Stephanus "Stephen" Reagan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
capitolprivilege) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2016-03-22 06:12 pm
capitolprivilege) wrote in thecapitol2016-03-22 06:12 pm
open!
Who| Stephen Reagan and anyone
What| Business and pleasure as usual on the home front
Where| The office of the undersecretary of the Minister of the Future, and also a cafe
When| As backdated as you like, honestly; Stephen's habits haven't changed much over the past few months. Basically, the new year to just after the propo he was in goes live.
Warnings/Notes| Stephen Reagan being disgustingly bigoted.
A:
Stephen Reagan's desk isn't fancy or expansive, but that's all right. He's not sure what he would keep in it, anyway; all his files and all his schedules and all his messages are all done electronically, over the tablet that never seems to leave his side these days. It's more of a workstation than a desk, letting Stephen hook his tablet into its socket and spread electronic copies of forms and documents over the smooth white surface in front of him. It's out of the way, sheltered from the view of passersby by a half-wall, and generally, it's pretty quiet. Stephen's reading with pursed lips, looking over the morning's minor catastrophes, tapping his stylus against the desk as he debates whether or not this needs Ms. Dolar's attention. His suit is clean and neat and well-cut, his makeup subtle, all glitter kept to a minimum. He looks youthful but sober.
B:
It's nice to have a job that, by and large, ends in the evening. Sure, Stephen's taken work home a few times, and sometimes he's got to field things that come up unexpectedly, but it's not the same kind of twenty-four-seven being an Escort was. There's nothing on his plate today that can't be done tomorrow morning, so Stephen, still in the suit he wore to work, is sitting with a glass of wine on the patio of a cafe, watching the sun go down behind the Capitol's glittering cityscape, taking time to relax. In some moments, it's hard to believe the Capitol is really at war. Of course, Stephen never doubts the reality of it for a second, but shouldn't peaceful moments like this be impossible with Panem tearing itself apart? It doesn't seem right to him. His feet are stretched in front of him and his elbow is leaned over the back of the chair. He watches the passersby, alone at his table, separated from the street only by a thin wrought-iron fence that's barely waist height.
What| Business and pleasure as usual on the home front
Where| The office of the undersecretary of the Minister of the Future, and also a cafe
When| As backdated as you like, honestly; Stephen's habits haven't changed much over the past few months. Basically, the new year to just after the propo he was in goes live.
Warnings/Notes| Stephen Reagan being disgustingly bigoted.
A:
Stephen Reagan's desk isn't fancy or expansive, but that's all right. He's not sure what he would keep in it, anyway; all his files and all his schedules and all his messages are all done electronically, over the tablet that never seems to leave his side these days. It's more of a workstation than a desk, letting Stephen hook his tablet into its socket and spread electronic copies of forms and documents over the smooth white surface in front of him. It's out of the way, sheltered from the view of passersby by a half-wall, and generally, it's pretty quiet. Stephen's reading with pursed lips, looking over the morning's minor catastrophes, tapping his stylus against the desk as he debates whether or not this needs Ms. Dolar's attention. His suit is clean and neat and well-cut, his makeup subtle, all glitter kept to a minimum. He looks youthful but sober.
B:
It's nice to have a job that, by and large, ends in the evening. Sure, Stephen's taken work home a few times, and sometimes he's got to field things that come up unexpectedly, but it's not the same kind of twenty-four-seven being an Escort was. There's nothing on his plate today that can't be done tomorrow morning, so Stephen, still in the suit he wore to work, is sitting with a glass of wine on the patio of a cafe, watching the sun go down behind the Capitol's glittering cityscape, taking time to relax. In some moments, it's hard to believe the Capitol is really at war. Of course, Stephen never doubts the reality of it for a second, but shouldn't peaceful moments like this be impossible with Panem tearing itself apart? It doesn't seem right to him. His feet are stretched in front of him and his elbow is leaned over the back of the chair. He watches the passersby, alone at his table, separated from the street only by a thin wrought-iron fence that's barely waist height.
no subject
That's a girl who's alone, he thinks -- or, if not alone, certainly lonely. The two aren't always the same. She's lost her only family here, she's lost her energy, and she's desperate enough for someone to talk to that she's approached a Capitolite.
It's a hard thing to watch, and an even harder thing to watch impassively. He takes a deep drink. Anna, he thinks, putting the name in his memory. If he's ever in a better position than this to do it, Stephen promises himself, he's going to do something to help her, to make up for what she's feeling now. It won't always be like this. He won't always be hiding. He'll be able to do something. He will. Stephen has to believe that. The only thing worse than what he just did would be doing it for nothing.