Boris Phanes (gameman) wrote in gamesofpanem, @ 2015-04-24 13:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! capitol, ! districts, - 66th hunger games, escort: plutarch heavensbee, gamemaker: boris phanes |
WHO: Boris Phanes and Plutarch Heavensbee
WHAT: Boris has a little fun at Plutarch's expense.
WHEN: Right before D3 reaping.
WHERE: Capitol and District 3
STATUS: Complete
WARNINGS: Language
District One was well under way as the reaping ceremony began. Boris flipped through the video feeds to make sure everything was in order. He had a good feeling this year. Two looked solid, Three looked like Three, Four was--Wait. “Hey Plutarch, is having your fly undone a new fashion statement or are you trying to get my attention? Bold choice there with the magenta boxers.” To anyone who was unaware of the escort’s earpiece, it likely would have looked as though his hands moved abruptly to the crotch of his pants as he talked loudly in its general direction. “What?!” he snapped, only to realise he’d been had. “Ha ha ha, very funny. Now, can you knock it off? I gotta psyche myself up. Do you want me to flub this? Oh wait, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Plutarch still worried about making an embarrassing spectacle of himself, even after all these years. Now was not the time to mess with him. He had to concentrate. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m a seasoned professional,” came Boris’ reply over the earpiece. He turned off the microphone long enough to chuckle to himself and see the boy from One volunteer. “At least with your fly down it will distract them from that bald patch. I’d angle the cameras lower, but I don’t want to.” Plutarch made a dejected noise and reached up to touch his thinning hair. He’d tried getting implants recently, but the results hadn’t been anywhere near what he had hoped for. “But they said no-one would notice,” he complained, despite himself. Hair loss was a touchy subject. Probably his touchiest one. He knew Boris was just trying to throw him off, but that didn’t make that particular button any less pushed. “Sorry pal, high-definition is cruel like that. Be glad it’s not another pore debacle. That poor girl never heard the end of it.” “Look, can you at least not talk to me while I’m out there? Don’t you have something important you should be doing? Like, I don’t know, making shit explode or something?” Plutarch said, growing more flustered by the second. “I’ll have you know I’m creating a masterpiece. Look at this zoom in on District Two’s girl. Perfection.” Boris sent a message to the cameraman to adjust the angle on the crowd in Three. They wanted a section that screamed fear not resentment. “Besides we save the explosions for the arena.” Pause. “And your mother’s bedroom.” “My mother’s eighty-nine years old and a complete monster, so thanks for that horrifying mental image. Really. Thanks.” Plutarch said, scowling. Some baffled production assistant caught his death glare and scrambled out of his way. He was trying not get his hackles up right before going onstage, but this was growing increasingly difficult. Plutarch squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Ignore him, just ignore him, he told himself. “Don’t suppose some kind of industrial accident’s turned some of the kids out there into hulking monsters instead of the usual twitchy lab rats this year?” he muttered wearily. “I swear, they get scrawnier every year just to punish me.” “But she has the body of an eighty-seven year old.” A confused intern gave him a look that he quickly shot down. He didn’t like being interrupted when he was working. “The winner is out there all you have to do is pick the right card for a change.” As much fun as he was having he knew that he needed to wrap it up. Plutarch was ninety seconds out and the show had to go on. “Right, have fun out there and try not to embarrass yourself in front of the entire country. I’ll do my best to make you look beautiful, but really there is only so much to be done.” District Two had their boy and for once they were right on schedule. “You’re on in ten. Hit me up after the games and we’ll grab sushi and for fuck’s sake fix your fly.” Boris smirked as the camera panned in. “Yeah, yeah, all right,” Plutarch muttered. The camera panned in just as he attempted to fix his zipper again. He realised he was on a couple seconds too late and tried his best to laugh it off, though he knew he’d likely beat himself up about it for the next couple of weeks, regardless. “Let the Games begin,” he grinned, clapping his hands together. He walked out onstage, all the while scheming up ways to poison Boris’ sushi. |