d2 augustus farr | heart to heart
Sept 2, 2023 12:48:18 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Sept 2, 2023 12:48:18 GMT -5
I forgot to relieve myself before the interview and it’s awful. My bladder is aflame. Blame it all the wine and water they had been plying us with for the past two days! I mean, the fanfare at the station was nice, I was even handed a rose from a handsome stranger, but what preceded that has been nothing short of unacceptable. I am a big deal. Like, from the-highlands-of-District-Two-where-we-eat-meat-every-fortnight big deal. And if Adder Ames has the chance to parade herself in a royal cavalcade along with the other victors, I should be offered the same grace.
The interview is a spectacle.
I know that. Plus, if the whispers harvested through the grapevines taste true as well, I know that the person who conducts it is a spectacle, too, a heartthrob of this city. A heart to heart between one heartthrob to another should not be a challenge. We shall soon be throbbing our way to stardom together.
When is this curtain opening?
Does my hair look decent?
I spit on my palm, use it to tame my coils back, and begin working all the tension in my jaw and shoulders loose. It is only another dance on the stage. A Farr putting on a performance, it’s nothing when compared to our deep repertoire, a walk in the park in comparison to my school’s play. I was born for the limelight, baby!
Oh, the curtains are moving. Oh, there are other folks here- oh, oh, oh-
[We trail Augustus as he limbers towards the seat and smiles, waving forcefully at Harlan and setting off a loud static from the speaker clipped to his chest in the process.]
I wince for a brief moment. Then, I scrub that expression away from my face. A natural and poised one takes over, the sort of look my mother wears around the nobles and officiates, a marble mask of ease.
I can feel the smile behind my sealed lips though, hungry, threatening to part them. Harlan Godfrey is every inch a legend as the rumors had carved him out of, composed and mysterious, a bloodstain in his red coat. As the light sconces recede to darkness, I weave my fingers together and try to mirror his pose: the lackadaisical air of a man who knows what he is here for.
[It works, to an extent. Augustus looks positively constipated, however, from certain angles.]
A beat passes. Then, Harlan speaks, each word velvet on mahogany:
"Ah, I see that you're an actor? Anything we might've seen you in?"
Oh! He’s a fan! Duh, I grin to myself, leaning back in my seat with arms crossed, feeling my chest grow full of helium pride. “The Farr’s are an incredibly artistic household, so I am spoiled for choice. The Capitol shot a commercial in my school, though – grand ordeal, a whole crew – and I was the boy they chose to hold hands with a peacekeeper.” My smile overflows. It’s too much teeth, too wide lips, I know, but the bright spotlight coaxes it all out of me. I can feel a fever slowly blooming at the nape of my neck.
"I see... And if you were playing the part of the victor of this Games, what kind of character might we expect from you in the days to come?"
Standard theatre question. How would you play this particular character? I feign thought for a moment, although the answer burns on my tongue. “Someone humble, yet deserving,” I say. “It would be a very special role, for sure, but what sort of character does a good victor make? That’s a special question.”
Did that make sense? My stomach twists and turns; the light burns a little more brighter.
"Interesting. You've come a long, long way from Shear Hill, haven't you?"
“Well-”
[Flashback: Nine children sits crosslegged in a sparsely-furnished classroom, tinged by a grayish afternoon light. They hang their heads low. They are waiting.
A door to their left opens. An older-looking woman pads in, a shawl wrapped around her torso, one hand clutched to her chest. She pauses, gathering herself.
“Francisca is no longer attending classes. Due to unforeseeable circumstances, she has left the school, effective immediately.”
The air thickens. A younger August gulps. Another girl to his left whoops. Her eyes gleam brighter than the string of pearls around her neck that jangle as she springs up to her feet.
“Does that mean I get to play the lead now?”
The teacher does not answer. All nine children do not know what exactly happened to Francisca, but they know enough to not let their imaginations run wild.]
"Pardon my forwardness, but I wonder: Are you willing to do anything it takes to survive?"
[Flashback: A closeup of rubble and shale; a trailing shot of wires as tangled as untamed hair, interspersed by lonely howls of dogs echoing through empty streets.]
[Flashback: A pot of soup bubbling on a fire kindled by tissue paper, the contents of it more water than anything else. Three children look at it, their faces half-shadow, half-flame.]
[Flashback: Gunshot from afar, a sheet of window glass cast in streetlight. Five dark figures crawl towards it, afraid yet curious. Hushed words are exchanged. “It’s the rebel house–”
“–The Shards sold them out to the whites again. Must be.”
“Damn the Shards.”
“Shh, they are coming closer. Snuff out the candle, Papa.”
The ghostly trace of light in the frame ceases. The window is now the only perceivable element and the shape of three peacekeepers can be detected from beyond the glass, herding a prisoner in tow.]
[Flashback: Dogs bay ominously.]
“Yes.”
"Any parting words?"
[By now, Augustus looks perturbed and much younger than we remember him to be. How old was he again? Sixteen? Seventeen? Ah, yes, eighteen. By the scruff on his cheeks, you would imagine him to be older, but by the look in his eyes, there is a child so clear within.]
I dwell with my mouth closed for a moment because, hell. Harlan sits there, appraising me still, but I suspect a smug gleam to his eyes after that. Research well done. Shear Hill, the Highlands, no one there could fathom the shadows the people here could cast, how dark and elongated they fall.
Blank eyes stare at me from beyond the bright edges of the stage. They are expecting some suave remark, a good closer, but my mouth feels overfull of stones. “It … matters not what you've done but what you do with what you've done,” I garble dryly.
Then, I take my leave.
The interview is a spectacle.
I know that. Plus, if the whispers harvested through the grapevines taste true as well, I know that the person who conducts it is a spectacle, too, a heartthrob of this city. A heart to heart between one heartthrob to another should not be a challenge. We shall soon be throbbing our way to stardom together.
When is this curtain opening?
Does my hair look decent?
I spit on my palm, use it to tame my coils back, and begin working all the tension in my jaw and shoulders loose. It is only another dance on the stage. A Farr putting on a performance, it’s nothing when compared to our deep repertoire, a walk in the park in comparison to my school’s play. I was born for the limelight, baby!
Oh, the curtains are moving. Oh, there are other folks here- oh, oh, oh-
[We trail Augustus as he limbers towards the seat and smiles, waving forcefully at Harlan and setting off a loud static from the speaker clipped to his chest in the process.]
I wince for a brief moment. Then, I scrub that expression away from my face. A natural and poised one takes over, the sort of look my mother wears around the nobles and officiates, a marble mask of ease.
I can feel the smile behind my sealed lips though, hungry, threatening to part them. Harlan Godfrey is every inch a legend as the rumors had carved him out of, composed and mysterious, a bloodstain in his red coat. As the light sconces recede to darkness, I weave my fingers together and try to mirror his pose: the lackadaisical air of a man who knows what he is here for.
[It works, to an extent. Augustus looks positively constipated, however, from certain angles.]
A beat passes. Then, Harlan speaks, each word velvet on mahogany:
"Ah, I see that you're an actor? Anything we might've seen you in?"
Oh! He’s a fan! Duh, I grin to myself, leaning back in my seat with arms crossed, feeling my chest grow full of helium pride. “The Farr’s are an incredibly artistic household, so I am spoiled for choice. The Capitol shot a commercial in my school, though – grand ordeal, a whole crew – and I was the boy they chose to hold hands with a peacekeeper.” My smile overflows. It’s too much teeth, too wide lips, I know, but the bright spotlight coaxes it all out of me. I can feel a fever slowly blooming at the nape of my neck.
"I see... And if you were playing the part of the victor of this Games, what kind of character might we expect from you in the days to come?"
Standard theatre question. How would you play this particular character? I feign thought for a moment, although the answer burns on my tongue. “Someone humble, yet deserving,” I say. “It would be a very special role, for sure, but what sort of character does a good victor make? That’s a special question.”
Did that make sense? My stomach twists and turns; the light burns a little more brighter.
"Interesting. You've come a long, long way from Shear Hill, haven't you?"
“Well-”
[Flashback: Nine children sits crosslegged in a sparsely-furnished classroom, tinged by a grayish afternoon light. They hang their heads low. They are waiting.
A door to their left opens. An older-looking woman pads in, a shawl wrapped around her torso, one hand clutched to her chest. She pauses, gathering herself.
“Francisca is no longer attending classes. Due to unforeseeable circumstances, she has left the school, effective immediately.”
The air thickens. A younger August gulps. Another girl to his left whoops. Her eyes gleam brighter than the string of pearls around her neck that jangle as she springs up to her feet.
“Does that mean I get to play the lead now?”
The teacher does not answer. All nine children do not know what exactly happened to Francisca, but they know enough to not let their imaginations run wild.]
"Pardon my forwardness, but I wonder: Are you willing to do anything it takes to survive?"
[Flashback: A closeup of rubble and shale; a trailing shot of wires as tangled as untamed hair, interspersed by lonely howls of dogs echoing through empty streets.]
[Flashback: A pot of soup bubbling on a fire kindled by tissue paper, the contents of it more water than anything else. Three children look at it, their faces half-shadow, half-flame.]
[Flashback: Gunshot from afar, a sheet of window glass cast in streetlight. Five dark figures crawl towards it, afraid yet curious. Hushed words are exchanged. “It’s the rebel house–”
“–The Shards sold them out to the whites again. Must be.”
“Damn the Shards.”
“Shh, they are coming closer. Snuff out the candle, Papa.”
The ghostly trace of light in the frame ceases. The window is now the only perceivable element and the shape of three peacekeepers can be detected from beyond the glass, herding a prisoner in tow.]
[Flashback: Dogs bay ominously.]
“Yes.”
"Any parting words?"
[By now, Augustus looks perturbed and much younger than we remember him to be. How old was he again? Sixteen? Seventeen? Ah, yes, eighteen. By the scruff on his cheeks, you would imagine him to be older, but by the look in his eyes, there is a child so clear within.]
I dwell with my mouth closed for a moment because, hell. Harlan sits there, appraising me still, but I suspect a smug gleam to his eyes after that. Research well done. Shear Hill, the Highlands, no one there could fathom the shadows the people here could cast, how dark and elongated they fall.
Blank eyes stare at me from beyond the bright edges of the stage. They are expecting some suave remark, a good closer, but my mouth feels overfull of stones. “It … matters not what you've done but what you do with what you've done,” I garble dryly.
Then, I take my leave.
