open rp post
Dec. 2nd, 2012 06:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wunderkind
an open rp post
(it is what it says it is)
-1-
pick a character
-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.
-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Hunger Games and Christmas. can you combine those into one tag?
-3-
let's get it on
disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously
sorry that i'm not sorry...but actually sorry that I am terrible at playing new characters
Date: 2013-12-03 04:22 am (UTC)you are _______, from district whatever, and you are a new victor
tawk amungst yahhselves]
i only regret i don't have a dw tamaki journal. also hello! bc we already did edgeworth&sirius HG:AU
Date: 2013-12-03 04:54 pm (UTC)Except maybe it is, now. Maybe when they finally let her go back, the trees will all be different, everything will be different, all the people and the things that she knows, the things she took for granted. It wouldn't be surprising, right? The Capitol can do whatever it wants. The Arena had changed around her, like something out of a nightmare. Cliffs where there hadn't been cliffs before, a sheer drop, hundreds of feet. A river running with blood, and then the river swelled, became a flood. Lightning striking a tree--and one of the other Tributes laying on the ground a moment later, black, burned, smoking, before a ship had come along, smoothly, and plucked up the body, carried it away, and there was nothing on the ground but a little black smudge that the rain had quickly washed away.
Johanna had seen it happen. It was okay: she was going to kill the boy anyways. She wasn't going to die, crying and scared, pissing herself. She was going to win and go home and it was all going to be over, all of it, that's what she said to herself every night, like it was some sort of fucking prayer. But it was only the Capitol watching over her. And no one was going to make her prayers come true except her, and she had, and now here she was, standing in this dress that doesn't look a thing like evergreen. All her wounds stitched up and fresh. All her sweat and blood wiped away. Clean and new and victorious.
And what she's starting to realize is that she's victorious, but she's never going to be done. When the fireworks start she feels something in her twisting around, like a knife digging from the inside out, and her knees feel weak, which she hates. She hates it, she hates so much, and she grabs hold of the nearest thing to stop herself from falling over, and she hates that, too, and she hates this person she's grabbed hold of.
When she comes out of herself, she shoves him away. He's another Victor, from the past. She doesn't remember a thing about him. When she looks at him, he could very well be one of the ones she killed in the Arena--except he's cleaned up too; he's with them, now, with the Capitol.
And so is she. This is Johanna Mason's victory ball, and she hates it.]
What do you want.
Oh my god I would hate you so much if you used Tamaki
Date: 2013-12-04 12:15 am (UTC)Twice, the Victor did not take any lives at all. Miles Edgeworth had been one of those two.
It had been quite nearly all luck. He knows that. The portion that had not been luck had been sheer kindness: he had been the youngest Tribute on the field, and so there had been an older boy - District 7 himself - who had helped Miles for the first half of the games. The rest had just been hiding in trees, the serendipitous discovery of a cache of berries, and the Careers having miscounted and forgotten about the boy from District 6. They fell on each other; they bled to death; the boy in the trees had been the last one left alive. The Capitol had spun it into a story of the triumph of the meek. Et cetera. He'd lived. He'd become a Mentor.
And it was in his first year of that new career that he'd begun this tradition. He'd been fourteen; the female Tribute that year had been sixteen, and very pretty, and she'd cried on his shoulder, and he told her all full of hope and idealism that she could win simply if she didn't engage, if she stayed clear of the fighting and showed mercy and appealed to mercy from others. She'd gone down within six hours. The death had been brutal, and unkind, and lingering, and in the end her killer had won, and so at the party after Miles, full of rage and hatred, had gone to Quintus, her killer, and said such things about her to the Victor that he'd turned pale, that he'd shook. To this day, Quintus does not meet Miles' eyes - much to the good.
The next year, he'd done the same; that Victor did not kill any of his Tributes, but he'd presented him with the list of victims, confronting him with the information about what he'd done, and it had felt good. The next year had felt better still. Every year, he vented his rage over those dead children - those Tributes inadequately prepared - at the Victors, and watched their ashamed faces. Some of the other Mentors, over the years, have turned to drink, or morphling; Miles Edgeworth turned to cruelty and found in it great satisfaction.
For the first few years.
By the time he turned nineteen he was beginning to sicken of it, to dread that confrontation. He's twenty-one now. He dreads it now.
And this new Victor, Johanna Mason, with her axe and her anger and her evergreen dress, flinches at the sound of fireworks and grabs him for support. He'd come wanting to make her suffer for the lives she'd taken, to remind her of what she'd done, but...Instead of launching into his tirade, instead of making her suffer even more for not being the Tribute from District 6, for outliving the Tributes he'd mentored, he hesitates. And he speaks, his voice quiet, not responding to her question.]
Are you all right?
I WOULD NEVER or at least not for Hunger Games
Date: 2013-12-04 05:10 pm (UTC)[Next year, Johanna will be bulletproof, and the sound of fireworks won't twist in her guts. Next year, she will attend this party and she'll laugh in their faces, every one of them, and the sneer that she puts on now, it will be more ferocious, and it won't take so much effort to paste it into place. It will be second nature; it will just be her face.]
I won. So I think I'm better than all right.
[She was shaky and scared at her interview. Lots of cringing and crying, and everyone had disregarded her. And then everyone had died. Not all of them by her hand, but she'd done her share. The lingering fear of the Games isn't enough to quite eclipse her pride--which is false, just a defense, a way not to think of what she's really done, but so thorough she doesn't think of it that way--and it comes rushing back in now, enough to strengthen her stance, to throw back her head and stare this former Victor right in the face.
What District is he? She can't remember. It doesn't matter.]
Better than the rest of them, anyway. Even yours.
I would drown in my own tears.
Date: 2013-12-04 07:00 pm (UTC)She didn't fell either of his. That had been, rather, the Careers, with Axel dead at the Cornucopia and Antonia on day 2, held underwater until she went, District 2 Male panting over her in triumph. This one, District 7 Female, had killed Antonia's killer - but it wasn't justice, or righteousness; it was, like all her other kills, a desperate, selfish act.
Ought desperate, selfish acts be forgiven? It was a matter of perishing, a matter of salvation. But Miles Edgeworth had not killed in the arena; it wasn't until he left it that he had bloodied his hands.
(Sixteen of them now. Sixteen dead. None of them had ever made it longer than Day 3 in all these eight years. He has sixteen files, neatly organized, with their pictures and their lives and how they died. That's his Victor's Talent: he remembers.
(Though technically it's listed as being oratory.)
He looks at District 7 Female, and there's dispassion in his face. He knows that she's desperate, splintering, fragile, that the taunt is born of fear and disorientation. But he is obligated to do this.]
Even mine. How much do you know of mine, Ms. Mason?
he would be from the Capitol anyways
Date: 2013-12-05 05:15 pm (UTC)Instead, her lip curls, just a little more. What the hell is this? The other Victors haven't approached her. They're here--a few have been pointed out to her, their years murmured in her ear, and a few she's recognized--just their faces, from seeing them projected on the wall at school, in the square, year after year. The numbness of this aftermath, this party, all of it means she can't remember a thing, like trying to climb a tree in the rain.]
How much do I know? I don't even know who you are. And I don't care. I won.
[She won. District 7 had a few victories, here and there--but Johanna's was complete. She didn't kill them all, but she did her part; she played the role of weepy frightened girl and then she turned it around on them all. She did that. No one showed her how.]
And I'm not sharing any tips on how I did it. Next year you'll just have to be a better Mentor to your Tributes. Maybe then they'll make it. Maybe then you'll get another Victor. This year, it's mine.
HAHAH oh god he would be such a good stylist
Date: 2013-12-05 05:40 pm (UTC)But he doesn't flinch. Eight years. Much of it spent in the Capitol. You learn to control yourself. You learn to school your expression. He's known amongst the other Victors for his coldness; he's feared for it. He likes that. The Capitol casts him as aloof, self-possessed, and yet appealing and compassionate; he likes that less.
He has a file under his arm. He doesn't go to it yet. For someone this cruel, he will linger over it, take his time. He will ask her, chilly:]
Have you given any thought to your own Mentorship, Miss Mason?
RIGHT oh no now i want it.........
Date: 2013-12-05 08:34 pm (UTC)[She says it flippantly, but there's a flatness to it too, this dual tone. She hasn't quite learned yet. Later--next year--she will be better. She will be so much better at this. In District 7, they carve masks, once a year, it's a tradition, something left over from when Panem wasn't so splintered. Some people are skilled at the carving and some people can only hack out a rough imitation of a face. By next year Johanna's face will be smooth, broken only by her own sneer.
Next year, she will be better, and she won't be thinking of what it means, to have been busy in the Arena. She won't be thinking like the danger of it is still so close, like suddenly everyone around her is going to turn, as one, with their little forks held like daggers and their eyes glassy with their own fear and desperation. That this Victor--whoever he is--will somehow cut her throat with the folder he's holding under his arm.
A folder. She focuses on that, because it's so mundane and stupid. Like somehow the world shouldn't contain things like folders any more. When she'd woken up, she'd been strapped down to a bed, and they were standing around her in clinical white coats and masks, and the sound of the drill--a drill, a heavy, industrial sound--was so loud she'd started screaming. Tears were an act, but how quickly they'd become real.
She doesn't have time for this. She stares at his folder a moment, like she can read through it, and then she looks up at him, her jaw set.]
How about you go away?
God me too, make it so
Date: 2013-12-05 09:05 pm (UTC)Save to his Tributes. His Tributes he will hold as they cry. He sends them to their deaths with some last bit of tenderness, because they deserve that much.
You'll have to be a better Mentor.
His motions are firm and sure as he lifts his reading glasses to his face. There's nothing extraneous in them; they are elegant and spare, like he himself. (The glasses themselves used to be an affectation, something from his Stylist to add to his image; they'd proven very popular with the citizenry, and so the Capitol had elected for him to undergo surgery to necessitate them permanently. He had accepted that silently and without protest. When he puts them on he feels ill.)
Likewise spare is the way he opens the folder. It's Axel on top. Axel was fifteen, and very slight, and in this picture he is trying his best to smile but his eyes are reddened. It's the very first picture ever taken of him; Edgeworth knows that much.]
He was two over from you at the Cornucopia. When you wept in training, he told you it would be all right. For you, he was not incorrect. Do you remember him, Ms. Mason?
MAYBE.... if you're good...... as a Christmas present........
Date: 2013-12-06 02:46 am (UTC)She'd looked up, startled, despite herself--she wanted to be ignored, discounted, not noticed and pitied--but the boy from District 6 had misread that look. He'd smiled. It'll be all right.
She hadn't seen him die. She'd run from the Cornucopia. But he's dead anyways, and looking at the photograph of him, shit-scared even in that little picture; she can see it in his eyes, and she knows that's how she looked, just before the end, when it seemed like it was going to go on, and on, her axe in the skull of the last Career and her hands shaking and blood, smeared everywhere--and his eyes are still looking at her, from that photograph, and something goes cold in Johanna's stomach.]
No.
[That's to herself. But she's said it aloud, so fine, she says it again, and she hates the lie:] No.
[She looks up at him, with those stupid fussy glasses, with that pinched face, his folder and his photographs.]
Is that all?
I AM SO GOOD
Date: 2013-12-06 03:05 am (UTC)[He says that unsmilingly. As a rule, he doesn't smile. Sometimes there are complaints about that - why even pay for the pleasure of your company when there's no real pleasure in it - but he doesn't care for that. They can compel a great many things from him; merriment is not one.]
But I speak of two alone.
[The file is subdivided in two. He has copies of everything, school records and assessments and family statements and those first photographs, in his office. Everything on paper. Everything a hard copy. Digital files are too easily accessed, too easily deleted; so long as everything is on paper, impossible to disseminate and difficult to destroy, the Capitol tolerates his eccentricity. So he has copies; this file is for her. Johanna Mason. The Victor.
In the second half if a photograph of Antonia. Her cheeks were still spotted with acne, and her nose was crooked. He'd tried so hard to get her sponsors - begged, pleaded, did anything necessary, things well below his dignity. They were simply uninterested in that good-hearted, brave, ugly girl. Far more fascinated by the likes of District 7 Female, pretty and demure and so frightened.]
Antonia and Axel. She asked after you as well. She worried for you. Her way was an honest one. She was not a liar like you.
WE'LL SEE ABOUT THAT eat your sprouts and do your homework and wash behind your ears
Date: 2013-12-06 07:19 am (UTC)The girl isn't as bad. She hardly remembers the girl. It's the boy whose eyes she can still feel boring into her--that stupid little smile of his, his pity and compassion. Antonia and Axel. It was better when they were only districts, only cannon shots, only faces beamed into the sky at the end of every night. Seeing the girl isn't as bad, but Johanna still feels the urge to recoil, to pull back. Twenty-two to go.]
You're kidding. You're kidding me with this, right? [She barks a laugh, short.] What do you think you're going to get from me--an apology?
[If he would just shut the file, and she nearly goes for it now, just so she doesn't have to look. But then he'll know, that he got to her. Weakness was an act. She is never going to be weak again.]
If you want a sorry, you're talking to the wrong girl. I'm not sorry, for winning. I survived. And so did you.
Dude if you ever try to get between me and my sprouts I will take off your hand
Date: 2013-12-06 01:30 pm (UTC)(And yet he dreams always about District 7 Male, a spear in his hand. They'd worked together to dig a pit to hide in, but it had only been deep enough for one when the Careers had found them. The other boy had fought with his knife, never letting on that Miles was hiding nearly under his feet. When he'd fallen, his body had covered the entrance to the pit. The blood had seeped down through the earth, onto his hands, his clothes, and the Careers had laughed and moved on.
(Miles dreams sometimes about going back there. About going back in time and killing everyone else and then himself, so that that boy could live. He should have lived. He had a family. Miles had - )]
Do you think you were more worthy?
[There's a very slight break in his voice, most likely too slight for her to even hear but jarringly audible to him; he takes a moment to push his glasses up his nose, to comport himself.]
Axel had people to support. His parents are both gone. His siblings have no one, now, and nothing. Antonia - she had dreams and talent. She was going to improve the lives of the people in our District. What will you have to offer that is more valuable than what they had?
[She's not hard to read. He goes back to Axel, angles the photo so that she has to look upon it.]
you're so gross
Date: 2013-12-06 05:22 pm (UTC)And she doesn't feel guilty. She doesn't feel anything. She's going to drain herself of feeling sorry for people, and it's starting now, because she hates what he's trying to do to her. And she hates that it works, even for a second. She deserved to win. She won. That's it. She gets to live, because she earned that right, and fuck anyone who says otherwise, and she will repeat that until it's true.]
You're saying he was better than me?
[She snaps her gaze up to him, and when she grins, there's no happiness in it. It feels false even on her face.]
Because he wasn't. If he wanted to support his parents, then he should have lived. That's what I did.
[He was smaller and slighter and kinder and weaker than she is, and she will not let anyone make her feel anything other than victorious. She's done being scared, done with crying, with nightmares. She doesn't break her gaze from this other Victor's face, but reaches out to snatch the photograph from the file, and turns it around on him instead, so that red-eyed stare is looking back at him.]
He lost. I won. Your fault, if you were a shitty mentor. Your fault, and his. Not mine. I made the odds go in my favor.
you're so pretty
Date: 2013-12-06 08:30 pm (UTC)He looks down at the ground, a break in his composure. Looks away from her eyes. There's no visible emotion on his face, but her accusations have shaken him. Not that - Not that this is anything he's not thought about, but no one has ever...
(They all ask him if it will be okay. The first two years, he'd assured them that yes. They would be okay. They would be fine.
(Now he tells them the truth, and watches them fall apart.)
He's not meeting her eyes, or looking at the photograph, when he replies.]
He died. That automatically makes him better than you.
aww you're pretty too........ .... pretty UGLY!!!
Date: 2013-12-06 10:35 pm (UTC)[She laughs, breathless, like maybe she actually believes him, but a second later, she bites out the rest:]
Nope. Wrong.
[It's wrong, and she knows it, because winning is better, winning is what you want, and anything less is being dead.
(During the year, she's going to come to understand. Better to be dead, and just be done with it. Better dead than being the puppet of the Capitol, surrounded by graves of people you loved, people they killed to control you. Better dead than surrounded by nightmares of everything you did. There's no room for thoughts like that now, but next year--she will be just as fierce, maybe fiercer, because she will have so much more to cover.)]
He's dead, he lost. If he was better than me, then he'd have won. And even if you were right, which you aren't--
[And she's getting to him now, she can see it in his face, in the heft of his shoulders and the tone of his voice, and that drives her on, tenacious.]
--But if you were. You're alive too. So what would that make you, Mister Victor?
ooooooh, YOU GOT ME!!!! but seriously I love brussels sprouts
Date: 2013-12-06 11:40 pm (UTC)Well, it's strange, first off. And it's unexpected. Before his Games, on the way to the Arena, he'd obsessively watched other Games, studied other Victors - and so her utter lack of knowledge of who he is is simply odd. He couldn't imagine having gone into his own Games without being able to identify every other Mentor there -
So for a moment, it's not a cold stare she gets from him, but a puzzled one. And his response to that question does not have the disdain, the hauteur, the triumphant contempt with which he'd have liked to have uttered it; on the other hand, nor does it have the misery he's in danger of revealing. Instead, his voice is actually a bit puzzled.]
I didn't kill anyone in the Arena. I'm Miles Edgeworth.
yeah i know, what's wrong with you
Date: 2013-12-07 06:36 pm (UTC)You're kidding me.
[Because then she remembers. She's heard of him, even if she doesn't recognize him on sight. The name, and the utter pacifism of his Games--or cowardice, or weakness, whatever you want to call it--that sicks out, because every other year is a blood bath with no one left clean. Not his, and she stares at him with this half-grin on her face, full of disbelief.]
Why are you even here?
hold up are you saying that you don't
Date: 2013-12-07 06:58 pm (UTC)And everyone to this point - they've simply bought into the narrative of his bloodless victory. He's never had to deal with anyone like her before.
So he looks down again. He'd look simply thoughtful to someone giving a cursory glance, but to a keener eye, the set of his shoulders and jaw is decidedly uncomfortable.]
All Mentors are obligated to attend the victory celebrations. I will confess that I am surprised by your ignorance regarding past Games.
i don't!!! they're one of 3 vegetables i dislike bless them
Date: 2013-12-08 04:25 pm (UTC)[She spits the words at him, her temper flaring up, like he's actually insulted her by insinuating that she might not.]
I just don't have everyone's faces memorized. Sorry. You're really memorable for what you did--or didn't do, I guess I should say--but your face is...
[She curls her lip, a little sneer and a little smirk all at once.]
Boring. Forgettable. Anyways, sorry I didn't remember you, I know that's really rude of me. I'm still figuring out how to do manners among murderers.
[Murderers. That's her. And Johanna hates the way that her stomach twists when she thinks that word, like she's vulnerable to it still. She can't afford to be vulnerable. Not to words, especially.
And he's going to argue. He's an arguer, she can tell: he's going to say that he didn't kill anyone. But she's ready for that. She's got ire enough for everyone, especially right now, especially because being angry is proving so effective at neutralizing her own fear.]
No oh my god we're not friends anymore...But you love cabbage!
Date: 2013-12-08 04:55 pm (UTC)He doesn't know what to make of her. He realizes, wretched himself, that he doesn't have it in him to hate her. He finds, in point of fact, that there's some tender shoot of sympathy within him, and so instead of heaping more recriminations upon her, he tells her:]
You're going to have to learn, you know. The crowds were charmed by your savagery, but the novelty will wear off. You'll never be safe now.
correction: i love sauerkraut. and nothing and no one else so FINE friendship OVER.
Date: 2013-12-09 05:45 pm (UTC)Yeah? Wrong again.
[Savagery is going to get her everywhere. She looks back at him, hard-eyed. If it's pity he's trying to offer her, he's not going to find her receptive.]
I'm going home. As soon as they put me on that train, I'm going home and I'm never looking back. That's why I won. So I could be done.
http://www.uproxx.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/ron-love-nothing.gif
Date: 2013-12-09 06:26 pm (UTC)[He lowers the folder entirely. For the moment, there are no ulterior motives; for the moment, there's no malice, no cruelty. There's nothing safe his worry for her complete lack of comprehension.
Not that he cares for her. Not that he cares for anyone save his own Tributes. He hasn't the luxury to care. It is his job to suffer for his Tributes, but allowing any sympathy in his free time is weakness in the utmost. He cannot and will not allow it.
But even so, he does ask, his voice quiet:]
Who was your primary Mentor? Who trained you?
yep that's me exactly
Date: 2013-12-09 08:29 pm (UTC)What do you mean, I'm not. That's what happens. They ship you home again, and you live in the Victor's Village.
[Is there some new twist to it? Some second stage of the Games, that the Capitol has devised? Johanna feels the familiar onset of panic, and she hates it, she tries like hell to fight that feeling down, the feeling she associates now with the Games, with hiding in a tree gripped in a fear that was not part of her act--there was always a grain of realism to her act, and here it is again, rising up sharply--
She hurries to close herself off again, to fill in that chink in her armor. He's not going to get the better of her, no way, no way, and she snaps out a question in answer to his:]
Why are you asking? What do you care, who my Mentor was? You know them all, you find the answer out for yourself.
seriously though don't you like cabbage
Date: 2013-12-09 08:50 pm (UTC)Because whoever it is has severely under-served you. Your victory was days ago. They should have begun preparing you at once.
[He studies her a moment longer. She still looks so young. She's only, what, four years younger than he is, but the distance between them feels immense. This time next year - this time next year, she will be so much older.]
It is not over. It is not even close to being over, Ms. Mason. For your sponsors, you were an investment, and in the coming years they will want to see a return on it beyond simply their betting fortunes. As a Victor, you will be commodified. Do you understand?
only sauerkraut! and cabbage *in* things and boiled, once a year.
From:You're lying
From:i absolutely am not
From:but vegetables are the best B(
From:i agree! just not sprouts/cabbage/tomatoes alone. (ps nothing is better than bacon)
From:okay I am going to make you bacon and crispy sprouts while you are here. Just watch me.
From:well i'll watch you and then enjoy the bacon at least
From:No Mici and I are plotting how to make you enjoy them.
From:GOOD LUCK MAY THE ODDS BE IN YOUR FAVOR
From:Thanks you can keep the evens
From:no i hate even numbers
From:too bad you have all of them
From:i pushed them out the window
From:and then you turned around and there were MORE BEHIND YOU, NUMBERS ARE EVERYWHERE
From:giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiird
From:gourd
From:pumpkin
From:such words of endearment
From:well you are a deer to me
From:baaaa
From:no that's mutton darling
From:moo
From:sausages
From: