marcus greenstone (philistines) wrote in colosseum, @ 2014-04-02 21:59:00 |
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"All right," Marcus said, slouching back in the leather armchair and frowning at Aeneas, fingers steepled in front of him. "We tried cunning, arrogant, brutal, and dedicated, but I'm beginning to think Quince may have something with this return to reverence." It had been an unproductive two hours, and he was beginning to console himself with the thought that an inevitably high training score did make the interview process less important for District 2. The nearly empty glass to his left was serving as another, equally important, source of consolation. "Reverent and patriotic," Marcus repeated. It occurred to him, briefly, that the solemn, serious tribute in front of him was much better equipped than he was to understand the concept of reverence. His lips twitched. "Once again, pretend I'm Flickerman… We're extremely thrilled to have you here, Aeneas, yadda yadda yadda, we've seen a lot of excellent tributes from your District over the years." He leaned forward, fingers curling around the glass, ice clinking gently. "So what makes you different?" "Ummmmmmmm..." Aeneas's umms were a major problem, one he was aware of, but with the pressure on him, it was even harder not to fill the moment's hesitation before speaking with something. It didn't help that the first thought that popped into his head was 'I'm not dead.' He couldn't say that. The girl who'd scored a three wasn't dead, either, but that didn't mean she wouldn't be soon. In his hesitation he'd realized his eyes had gone to his shoes -- something else he wasn't supposed to do. He was supposed to look at Marcus, but that was hard to do when he could feel the criticism emanating off the victor. He made himself look up and, finally, give an answer. It was a practiced answer, a well ingrained one. "I'm not here for personal gain or glory. I'm here for honor and justice. Other tributes may fight hard for themselves, but I'm fighting for something bigger than just me." Then again, Aeneas knew that his answers weren't really the problem. It was everything surrounding them. "Not the shoes, remember," Marcus prompted again, suppressing a wince. "Look at me, or if that's too horrifying to consider, look straight ahead." He had watched his own old interview earlier in the afternoon -- theoretically for inspiration, but in reality, to appease his vanity. It had backfired, and Marcus had stopped halfway through, irritated and perturbed with his boastful, handsome sixteen-year-old self for reasons he couldn't quite articulate. Marcus sighed, setting the now-empty glass back on the coaster and spinning it idly. "Those were fine sentences, but you sound robotic, and I, as your hypothetical sponsor, am wincing at the thought of opening my wallet." He glanced back at Aeneas. "That was harsh. Look, it's three minutes. When you can't think of an answer, look thoughtful and stoic until you think of one, and don't open your mouth until you have something in your head, understand?" He drummed his fingers on the armrest. "Maybe an angle is the wrong way to do this. Why are you here? Honor and justice? And I'm not Caesar Flickerman, I'm me. Or someone you actually wish you were talking to right now." Aeneas frowned. Someone he actually wished that he was talking to? He didn't know who that was, though he knew that talking about himself with Marcus wasn't something he'd actively choose for fun. He wasn't sure if he'd really want to talk about himself with any of the people that he was surrounded by here in the Capitol. It wasn't that he didn't like them, it was that it didn't matter whether or not he liked them. Dropping the rather stiff pretense he'd adopted, Aeneas chewed on his lip. "For honor and justice. And for mercy, too. Because competing in the Games is the best you can do with your life... Other things, I guess." "Don't fidget. But that's better, and you don't sound like you read it off a… flashcard," Marcus said, an eyebrow raising with some surprise. "Well, you're probably reverent enough that you shouldn't heap on the extra, and maybe a comment about the glory of Panem would be nice if it can be worked in. But mercy? I haven't heard that one before." Never mind that he hadn't heard of flashcards before this week, either. "It's the Capitol's mercy, not mine," Aeneas said, a bit defensively. He had forgotten that he was supposed to be in an 'interview,' and consequently, began to fidget, bouncing his heel on the floor. "I won't show mercy in the arena, but without it, there wouldn't be a victor, would there?" He ran a hand through his hair, shaking dark curls loose over his forehead. "Does anyone even sponsor us based on our interviews? I thought it was... Less feelings, more murder." Maybe watching the Games was different in the Capitol. He could remember last year, he'd been watching the Games with Minerva, and how they'd yelled at Zipporah to just kill Seven instead of taunting her. "You'll have sponsors even if you fuck up the interview, because we're District 2," Marcus replied. "It's just easier if the interview gives us something to talk about, because no one can predict how the murder part's going to go at the beginning. What if you're in a situation like Diana and don't get Cornucopia kill? Then I can at least tell the collection of terrifying old women I'm scheduled to have dinner with with about your sparkling personality." He crossed his arms. "And I'll be damned, but I think Quince is right," he murmured, half to himself. "All right, if you can work some of that natural gratitude to the Capitol in somewhere, they'll eat it up. Caesar will probably tear up a little, so don't be alarmed if that happens." A pause. "The trainers must have loved you." Now that he had something like approval, Aeneas began to relax for the first time in Marcus's presence. He was tempted between saying a whole lot of things -- that he didn't have a sparkling personality, that he would certainly get a bloodbath kill, Diana who? Especially the bit about the personality. Sponsors would get a better idea of what he was like from the arena than a coached three minute interview. But he kept those thoughts to himself, because he had a feeling he knew what the responses would be, and Marcus probably wouldn't like saying them. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and paused to take a drink of water. "The trainers liked my brother better," he said dismissively. Then, a wry addition: "If Caesar cries, am I supposed to hand him a handkerchief?" "That's not your job," Marcus smirked. "Isn't that why the pack added Eight girl?" |