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31_days2013-03-15 08:03 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2013-03-15 08:03 pm
[Mar. 15] [The Hunger Games] Factory Gears Keep Turning
Title: Factory Gears Keep Turning
Day/Theme: March 15, 2013 "the beginning of a life-long romance"
Series: The Hunger Games
Character/Pairing: Mags & OC District 8 victor, Pal Fields
Rating: PG
Aulie passes the morning with me in front of "Weekly Fashion News." He knows one of the co-hosts and keeps poking fun at them (Apple says they used to date and had a really bad break-up).
Erinne has put an outfit together for my day in 8, but she tells me as soon as I'm dressed that if Pal Fields has finished whatever he was making me, I should wear it instead. I like the long gray shirt and black pants she's put me in, they're simple and soft, but whatever comes from Pal should be special. It turns out I don't stay in Erinne's chosen costume very long, because the first person my eyes settle on as I step off the train is the mousy, retiring victor and tailor Pal Fields. He's holding a dress- pink and yellow and orange and white- and, to my eyes, it is the single most beautiful garment I have ever worn or pictured wearing.
He hangs back while the mayor officially welcomes me to District 8, though he gradually inches nearer and nearer with undisguised enthusiasm. "Congratulations!" he blurts out as soon as there's an opening in the dialogue. "May I hug you?"
"Uh- yes?"
It's a strange and awfully familiar thing to do for a guy I just met, but the way he grips me (crushing the dress between us), I get the feeling this is someone who really needs to be hugged back. I try to remember- does he have any family? Does this have to do with how he was clearly previously acquainted with his last male tribute, Heath? "Please be my friend," he whispers to me, hoping the cameras won't hear, then breaks away, not forcing me to answer in a hurry.
"This is for you," he offers me the lovely dress.
"I want to try it on right now," I declare and Apple turns me right around onto the train. The fit is just as superb as anything Erinne has made me. His handiwork is exquisitely professional. I think when I appear onscreen wearing this dress, Papa and Mrs. Mirande will like what they see. It lightens my mood just to look at and touch it.
"Oh," Pal sighs with relief when he see me, "It looks nice on you."
"This is really too kind of you," I insist, "It's a wonderful dress! Thank you so much."
"You're welcome. It's my pleasure."
When we ride into town, he positions himself so the side of his hand sits against mine. It's the calculated gesture of someone who wants to touch, but not give the wrong impression. The car is closed. It's the two of us and the mayor. "I had seven sisters," Pal tells me, "Five were alive at the time of my Games. My mother too. Maybe you remember when they were interviewed."
It's true that as his prompting, the image of five young women with variations on his coloration crowding the camera resurfaces in my mind. "Our brother," they said, overlapping one another's words and creating a melody of fear; a counter rhythm of hope, "Is clever, is good with his hands, is always used to having someone to take care of him."
"H-how did they all?" I ask, horrified.
"Factory fire. One hundred and two people died by the total count."
Accident or "accident?" Could the Capitol have possibly hated Pal Fields so much that they would sacrifice ninety-six innocent people to take away his family? That's hard to imagine. Something must have happened in District 8. Something bigger than Pal, but possibly involving him as well. He's just telling me, but on some level, he's also warning me.
"I'm really lonely," he says.
The mayor, driving, lets out a snort, but I find it easy to feel sympathy for Pal Fields. I am glad we could talk like this. I turn to look out at the distort. There are a lot of factories, even more than in 9. The buildings are all such bland hues that the splashes of color where I can see through windows to where newly dyed fabric is hanging to dry (or something) are as enticing as the Capitol's most ridiculous desserts. Does anyone in 8 wear those things, or is the fabric equivalent of happiness nothing but an export?
Apparently, they wear some for special occasions at least. There are colorful banners in the "Quadrangle" (a rather impressive town square) and a subdued crowd is gathered there, clad in brilliant opposition to their general mood.
The reception they give me is equally muted- Heath and Mercy's families don't avoid my gaze, but they don't exert any special force through their looks either. They are just looking. "Oh," they're thinking, "So that's the girl." If they have any idea of what depths of loneliness Pal Fields is experiencing, they might be thinking, "Poor girl. She lived, and for what purpose?"
I have no worthwhile words for them, but watching does dredge up the memory of Pal and Heath Holystone and how I could tell they were friends from the reaping.
It isn't until I'm being toured through a very noisy factory that I can discreetly broach the topic. "Can I ask you about Heath Holystone?"
"Yes, but there's nothing to talk about. He was my last friend here. …Now," he catches me before I apologize, or express my sympathies, or both, "Once he was in that arena there was nothing I could do for him. For Mercy either. It was in," he takes a deep breath, notes the ears of Apple, Aulie, Tosca, and the mayor all within hearing distance and decides against finishing the sentiment.
But I read into it. I nod. "God's hands," or whatever means "God's hands," to Pal Fields. I wonder if he understands that we are loosely united in this, believing, to whatever degree, that that is ultimately something more powerful than people, more powerful than the Capitol.
I think he does. From the way he played his Games, we (oh, Beanpole) - we always assumed he was a smart guy. I think the machines in his mind are spinning, just like in this factory. …But toward what purpose?
The locals may be quiet, but we visitors feel good here. District 8 fuels the fancies of my compatriots better than our earlier stops did. Apple is fascinated at seeing the ways the fabrics are made. Erinne declares the headscarves worn by some of the factory girls: "Very interesting. Very inspiring." The scarves are little flashes of color above costumes mainly plain and black or gray.
I pose for pictures in my new dress beneath a pennant-festooned "tree" of directional arrows ("Victory Square" to the right, "Head Registrar's Office" to the north, "Factories 1-3" to the left). I smile without much encouragement. I know what they want to see. I must look fairly jaunty in Pal's creation. Irish pulls him over to give his hair a once-over before they let him into any of the shots with me. Together, I would guess, we seem every more jaunty. We look a bit dissimilar for siblings, but you could probably say cousins. Cousins going to the Wharf Fair. Friends off to celebrate whatever they celebrate in 8.
Day/Theme: March 15, 2013 "the beginning of a life-long romance"
Series: The Hunger Games
Character/Pairing: Mags & OC District 8 victor, Pal Fields
Rating: PG
Aulie passes the morning with me in front of "Weekly Fashion News." He knows one of the co-hosts and keeps poking fun at them (Apple says they used to date and had a really bad break-up).
Erinne has put an outfit together for my day in 8, but she tells me as soon as I'm dressed that if Pal Fields has finished whatever he was making me, I should wear it instead. I like the long gray shirt and black pants she's put me in, they're simple and soft, but whatever comes from Pal should be special. It turns out I don't stay in Erinne's chosen costume very long, because the first person my eyes settle on as I step off the train is the mousy, retiring victor and tailor Pal Fields. He's holding a dress- pink and yellow and orange and white- and, to my eyes, it is the single most beautiful garment I have ever worn or pictured wearing.
He hangs back while the mayor officially welcomes me to District 8, though he gradually inches nearer and nearer with undisguised enthusiasm. "Congratulations!" he blurts out as soon as there's an opening in the dialogue. "May I hug you?"
"Uh- yes?"
It's a strange and awfully familiar thing to do for a guy I just met, but the way he grips me (crushing the dress between us), I get the feeling this is someone who really needs to be hugged back. I try to remember- does he have any family? Does this have to do with how he was clearly previously acquainted with his last male tribute, Heath? "Please be my friend," he whispers to me, hoping the cameras won't hear, then breaks away, not forcing me to answer in a hurry.
"This is for you," he offers me the lovely dress.
"I want to try it on right now," I declare and Apple turns me right around onto the train. The fit is just as superb as anything Erinne has made me. His handiwork is exquisitely professional. I think when I appear onscreen wearing this dress, Papa and Mrs. Mirande will like what they see. It lightens my mood just to look at and touch it.
"Oh," Pal sighs with relief when he see me, "It looks nice on you."
"This is really too kind of you," I insist, "It's a wonderful dress! Thank you so much."
"You're welcome. It's my pleasure."
When we ride into town, he positions himself so the side of his hand sits against mine. It's the calculated gesture of someone who wants to touch, but not give the wrong impression. The car is closed. It's the two of us and the mayor. "I had seven sisters," Pal tells me, "Five were alive at the time of my Games. My mother too. Maybe you remember when they were interviewed."
It's true that as his prompting, the image of five young women with variations on his coloration crowding the camera resurfaces in my mind. "Our brother," they said, overlapping one another's words and creating a melody of fear; a counter rhythm of hope, "Is clever, is good with his hands, is always used to having someone to take care of him."
"H-how did they all?" I ask, horrified.
"Factory fire. One hundred and two people died by the total count."
Accident or "accident?" Could the Capitol have possibly hated Pal Fields so much that they would sacrifice ninety-six innocent people to take away his family? That's hard to imagine. Something must have happened in District 8. Something bigger than Pal, but possibly involving him as well. He's just telling me, but on some level, he's also warning me.
"I'm really lonely," he says.
The mayor, driving, lets out a snort, but I find it easy to feel sympathy for Pal Fields. I am glad we could talk like this. I turn to look out at the distort. There are a lot of factories, even more than in 9. The buildings are all such bland hues that the splashes of color where I can see through windows to where newly dyed fabric is hanging to dry (or something) are as enticing as the Capitol's most ridiculous desserts. Does anyone in 8 wear those things, or is the fabric equivalent of happiness nothing but an export?
Apparently, they wear some for special occasions at least. There are colorful banners in the "Quadrangle" (a rather impressive town square) and a subdued crowd is gathered there, clad in brilliant opposition to their general mood.
The reception they give me is equally muted- Heath and Mercy's families don't avoid my gaze, but they don't exert any special force through their looks either. They are just looking. "Oh," they're thinking, "So that's the girl." If they have any idea of what depths of loneliness Pal Fields is experiencing, they might be thinking, "Poor girl. She lived, and for what purpose?"
I have no worthwhile words for them, but watching does dredge up the memory of Pal and Heath Holystone and how I could tell they were friends from the reaping.
It isn't until I'm being toured through a very noisy factory that I can discreetly broach the topic. "Can I ask you about Heath Holystone?"
"Yes, but there's nothing to talk about. He was my last friend here. …Now," he catches me before I apologize, or express my sympathies, or both, "Once he was in that arena there was nothing I could do for him. For Mercy either. It was in," he takes a deep breath, notes the ears of Apple, Aulie, Tosca, and the mayor all within hearing distance and decides against finishing the sentiment.
But I read into it. I nod. "God's hands," or whatever means "God's hands," to Pal Fields. I wonder if he understands that we are loosely united in this, believing, to whatever degree, that that is ultimately something more powerful than people, more powerful than the Capitol.
I think he does. From the way he played his Games, we (oh, Beanpole) - we always assumed he was a smart guy. I think the machines in his mind are spinning, just like in this factory. …But toward what purpose?
The locals may be quiet, but we visitors feel good here. District 8 fuels the fancies of my compatriots better than our earlier stops did. Apple is fascinated at seeing the ways the fabrics are made. Erinne declares the headscarves worn by some of the factory girls: "Very interesting. Very inspiring." The scarves are little flashes of color above costumes mainly plain and black or gray.
I pose for pictures in my new dress beneath a pennant-festooned "tree" of directional arrows ("Victory Square" to the right, "Head Registrar's Office" to the north, "Factories 1-3" to the left). I smile without much encouragement. I know what they want to see. I must look fairly jaunty in Pal's creation. Irish pulls him over to give his hair a once-over before they let him into any of the shots with me. Together, I would guess, we seem every more jaunty. We look a bit dissimilar for siblings, but you could probably say cousins. Cousins going to the Wharf Fair. Friends off to celebrate whatever they celebrate in 8.