A Series of Nothings in Garish Comfort.
There was a cozy sort of ominous nature in the waiting room of one Jon Ramses. A saturated red was smeared vertically down the walls, which were soft as a cushion and pink as raw flesh in the Winter. Twiddling his thumbs in a rhythm that, despite existing only in his head, was just a bit off, Figaro Falstaff was left to question the implications of Mr. Ramses's decoration.
He shifted his weight, of which he would be the first to admit that there is a bit too much to shift, around the pillows of the lovely little black couch that was placed so invitingly upon the waiting room's entrance. He could understand what the walls were intended to mean; a Gamemaker, naturally, would want to convey the violent nature, but there were some interior design choices that baffled him. First of all, what bodily atrocity was a jet black couch supposed to represent? Secondly, with such harsh a theme, why would the place be so comfortable, that Figaro considered asking the secretary for a blanket, so as to have a pleasant nap? And, finally, why would the walls, surely meant to represent flesh, be such a tone of flesh that most closely resembled washing whites in with the reds?
Well, Figaro reasoned, an office is at its best when its a place you'd like to go to. The atmosphere is rather soothing.
In the smoothness of the atmosphere, Figaro Falstaff ran the risk of forgetting his place, and taking a brief nap on the couch of what will hopefully be his once and permanent employer. A proper toadie, he'd think, would be best seen as awake and ready at all times. To ward off the temptress that was the lovely little black couch, Figaro shifted his weight off and into a light foot stumble toward the nearby secretary. Despite Figaro's presence for some minutes, she had not acknowledged him, and he had not acknowledged her. He had hoped she noticed him, and it was just a cordial barrier between the two, though he would not be surprised if he had been overlooked, only stung.
"Nice to meet you, mizz...?" Figaro began.
"Thank you, Mr. Falstaff, pleased to make your acquaintance," the secretary responded, "may I help you?"
And thus began a series of nothing conversation, of which Figaro had smiled his way through. The two of them had nothing substantial to say, and both of them felt it was not their place to ask for anything substantial from the other, which Figaro understood. She was there to work, and he was there to propose working. Her name was Mina, and she had some sort of personal relationship to Jon, though he could only assume by the fact that, in their smalltalk about Figaro's applied position, he had just now come to learn that Mr. Ramses was named Jon.
A nothing vignette about the Capitol weather had been interrupted, to the mutual acceptance of both Mina and Figaro, by the welcomed burst of wind from the office of Mr. Ramses. Figaro and Mina's vague gaze had broken apart instantaneously, as Mina returned to her miscellanea, and Figaro glanced towards the impressive veneer of Capitol success that stood from within the doorway.
"Oh, Falstaff!" Ramses chortled with a beaming smile that can only be acted out by most endearingly insincere, "come on in, lad! We've got plenty to discuss, and far too little time to dwell on it all, come on in!" With every well-meaning repetition, he enacted an exaggerated motion, befitting his lanky stature; when he motioned inside his office, he looked like a man made of cheap rubber, adorned in jewels of red and fabric of purple.
Figaro had not expected such a warm greeting. In fact, he had not expected a greeting at all. Although he was the questioning type, that was only so as to fill in the blanks of what he could not assume, and, Ramses's exceptionally, outrageously warm feeling had made him assume the world of his current situation. With a happy waddle, he had abandoned his post of nothing at Mina's desk, and shuffled infront of the limbering man, into his office.
Two Lovely Friends who Promote the Professional Murder of Children.
As Figaro shuffled in his seat, trying to find his comfort, Ramses stared, with the beady eyes of a man with no present malice, but an excitement at the thought of accruing some. Ramses had found his most satisfactory position on the trip down into his chair, and was waiting for Figaro to find a similar level of outrageous self-satisfaction, seated upon the glorious fabric that had cost so much. Figaro's eyes, meanwhile, were shuffling just as the rest of him was; that was why he had not taken stock of Ramses's expression.
"Ah, so, no pink on these walls?" Figaro posited, with a goblin-esque smile he had never once tried to hide, "you know, um, the ones outside, they looked like... looked like you had just put them through the laundry with some reds!" Figaro had put himself into stitches, and pridefully tapped the table in recognition of his own good humor. Ramses took a minute, before joining him, laughing garishly, slapping the table once, in a trumping recognition.
"Yes! Yes! These walls are..." Ramses had choked out, before interrupting himself with more laughter, "these walls are white as winter! Now, Falstaff, friend, do you think you can tell me why that is?"
"Is it cos laundry night is Wednesdays?" Figaro responded, wiping away a tear that had dripped from his excellent wit and perfect comedic timing, though not wiping away his prideful smile. Even Figaro knew that this was not as funny as the last bit, but he had to hide his complete unawareness of what Ramses was talking about, so he returned to the just immediately used well.
This time, Ramses did not laugh. Instead, he stood, and began pacing about the white cube that was his office. "It is because, my dear friend Figaro, this is a new beginning for me! This year's Games... they're a... fresh slate! A plain white, for me to put into the laundry once again!"
Figaro was happy he used the joke, the kind of happiness that bubbles from the belly and would have put a smile onto his face, if he hadn't had one already.
"Figaro! My friend!" Ramses continued, exploding into volume and motion, "do you like violence?!" He questioned, taking Figaro's freshly-pressed shirt into his slender hands, giving him a tug away from his oft-sought comfortable position.
"Y-yes, Mr. Ramses, I like violence!" Figaro replied, with the nerves of the sudden motion causing a tinge of nervousness, further characterized by his now darting expression.
"Friend Figaro, do you love violence?!"
"I'm... open to it, I'd suppo-"
"What are you willling to do, to bring the Capitol its violence?! To bring me my violence?!"
"Willing to do a... a damn good job!"
"Then lets," Ramses excited expression led him to, quite possibly accidentally, dot his words with a little bit of spittle, as he raised Figaro upward in posture, "let's do the laundry! As assistant and master, and... and as friends!"
With a toss befitting a man of much more bulk, Ramses tossed Figaro toward nothing in particular, leaving the young man stumbling into a fall. Ramses proceeded to approach, with his extensive strides of purpose and rubber. Digging into his pocket, his hand emerged with a metallic pen, adorned with the initials of F. Falstaff. Figaro gripped the pen, and did not observe the engraving. If he had, he would've been even more flustered than he had been from the throw, but nevertheless complimented.
"Use the pen. This is your pen, friend Falstaff, this is your pen and your sword! Adorn these new Games with the violence, by christening it with your red ink!" Ramses prompted, motioning toward the pristine white of the Southernmost wall, the side closest to Falstaff.
The young man glanced toward the pen, and, in a bid of workplace enthusiasm, he touched the pen to his finger, and prepared to withdraw blood. He had wished he was born with a shorter name, or perhaps, one of those diseases where you got a little nosebleed on occasion. But, he gritted his teeth, and accepted that it was time to do the laundry.
The following project is an SYOT, or Submit Your Own Tribute. When I was a child, I read them all too often, and I figured I would throw my hat into writing one. I'm quite partial to sillier tones, as one may have known if they had read the previous excerpt, but, I'll be accepting Tributes of any tone or any character. Please, feel free to submit as many Tributes as you wish, through Private Message only.
Thoughts on the prose would be appreciated. Here is a form of details that I would like to be included, feel free to include or disinclude to your leisure.
Name:
Preferred District(s):
Gender:
Backstory:
Appearance:
Anything Else You Would Like to Say: