I know it's strange another way to get to know you | Rae

[Deleted]

Val rolled out of bed. It was an unfamiliar feeling, yet it happened all of the time. Finally, the gorgeous brunette realized that it wasn't so much the action, but the place. Some rich Capitolite's bed. Val briefly wondered how much of his precious money he'd parted with in exchange for a few hours of her company. Oh how wrong she'd been about the Capitol and its Games. Sure being crowned a victor opened up all sorts of doors - only Val would prefer that some of them remained closed.

Tip toeing out of the nameless faceless man's bedroom and making her way down stairs, Val slipped out into the cool evening in search of a nice stiff drink - she needed something stiff after that what's his name. Such was the life of the District Two victor. Just a few years ago, Val's eyes were still clouded by the prestige be becoming a victor. Now that she'd managed to see things as they really were, there was nothing she could do except try and forget in troubles in a bottle...

Passing a few Capitol citizens as she made her way towards a brightly lit noisy bar, Val did her best to try and avoid them. Naturally nearly everyone of them had to stop and congratulate her on how well she'd done in her Games and how impressive all of her kills had been - nevermind the fact that she'd killed two while they were sleeping.

One the tall athletic victor reached her destination, her mood had certainly no improved. Quickly taking a seat at the bar, Val pushed past one particularly drunk patron before ordering a drink. Recognition flashed across the young bartender's face, but he knew better than to say anything while he was on duty, of course it would be the first thing out of his mouth as soon as he was away and with friends.

Downing her drink in one, Val quickly ordered another before noticing the man beside her. His striking orange hair and strange eyes were a dead giveaway. Well, sort of... Val recognized him as one of the escorts from - was it seven? No, eight. "Compleo," Val nodded to the man as she lifted her glass again.

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Many apologies for the wait!!! Dx This week has become busier than I had expected it to be and...sorry. x( I'll try not to let it happen again. Sorry!!)

BIC: BRZZZZZZT! BRZZZZZZZZZZZT! BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!

It had always been Hospes’s opinion that the sun was Satan’s egg. It was cruel; it was always too harsh and too warm; and with it came mornings. Mornings were terrible things; evil in every sense of the word. Being the despotic time of day that it was, it forced humanity to stir by heating and boiling and frying them with its accursed sun – but what if some would rather remain active in the night, eh? What of them?

BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!

Gradually and stiffly, without putting his palms on the mattress to support him, Hospes Compleo sat up in bed as a vampire sits up in its coffin. His coverings slid from his naked upper body, and fell into his lap. His thin mouth was shaped like an upside bracket sign, with the corners being pulled far downward on his countenance. Hospes’s eyes were squeezed shut, the pressure being exerted between the two pairs of eyelids being great enough to form minute folds in the thin sheets of skin.

BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!

The folds in his eyelids deepened, as he squeezed them together even tighter. Hellish goddamn bloody… His head proceeded to swivel about on his neck, as if he was scanning the bedroom for something, though his eyelids remained glued to their respective mates. Hellish goddamn bloody…

BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.

Noise. His eyelids jerked apart from each other, and stretched as far apart from each other as the size of his sockets would permit them to. Thus revealed were the eyes: the red upon red of the insightful little spheres now having deepened into a far darker hue than they initially had been when Hospes fell asleep that night, as if someone had dyed them with blood. He gnashed his teeth, and stretched his lip a little upward into a partial snarl. His countenance remained fixed in this position for the next few seconds; and his blood-on-blood gaze became fixated on the wall, as if the wall had done something despicable against Hospes, and Hospes was waiting for it to confess to its sin, and to fall upon its knees and apologize fervently and beg for him to spare its life (which Hospes most likely had no intention of doing). And the arrogant cacophony of that was being produced by cocky, electronic bees filled his brain.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!

He pressed his lips firmly against each other, thus erasing his snarl. In a quick, sudden jerk that brought the tensed muscles in his neck a quick, painful stab, he turned his head to the right. The culprit was immediately discovered, sitting on the corner of a maple nightstand, innocent in its squat and petite appearance, but devilish and diabolical in its purpose. At first, Hospes’s eyes dilated further, and became rounder, and doubled the intensity and anger that made deepened the color of the paint in his eyes; and, if one had been watching, one might have guessed by the escort’s countenance that he had added a new object of matter onto his list of future homicides. However, the moment the fellow would have reasoned that, he would have found himself remiss: for, of the sudden, the tension in face and fury in his eyes waned, and the red of his eyes paled as they became calmer and sober. A corner of Hospes’s mouth stretched closer to his cheek to create a sneer, and he tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at the alarm clock, as if to silently tell it that he should have known that it was the perpetrator. Then, with a halfhearted and rather worthless grunt – as if the very act of forming a simple, animalistic noise was too much effort – he reached out and gave it a rough shove from its perch on the nightstand; it clattered to the ground, and the shock of the sudden impact muted it.

It did not occur to Hospes to pick it up; and even if it had, he wouldn’t have performed the act. He wasn’t in the mood to mother and apologize to electronics that day. In fact, he wasn’t in the mood to do much of anything. What was the point of mornings, anyway? Just the start of things that didn’t deserve to be started. Why not merely lie back down and sleep? He could do it. He was free now, practically; with the deaths of two smart-alecky devil-children, freedom could be reclaimed. Perhaps. Freedom was a lucid and elusive little bastard in Panem; no citizen could truly define it, nor were there many who paused to think of what it could be (the Dark Days and its consequences had squeezed that habit out of the Panemians).

A mumble rumbled from the back of his throat, as he reached behind him and set his palm on the mattress, and supported himself on it; Hospes lifted the other hand, and massaged his neck with his palms and fingers. Free. Free till the next pair of victims was harvested; then the fetters would be clasped around his wrists. Free, then bondage; free, then bondage. A process that a man like Hospes didn’t necessarily enjoy, but had decided to accept it and bear it when he had been accepted into the art of escorting. Besides, what was freedom in a place like Panem? Just a word with no true definition. Who needed it? That, and some of the tributes were rather tolerable – very few exceptionally so, but others managing to find a few instances where their actions put him in a good and agreeable mood (Hospes merely wished that they would last longer, especially the younger ones). The only ones that Hospes could not find it within his will to accept that he was chained to them so long as they breathed; the only pair that Hospes recollected of, and felt his guts lurch and shudder in his body; the only tributes that Hospes laughed at as he watched them sigh their last breaths were this year’s: Babydoll Rosek and Jet Savage, two names he hoped to be erased as time continued its perpetual flow – especially the girl’s.

Hospes cringed; he gnashed his teeth, and the lines of his face twisted themselves as a sudden stabbing sensation was felt in his stomach, which somehow nauseated it. He squeezed his eyes shut; rubbed them with his fingertips. He remembered her face; dug his fingernails into the back of his neck as he remembered what her hands felt like on his face. God! Hospes thought, as a chill ran down his back, making his body shudder; and he contemplated crying out his inward plea and exclamation. Get that stupid – pathetic – twisted…Lolita out of your head! She is dead; in Hell, most likely, thank goodness. She was nothing but a pathetic Lolita. Damn her, though! The sadistic little nymphet could never leave me be…

He wanted to go on with his inward rant and disparagement of the lecherous deceased, but a curious process had undergone in his mind, in which the face of Lolita (as she would forever be known in Hospes’s consciousness) morphed, not gradually, but so suddenly that it took Hospes a moment to process whether or not it had changed at all. But once he had, he acknowledged the change immediately; he noted the differentiating facial structure; the swap of dark brunette hair to that of auburn – and he knew immediately who it was that his mind’s eye saw. Hospes’s eyes flew open; his red eyes had donned the rich hue that he had initially looked upon his alarm clock with. It was not the willingness to murder that was boiling in him, however; instead, he felt his blood freeze in his veins, for he remembered his assured crucifixion.

Strange, how it is the vile and abrasive things in life that drive men to action. If that had never occurred to Hospes, he might have just taken up on the self-proposed offer of returning to the realm of dreams. Instead, urged by the wintery panic that made his heart palpitate and quiver, he found himself standing in his den, over his ebony, long-stemmed telephone of antiquated and lanky modeling. It hadn’t any answering machine; Hospes, being a man of solitude and misanthropy, knew very few people who would want to call him (even if the desire had been self-fulfilled while he was absent and unable to respond to the telephone’s call), and thus considered the prospect of making the government fetch him one merely a pointless excursion, and so never bothered. Hospes almost wished that he had ignored the futility of the venture, just in case the gods (otherwise known as his bosses, whom Hospes did not know of personally or directly, but that they were there, almost as divinely and mysteriously as a deity) did decide to send him word that they were planning on smiting him (or his job; either one) while he was away.

He reached out; let his fingertips caress the stalk of the telephone. Why should I bother? Hospes wondered. With his free hand, he clasped tightly together a bathrobe that his mother had forced upon on his last birthday (she had been the only one who remembered it; it had even slipped his mind, till she had appeared on his doorstep and shoved the present into his arms); it was not his skin, however, that desired what little warmth it could keep within him, but his blood, which was now not a liquid, but a solid. They probably won’t CALL me. They’ll probably announce the news to me face-to-face. Or, more likely, for they are bastards, they’ll make a public broadcast about it, and leave me the laughing stock of the Capitol. God, I hate them. Then again, perhaps they won’t? After all, I already am, essentially. His small shoulders slumped; he looked on the phone with narrowed eyes that were dark and gleamed with vehement loathing, though his hands trembled a little with fear. Why me? When will they tell me? I don’t understand. If it had reached my ears that there was merely one little rumor that a subservient of mine had even thought of coming under intimate terms with a minor, I would have thrown him into Hell. But mine’s being circulated; minorly, compared to other stories that those rags sell, but still known and…why?

The hand that had been lightly touching the telephone’s stem shot forward, clamping about the phone’s neck, and he squeezed as hard as he could, for he wanted to snap it in half and smirk at the destruction he had caused. Paranoia had now ensued him; and with the spark of paranoia, came the flames of anger – anger at they who dared to breathe, for they were evil and cruel little devils. Want to watch me squirm, they do! Want to watch me – they – see me – “guilty”, they’ll call me! “Are you guilty, Compleo?” They’ll laugh at me, they’ll - hate them – they’ll say, “You’re pathetic! Go…go…to that…” I only spoke to…can’t take the word of a victor…that one…Satan, he is, he’s Satan! Believe me! Believe me, you! “I – I thought you said you were good with kids, Compleo! Hah! Hah hah! I wouldn’t have believed you were THAT good with them, you disgusting…pedophile…how…” I’m not…never would…Only spoke to the girl…it was the victor…He’s in his late twenties or something or other or…kissed her…said those things about me…he’s a hypocrite…and she’s…so young…the poor…and… “What about Lolita, Compleo? What about Lolita? What about that family of yours, eh? What about Lolita? What about Lolita? Lolita? Lolita? Lolita?” She grabbed me, nothing more. I didn’t want it. We hadn’t…“Pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic! Sick! Demented! Afflicted! Go rot in a hole, you pedophile! Ought to be ashamed of yourself! You don’t deserve to be around children, nonetheless raise them! Pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic!” Believe me or – I’ll kill…strangle…snap your…

Hospes wondered what it would be like, to take all the necks of the world in his hand. To feel how tender they were; to understand their vulnerability; to relish the understanding that he had always known, but seemed to have eluded the rest of the population: that they were just as soft, just as weak, just as likely to die as he was – or, perhaps, more likely, as he had yet to see a functional mind aside from his own. And he would relish this notion, for now the world would come to terms with it as well; that the population would now be shown what a mistake it had been to be so vile, so wretched, so cruel – for then he would slowly wring their necks, and laugh at them as their vertebrae became bent and twisted by his fingers.

As if in a spasm, his hand released the telephone; it had grown too fatigued to hold it with the same amount of pressure and tension as he had been applying to his grasp. Hospes withdrew his hand in a swift jerk, and retreated from the telephone, his face blank and eyes empty with dazed stupidity, as if someone had struck him across the mouth. He stared at the telephone in this way for a long time, before his head tilted slowly, as if it was rusted, and his chin fell on his sternum, and he found himself staring down at his hand. It trembled and ached with weariness; pale red depressions had been made into the pale flesh of the palm, indentations that the telephone had inserted into his skin in retaliation. Hospes paused; gradually, the gleam of intelligent returned to his gaze, features, and way of movement; he let his hand flop listlessly at his side.

It was then that he made the decision as to what he was going to today. He would return upramps, but not for the sake of stretching out beneath the covers and sleeping; the acts of bathing, morning cleansing, and dressing had delivered themselves gracefully, yet expectantly, at the forefront of his mind. His reasoning being explained in one sentence, which he said to himself casually, almost matter-of-factly, with a short yet repetitive nodding of his head: “My God - I do believe I require alcohol.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hospes selected the bar nearest to his dwelling, and proceeded from his home at a brusque pace. He wore the same clothing he considered “casual wear” – basically his usual trim, formal, business-esque suits, but lacking a necktie – with only one exception: with him he brought along a cane of black lacquer, which he never let touch the ground once, but instead held before his chest, tapping its tip against the palm of his hand constantly (he bore the cane with him in the preparation – or, rather, the hope – of stumbling upon that diabolic victor that shall now and forevermore be christened as “Satan”, as he was kissing the forehead of that poor little harlot, just as he had done before Hospes’s eyes some days afore, and give Satan a very good and hearty lashing for his vice, as well as in penance for disgracing the escort). Hospes was not bothered once on his trip to the bar; the sun continually got to in his eyes, making him squint and scowl in a manner that made the other Capitolites suddenly feel rather wary, and this wariness doubled when they noticed the cane being he beat into his palm, and thus none dared come near him.

Once the bar was entered and a stool discovered and occupied, he laid the cane across his knees, and stroked its sheening body with his fingers. The mood that had enthralled him when he had held the telephone was still within him, but in a lesser state. Instead of snapping necks, he merely wished to perform some slight, sadistic attack upon a person’s emotional and/or physical health, for the sake of seeing them undergo momentary discomfort. It would have been a relief, or so he would have liked to believe; once the yellow newsboys had heard of what Satan had hissed at Hospes – in front of several witnesses (The damnable rat!) - a very strange and most unpleasant epiphany had fallen upon his mind. Hospes had come to terms long after that he was a wretched being of a wretched world; he also knew that he was a man of little fortune and lacking destiny; but not once had he accepted that he couldn’t try to control something. The incident with sweet Abel he considered to be a controlled event – it had been the control of his free will and choice (the choice being to remove Abel from his cradle) that had led to dearest babe’s demise. But the incident with Satan and the paparazzi was one of utter turmoil and anarchy; Hospes had no part in it, except that of the hapless victim; he had only been an innocent Samaritan, trying to help a stupid little teenager - till Satan happened to creep by and dig his defiled claws into Hospes’s throat and whisper in his ear accusations that was blasphemy to all that Hospes believed in. Now it seemed that the second apocalypse had finally descended upon Hospes and the universe; no longer would men have control of their lifestyles, but be moved and scattered and killed by whatever outwardly forces deemed of them. Such was Hospes, at that moment; scattered and jarred and tossed about by tabloids and satanic victors of very questionable tastes in women. It would have been nice – a relief – a most desired, but unfortunately brief, retirement from his chaos – to find someone or something with which he could control, for merely a moment, and torture it for only a second, just to release the anger and turmoil that consumed him so. Hospes found no wrong in that. That was essentially what the other members of Panem did to one another (take the Hunger Games, for example); why not he? Why would it be wrong for him, but right for everyone else?

Hospes’s mind had begun to wander into the worrying and lacking possibilities of women finding men falsely accused of pedophilia sexy when a voice broke his concentration (which was rather fortunate for Hospes, as he did not find this new discussion with himself very uncomfortable): "Compleo."

On impulse, Hospes’s head twitched a little in the direction of the voice; his vermilion gaze soon found the speaker, and said gaze immediately flickered momentarily of immediate recognition (this expression went very quickly, and could have easily been missed if one had blinked). The voice’s mistress was (by logic of contrived coincidence) a victor; one named Valeria Caden, of District Two - triumphant heroine of the Sixteenth Hunger Games. (How old was I then? Twenty or so? That sounds about right. That was one of my more pleasant years, if memory serves correct.) He remembered her as one of those tributes that everyone rather fell in love with – for whatever reason, Hospes hadn’t a clue. He had never found her truly likeable: she had been too old (Hospes, as a rule, never rooted for tributes over the age of fourteen) and looked far too sleek and mature for his liking; and her portrayal during the interviews as arrogant and disturbingly attractive had made Hospes disapprove of her existence even further. (It’s always the asses that make it through. Bah!)

It occurred to Hospes that he ought to merely ignore her; after all, one victor had already put him through the fiery tortures of Eternal Damnation, why should he fall prey to another? However, the recollection of Caden’s aloof and cocky attitude during the Games never truly left his brain, and as he paused for a very brief instant as to how he ought to react to her, this came to his attention, as well as the self-centeredness and melodramatic sensitivity that was only natural for victors. Once these had been mixed together in his thoughtful brew, he added his urge to release his agony and frustration by turning to subtle sadism for a day – and he knew what to say to her.

He grasped his cane tightly in his hands, so his knuckles became bloodless-colored. The smile on his face stretched very wide and thin across his countenance, undaunted in its absolute pleasantry and friendliness, and he tilted his head to the side (supposedly in curiosity), so it almost reclined upon his shoulder. Hospes’s eyes (as they were in habit of doing someone had his absolute attention) did not blink once as he looked at her, and his thin brows were tilted upward: his only sign of mockery, which actually gave his face a rather maniacal air about it.

“Well, well, well,” Hospes said, with a chuckle that formed itself in the back of his throat. “You have me at a disadvantage, my dear: for you see, you know of my name…but I know positively nothing of yours…”


(ooc: YEAH, HOSPY! BUUUUUUURN! TAKE THAT, VAL! YEAH! xDDDDDD

Anyway, sorry if you don't like it. This post is a little odd, I know (then again, Hospy's not what you would call "emotionally sound", so you might find that the weirdness is rather suitable), and kinda contains points that you most likely don't know about, so...Ah, sorry for any confuzzlation here and there. Dx )

[Deleted]

OOC: Holy post length Batman!

It was still quite early, especially by Capitol standards. How they could all just lay about until the afternoon was mind boggling to a career tribute and victor such as Val. Still, she wasn't the only early riser as she watched others milling about the streets of the Capitol as she made her way to the nearest bar. Yes, surely alcohol would make this day more palatable.

Val's eyes widened in first shock and then disbelief as Hospes Compleo greeted her - or rather didn't greet her.

"You have me at a disadvantage, my dear - for you see you know of my name… but I know positively nothing of yours."

Wait, what? Val was stunned into silence. Did he really not know who she was? They'd known each other for over a decade - or at least she'd known him, and he was just going to sit there and not recognize her? She was Valeria Caden! Honestly one of the more recognizable victors. Even years later she had something of a cult following and continued to remain a relevant name in the Games. Each year they loved to show clips her, of her victory, the way she ruthlessly brutalized both her enemies and her allies...

"You're joking, right?" Val blurted out, her tone disbelieving as she set aside her glass, the drink forgotten. Honestly it was sort of a weird feeling. Quite often Val wished she could just melt into obscurity and be forgotten by her many admirers but this was a bit different. Hospes Compleo wasn't just some random swooning Capitolite, he was an escort and had been for qutie some time. And regardless of his close proximity to her, she was still Valeria Caden! Her name was practically synonymous with sex in Panem and the mere idea that someone like Hospes didn't remember who she was actually rather insulting.

And honestly, even if he didn't recognize her - which was rather hard to believe, how could he just talk to her like that? Val knew it was both a blessing a curse, but she was gorgeous, even by Capitol standards and without any of their weird modifications. "Hospes Compleo - you're the District Eight escort, right?" Val asked, suddenly unsure of herself. But really there was no way she'd just happened across another Compleo with the same red eyes, right? And even if she had, what were the odds he wouldn't know who she was? Quite slim surely. "I'm Val Caden... District Two... 16th Hunger Games victor..." the breathtakingly beautiful brunette deadpanned, not willing to believe that he didn't recognize her, but still willing to try and explain herself.

[Raeoki]

It was the fact that Hospes had already anticipated Val’s reaction before it even transpired that made it so incredibly humorous. The stunned expression; the skeptical tone of voice. Clearly, the little fool’s ego had been absorbing attention like a sponge ever since her crowning, and had now become so terribly inflated that there was no longer any room (if there even had been space originally) within her for humbleness, which would have certainly spared her the surprise once he had “failed” in his recognition of her. Hospes was very glad that she didn’t; if so, he would have never experienced the second most entertaining moments of his life (the first being when that Savage brat had disparaged Lolita; the aftermath being Hospes laughing himself silly in the pathetic scourge’s face).

He didn’t dare speak as she questioned him. The moment Hospes had seen her face, the laughter had bubbled within him, and now threatened to violently burst into the air at any moment that Hospes opened his mouth. The escort’s face remained mostly frozen in that same cordial, yet slightly maddened expression as she spoke; however, when she tried to draw assurance from him that he was – in fact – the District 8 escort, the corner of his lip twitched, and he had to lift his head upright and rub his mouth discreetly with the side of his index finger, to make sure that it remained shut. It wasn’t till Caden spoke slowly, in a drone-like tone, of her name and title did Hospes come to terms that he could no longer bear it. The corners of his lips were twitching spastically by then; the hand that rubbed his mouth was starting to shake, as were his flanks. For the sake of politeness, however, he forced himself to keep the chortles encaged; it wasn’t till a few seconds after she had finished speaking (the seconds being spent of him staring at her with a suddenly blank expression, his entire body quivering) that Hospes decided to release it. He twisted it about sharply, and bent his lanky form over the bar, a sharp, high laugh bursting from him; and most of the snickers that followed he managed to disguise as members of a fake coughing bout, though some of them were clearly chortles.

It was at this point that Hospes realized that the joke could no longer be extended further; she might have been a fool – as most career victors were – but she wasn’t that foolish as to not acknowledge mockery. Though his heart was slightly dimmed at the prospect that he couldn’t entertain himself for much longer, the dimness was soon quenched by a lightening exultation – for he knew that his sadistic pleasures had been, for now, fulfilled, for he had brought uncertainty and confusion into a woman that he knew as one of mammoth-sized confidence and arrogance. Hospes’s day had been officially made; and all the feelings that had accumulated and roared within his breast when he had stood over that damnable telephone were now completely expelled from him.

Stiffly, the coughs/snickers still popping from him, Hospes placed the hand that wasn’t covering his mouth on the bar, and lifted himself into an upright position. After a few moments pause to quell the rest of the chortles, he turned his face towards the victor. Hospes grinned again, and it was the same pleasant and warm smile that had graced his countenance earlier; however, his eyes beheld clearly his spite and mockery of her: it glittered there, like when sunlight dapples rivers; and it cast onto Hospes’s supposedly cordial face a very evident, very scornful expression, in the ways that the skin now creased.

“Ah – ah, ahem, yes! OoooOOOOOoooh, yes, I see it now! My apologies, my dear. I…I don’t know, really, what happened there, I…ahem…my sincerest apologies. I remember you quite clearly know. Again, my sincerest apologies.” Strangely enough, the laughter and the joke – especially in the way that it had rid him of all his ills – had enchanted him into a state of glee, rather, and because of this sudden blessing of happiness, a spot of gentleness was revealed on Hospes’s now lightened heart, one that was only seen in the presence of children. And, somehow, this gentleness convinced that he ought to rather reward her (or offer unto her a peace-offering, whichever she preferred) for relieving him of his torments. Thusly, he gestured to the bartender with his hand, and with a tad more pleasant expression than his last, inquired of her: “May I, my dear, buy you a drink as penitence-” Hospes forced himself to stop speaking; for the next thing that had almost emerged from his lips was a very grim and very scornful: “for my sins?” Hospes, smirking slightly, pressed his lips together and rubbed them against each other, as if to cleanse them of the cruel and almost-Freudian slip, and said instead, with a respectful and welcoming gesture of the hands: “-for my sorry mistake? After all, what sort silly ass fails to see a victor in his presence, eh?”

[Deleted]

It wasn't so much that Val couldn't be humble. In fact there was far more room for it now that she had been crowned a victor and been forced to submit so completely to the Capitol. Of course she was still arrogant, but she understood the way of things far better now than she had in the past. And while she knew her place she also understood this man's... or at least she thought she did. Escorts... Were they really as important as they often seemed to think themselves? Then again, was Val really as important as she believed herself to be?

As Hospes began to shake with mirth Val began to realize that he was having her on. He thought this was hilarious and that she was some sort of fool. As the red eyed man began laughing and trying to pass it off as a cough, Val saw red herself and not just his eyes. Back to this man's level of importance, Val briefly wondered what the Capitol would do if she broke his neck right here in the bar. Normally she wasn't quite so cold - okay so yes she was, but she probably wouldn't have had such thoughts if not for the previous night's activities. She'd had another one of those romantic outings and been forced to endure an entire evening of some Capitolite's incredibly shallow prattle and eventually a few minutes of inept love making - if you could even call it that. So yes, she was feeling exceptionally murderous at the moment.

The look of extreme anger that spread across Val's beautiful face as Hospes choked out his sorry excuse for an apology gave her a terrible yet mesmerizing quality. While she could never truly look ugly, there was a certain undesirable appearance to her at the moment. Chiefly because she looked ready to stamp out the life from you... Honestly if looks could melt your face, Hospes would be a puddle of goo by now.

"You think this is funny do you, you feeble minded son of a bitch?" Val spat, her dark eyes flashing with anger. Naturally her words would probably be perceived as a gross overreaction, of course Hospes probably didn't know the sort of things she had to go through. And if he did? Well then he was the foolish one to think it wise to tease her. Val was no idiot. Despite the fact that she had devoted her youth to training for the Games, she was exceptionally intelligent and that was part of what had made so deadly in the arena. Surely Hospes knew that? Or perhaps the escorts paid less attention to the Games than she thought?

“May I my dear, buy you a drink as penitence - for my sins?”

Val said nothing as the bartender placed another drink in front of her. This time he did his best to mix the drink and get away from her as quickly as possible, the anger on her face quite apparent to him. She accepted the drink, alcohol was still alcohol regardless of who bought it. Still, it did little to quell the growing blood lust within her.

What sort of silly ass indeed. Not because he didn't recognize her - although that itself was an obvious slap in the face, but because he was poking the proverbial bear. "Fuck you Hospes," she glared angrily as she drained her glass yet again. "I think I'd rather your District Eight tributes pay for your mistakes instead," Val threatened. It was exceptionally selfish and cruel to use the Games that way, but it was no worse that what the Capitol did to her.

[Raeoki]

Touchy, wasn't she?

Surely Hospes's reaction to her venomous epithet (people seemed to enjoy calling him the spawn of a female pooch, didn’t they? That was the second time that year that a victor had insulted his mother in such a way; Hospes had never felt so popular before in all his life) and countenance that almost radiated homicidal vehemence was not what Caden had been praying for? Surely she had been expecting to feel him threatened? Panicky, perhaps? To quiver - not with mirth, as he had before - but with terror of his own well-being in the presence of this triumphant murderer? If so, her pleas to Heaven were not granted. Hospes took none of her insults directly, and none of them punctured his confidence and emotional state. In fact, if anything, both items were multiplied; the fact that she had taken his little joke in such a searing manner made his amusement and joy that he had stumbled upon her increase tremendously. Caden - without knowing - had succumbed to his expectations, his prejudice, and his sadistic pleasure by plainly revealing her lividness. It was perfect; it was better entertainment than the Games (a program that actually made Hospes rather uncomfortable at times, depending on the age of the tributes he saw being destroyed), in fact. And it was very good fun, to torment an arrogant and stupid little victor such as she.

In some ways, his subconscious was transmitting her vexation into that satanic Daniels victor – the evil and vile man that had dared to defile Hospes’s reputation with such vice-filled and very hypocritical lies. Hospes’s mockery of Caden was the vengeance and punishment that he never had the chance to exact on Satan; and this was the true reasoning behind his urge for an hour’s bout of some good, cruel fun. He wanted to see that lustful man squirm and become as vexed as Caden did now; he wanted to laugh at him, as he had laughed at her; he wanted to rile him up, and subtly manipulate him for Hospes’s entertainment, just as he had done to her. It was the vengeance that would never be wrought till next Games – if he should ever find the chance during that period – and to await a year to pass was too much for Hospes. Hospes – he who was tortured and plagued by those cruel and foolish words of Satan; Hospes – he whose racking had put such ill and fiery vehemence within his soul that he could not wait for such a long time. Hospes expected vengeance; he expected satisfaction – and until the true versions of either could be obtained, this would have to be the substitute.

As Caden’s payment was accepted and paid for, it flashed before Hospes’s mind that the anger and self-righteousness that had teased from her could, in fact, turn into something Hospes would regret in due time. Admittedly, the exceedingly vicious – though very amusing – did grant Hospes a very swift moments’ pause, though (for he was not a man who was easily frightened off) this hesitation did not last long. However, he refused to let himself forget the fact that she had been a career before she had been a victor; tributes (former or otherwise) of that sort were very much well known for their heftiness and almost lusting for violence. How many tributes had she killed in her Games, again? A little over half of them, if I recall correctly. But weren’t a few done in as they slept? Allies, methinks. A couple was already wounded when she set herself upon them. Her district mate…hm…

"Fuck you Hospes," Caden growled as she downed her glass. The anticlimax of this statement fell under the same adjective as her initial insult: worthless. Caden was merely wasting her breath, in her attempt to bring whatever form of discomfort onto the escort. In actuality, it managed to bring a chuckle from him; a rather light, soft little snicker that was far shorter than the previous chortles that he had attempted (and failed) to hide. Perhaps, if she had said something of superior wit than what actually been stated, the laughter would have been prolonged; but alas, Hospes doubted that Caden possessed the tools required to sharpen her tongue, and thus a chuckle of a very short life was all that could be drawn from him.

However, when Caden spoke again, there was no possible way that Hospes could have dared to laugh aloud; instead, she was met utter nausea. Perhaps, if Lolita and Savage were still alive, Hospes would have shrugged it off, just as he had had before, but Hospes was free of the aforementioned savages now. Instead, he had two new tributes to worry and toil for; a pair that he hoped was of far better manners and personalities than their predecessors; a pair that he prayed – perhaps – had at least one member of the age of twelve. Though experiences of that year’s prep week had left him very doubtful that the majority of District Eight’s residents were of pure and shining hearts and gentle mannerisms, he knew that one of twelve years of age would certainly be. After all, a twelve-year-old was a child; and children were sacred, beautiful things, to be protected and loved by all. He had always rather detested that rule; the one that announced that children of twelve years could be thrown into the arena. How could that possibly be fair? They were only children; lambs that had had their legs broken and tossed into a den of teenaged wolves. How could anyone think that was right? That was entertainment? That the decree was fair? In fact, why let children – teenaged or otherwise – be in the Games? Why not adults? That would be more entertaining, in his mind. Adults were people of lacking conscious and superior strength, in comparison to their children; they would be capable of far more gore and war than a teenager or a child could ever be.

Hospes’s current opinion and emotions toward Caden and her words had become very evident on his face, presently: the little smirk that had portrayed his smugness and victory of her had gradually faded, and was now a very long, thin scowl, with one corner lifted up to turn into a grimace of disgust; his eyes were wide and rounder than marbles, and not once did he blink as he looked at Caden, in such a way (that was quite accidental on the part of Hospes) that he was not looking at Caden’s face, but into her soul. The escort had relatively disliked her; now he truly despised her. The selfishness and the immaturity of her threat had touched his heart with an icy finger that made it cringe and prickle with indignation. Was the little witch so avoid of consciousness that she would take her anger out on some poor, hapless, witless children? Of course, this did not surprise him – Hospes was very much likened to the evilness of matured man – but it certainly angered and vexed him. Does she think she is so superior to them and me that she can do whatever she wishes to them? Oh! That vile, wretched, evil little…how dare she! How dare she even feel the necessity to threaten a pair of children that she doesn’t even know of! How…how…how…BAH!

The escort squeezed the cane, which was still resting atop his knees. The boiling blood that roared in his veins made his muscles itch with their heart, and the itching sensation somehow placed within his mind the idea of giving Caden a very well-deserved swat with it. Hospes resisted this urge desperately, for he was no fool: though he was very willing to tease and mock victors, he was certainly not going to provoke them into a physical altercation, especially on purpose. However, Hospes refused to let Caden’s remark slip by unnoticed. His grimace stretched across his mouth further, and the corners of it dipped down, to form a snarl that made his face very hard to look at; his widened, soul-piercing gaze remained the same, however, and looked as if they weren’t ever going to change their current air. He hissed: “Try me. My dear, though your witty comebacks do astound me, I must admit that it is most difficult to feel frightened by a lady of such high standing that she’ll even speak of taking her frustration out upon a couple of innocent children.”

[Deleted]

Touchy was an understatement. Val's mood seemed to worsen with each day spent in the Capitol and was only marginally more palatable when she was back in District Two - unless something else was expected of her. The gorgeous victor was quite the actress and quite charismatic in her own right. And she knew when to turn on the charm. She'd fooled a nation after all, hadn't she? Even in the outer Districts they recognized her Games persona as real - the fact that they probably still hated her was irrelevant.

Val didn't believe in frightening people - though she did so quite frequently. In her mind fear was an easily manipulated emotion and thus unstable. Respect was something she found far more effective. And she had it from many and that coupled with fear was usually enough. And it was well deserved too. Thirteen tributes she'd killed. And yes, one had been more of an execution, but it was arguable the most difficult kill to make. And another two had been sleeping, but that was still ten legitimate kills - or murders, depending upon who you asked. Unfortunately for her it seemed Hospes cared little for such things.

The statuesque victor was arrogant yes, but in no way was she stupid or little little for that matter - perhaps she'd been ignorant in the past, but things were different now. Still, the escort was right, her insults had been rather uninspired. However, it wasn't the dullness of her tongue but rather the lack of any real effort. She really wasn't trying to make Hospes upset at the moment, but he certainly would be come the Games. While there was little Val could do to some of her tormentors, Hospes and by extension the District Eight tributes were certainly within her reach. There would be targets on their backs from the moment they stepped out into the arena and this red eyed asshole was going to have to watch as his tributes were brutalized and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Try me. My dear, though your witty comebacks do astound me, I must admit that it is most difficult to feel frightened by a lady of such high standing that she’ll even speak of taking her frustration out upon a couple of innocent children."

It was Hospes' turn to sound inarticulate - what did her threatening his unnamed tributes have to do with being frightened? And it was Val's turn to hold back laughter - though hers was far less mirthful and actually rather grim. "Standing is relevant only so far as it affects your actual station. And in the public eye I'm a goddess," she shot back. While her words weren't entirely true, they held quite a bit of weight here in the Capitol. Even now a number of other concerned patrons looked on at the increasingly heated argument. "And innocent? There is no innocence in the Games," Val spat, a slight pang of sadness and regret in her voice. "It doesn't matter how young or fragile they are, they will all kill - or in your tributes' case try to kill," she sneered, regaining her bravado. Honestly Val couldn't even remember if District Eight had ever had a victor - or course this wasn't a sewing competition. Still, it was true. Given the chance they would all kill to survive, at least for the most part. Val had seen it countless times. And while the tributes were often just children, it didn't stop them from murdering each other.

"But I'll tell you what, how about I take it out on you right now instead?" Val challenged as she got to her feet. The District Two victor kept herself in exceptional shape, it was one thing the Capitol didn't actually have to monitor with her - if anything, she was a great deal more deadly after years of intensive training. Now was the time for Hospes to try and back peddle unless he wanted to leave with a few new body modifications.

[Raeoki]

It was the funniest thing with victors: they seemed to have such an enthralling effect upon the Capitol people – and yet they so often didn’t deserve it. There was nothing truly special about them; it felt like they almost always resorted to brute strength instead of skill or wit, and it was with certainty that they lacked the latter; and their personas were pieces of their personality that were so overly exaggerated that the entire personality of the victor was stifled and unable to come out (and it had always been of Hospes’s opinion that it would be far more interesting to let a tribute answer a question as he feels best, not how their mentor tells them they ought to). They were boring; unattractive (no matter how voluptuous everyone else claimed their bodies were); unworthy of the hero worship, attention, and respect they so often derived. And with each year, the little fools returned to the spotlight with inflated egos and dulled minds, even more undeserving of the praise and glory that was given to them then when they had first stepped out the arena. There was also the moral aspect of the whole thing; some of the things that the victors had done to the other tributes to gain their titles – abandonment, beheading, evisceration, brutalization…and sometimes to the softest and gentlest of tributes, also. They didn’t deserve their pedestal; and yet some of them seemed to demand it, and the overwhelming majority of Capitol populace was willing to supply it.

It was for that reason that victors often found themselves susceptible to Hospes’s ridicule and scorn. They were spoiled, if they weren’t already; there was nothing within them that deserved respect. To be truthful, only one victor came to Hospes’s mind that was worthy of his acknowledgement was the little Pervour girl (HI FOX!), who had not only won at an early age (which was admirable by itself, especially to a fellow like Hospes), but also with her skill and mentality. But there were so few who followed the girl’s example, but were treated with the same public respect that one would think they had; and the only real way Hospes could react to this was satirical spite, for this was what he thought/knew the vast majority of the victors deserved (it was also quite a lot of fun).

The little witch was making her retort, presently: "Standing is relevant only so far as it affects your actual station. And in the public eye I'm a goddess."

It was at that last remark that the initial self-righteous indignation that Hospes had felt whilst he had been making his last response became offset and forgotten. Immediately, he felt the laughter surge within him; and he promptly clasped his hand over his mouth to muffle it, though he could not stop his shoulders from trembling in his rebirthed mirth. That comment she had made about herself had made him remember who she was: simply an arrogant, stupid victor who thought she deserved her title, merely because she can bash a few heads in – that was all she was, and nothing more. How foolish he had been, to take her empty threats so seriously! Goodness, she’ll probably forget that this whole conversation ever happened before the day is out!

Clearly, whatever demand of respect she had attempted upon Hospes had failed, so Caden continued: "And innocent? There is no innocence in the Games." It was to be admitted that Hospes did find his mirth starting to wane at that point, and gradually became replaced with mounting indignation as she went on to explain her reasoning: "It doesn't matter how young or fragile they are, they will all kill…”

At that, Hospes found his irritation sky-rocket; not only because she had dared to set up an illogical paradox by talking about children who weren’t innocent, but also because he could not immediately think of anything to affirm his position on the matter. And, if he had been given the time to, he could have sought for a qualified retort for as long a time as possible, and not only in defense of himself, his philosophy, and for the children, but also because the notion of such an arrogant little witch defeating him in any form chafed his good mood soundly. However, as it was stated before, Hospes hadn’t the time to ponder upon a retort, or to voice it; for Caden then sneered: “…or in your tributes' case try to kill."

With that, Caden ruined her chance at a minor defeat over Hospes. For the sneer was evidently an attempt to lash out at him; not in a logical and philosophical attempt, as she had been doing before, but now in merely a mindless stab at angering him into whatever state she was trying to force him into. The attempt was useless, however; the try only managed to remind Hospes of the respect that Panem’s victors whined for, and how she was just another voice in that collective, nasally moan for attention and pandering. This then led Hospes’s mind to that little “goddess” comment, and all the other signs of arrogance that had flashed in Caden’s demeanor. This refueled Hospes’s original amusement, and – though it did not show itself blatantly, before – it did appear in a slight and happily condescending smirk, with one corner of it twitching on his face.

Caden was steadfast in her efforts to make Hospes cringe or quiver in some way, as she proved when she rose from her seat and challenged him. Admittedly, this brought Hospes some hesitation, though his smirk stretched further across his face, and its spasmodic corner quickened its twitching; but he paused, and instinctively held his case protectively, not because of the threat itself, but mostly because of the sole fact that it was a cold-blooded killer who was threatening him. It helped not that he then realized – as he tilted his head back to look at her – she was quite tall. He had always known, by looking at her on a television screen, that she was a lanky female of the species; but never before had it occurred to him that she could be taller than some men of her age. Bloody Hell – is she taller than me? Out of curiosity, not in challenge, did the six-foot escort rise to his feet also, and was most relieved that she could not beat him in the height factor; though it did worry him greatly that she was quite about there. Dammit – height’s an imperative in a fight! Isn’t it? Seems like it. All the tall tributes win, it seems like.

This really wasn’t a good situation that Caden had dragged him into, and he knew that quite well. Now that the initial shock of being threatened by an extremely tall, obviously athletically superior murderer was gone, the rational choice-making was to be Hospes’s next ordeal. There were two factors that currently impaired his confidence: his pride and his physical well-being. He doubted highly that a man of his slender shape and lack of training could hold out long in a bout with Valeria Caden; however, what was the true defeat? The physical one or the battle of wills that they had engaged in, the weapons having been her sloppy profanities and his mocking joviality? Surely, she wished to see him cringe and back away, to admit defeat; why else would she threaten him? After all, if she truly did want to pulverize his bones into dust, she would have gone ahead and lash him with her fists, not try to antagonize him. But, oh! Hospes did like his bones. He liked them very much, and it grieved him to think of them as becoming broken; being made worthless.

As he considered this, his twitching grin grew even longer, and, gradually, his scarlet eyes widened and became rounder in shape. Hospes decided on an attempt at neutrality; to rather dance around the problem, almost. To admit the truth, with the same defiant and mocking attitude, but not necessarily attempt to provoke her – much.

Suddenly, his body jerked towards her, in a very quick and abrupt lean-in, so that their faces were a hairsbreadth apart (for Hospes did not believe in “personal space”), and held his cane so that it looked like a diagonal line slashing across his torso, his knuckles paling as he increased the tightness of his clench on the stick. “Do you wish to know what’s the problem with you victors, O holy celestial being?” His voice was nigh above a whisper, and held a sweet gentleness within it, as if he was whispering a wonderful tale of unicorns and fairies into a child’s eager ear. “You all have to take everything so damn personally. You can’t laugh at yourselves. You think that you’re a tad bit better than everyone else, no? Is the reason why you can’t relax and laugh at yourself is because – in the public eye, at least – you’re a ‘goddess’? I’m just curious. People like you interest me. Really.”

It then occurred to him that he really wasn’t very good at neutrality. Not that he honestly gave a crap.

(ooc: Sorry for the wait! And I know you’re probably off doing something army-ish by now, but…I wanted something to be waiting for you when you came back. :3

Oh, and apologies for sorta exceeding the word limit. x( )

[Deleted]

Val was becoming increasingly frustrated. And it wasn't so much what Hospes was saying but more why he was saying such things. Sure he wasn't entirely wrong, but people never challeneged her they way he was, at least not someone like an escort.

And the goddess statement was only an observation, not a personal opinion. The people of the Capitol loved her, surely Hospes already knew that. And then the skinny man got to his own feet! Was he actually about to try and fight her? It was common knowledge just how brutal she could be, her particular Games had been a favorite of the masses ever since they first aired. And Val still looked the part - standing a few inches over six feet in her heels, the well muscled beauty was the picture of power and grace. "Perhaps you ought to sit back down," Val said calmly. Instead he leaned in...

Val was no stranger to invasions of her personal space, but this was a little different. "I am whatever the Capitol wants me to be," she whispered back, her voice taking on the seductive quality usually reserved for her dates. "But you're about to regret ever disturbing me," she finished as she took hold of his cane, her grip over powering his as she ripped it from his hands. Breaking the cane against the bar with one powerful swing, Val turned back to Hospes the jagged end of the broken cane pointing up threateningly at him.

By now, all eyes were on them. Some were frightened, others enthralled and still more were simply hoping to see some bloodshed. The next Hunger Games was just around the corner and the Capitol's bloodlust was yet to be satisfied. Unfortunately for them this was when the peacekeepers showed up.

"Miss Caden, your presence has been requested," the leader said calmly, hoping to diffuse the situation as he stepped in between them.

Val didn't protest. It was true, she probably was due in the bed of some Capitolite and she knew the price for skipping out on her appointments. "Don't worry Hospes, I'm sure we'll be able to finish our conversation sometime in the future," she finished, allowing the peacekeepers to escort her off to wherever it was she was supposed to go.

[Out]