that it was a work of art. Sure, he was weeping while he watched it, but that was more or less a function of laughing so hard that such things became unavoidable. Really, anyone in the District 1 suites likely would have heard the man's uncontrollable laughter and figured out that the expose wasn't what it seemed.

Some time later, after he'd composed himself enough not to take a drink and have it almost immediately propel itself out his nose thanks to the sheer force of his laughter, he realized that he should probably go check on Gritta. Probably. It was just the sort of thing that would upset someone as delicate as her.

Getting up to the District 7 suites was fun--by that point, everyone had to have figured out who he was trying to visit and why, a fact which threatened to have him lose his composure yet again several times on the way. At least it meant that no one really questioned why he was up there.

But right, right, Gritta...Gritta wouldn't be taking things nearly as well. Got to be serious. Zed sighs and composes himself before knocking on that door. "Oi, Gritta!" There is no need for him to announce himself any beyond that and a constant, incessant knocking. He's not planning on leaving any time soon.

Upon hearing Zed's voice, Gritta's wailing comes to a stop. She doesn't answer the door, no, but she's no longer vocalizing her anguish like she'd been a few moments before. He's there. Him. The hero of that awful story they made. All her troubles, given solid form and rolled in silk and sparkles. The knocking continues, and so does her silence, for almost an entire minute. Surely he'll go away on his own?

Surely?

"...go away!" There, that will have to do it. That should be enough.

"You saw the TV, then?" Oh, that's good, he doesn't even have to ask if she's seen it. "Wasn't it ridiculous?" And there he goes, trying not to laugh again at the memory of it.

...hey, no one ever said he was good at handling delicate situations.

"Come on, no one's going to believe that thing." It's ridiculous, everything is ridiculous, that she is not letting him inside is probably a bad sign.

"...go away!" Is he not listening? Of course he's not listening. It's not in his nature to listen, and she knows it. He'll never give up until he gets his way, he's awful, so awful.

"Of course they'll believe it! Why wouldn't they believe it?!" She shouldn't even be trying to engage him in a conversation, it won't end well, especially not shouted through a door, but maybe something will get through his skull. Or he'll give up out of frustration.

If Zed is to try the doorknob, he will find that the door is not locked. Gritta had forgotten to do so in all her hurry to isolate herself and cry.

Of course Zed tries the doorknob. It goes hand in hand with his failure to listen. "Well, it's not like you really act like that." He shrugs. "People can figure that out."

The moment she realizes that the door is opening and Zed is likely to step through, Gritta gasps and draws her hands up to her chest. Drat! Darn! Now she'll never get him to leave! "Aah...." She's only protesting helplessly for a moment, though. He is wrong, and needs to be told how wrong he is.

"No one will see how I really act! They'll only see me on the television! They'll only see the me that they think is real because that's the only one they show!"

"But they've showed you on the TV before," Zed points out, shrugging. He remains oblivious to much of her distress. "I've killed people in the Arena, it's not like they think I'm a murderer." And here, he's got to badly stifle a laugh, because no, they think he is a lovestruck fool, and everything is hilarious.

"Um...hi."

Well maybe not this company.

It's the little girl who had killed her in the arena, wearing a sun dress that looks like it's been made out of blue and yellow paint. It shone and shimmered and shifted with every motion.

"Mind if I sit?"

"...Hello." That is certainly not some expected company. She reflexively pulls her coffee cup closer, as though it would actually accomplish something defensive here. This is the girl that had shot her twice with a crossbow. Her request is something that she needs to take a few moments to seriously consider.

"You may." She is not making any effort to rise, pull out a chair, or make room for the girl, but she is willing to entertain a discussion. Most others didn't take what happened in the arena personally, apparently. She shouldn't strive to, either.

That's OK, Sandy wasn't expecting her to do any of those things. She was mostly glad that she didn't start screaming at her.

Taking a seat Sandy opened her mouth to speak but a waiter came by asking what she'd like. Fumbling and flustered she answered "Milk Tea?" And just like that he was gone again leaving a sputtering and out of her element Sandy in his wake.

"I um...I'm really sorry." she started in the most blunt and awkward way.

Gritta knows nervousness when she sees it. Genuine apology, she's not sure she can put her finger on so clearly... but Sandy is fearful enough that it's taking some of her own fear away. Had Zed really done such awful things to her...? Yes, she supposed that he did...

"It... was an accident, wasn't it?" Though she hadn't wanted to, she had caught glimpses of clips of her own death here and there. (It was so dramatic! The feathers! Zed's devotion!) It all seemed so strange and sudden. "You hadn't meant to do that... did you?"

Actually as far as deaths went, Zed's killing her didn't even make her personal top five most traumatic. At least death by Zed was a death where she went down fighting with her powers active. As for the most trumatic deaths, in order they were:

5. Being eaten alive in a cave by an Eel in the tropical island arena.
4. Being eaten alive by a zombie in the candy arena.
3. Being eaten alive by spiders in the theme park.
2. Having her faceplate shattered in the spaceport arena.

And the number one most traumatic death for her so far that she still has nightmares about...

1. hallucinogenic nightmare before being shot in the head in the mall.

Of course if you asked the Capitolites what her best deaths were there would always be some debate there. Back to the conversation at hand however she seemed relieved "Yes it was. With so many tributes in a single place I was already on edge...and I apologize that your appearance...I mistook you for one of the Capitol's creatures and I lost my nerve."

Then in a hushed voice she added "Normally I try to avoid killing tributes unless they come after me first."

Edited 2015-09-08 06:31 (UTC)

"That's... fair." Not very nice, not anything that made Gritta feel terribly good, but fair. She wasn't human. Shadows were frightening. "I should apologize, then, for the way Zed ended things for you. That couldn't have been pleasant."

There's a pause, then, as she lifts her coffee cup and has a sip. Her throat has gotten a little dry from tension, already. "You've been here for a long time, haven't you?"

She offered a sort of apologetic smile in return "You know the worst part about it? I really wanted to try and be the one to stop that stupid bell from ringing." But hey, dying in a rat filled catacomb because of a few quick slashes wasn't the most unpleasant experience she's had. There's another whole list there that we won't get into.

She nodes and takes a moment to count, using her fingers ticking off a few key points in time.

"Two years, eight months, ten arenas and two mini arenas." She declared taking up her tea that had appeared and draining the cup halfway, pinkie out trying to be as delicate and ladylike as she could be when discussing the weight of her last two years.

"I'm pretty sure there are still a couple people who have been here longer...I think they're mentors now."

"It was brave of you to try. It looked very dangerous in there. Other people died as well, didn't they?" Her sympathy only continues. Especially when Sandy counts off precisely how long she's been at this. She can't hold back an astonished gasp.

"Oh! That's... that's almost three years!" It's alarming on several levels. That this girl has probably died and suffered so many times, and that she could very well be set up to do the same. "...the ones that aren't mentors, that didn't win. Did they... simply not get brought back?" Did they die for real, is perhaps the actual question, here.

"Yeah...brave sure. And probably greedy too. When stuff like that happens the game makers are usually trying to trap us, but if you survive the trap you usually get a reward." A trick she had learned after her second arena.

She nodded at Gritta's Alarm, "They die in the arena and after a couple days the room they were using gets cleaned out. That's usually how you know they're gone." She explained. "So far as we know we get to keep getting brought back until the audience is bored with us or the Capitol is mad at us."

It was an existence she simply could not abide much more.

Firo enters the training center and soon forgets his plans to finally try and learn something from one of the plant-identification modules. He has no idea how long she's been at this, but he's willing to assume it's too long, given the way she looks. As much of a busybody as ever, there's just nothing he can do but go bug her about it.

"Uh, ma'am?" Well, he figures that's as good a way to address her as any. He's not sure how to gauge the age of a gigantic purple creature, so he thinks it's better to assume older than not.

He steps out onto the track in front of her, definitely a good idea, and tries to flag her down with a wave. "Maybe you should take a break? You don't look so good."

Gritta hadn't heard the young man calling out to her, for between the sound of blood rushing in her ears and all her gasping it was drowned out. But she did notice him jumping out in front of her, and she manages to stumble to a fretful stop in the nick of time.

"No, no..." She shakes her head vigorously, but can't manage more of an answer just yet. She has to catch her breath first. And no one has told her that doubling over and resting her hands on her knees is the worst possible way to do that, so that is exactly what she is doing.

Firo doesn't even think to get out of the way or to thank his lucky stars that he didn't just trip them both up.

"Just take a minute, okay?" Having not received much training in these things--never really seeing the need for it, either--Firo's not sure of what to tell her to help her out. She definitely looks like she needs it, but he resigns himself to being pretty useless there. So he just rests his hands on his hips and provides commentary. "Damn, they really work you hard, huh?"

"I... I shouldn't. I have so many more laps to do..." Her breath seems about ready to be caught, but she's remaining leaned over. She's tired, and it does sort of help in keeping her at eye level with the young man.

"My mentor has... has high expectations. Of all of us. And I... I do want to be ready! Aah, I do..."

"You won't be able to meet anybody's expectations if you collapse right here." Which is probably a doubly unpleasant thought, but Firo doesn't consider that in his bluntness.

He tilts his head as he peers into her face. "How many laps do you got left, anyway?"

"I... I suppose..." The young man has a point, and she does feel a little bit like collapsing. "Still! Aaah, still, I should finish, I should finish... I have three more." She does straighten a little when he peers at her. Oh, it's a little easier to breathe, now... and talk, too, now that she's moderately less winded.

"I'm in District 7. Compson.... Jason Compson. He's my mentor. He's strict." To say the least. She's keeping it understated, but anyone else is free to react more appropriately.

Firo scrunches up his nose as he thinks. The name's definitely familiar, though he doesn't think he's talked to the guy. "He's that jerk from the network, isn't he?"

Strict sounds like it's giving him credit, if Firo's thinking of their not-so-friendly lecturer. Anyone who has to put up with that guy deserves a bit of a break, Firo'd say. "Once you've got your breath back, I'll run 'em with you."

How that's going to help her stamina, he couldn't say, but it's all he can think of.

An envelope with a seal and stamp on it gets slapped down onto the table Gritta's eating at. Jason doesn't ask if it's alright to take a seat across from Gritta. He just does, slumping into the wrought-iron chair as if it were a recliner.

"There. Got you a check for eighteen minutes overtime for that kids' production."

He's back at work, now, after taking a week abruptly off to handle his mother's death, and he's stubbornly rebuked any attempt at help from the others on the Staff. As far as the official story goes, Jason's perfectly fine and there's nothing wrong, and if he's working overtime it's just because these damn Tributes can't manage on their own.

(There are small tells that he's more rattled than he lets on - he's been making small, absentminded mistakes with scheduling, sometimes referring to Tributes by the wrong names - but anyone who mentions these things is liable to get their head bitten off.)

But at least he's been putting that overtime to use, nickel-and-diming every contract his Tributes have so that they aren't shortchanged a single assi. Gritta's one of his prize pupils in terms of earning her spotlight; turns out that the producers for the children's program are foreseeing a craze of Gritta plushies for the fall season, and a sweets line wants to turn her into cotton candy.

"You're going to be the marshmallow in a breakfast cereal, by the way. I'm taking you over to sign the contract in an hour. I says you should be a raisin, instead, but I guess kids aren't into nutrition these days."

That certainly snaps her out of her reverie. And has her immediately reconsidering her decision to have another sandwich. She might well have earned enough to afford it, even without taking into account Jason doing some overtime on her overtime, but it seemed like an unwise show of weakness. Or something that might invite unpleasant comment from him. So she pulls her coffee cup closer, both hands wrapping around it to the point that it's engulfed, and prepares herself for battle. Of a sort.

"Thank you." That much is absolutely genuine. She gives a little nod in the direction of the envelope, but then puts her attention squarely back on him. "I see myself as more of a marshmallow... I can do that." It's undignified, but in a harmless sort of way. And who doesn't love marshmallows? She can already see the benefit of inspiring some love in the citizens of this place. "...as long as I don't have to get wet." And having said that, she lifts her coffee cup and has a careful sip.

"Well, we aren't going to be dunking you in milk. It takes forever to get out of clothing anyway. You'd smell sour for weeks." He flags down a waiter and orders some coffee. He looks like he needs it. He keeps rubbing at the bridge of his nose and pushing his glasses up like they don't fit right.

"Your line of plushes is flying off the shelves, and there are a few places that want licenses to use your image for children's juices and lunchboxes. I'm looking into the details of your non-compete with the cereal for that." The coffee arrives and he drinks it without tasting it, sputtering a bit at how hot it is. "How are you holding up?"

"It seems like a waste of milk, as well..." Gritta cannot find any flaws in his logic, and its not too insulting, so it's all taken in stride. She sips at her coffee while he orders one for himself. Perhaps he'll feel better after it arrives. (Perhaps that's hoping for a bit much.)

"Thank you for taking care of those details. I wouldn't even have known where to begin. Will they be using the pictures they've already done, or should I prepare for more photo shoots?" And no, it doesn't seem that the coffee is helping just yet... but maybe it just needs some time to kick in. "I've been quite well. And I could ask you the same thing. We've been giving you more trouble than normal, haven't we?" Which is not the entire truth here, as far as she can gauge. She certainly hasn't done anything abnormal and the others haven't been acting out. Or at least acting out any more than usual. But she's heard the official story, and is inclined to roll with it until she gets some definitive proof otherwise.

"You shouldn't strain yourself too far. We'd be in such trouble without you." And she is saying this all with a perfectly straight face and nothing but concern in her voice. She means it.

"No, no, it's not you," Jason says, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. "At least, no more than usual. It's just Mother's funeral expenses and-"

And grieving. With all the death in the Compson family they should all be well-versed in the art of mourning, but somehow Jason feels as if the whole world's turned upside down and he's trying to set it right while blind-folded. After the way he drops that sentence hangs too long in the air to be picked back up, he just tries to cover it by taking another drink of the too-hot coffee.

"Anyway. I think those are the only photoshoots we're going to need immediately. The rest of the campaign is supposed to use candids and stills, so do not leave the Tribute Center with any of your nail polish chipped or without your lipstick. You need to look entirely put together or I'm going to be the one doing damage control." Because, he says by implication, God knows Cassian can't.

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So Heavy In Your Arms

Training Center

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D7 Suites, who let him in

Some pointed questions will be asked later

good luck getting answers out of him

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Around the Capitol

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Training Center

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Around the Capitol

I have been looking forward to this

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