i'm in {danger // twoshot}
Apr 17, 2020 22:43:32 GMT -5
Post by aya on Apr 17, 2020 22:43:32 GMT -5
[attr="class","w460"]
danger hoskins
If I was feeling any type of way on the walk to the Justice Building — you know, anxious, coerced, shitty, morally bankrupt — the usual — it's all gone by the time I've signed pages nineteen through thirty-three of form ten-twenty-three-A (subsection iv, addendum 12) in triplicate. I'm just fucking bored. One thing is the same no matter where you're living and no matter what you're doing: nothing ruins the moment like paperwork.
Ripred. Even the fact that the fistful of documentation I shoved at this poor sleep-deprived clerk is forged — badly — isn't enough to get my heart rate up again at this point. Scummy capitalist, that huge pile of cash he's sitting on and he couldn't be bothered to fork over a couple extra bucks for some actual cardstock. Guess that's just the way things are when the only reason why I'm sitting here is 'cause I'm expendable. Literally. That's what I brought to the table here: one body, heart beating, as-of-yet free of stab wounds and perfectly adequate for human sacrifice.
That was a real fun fucking conversation, by the way. It went like this:
See? Cartoonishly villainous.
The trick to cutting off a villain's monologue is to agree with him. Go along with it, whatever he says. It's always a power trip. He wants you to beg. Fuck that noise. Honestly, kill me before you let me grovel like that.
It's quiet for a moment, during which the crony does not drop me. There's some brow furrowing, some shrugging, some nodding — and then some dropping.
It's fine. I catch the bar on the level below, heave myself up and over — try not to think of the pull up bars, try not to think of the vault horse, try not to think about how horrifically out of shape I've gotten in the last year since I switched out training for smoking a shitton of weed in terms of hobbies. I bolt for the hallway, drop to the ground to slide under another rent-a-peacekeeper's lurching grab — real superhero shit, honestly; real friction burns, but real superhero shit — and turn a corner right smack into this other henchman's back. Hit it like a brick wall and fell right on my ass. Picture a head-honcho henchman — this was that motherfucker. Bald, humorless, sharp suit, scars on his face and tattoos on his knuckles. Real stereotypical.
Now we're sitting in his office. Actually it's probably some sweaty factory middle-manager's office, cause this depressing place really doesn't seem like Cartoon Villain's vibe. There's coffee stains all over... well, everything, from the shitty industrial carpet to the greying fabric padding on the armrests of the cheap metal chairs. A handful of the gypsum ceiling tiles now feature abstract impressionist art in the form of yellowing water stains, all of the fluorescent tube lights are depressing and one is flickering, and it smells like someone spilled tomato soup somewhere a week ago and never managed to get it all up. The laminate surface on the desk is peeling back from the particleboard, and between two clipboards and a thick stack of papers is a chipped mug that says I hate Mondays. There's a picture of two women smiling while holding an infant, and a pencil can that says "World's Best Mom (Sometimes)" and yeah that family looks way too happy to be Cartoon Villain's.
The stereotypical henchman lurks behind me, blocking the only door. I size up the ceiling. Don't think I could make a jump for it from the desk without one of them grabbing hold of my ankles. Damn.
Instead we get to talking.
I still don't know why we get to talking instead of me just getting handed over to the whitecoats. I guess for the power trip. Or maybe cause he needs therapy but can't bring himself to get started with it.
Note that it's generally a really bad idea to share your name with menacing capitalists that have you captive, and I neither endorse nor advise this if you ever find yourself in a situation like mine. I can get away with this because everyone thinks I'm messing with them.
Cartoon Villain looks like he's about to tut at me.
He rolls his eyes. At this point, most people decide it isn't worth trying to get a "real" name out of me, which is smart of them, because it's not like I'd go around willingly telling people my name is Ethel even if that weren't an awful OpsSec practice.
He finally realizes that his best course of action here is to ignore me.
Well, yeah. Why the fuck else would I be prowling around one of his warehouses with a pair of bolt cutters and a socket wrench? A sudden desire to go on a rogue machinery maintenance spree?
I guess it's less of a given here, that if you don't want to go into the Games you don't have to. In District Four, you can count on someone who's arrogant enough or cutthroat enough or stupid enough to gamble her life away on a shot at the crown. In Eight you pretty much have to hope for someone who's violently suicidal — and honestly, your odds there don't seem so bad either — or with worse self-esteem than even I've ever had.
He doesn't miss a beat. I don't trust that sort of smug confidence that comes with too many years of sycophants whispering how great and right you are in your ear. People who act like they know the answer to every problem because the answer is usually throw money at it. A little bribery here, a little fraud there — it doesn't even really count as crime if laws don't apply to you. I find that hard to respect.
I know that was a dumb thing to say to a menacing asshole like this one, but in the moment it was worth it to see him scowl and squint and act like he wasn't caught totally off-guard.
I'm not sure that he does, but he'll get there.
Have you ever heard the adage only do one crime at once? It's a good idea in theory. In practice, it falls apart a little when you're living somewhere illegally. And I don't mean just squatting in a boarded up pie shop, I mean fully punishable-by-jail-or-avoxing-or-death illegally. You know, wasn't-supposed-to-leave-District-Four illegally. Everything else quickly becomes a crime too. Bust into that ex-patisserie to sleep? Breaking and entering, trespassing, crime. Sleep on the street? Obstructing public spaces, loitering, crime. Ask for a handful of change to grab a bite to eat? Panhandling, harassing the public, crime. Stuff an apple and a sandwich into your pockets? Theft. Crime. Try to get a job without papers? Unauthorized work. Crime. Fake some documents? Forgery. Crime.
I've fallen into that classic trap of damed if you don't, dead if you do. So, you know. Things are pretty peachy.
He doesn't even suppress a snicker, like some kind of humorless asshat. Fuck you, that was a hilarious joke.
Have you ever heard the adage don't ask questions you don't really want to know the answer to? I don't ask what's to stop me from stepping up. I'll burn that bridge when I get to it.
I hate the way that it isn't a question.
He offers his hand out to shake. I hock a huge glob of spit into mine and then grab his before he can pull it away. You know, seal the deal all official-like.
Nodding profusely, I match his grimace with the same smarmy smile he gave me two seconds ago.
Ripred. Even the fact that the fistful of documentation I shoved at this poor sleep-deprived clerk is forged — badly — isn't enough to get my heart rate up again at this point. Scummy capitalist, that huge pile of cash he's sitting on and he couldn't be bothered to fork over a couple extra bucks for some actual cardstock. Guess that's just the way things are when the only reason why I'm sitting here is 'cause I'm expendable. Literally. That's what I brought to the table here: one body, heart beating, as-of-yet free of stab wounds and perfectly adequate for human sacrifice.
That was a real fun fucking conversation, by the way. It went like this:
Me: [dangled upside down over a railing, playing dumb as a defense mechanism — that's the safest response to power-tripping bullshit, by the way. You didn't know. You've never known. You have no idea. How did you wind up in that factory, on the other side of that razor wire fence? I don't know. I got lost.] What the hell, man?
Crony: [grunts. Is that why they call cronies "grunt"? I swear I've never heard them make another sound]
Shadowy figure in the background: [No, seriously. It was impressive how cartoonishly villainous this guy was right then. Like he'd had the lights installed special just so he could loom in the background, all menacing. A little pathetic, maybe but you've got to respect the attention to detail there. Your average fluorescent factory lighting would not have done that sweaty five-head any favors.] Give me one good reason why I shouldn't drop you.
See? Cartoonishly villainous.
Me: No. Do it. What do I care?
The trick to cutting off a villain's monologue is to agree with him. Go along with it, whatever he says. It's always a power trip. He wants you to beg. Fuck that noise. Honestly, kill me before you let me grovel like that.
It's quiet for a moment, during which the crony does not drop me. There's some brow furrowing, some shrugging, some nodding — and then some dropping.
It's fine. I catch the bar on the level below, heave myself up and over — try not to think of the pull up bars, try not to think of the vault horse, try not to think about how horrifically out of shape I've gotten in the last year since I switched out training for smoking a shitton of weed in terms of hobbies. I bolt for the hallway, drop to the ground to slide under another rent-a-peacekeeper's lurching grab — real superhero shit, honestly; real friction burns, but real superhero shit — and turn a corner right smack into this other henchman's back. Hit it like a brick wall and fell right on my ass. Picture a head-honcho henchman — this was that motherfucker. Bald, humorless, sharp suit, scars on his face and tattoos on his knuckles. Real stereotypical.
Now we're sitting in his office. Actually it's probably some sweaty factory middle-manager's office, cause this depressing place really doesn't seem like Cartoon Villain's vibe. There's coffee stains all over... well, everything, from the shitty industrial carpet to the greying fabric padding on the armrests of the cheap metal chairs. A handful of the gypsum ceiling tiles now feature abstract impressionist art in the form of yellowing water stains, all of the fluorescent tube lights are depressing and one is flickering, and it smells like someone spilled tomato soup somewhere a week ago and never managed to get it all up. The laminate surface on the desk is peeling back from the particleboard, and between two clipboards and a thick stack of papers is a chipped mug that says I hate Mondays. There's a picture of two women smiling while holding an infant, and a pencil can that says "World's Best Mom (Sometimes)" and yeah that family looks way too happy to be Cartoon Villain's.
The stereotypical henchman lurks behind me, blocking the only door. I size up the ceiling. Don't think I could make a jump for it from the desk without one of them grabbing hold of my ankles. Damn.
Instead we get to talking.
I still don't know why we get to talking instead of me just getting handed over to the whitecoats. I guess for the power trip. Or maybe cause he needs therapy but can't bring himself to get started with it.
Cartoon Villain: What's your name?
Me: Danger.
Note that it's generally a really bad idea to share your name with menacing capitalists that have you captive, and I neither endorse nor advise this if you ever find yourself in a situation like mine. I can get away with this because everyone thinks I'm messing with them.
Cartoon Villain: You expect me to believe that your given name is Danger?
Me: No.
Cartoon Villain looks like he's about to tut at me.
Me: Danger is my middle name.
He rolls his eyes. At this point, most people decide it isn't worth trying to get a "real" name out of me, which is smart of them, because it's not like I'd go around willingly telling people my name is Ethel even if that weren't an awful OpsSec practice.
Cartoon Villain: Well then. Danger. You've found yourself in quite the predicament, haven't you.
Me: I haven't found myself anywhere. I have no idea where I am right now — I told you, I got lost.
Cartoon Villain: How old are you?
Me: Old enough to fuck your wife.
Cartoon Villain: What will your parents think when I tell them you said that?
Me: I don't have parents.
Cartoon Villain: Is that so. Well, perhaps that's fortuitous.
Me: That's a pretty fucked-up thing to say to a person off-the-cuff. I mean — don't get me wrong, it is, but —
Cartoon Villain: I'm looking to employ someone your age or thereabouts — personal ties are a complicating factor, so the fewer the better.
Me: What the fuck? Whatever you're looking for, I'm not it. No way, man.
Cartoon Villain: Nothing like whatever you're thinking.
Me: I fucking hope not.
Cartoon Villain: I just need a little insurance.
Me: I know I've got the swagger of a pencil pusher, but actuary tables and indemnities are not exactly my side hustle. Unless you mean it in the racketeering sort of way, in which case I bet Bro Pecs back there is all the enforcement muscle you need.
Cartoon Villain: For my daughter.
Me: [Laughs. It starts out almost-genuine, but I drag it out for long enough that it gets obnoxious. Cartoon Villain waits for me to finish, but he looks annoyed, which is satisfying enough for me to keep going.]
Cartoon Villain: Something funny?
Me: Yeah. Most parents don't want me to have anything to do with their daughters.
He finally realizes that his best course of action here is to ignore me.
Cartoon Villain: One does not acquire the wealth and capital that I have without making more than a couple of enemies.
Well, yeah. Why the fuck else would I be prowling around one of his warehouses with a pair of bolt cutters and a socket wrench? A sudden desire to go on a rogue machinery maintenance spree?
Cartoon Villain: I need a volunteer on the payroll, should she be reaped.
I guess it's less of a given here, that if you don't want to go into the Games you don't have to. In District Four, you can count on someone who's arrogant enough or cutthroat enough or stupid enough to gamble her life away on a shot at the crown. In Eight you pretty much have to hope for someone who's violently suicidal — and honestly, your odds there don't seem so bad either — or with worse self-esteem than even I've ever had.
Me: I'd love to help you out there — really, I would — but there's a tiny little hiccup: I'm not in the reaping.
He doesn't miss a beat. I don't trust that sort of smug confidence that comes with too many years of sycophants whispering how great and right you are in your ear. People who act like they know the answer to every problem because the answer is usually throw money at it. A little bribery here, a little fraud there — it doesn't even really count as crime if laws don't apply to you. I find that hard to respect.
Cartoon Villain: I have a contact in the certificates office. You certainly pass for sixteen, it will be no trouble to have your birth certificate adjusted accordingly.
Me: Never said I was too old.
I know that was a dumb thing to say to a menacing asshole like this one, but in the moment it was worth it to see him scowl and squint and act like he wasn't caught totally off-guard.
Cartoon Villain: I see.
I'm not sure that he does, but he'll get there.
Have you ever heard the adage only do one crime at once? It's a good idea in theory. In practice, it falls apart a little when you're living somewhere illegally. And I don't mean just squatting in a boarded up pie shop, I mean fully punishable-by-jail-or-avoxing-or-death illegally. You know, wasn't-supposed-to-leave-District-Four illegally. Everything else quickly becomes a crime too. Bust into that ex-patisserie to sleep? Breaking and entering, trespassing, crime. Sleep on the street? Obstructing public spaces, loitering, crime. Ask for a handful of change to grab a bite to eat? Panhandling, harassing the public, crime. Stuff an apple and a sandwich into your pockets? Theft. Crime. Try to get a job without papers? Unauthorized work. Crime. Fake some documents? Forgery. Crime.
I've fallen into that classic trap of damed if you don't, dead if you do. So, you know. Things are pretty peachy.
Cartoon Villain: I'd like to offer you a quid pro quo.
Me: Nah, I don't really do hard drugs anymore. Cool of you to share though.
He doesn't even suppress a snicker, like some kind of humorless asshat. Fuck you, that was a hilarious joke.
Cartoon Villain: I'll make the arrangements. You will be a citizen of District Eight. And should my daughter be reaped, you will volunteer to take her place.
Have you ever heard the adage don't ask questions you don't really want to know the answer to? I don't ask what's to stop me from stepping up. I'll burn that bridge when I get to it.
Me: If I say no?
Cartoon Villain: You'll be tongueless in a detention center by morning.
Me: Right.
Cartoon Villain: So we have a deal.
I hate the way that it isn't a question.
He offers his hand out to shake. I hock a huge glob of spit into mine and then grab his before he can pull it away. You know, seal the deal all official-like.
Nodding profusely, I match his grimace with the same smarmy smile he gave me two seconds ago.
Me: I'm still gonna fuck your wife.
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