fine-prints

[fine-prints]

Corduroy Falto, The Capitol, viewing Gloss' Propo

Cord had just stirred the last remnants of his instant coffee when the familiar ding of a Capitol-sanctioned message came from his television. He barely looked up as he followed the familiar, well-worn path from his kitchen counter to the couch. Cord's apartment was lavish to anyone from the districts, but to a Capitolite's eye, it would be described as ' quaint ' and ' rustic '. Not exactly words you want to hear, compared to all of the glamour and allure money could afford here. He didn't care, as long as it had space for a desk and plenty of light to write under.

The man turned up the volume as he missed the first few seconds of the broadcast, taking his first sip of his drink, eyebrows furrowed together. Seeing Victors interview for propos was not abnormal, but Corduroy had a particular interest in the Victor from 1, whose home district he had just visited, whose home district was background to an assassination.

Gloss was right as he told Caesar he was shocked by the death. He wondered if the double meaning referred to the way Gleam and the mayor were murdered. Did any of the Victors face threats leading up to the killing ? Was Gloss doing damage control right now, or perhaps just reiterating his loyalty as to save himself ?

To go through so much trauma in the arena only to find out the games never ended. The Capitol was the real arena.

( He had to be careful thinking this way. )

Gloss' quiet, considerate ( perhaps calculated ) way of speaking intrigued Cord. He wondered if the Victor would be interested in a conversation. An interview would be too much, especially when Cord wasn't sure what he wanted to make of a potential meeting. Hmm. He'd have to ask around and see how far he could get.

He found himself intrigued by the new thoughts racing around his mind, that with every propo he found he had even more questions and even higher skepticism.

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THE ARTICLE WRITING: AN INSIGHT INTO THE MIND OF CORD FALTO closed para for corduroy falto

THE BEGINNING Carolina knows why for years I roam free as these birds, light as whispers.

He had been assigned the leading story, the ' front pager ' — and while this honor had only been bestowed upon him once before, the usual celebratory feelings were replaced with tendrils of fear. Over what, he couldn't name, but as he left his boss' office for the train to District 1, Corduroy Falto knew he needed to be careful.

Cord had grown up in the Capitol and its calculated way of life never seemed strange to him, never made him wonder what life was like outside its boundaries. In fact, he NEVER thought about its boundaries, that there were places he wouldn't be allowed to see, because all he ever needed were within its walls. He had childhood friends, he had a graduation certificate, he had a job and past girlfriends and plenty of social events to fill up hours he didn't work ( although he was always working, in his own way ). Life outside the Capitol didn't exactly exist — except for the handful of tributes each year, each of them bringing glimmers of home with them. It never occurred to Corduroy to pay attention.

Not until now, with his new assignment making him board a train that would take him beyond the comfort of his home. Blue eyes watched the scenery change and he remembered a playground tale he'd heard at private school, that the districts didn't exist, that the Capitol was the whole wide world and if he ventured too far, he'd hit a wall.

Part of him wondered if it were true and if his train would crumple.

THE MIDDLE And you didn't see me here, no, they never did see me.

He arrived in District 1 with his clean, bright smile, one mirrored in the people of 1. ' See, ' he told himself, ' not so bad after all, these people are fed, well dressed, and not a rebel in sight. '

It was with ignorance that he spoke to witnesses of the mayor and Gleam's deaths, it was then that he learned, perhaps, an assassination had taken place. Furrowed brows, his pen poised, Cord nodded along to the narratives, his mind visualizing the scene, imagining the fear, the chaos, the confusion. The blood, he learned, had been cleaned up quickly, scrubbed down as though the tragedy had never happened. ( He knew to keep this out of his draft ).

The strangest part of all were the tales of how quickly the Peacekeepers disappeared after the incident. Once citizens were ushered back to their homes and out of the town square, it was quiet. No one watching to make sure everyone obeyed unspoken curfew, no one keeping an eye out for any looters or rioters — no, the people of District 1 fell into line, and he had been told by a witness that they were all Capitol supporters here. They had no reason to rebel. They were safe ( but Corduroy noticed the look of uncertainty in their eyes, because didn't they just witness a beloved Victor get murdered in public ? ).

The bright, glimmering smile he'd once worn soon changed into downturned lips, a permanent furrow between his brow, and spontaneous note taking. It was as though Corduroy had begun documenting things he saw, thoughts he had, all to be kept safe in his jacket pocket and never be shared with anyone. No matter the promises, the stories, or the allegiance.

THE END It's between me, the sand, and the sea. Carolina knows.

Corduory had been strictly prohibited from using the term ' power ' when addressing the Capitol. He had been told to fix a final sentence in his article, that he could face severe consequences for this ' little mistake ' and thus — "Stay vigilant, and more importantly, always remember the power of the Capitol" became "Stay vigilant, and more importantly, always remember the importance of a unified Panem."

Later, much later, Corduroy would look back on this as the precise moment the seed of rebellion had been planted.

For now, he sat with uncertainty, with the confusion of a person not being given all of the information but being expected to finish the task. The final copy given to the editor, then to the printing press, and finally into the hands of those around him. Suddenly the weight of information hit him, that he had conspired with the Capitol without meaning to — to share a calculated, tailored version of events. The fear would shake itself off and Corduroy would be back to his usual self, but for now, on the evening of the issue's first print, he chose to walk himself home, alone, and lock the door.

[fine-prints]

When: Day 65

Where: A Capitol Party

Who: Portia and Corduroy ( @fine-prints )

It didn't surprise her that despite everything that was going on, that the Capitol Parties had continued. Portia had found herself invited to some days after Cinna had been executed. Initially she hadn't gone to any, but then she remembered the was supposed to be moving on. And so she'd gone. Portia had found that it wasn't as hard to push herself back into that Capitol scene. She had enjoyed it before after all. It also gave her an excuse to get her sewing machine out again. Designing clothes had been her passion, and she wasn't about to let the stupid rebellion, or being in that cell douse her passion. She'd started out by designing clothing for herself, and so, that was what she had done.

So, it hadn't come as a surprise when she'd been invited to yet another party, even just mere days after the rebellion had kidnapped tributes, victors and other elite members of society. It might not have been broadcast, but Portia had a feeling that her ex-fellow cell mates were not there anymore. She had briefly thought about Peeta, and then stopped herself. She was the new Portia now, one that was forging a new path. She couldn't worry herself about past friends that had betrayed her.

She was also supposed to be moving on from Cinna, someone else that had betrayed her. So when the opportunity to talk, maybe flirt, with Corduroy, she decided to take it. Who knew, a pretty face might be a good distraction. "Corduroy. Lovely to see you." It was, even if things around them were not as lovely. "Enjoying the party?"

[fine-prints]

Austin Butler in THE BIKERIDERS (2023) dir. Jeff Nichols

[fine-prints]

Corduroy let out a low whistle when she said District 4. That was one of the districts to watch every year with plenty of victors, and knowing she was tasked with taking care of their tributes was pretty meaningful. Though, given the reality of the games, Cord knew it couldn't be all glamorous, not knowing whether the person she had gotten to know all of those weeks would ever come back.

Even if they did, there must be battle scars deeper than those visible to the eye.

"I don't know that my articles would ever measure up to what you do. It's commendable. Must be tough but you seem to have a nice disposition about it all," he smiled, glancing over at her. Cord was pretty impressed by her, given he had no expectations coming in, but even if he had he was certain he would feel the same.

The man then led them towards the coffee shop doors and pulled one open for her, letting the smell of freshly ground beans and baked pastries roll out onto the street. He loved living here. He couldn't imagine any other life.

Painted lips pressed into a sweet smile as eyes found his features in a moment of silence. She decided she liked the apples of his cheeks best when he smiled and already was determined to make it her life's mission to make them bulge with glee as much as she could - for she also didn't mind the white of his teeth and that happy, shimmering sparkle in the depths of those blues.

"District Four." Her answer came with pride. District Four was, after all, one of the more successful districts when it came to the Games. It was home to many victors. And many talented ones for that matter. It had been quite an honor to be assigned to it. The first year came with quite some pressure, but she was good at what she did so managed to soldier through. "I wouldn't say easy, no. One would think that escorting for a district such as Four with victors like Finnick Odair, Natalia Morrissey, Annie Cresta is an easy task, but maintaining a reputation is harder than building one." The biggest part of her job some days was convincing tributes or victors to follow what she had set out for them.

"It is such a nice feeling, though - to have someone else's successes being your own as well. It's like a double win! But you must know understand what that is like - with your articles I imagine you sometimes do the same."

[fine-prints]

for: @erisharrington / CLOSED where: the capitol when: shortly after the arena attack

Corduroy Falto sat back in the leather seat, drink in hand, eyes watching the doors open and close as patrons made their way in or out of the restaurant. It was mid-afternoon ( closer to 1:30, but he told himself this to justify the drink ) and the sun shone brightly through all of the skylight windows, brightening up the place despite all of its dark colored interior. He had asked Eris Harrington to meet and was hoping to gather a little more information if possible, especially with her knowledge. Cord would respect anyone building a life for themselves in journalism, even if their preferred forms were different.

The man was about to start playing a dangerous game, one he had no rule book for. There had always been hints and shadows of the truth growing up in the Capitol, but Cord had been too blinded by the lifestyle to see it. Now, though, in the wake of a serious chess move by the districts, he had to give into temptation.

But for now he left those heavier thoughts aside to enjoy the drink and peruse the menu. He purposely arrived earlier than his meeting time, the type to like getting a lay of the land instead of walking into something unprepared. So journalist of him.

[fine-prints]

Her laugh made him laugh. It was unexpected, as he didn't put ' being charmed ' on his to-do list that morning.

Corduroy shook his head at her statement, knowing it didn't need an answer. In fact he was very interested in her position as escort to the tributes, because he hadn't known that coming in to meet with her. The games weren't always on his radar — and yeah, that sounds bad considering children are killing each other for sport, but Cord's focus had always been on the Capitol itself. How does it run — and why does President Snow make the decisions he does ? Is everyone in on it, from the stylists to the announcers, even to people like Ms. Kline who were a little more involved with the audience ? Cord wasn't sure there was an answer at all. Maybe this is just how things are.

Then again he knew that kind of statement, that lack of critical thinking is what keeps a population blind.

"What district did you escort for ? I can't imagine it's an easy position."

As they walked along the concrete sidewalk to the coffee shop a block away, Cord's eyes looked from her to the columns of carved pillars and shiny glass windows. It was so PERFECT here. Everything in its place, nothing where it shouldn't be. Later, maybe weeks or months, he would come back to this thought and make sense of it. For right now, it was just something curious.

"Oh my, asking real questions about the numbers." she chuckled before brows arched together in thought. Numbers were her true archenemy. "I think it's about three or four years? They say that people who are unsuccessful in getting a career in acting or music end up hosting a show. Based on my singing, that would certainly be the case." Another sweet chuckle as she stepped through the door and waited for him to close it behind them. Such a gentleman. ( Any other man with any sense of courtesy would have done the same - but this was Corduroy Falto, that made it extra charming somehow ).

"I had been thinking of doing it before, but first I wanted to focus on escorting; making sure I got all the ins and outs before allowing myself to take something else on. But I learnt that in the essence it's all quite the same. In the end you just want to help people get to the best versions of themselves. I think that's what it's all about."

She halted, titling her head to the side in question. "Oh wait - did I just give you the entire moral of the story in the first two minutes?" Head fell back a bit as she laughed. "No - no, no! I know better than this! Don't go cancel the coffee now that you've got all you need!" Sarah added playfully, an absent hand squeezed softly at his arm as she continued her way, emphasizing a sincere bubbly warmth that could only truly touch the soul when meeting her in person.

[fine-prints]

By the time she flounced back she was about three ( four ? ) inches taller by his estimation, and much fluffier. She looked like she ran circles around the people in this building, or perhaps ( knowing the unfortunate culture in the Capitol's business world ) they doubted her by mere presence alone. Corduroy preferred not to judge people by their looks or the words they chose, or even the things they watched to pass the time. He wondered if she was someone who learned because she watched carefully.

"Thanks for your time, again. How long have you been at Good Morning Panem ? A cool career choice," he said, not finding it interesting or cool at all on face value, but instead he was enamoured by the purpose of GMP. He assumed a government in power wanted to keep secrets and the best way to do so was keep their population obsessed with useless things. Cord would never, ever say this out loud, however — unless he wanted to spontaneously disappear and re-appear with no tongue.

The man pushed open the big, glass door, holding it for her before turning towards the small coffee shop nearby.

At this point in Cord's life, he wasn't an outright Capitol denier or doubter. He found its role in the greater Panem extremely important because of the districts were too WILD, then they needed something to keep them in check. That is what he had grown up knowing his entire life — the districts were filled with important workers who kept key infrastructure running, providing Panem with essentials and the Capitol with everything it could need. Wasn't that a fair bargain ?

How considerate of him! Time was precious after all and he seemed to value hers. Sarah was already noting down bonus points for that. The blonde was quite busy, even if she told herself she was not. Not many would be able to do the tough combination that was escorting the Games and GMP. And do it well, that is. Sarah liked to believe she could. But she was not boastful about it - no Sarah Kline was humble and usually enjoyed hearing about others more than listening to the sound of her own voice. It might not always seem that way with her cheerful, enthusiastic spirit, but it certainly was the case.

Her gaze followed his to his watch, lashes fluttering up to meet his gaze again and a sweet laugh escaped her painted lips. "I was only teasing, Mr. Falto - I don't expect anything of the sort."

Head titled to the side and an even sweeter smile pressed upon her features at the suggestion of a coffee. She knew this wasn't a date of any sort. She knew. But it was so easy to pretend it was. Look at her - going on a date with Corduroy Falto. What would her mother say about that! In a purple leotard, though..?

"A coffee does sound wonderful, let me get my coat." She turned her heel, in the meantime kicking her ballet flats off as she headed for the wanted objects. Thigh high heels made the outfit almost seem intentional, especially in combination with the faux fur she also slipped on. Then she hurried back with the hint of a skip in her step. "l'm ready!"

[fine-prints]

Corduroy waltzed into the building in his waist-high, maroon corduroy pants. Signature look, of course — who was he to break habit ? The white button-up shirt he wore hung a little loose in contrast to the secure waist, and over his shoulder slung a leather book bag filled with the most precious things; notepad, fountain pen, pack of gum and his badge ID for his newspaper.

He didn't expect to need it meeting with Sarah Kline because his meeting with her was purely inquisitive, but didn't know what doors she could open and who he might meet on the other side of the threshold. So he met her gaze with a bright, open smile, letting the charm of a laugh escape him.

"Can't leave you waiting, Miss Kline," he said politely, and if he had been born in another life, in another Panem, he'd have the slow drawl of a southern-born boy. Instead he was a purebred Capitolite and every inch of him oozed it.

He knew the boundaries of the Capitol kept him safe from all the prying hands of hatred out there. ( Little did he know he'd come to change his mind, but that's for another day ).

"Seven forty-five, right." Cord checked his watch and they had a little time before their festivities commenced. Still, there was plenty of time for information gathering — he would ask gently about her employment history here, about the kinds of stories she preferred to cover.

"Can I get you a coffee ?"

a plotted starter for @fine-prints

Corduroy Falto. Coming to speak to her about her career. Anyone who was anyone in the media industry - even anyone who followed all the good media content - knew of Corduroy Falto! Not just because of that silver lining of poetry hidden within every piece, but because of the fashion and the face. He certainly was someone that made you spill your secrets. She had never met him before - only seen him from afar. Sarah couldn't believe he had actually reached out to her. He knew of her as well! How incredibly flattering!

But the chokehold he had on her the moment she saw him entering the studio through those glass doors was out of this universe. He was even more handsome like this; up close in real life. Her throat dried up a bit, her pupils dilated and her pulse increased. If she was more academically inclined, she'd know that meant trouble.

Her gaze went from the subtle curl of his hair down to the shine on the nose of his shoe and before she knew it he was standing in front of her. Suddenly she felt quite ridiculous in her purple leotard.

"You give yourself away Mr. Falto. Your perfect timing and immaculate appearance tell me that you have not watched and joined this morning's exercise." Her eyes were glued to him. Oh, how dashing he was! Her tone was humored, light, sweet. Nothing about it indicating that she expected anything of the sort. "There is a re-run at seven forty-five."

[fine-prints]

CORDUROY (CORD) FALTO

Faltō (masc.), derived from the Roman meaning; 1. falcon

No Plan – Hozier 🎵

Faceclaim: Austin Butler Age: 32 Gender: Cis-man Home: Capitol Role: Capitol journalist Personality: Inquisitive, curious, headstrong, confident, persistent, driven

PART III: CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY

Corduroy Falto was the shining epitome of privilege. He lived a comfortable life in the Capitol, especially those who called the districts their home, albeit “upper-middle class” distinction from those Capitolites who frequented upscale shops and restaurants. There was no one in particular that made Corduroy feel embarrassed about his upbringing, but if you asked him he would say “the pervasive culture of Capitol-born citizens cast a long shadow, and I, not one blessed by the golden glow they stand in, must make do.” He spent his time befriending books and librarians, preferring the quiet rows of knowledge to the more hollow, empty chatter held at parties. Well – that was his assumption, his stereotyping of his fellow citizens. He knew there was privilege being born in the Capitol where food was endless and bountiful, and he never had to work a truly hard day, no matter how tired he was. Only rumors and whispered talk of true life in the districts got to him, because he knew the dissemination of information about them was carefully curated. He was meant to believe the districts were essential to the survival of Panem, that their gift of labour was shared, not forcefully taken. Corduroy was aware of the political game at play from a young age, when he realized asking questions could get him in trouble, so instead he learned how to gain knowledge eavesdropping or reading between the lines.

Once he was old enough to make his own choices, Cord sought out journalism. He knew if he wanted to rise in the ranking of “in the know,” he had to play the game. It meant writing pieces that made President Snow look humanitarian and the districts seem – voluntary (how ironic). Still, Cord was not entirely sure he stood with the districts nor against them. He knew that if the Capitol translated the truth, anything coming out of the districts could be just as manipulated. Maybe they weren’t starving to death or working double shifts for minimal pay, but they were the ones sacrificed in the name of “remembrance” and that wasn’t something Cord could overlook. No matter the frills President Snow tried to decorate the districts with, it couldn’t take the stench away.

In the aftermath of the rebellion, Cord knows his position is even more precarious than ever. He’s made it to the high ranks of the Capitol’s best newspaper and has worked many years curating intended messaging – the Capitol is the heart of Panem and district rebellion will cause the entire downfall of humanity, etc etc. He’s seen many rebellion Propos, as well as those commissioned by President Snow, and finds himself even more determined to let truth reign. As a young boy he was never quite sure what to believe but in the wake of the arena bombing and the rebellion Propos, he finds himself siding even more with the districts. While he knows getting the truth out does not come quick or easily (especially being a Capitolite), he’s in the middle of trying to come up with crafty ways to send out messages. If they know they have some help on the “other side”, will it forgive the immediate distrust of his birthright? Will he ever be able to overcome his upbringing in the name of helping the rebellion?