thecapitol | [closed to D1 and backdated]

Entry tags:

[closed to D1 and backdated]

Who| Giles and District One tributes.
What| A very backdated intro! A chance for Giles to meet his tributes before they go into the arena.
Where| District One suites.
When| The day before the arena, during lockdown, before the execution (or after, if you prefer!)
Warnings/Notes| N/A.

District One has no shortage of victors; it has no shortage of willing mentors, as a result. So it's no particular surprise that Giles hasn't met the new Tributes, hasn't yet been brought on for this endless season. They might've glimpsed him on television or in tabloids, the name Ripper and an acoustic guitar-- but he's not to be found around the Training Center. Not until the day of the bombing, and everyone herded onto their proper floors.

Just his luck, naturally. To arrive the same day that swarms of Peacekeepers do.

Giles keeps mostly to himself, or means to, but curiosity and concern drive him forward. He winds up in the common area, to face his new Tributes: to see that they're all present, as safe and sane as can be expected. To make the necessary introductions, begin seeking out the flaws to bury and strengths to play up. A mentor's job requires observation, strategy, to a degree not often appreciated -- and this, he knows, is not District One's usual contribution of ready killers. When he first appears in the doorway, he pauses a moment just to take in the jumble of people around the room.

He barely resembles the likes of Cashmere or Gloss; simple clothes, quiet presence, glasses. He could be mistaken for a tribute, if you haven't caught his face on a screen already.

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Howard makes that mistake, at least, at first. He's still relatively stunned by receiving a cuff, and as such it seems like his observational skills are blunted, like he's looking at the world through steamed-up glass or like information is trickling into his mind in slow motion. Bottlenecked. That's the term he's thinking of.

He sits on the couch, looking small and nervous and jumpy for a while, until he finally decides to stop sitting there in a daze and start doing productive things. He doesn't know what those are, exactly, but it might start with feeling out the new people in his suite. He stands up. His fingers clench and curl around the sleeves of his jacket, overlong on his arms because he still refuses to let his stylists dress him in children's sizes. His eyes scan the corners of the room; his tongue sits as a little bit of padding between his teeth, pressured, ready to talk or bite down.

He tilts his head at Giles like a bird, curious, and sits back on the edge of the couch again, rubbing his new cuff in his hand. "You're new. There aren't enough rooms left in this District, so either you're not a Tribute or they're going to Big Brother up our rooms and see how much roommate drama they can wring out of the Games."

Giles sees him, small and fidgeting and alone, half a minute before Howard moves to stand. Quiet and uncertain on a corner of the couch. He ought to go over to him, make a proper introduction, make clear that he has new support in facing the oncoming Games-- but he is shaken, too. Giles wears no cuff, but he watched the broadcast alongside everyone else, must think on the words traitor and guest. A foreign Tribute, bombing the Capitol. It's unthinkable and quietly fascinating. Horrific. As a general term for the situation.

So he hesitates, all attention turned inward, for too long. He only looks to Howard again once the boy's eyes are on him.

"It's... the former, rest assured." He moves closer, hands in his pockets, standing straight. The expression he wears is tired, but friendly. "I won my Games some time ago. I'm here now as a Mentor."

Howard's quite glad Giles doesn't try to get a handshake out of him. Howard's still having difficulties parsing benign contact from threats, hugs from chokeholds, handshakes from punches. He unconsciously mimics Giles, hands parking in his pockets, fingers rolling over a stray thread on the inside of the fabric.

"We actually get a Mentor now?" He's vaguely surprised. District One, himself exempted, seemed to be doing alright on its own. The last Mentor had gone on vacation (Howard suspects to a dungeon somewhere, knowing this place) before Howard got out of his first Arena.

He's not altogether sure he likes the idea of a Mentor. It sounds like a trap, to him, some Capitol scheme to get him to rely on sage advice only for it to be hilariously proven wrong on camera.

"When do we lay ground rules about this mentor-mentee thing?" Howard figures he shouldn't even bother with the rest of the conversation until they figure that out.

"It seems so." Giles can offer no details of that story; he has more power, more freedom, than a Tribute, but that's saying next to nothing. He only knows the state of District One now, and that he's supposed to guide it towards victory. See his Tributes through.

"My job is to prepare you for the arena as best I can, and keep you alive once you're in it." His expression intends honesty; Giles wants to be believed, wants to help. With his previous charges, there was no question of whether or not to trust one's Mentor. Whether to listen wasn't always the same, but even so. "I organize the contributions of Sponsors, arrange for the delivery of gifts, in the arena-- medicine, food. For that, you must be presented as someone Sponsors would willingly bet on."

"I offer advice, not orders. The arrangement is intended for your benefit." He sounds, at least, genuine. But: a hesitation, and his eyes flicker to the cuff on Howard's wrist. Something quiet returns to Giles' expression: uncertainty, worry. "Given... what happened today, my greatest concern is that you take care not to do anything... too terribly rebellious."

"I know what your job is." Howard's demeanor reeks of being unimpressed, but more than that - guarded. Hostile due not to aggression but paranoia. His shoulders are hunched and he rocks his spine slightly, swaying back and forth an inch on the armrest, like a middle-schooler in front of a principal. He doesn't trust sincerity so much as he trusts transparency; Giles reminds him of a counselor. "But our last Mentor was pretty hands off, so obviously you guys get some wiggle room about how involved you're going to be."

He wonders how Giles won, if he was reliant on Sponsors, if it was a slug-out that lasted weeks or one of those Arenas that takes five days because of the elements.

He fidgets with the cuff again. "And I stole a boat. That's it. I'm not a Rebel. I'm not stupid. The Capitol has it out for me, but just about everyone does, because apparently I'm not too likable."

His back is turned to the others, hands tucked in his pockets, facing whatever window provides enough distraction with a quiet, difficult to read expression on his features. If Giles wishes to talk to him, he will have to catch his attention properly.

That, he can do. It is his job, his duty, what is expected. Giles knows a little of his Tributes already; he has been watching the Games. (And there is a truly absurd statement, because no one doesn't watch the Games; viewing is mandatory. Avoidance is not, has never been, an option, aside the nights he attempts to dull the display with whiskey. Which are regrettably frequent.)

So he knows of Hyperion. As a citizen of Panem, not as a mentor, not yet. But enough to know that this man can play, and kill, and that his task is to carry him through to victory. He approaches, quietly.

"Have you found anything of interest in the view?"

His hands are clasped together, kept behind his back, straightened and squared, as though he were expecting someone of importance to address him there and then. Something in his eyes expresses a kind of relaxation no subject should carry, however. Something in his eyes always expresses some kind of a dare to whomever their attention is directed.

Hyperion is quiet for the moments following the question, scanning Giles' features, his stance, taking in the sound and tone of his voice.

"No."

A simple answer. He sees no need for more.

"I was waiting for you."

Eddie's only been here for a short while, but has made himself at home, lounging on a side of the couch, reading and taking notes, mostly quiet, occasionally humming to himself.

When Giles arrives, he looks up and smiles, relaxed. Everyone here is new to him, but it's obvious this fellow's here for introductions.

Giles is hardly new, but this man seems several times more at ease than he is; he takes in the book and notes with immediate, honest interest. The smile of greeting is unexpected, but not unwelcome, and Eddie gets a small edge of one in return. He makes his way over.

"Hello-- you're one of our new arrivals, I expect?" He offers a hand, a hint more of smile, tired but polite. "Rupert Giles. I'm one of the Mentors of District One."

He glances back from Giles to his book - it's something flashy and touristy, not exactly heavy reading material - notes the page number, and shuts it, then sets it aside. He gathers up his notes, squares off the sheets by tapping the few sheets on his knee, and puts those aside, too. Then he'll stand and accept the handshake, keeping that easy smile.

The notes, even if they have anything to do with his reading material, are a jumble. A meticulously ordered jumble of letters in rows and columns, to what end, who knows?

"Rupert Giles. My name is Edward Nygma." When the handshake's done, he keeps his hands up, gesturing as he talks. "I'm glad you're here." Fingers spread wide, then a pinching with his thumb and index finger. "I've been told a little, but nothing about District One. Are you from our district, or are you here in proxy?"

It's a novelty, nearly, to have a friendly and animated Tribute. Giles is accustomed to prideful, cool-headed Careers; barring that, what he's seen on television has him growing accustomed to uncertain and unprepared foreigners.

He feels slightly more hopeful than usual, given someone who reads and takes notes in his spare time.

"Ah, no, I'm from the District." His polite half-smile brightens into something more genuine, interested, pleased to be asked for information. It's one of the few things he thinks himself honestly able to provide. "And I'd be glad to explain what I can. Is there anything in particular you'd like to know?"

He doesn't need a genuine smile to encourage him to carry on with the niceties, but it's good to see the fellow is happier when offering information. That's a pleasant surprise.

"Well, thank you, that's a breath of fresh air." He motions back to the couch, seeing if Giles wants to sit before deciding to return to his seat or stay here.

"There are plenty of particulars, but to start, what I'd like to know is: what role do the districts play now that we've been brought here? Do they have expectations of us or interest in us, or are we primarily the Capitol's concern?"

Atticus is actually pretty used to being stuck indoors for prolonged periods of time. Usually, though, it's by choice. (Or necessity. He's had some concert preps that felt like they lasted for days.)

He's not entirely sure he likes being stuck here with no other options. He's learning, though, that there's not a lot he can do about things like that.

New tributes seem to come and go quite often--he certainly doesn't know everybody representing District One by more than sight--but the man at the door is definitely new-ish, so he puts on a friendly smile and gives him a wave.

They're all in the same boat, after all. Mostly.

It's a surprise, the smile. The openness. Giles is vividly aware that this is not District One's usual lot, nor any District's; not children of the age he's used to managing, but it makes them seem all the more foreign and alone, for that.

He nods to Atticus, not unfriendly, and goes to join him-- fingers on his glasses, fidgeting absently as he does when he's markedly tired, or uncomfortable, or working through his thoughts. A mix of the three, now. Giles still moves about the room more comfortably than most newcomers would.

"You seem to be holding up well." This entire situation is mad, he means to say, and How are you?

Atticus shrugs. "I guess?" When Giles touches his glasses, Atticus' fingers automatically move to the bridge of his own nose, as if to push up the glasses he doesn't wear anymore.

(He keeps meaning to ask his stylist about that, to see if he could wear fake ones like he had been at home, to keep attention away from the bright, unnatural amber of his eyes.)

"I mean, we're all in this together, right? No point in freaking out."

The guy looks familiar, even though Atticus knows he hasn't been around before this. After meeting Kirk and Glinda, though, he's wondering if he looks familiar for another reason all together.

Giles drops his head slightly, takes on an edge of a wry smile; tired, bordering something like apologetic.

"So to speak. I'm not one of those who'll be in the arena." In case that was misunderstood; the extra clarity can do no harm. He offers a hand to shake, then, steadily. "Rupert Giles. I'm to be your mentor."

He's utterly unaware of the kind of familiarity this might bring; he knows only as much about these Tributes as he's seen on a television screen, and expects the reverse to be true. If even that -- after all, he's spent the past several years staying determinedly out of the spotlight. Only so much patience for the cameras, the questions, the long-ago death of his privacy.

To be fair, Atticus only knows as much about Giles as he's seen on a television screen as well. Just a different screen.

And a different Giles.

"Rupert Giles? Like...Giles Giles? Like Buffy's Giles?" Atticus asks as he shakes the offered hand. (His own grip is firm and just a little too warm.)

"You must have won before I got here. I don't remember seeing you on the videos." He's only been watching the ones of the new Tributes, not quite curious enough about how things used to be to actually go back through the older records.

"I, ah-- I expect so." But his brows lift in confusion, simple and uncomprehending. District One has been responsible for all manner of strange names, but that's one he doesn't recognize. It sounds more like something the Capitol would invent. "Buffy, that was...?"

Some Escort or person of relative importance, some Sponsor or Capitol citizen, he expects. He would not forget one of the Tributes. He oughtn't admit to having no idea what he's known for, but other Tributes, he thinks, will understand any level of bafflement with the media.

"Some years ago. I'm a native of District One."

"Oh!"

Well, that was...not at all what he'd expected to hear. And weird. Way weirder than running into James Kirk at a cocktail party, and that was saying something. But it couldn't just be a coincidence, could it? I mean this guy looked just like Giles, and they had the same name. Though Atticus guessed it could be one of those coincidences on a scale of a roomful of monkeys typing the complete works of William Shakespeare. Infinite universes and all that, and wouldn't he just love to hash that out with his friends from home? What are the odds of there being a universe out there where Atticus Bell was actually a character played by an actor who looked just like him but had a totally different life?

All this was going through Atticus' head in the time it took him to frown contemplatively and run a hand through his out-of-control curls.

"Well...it's just...I mean, you look just like someone...from home. Sort of."

"Ah." His tone is that of the profoundly unconvinced. Giles regards him carefully, expression shadowed with confusion and the new edge of a frown. Atticus has completely lost him, now; he's aware that he's missing something distinctly important, but at the moment it's too vague and baffling to form a solid theory on.

Rupert Giles of District One is well-read, but he's not particularly familiar with any theories surrounding alternate universes or relevant magic. Magic has never remotely been a part of his world; only the Capitol, the Districts, the Games.

"And that would be... Buffy's Giles, as it were?"

"Yeah, it's..." He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. He's obviously not making much sense, but he's not entirely sure he'll make more by explaining.

"It's... a TV show? There's this character Rupert Giles, and he...looks just like you.

"Is that weird? To tell you that? It's kind of weird, isn't it?"

Karkat is waiting anxiously for the peacekeepers to just fucking let them go already. He's tired of being here, he wants to see Signless because he really fucking in need of being papped, and he's already been fucking marked, what else more do they have to do?

When he sees the new tribute he sighs and rolls his eyes. "We're full up on blocks," he says. "Unless they're going to give you mine, which if they were they could at least have waited until they let me out."

Giles doesn't take offense, but his gaze catches on Karkat, holds for a second too long-- he's not yet met a non-human Tribute, and has to stamp down his reflexive fascination. Honestly shaken by the broadcast, it's dulled his crisp responses, left him slightly staggering. His gaze flickers to the cuff on Karkat's wrist, and for a moment, his expression is caught by something like regret. Concern. A mingling of the two.

"No-- your room is quite safe." He has a suite of his own, one he's already very familiar with; this is not his first year as a mentor, for all that it feels that way, with the Games so radically changed. The arenas constant, Games unceasing-- and now the Capitol bombed, a foreign Tribute acting in defiance. Unprecedented. As with everything, this year. "I've no information on that, I'm afraid. How long this will last."

Because he isn't a Tribute. "Rupert Giles. My Games took place years ago-- I am here as a mentor."

Alpha's done his research. Although he focused on the Mentors who were actually present and therefore relevant, he's nothing if not thorough and he recognizes Giles as soon as he steps through the door, though he takes the chance to watch the man make his way around the room before approaching.

"So much excitement today, I can' barely stand it," he announces cheerfully, coming up besides Giles. "And now Rupert the Ripper himself, I was thinking we'd never meet."

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[closed to D1 and backdated]

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oh lord so late so sorry