The shocking and thrilling adventures!

[gamemakers]

Who| Everyone
What| The Capitols oh so exclusive interviews~!
Where| Primarily the common areas, but the interviews would be on every TV everywhere.
When| This evening, at 6 pm sharp
Notes| Use this post to ICly react to the interviews (if you don't make plans of your own!)

The advertisements hit hard today. Tune in at 6 o'clock, you won't want to miss this special! Everywhere a person could look, it was there, and the city was clearly excited for whatever this mystery event was.

As if that wasn't enough, escorts were encouraging Tributes to be in the commons, and a small feast of finger foods was laid out along one wall, extra avoxes available for drinks.

And, as promised, at 6 pm sharp, all the TVs flickered to the ever flashy Caesar, on an equally flashy tabloid-tastick reality style "interview" of the tributes. All the TVs in the common area light up with it, as well as the Districts suites, even if the TV had been off before.

Hope you all enjoy your dose of fame!

Comments

lounge?? perfectly willing to bullshit him elsewhere!

[lessthanelementary]

Neffa's more than used to rearranging his words into useful shapes for his own benefit; he's made a career out of it. To see himself on the screens, wearing a face someone else tacked together for him, is nauseating.

He stares at the screens as the nightmare goes on without him, his fingers slack around the stem of the wineglass in his hand. He feels sick. He couldn't have planned for this. It's wrong, it's the wrong face-- he wanted confidence, not bloodthirstiness, he's worked so hard to be not this and they've gone and ruined it--!

He tries to put on the look of neutral interest he brought in here with him, but he's too badly shaken. He half-rises from his chair, manages a hoarse, hollow "What--?" directed at no one in particular, looks helplessly around for someone, anyone, who will recognize him as him - what specific him matters little, so long as it's not the one on the screen.

[doesnotsew]

She's enjoying this more than most, if only because she doesn't come out of it saying anything incriminating-- her quote was more or less in context, and while she's sure other people's weren't, she's simply amused by the creativity of it all. She's not sure what the "posable joints" means, or what the one simple-minded boy was saying about honey and slicing, but she couldn't see any harm in any of it. This 'television' is certainly entertaining, isn't it?

But some people don't think so, and it was obvious enough. She reaches over to grab another piece of food, but her eyes slide to the side to catch Neffa's. "Eerie, seeing yourself, isn't it?" she asks casually, shifting over conspiratorially.

[lessthanelementary]

"Eerie," he agrees, shakily. He glances back at her briefly, but most of his attention is still turned toward the screens, which are now helpfully running the commercials again (at least he didn't turn up in any of those - seeing his face used to sell something, what an indignity). He can't bring himself to match her amusement. "They've given me... a great deal to live up to."

[doesnotsew]

She can understand, to an extent, why he'd be concerned. She can easily picture the situations where this technology would be disastrous; present one of these 'videos' to the Ironborn, show her (god forbid) living her life as the woman she was, and if she still had something to lose, she'd lose it in an instant. If he has some sense of something to lose here, then maybe he's lost it now; she's not a stranger to that easy banter he has, and she knows how useful a tool it could be.

"As though any in here believes that what was presented was true?" she asks conversationally, glancing about at the tributes in various stages of discomfort. She herself doesn't have that problem, as the meaning was more or less the same, and likely better for the purposes of getting gifts, but let the other tributes think what they will.

[lessthanelementary]

"What they think hardly matters." He takes a steadying sip from the wineglass; writes that off as a bad idea and sets it back down, closer to her, to take from if she wants it. "A lie's no danger to those who know it's a lie. It's the millions for whom that was a first impression."

He feels cheated, that's what it is. He can't change the fact of his involvement in the Games, but that he cannot even set the terms of his involvement-- something in him is crying out That's not fair!, as though the Capitol has breached some agreement, as though the circumstances of his upcoming murder are the fine print in a contract between them. Stupid, he knows-- but as it's his life on the line, he reserves the right to feel betrayed.

[doesnotsew]

She reaches over to take it in one smooth motion, sipping it as if it's hers and not putting it back on the table. This place could make wine, at least, she'll give it that.

"If that was their first impression, they haven't been paying attention-- or was your fight truly so miserable that no one was watching?" she prods. The idea doesn't sit with her well-- here she's recognized by her face, instead of by name or by sigil, and it's disorienting enough that it's not something she'll be forgetting anytime soon. People were always watching. They knew of her trouble with their magic 'technology,' of her kills, and they knew her enough to make a little miniature of her, apparently. "If so, now you're a man willing to kill if you have to, slightly mad and interesting, and now they'll be paying attention."

[lessthanelementary]

He lets the question about his "fight" slide by; he hopes to all the gods that's not what anyone remembers him for. He goes for flippant, and doesn't quite manage it. "I rather wish they'd consulted me first-- or at least let me know the part I've been cast in before shoving me out on stage."

He leans forward, all rapt attention, soliciting her advice; with a rather hopeless grin-- "What does a slightly-madman act like?"

[doesnotsew]

She gives him half a glance before proceeding, deciding to ignore the bit of falseness ringing in his tone rather than draw attention to it. It's important to him, for whatever reason, and why pick at that when there's family to be mocked?

"You're in luck, for I'm well familiar with madmen," she says, settling down comfortably on the arm of a couch with his wine. "The ones the people like best are either the religious or the ruthless. The former is a given as they've got their own followers ready and waiting without any work. The latter will do you well here, just unbalanced enough so you can't be counted on to know when to quit."

She takes another sip of the glass as she considers before adding. "It helps to cut out some tongues, I've seen."

[lessthanelementary]

Someday, Neffa thinks, he's going to have to ask Asha about where she comes from. I'm well familiar with madmen should have had a punchline attached, but there's something... not entirely ironic in her matter-of-factness; it's not the casual sarcasm of one purposefully presenting an absurdity, but the conversational tone of one for whom madmen are no longer absurd.

But it's not the time (and anyway he's wrong, he must be wrong) and so he allows it to be a joke, and laughs. "I suppose I should count myself lucky they didn't paint me as a priest," he says. "Tongues, though-- I shall have to make a note of that. Must I do anything with them afterward, or just cut them out?" You're the expert.

Her conversational tone is something to react to, and that's calming, for the moment - something on which to base himself, now the rug of his public persona has been torn out from under him.

[orestes]

He doesn't understand television, exactly, but the benefit to his lack of understanding of it is a complete acceptance of just what the Capitol is capable of accomplishing with it. Therefore, when people with whom he's acquainted appeared upon the screen spouting things that frankly, didn't seem at all like them, Enjolras had been perfectly willing to attribute it to the maliciousness of the Capitol and her government. Moreover, television might be beyond his time, but rhetoric and more importantly perhaps, propaganda certainly isn't. By the time the broadcast finished he felt stupid for listening to it, but not strongly indignant about any one topic presented. It's all equally benign and equally ridiculous.

As such, it comes as something of a surprise to him when Neffa's reaction turns so... Visible, if not violent. Even poorly constructed propaganda can undermine some people, it seems. "Did you believe that they were merely curious about our opinions, my friend?"

[lessthanelementary]

Television, Neffa had been fairly certain he'd had a grasp on. Seeing his own face on a screen had ceased to bother him overmuch. This was something else altogether - this was an image of him constructed independently of his own wishes, and that was power it made him sick to see in the Capitol's hands.

"I rather thought I'd be allowed to decide what my opinions looked like, friend," he replies, too sharply, without giving himself his usual half-second to think about the answer. The last thing he wants to deal with is the idea that he should have seen this coming-- that he's the one at fault for this.

[orestes]

The harshness of the retort isn't exactly phasing to Enjolras. It isn't upsetting alone, in fact. He'd been aware of the flippancy in his tone and the reactions that could stem from it. Thus, instead of reaction to Neffa's reaction, he levels the other man with an appeasing look that's just a breath away from condescension. His tone, however, is all superiority, backed by his seemingly intrinsic confidence of in the right.

"You thought that a government which would rather dictate rations based on arbitrary death Games than assess the needs of its people would be considerate of your wishes. Further, you thought this after they have already killed you once." Enjolras' rich voice is flat, presenting his argument with no need for the incredulity implied in the words themselves.

[lessthanelementary]

"Mercy is a foolish hope, but I didn't think a little competence would be too much to ask for." He manages not to match the condescension in Enjolras' tone with an effort of will, but neither does he make explicitly clear whose incompetence he's referring to. "If they've truly been watching as closely as they claim to, they'd have recognized by now that I am infinitely better at being myself than they are at presenting me."

It certainly isn't going to be the Capitol that deals with the fallout from this. The Sponsors he's already won, the other Tributes, they know as well as he does how false a picture has been painted of him, but that won't help him in the Arena, where his choice will be between pleasing the Tributes out to murder him and the invisible audience who might save him. He might be a man of many faces, but he can only wear one at a time, and the freedom to choose it himself is the last right he will ever relinquish.

[orestes]

"Perhaps they feel themselves better judges of character." It's all Enjolras can do not to scoff outright at Neffa's statements. Mercy, competence, and presentation were all relatives here, as far as he could bother to be concerned over it. The Capitol is competent, clearly, in promoting the images it wants to promote to its people. They are merciful in that their precious and esteemed Tributes live in luxury before being forced to murder each other. If the Capitol isn't satisfied with what you are saying on your own, it's of little surprise to Enjolras that they should choose to correct it one way or another. One genuine person has the potential to promote a genuine idea and such things are dangerous to a government which would rather its people not think at all.

Unable to contain his bitter amusement any further, his expression breaks slightly, stance shifting to reflect his adversarial position. "Will you attempt to correct their misinformation, Monsieur? Please believe me when I say that I would encourage such efforts."

[lessthanelementary]

Given time, Neffa might have been able to cope with this gracefully. Had he seen the broadcast from the privacy of the District 7 suites, had he been given half an hour to pace his room, to curse his panic out at the deaf walls and come down wearing a calmer face, he might have been able to let Enjolras' tone go by him. As it is, even the hint of belligerence in Enjolras' stance gets under his skin like ant bites, and he can't keep his mouth closed.

"Certainly I'll complain to the management, if you encourage it," he says, all friendliness, but a shade too quickly. "Please believe me when I say that your segment quite persuaded me-- Were circumstances otherwise, you could make a living selling-- what is it-- insurance?" His smile was bright and genuine, and it does not touch his voice. "I particularly liked the part about freedom." Clearly, they've been playing close attention to you.

[orestes]

"I particularly liked the part where our captors disregarded the intent of my discourse in favor of their own agendas." Enjolras parrots the turn of phrase back just as quickly, though not without breaking his own pleasantly guarded expression. There's an art to debate, to combative rhetoric, to trying to make your opponent break faster, and he is entirely confident, nay, comfortable in his capabilities here. "Which is, no doubt, what they will do to any further attempts you might make to reason with them. However, naturally I should like to see what results you might come to."

And that, at least, isn't hyperbole or any other form of indirect lie or taunt. Enjolras has little doubt that the Capitol would continue to abuse their worlds to its own advantage, but if Neffa were truly intent on attempting to fix things for himself, monitoring his actions could provide valuable information. "Perhaps your mentors would have something to say on the subject."

[lessthanelementary]

"An inspired notion. Shall I bring you back a full report?" He spreads his hands, smiles with teeth, aggressively courteous. "I could take it down for you-- even record it, if you'd prefer!"

He has no intention of doing anything of the kind - or of complaining to the Capitol at all, as he knows as well as Enjolras how that would end. But he's embarrassed about his slip in control, still furious at the face on the screens, and that Enjolras should even think he would complain to the Capitol about his image makes him feel stupid. Getting the last word on Enjolras will feel like a victory - a petty one, to be sure, but a victory nonetheless. "Shall I bring along a message from you, as well? Or perhaps you'd like to tell me how best to phrase my argument."

[doc_holi]

It seemed like the Capitol was not only trying to get them publicized more, but also wanted to upset them from the inside out, which she could have easily guessed that much.

Watching it begin to happen was a totally different story.

"Don't listen to them," she said from her seat, still looking at the TV.

[lessthanelementary]

A biting reply almost escaped him, and it was only the part of him still clinging desperately to a facade of calmness that kept it in. He managed to address Holiday with something resembling politeness, though friendliness was too much to ask.

"Whether I listen to them has little to do with it." He was trying to stay calm, to quell the sick feeling of anger and fear rising in his stomach. "I can hardly prevent the entire Capitol listening to them, can I?"

[doc_holi]

She nearly glared at him. "Do you care so badly what those people think of you? Actions speak louder than words. If you want the smart people, the ones that matter, to know what kind of person you are, then show them in the arena. There's only so much editing the Capitol can do to you."

[lessthanelementary]

It's the principle of the thing!, he wanted to shout at her. He'd followed all their rules, he'd kissed the Sponsors' feet, he'd crafted a face that was equal parts sympathetic and ruthless, enamored of the Capitol and wistfully gazing toward home, fearful and desperate and witty and warm and useable, and without so much as a warning they'd thrown it out and replaced it with this-- a cold, merciless, single-faceted version of himself, that he was already terrifyingly certain he could not live up to.

The effort to keep his composure was near superhuman, but he managed it. Somehow. "--Rebecca Holiday, it was, yes?" He leaned forward. "There are weeks left until the Arena, in which it can be safely assumed that that interview will be playing on every screen in the Capitol. In the minds of those watching, we are what we appear to be on those screens." Truth was relative, it was always relative. "The Games are nothing without their audience. What those people think of me could well save my life."

[doc_holi]

Did he think the sponsors cared if he played by their rules or not? He was a piece of meat to them just like the rest of the tributes.

"And what if it does?" She leaned forward as well. "Say you do kill us all. Say you do win and become the victor, what then? What are you going to do? Be relieved that you no longer have to go back into the arena unless they tell you otherwise? Try to use your status to change the minds of people who has been conditioned to think this was fun for generations? Go home? You're as dead as the rest of us, Neffa, and don't think that the way idiots perceive you is going to change that. Even the people who want to win through killing as many possible know that much."

[lessthanelementary]

Neffa flinched.

It was an involuntary reaction, and it spoke for the rising fear curling in his stomach, the little voice in the back of his mind whimpering oh gods, oh gods, the one he'd only managed to quell in the past weeks with the illusion that he was going somewhere - that, with proper planning, with the correct allies and the right face, he could find a place separate from the misery of the rest of the pack. Truth was relative, but Holiday's words were a deeper, crueler truth-- one that was entirely out of his hands.

"I beg to differ. You're all playing by the wrong rules," he finally managed to say. He was beyond hiding the furious tremor in his voice. "So long as there are degrees of dead, I will strive to be less dead than the rest of you. And in so doing, I will have won."

Winning by their rules was still winning. He had to believe that. Am 14.06.2013 00:36 schrieb "doc_holi - DW Comment" <dw_null@dreamwidth.org</p>

[doc_holi]

Less dead than the rest of them. She didn't believe that he was the kind of person that they portrayed on the screens, but just as their manipulations was making them fight among themselves, it was also simultaneously creating those personas from the inside out.

"Winning by being the one that's least dead out of your peers." She allowed the words to sit for a moment, thinking on her final say. "That's not winning... Not unless you're like them."

The only way to win, to truly win, was to perform a successful rebellion of the government and then allow freedom to everyone from all oppression like this. She knew the districts outside of the walls were no better off than the tributes were and looking out for number one wasn't going to gain anyone a win here. The gamemakers designed the rules for the tributes to always lose and she knew it.

[lessthanelementary]

"I had no intention of being like them. But it's become clear to me that that is not my choice to make." There was a bitter twist to his mouth.

The measure by which victors were chosen here had more to them than a headcount. Victory in the Arena on its own was trifling-- the real question was, who could impress the Capitol the most while giving up the least? Who could keep the most precious memories of their home world out of the screens' clutches with the greatest success? Who could sell them the most excitement for the least actual fear?

Rebellion was a beautiful idea, but unsafe and uncertain. The rules were the Capitol's, and there was no way to play but within them - the only choice they were given was the face they brought to the chessboard. It was the loss of that choice that had the panic still sitting sharp and heavy in Neffa's chest.