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
no subject
Date: 2013-12-03 04:27 am (UTC)Being Human Games
god the mere possibility breaks my heart]
forces being hungry games on you
Date: 2013-12-06 07:08 am (UTC)Or maybe it was like Herrick had always said. He was good, before they picked him out. His potential was what Herrick had seen. A killer, and they'd only honed his craft, gave him advantages, enhancements. You could fight with a weapon in the Games, but how much better was it to fight with nothing at all, to rely only on strength and cunning and a blank-eyed enthusiasm. When they taught you that blood tasted good, that you loved the thrill of killing, that you could tear a throat out with your fingers if you ripped hard enough--what else did you need, to win?
They'd made him hungry. They kept him young. The Capitol could do anything, he knew that better than anyone. They kept him glutted with whatever vices he chose, and for awhile, that was enough. But every day was harder to face, it was like he couldn't get enough to keep his mind off of--everything. When he shut his eyes, he could remember back to his own Games. The first one he'd killed. All the way back to that second, to that first gray face, blood on his lips, and blood on the dead boy's lips too.
Eventually, he would probably have killed himself. Sometimes he thought of it, with curious dispassion. But then they announce the Quarter Quell.
The fucking Quarter Quell. Mitchell is in the Capitol when they drop that news on them. He's out, at a bar, in one of the poorer sections of town. Like there's any such thing, really; the poorest parts of the Capitol could feed families for weeks. This isn't a thought that Mitchell often things, he's too selfish. He doesn't go to bars like this for the company, but so he'll be ignored, left alone.
And it's good, that he's more or less alone, when they make the announcement, because everything in him goes cold, and he nearly drops his drink. A Reaping from past Victors. It's fucking impossible--but no, it's perfect, isn't it. It's perfect and it's possible, because the Capitol can do whatever they like. Just look at Mitchell. Young, still, hardly older than he was the day he won his Game.
He doesn't remember standing, or leaving the bar, but the next thing he knows is he's out in the street. The evening is hot and damp. He feels ill, like he's going to be sick; he stumbles, tripping over a pavement stone, and grabs onto the wall, numb, and dizzy.]
George will take care of you being hungry
Date: 2013-12-06 01:09 pm (UTC)George knows well enough about those surgeries. He's from District 3, and that's where they came up with them, and George himself works to train people in the use of the equipment. It's not what he wants to do in his life, not by far - watching the shallow grow far shallower - but it lets him travel, lets him come to the Capitol to pick up nice things for his parents, and meats and cheeses and rices you can't get back home, so that he can cook as fine back home as he would here.
The Games are a distant thought for him, and have been for five years now. He'd work himself up into an anxious fervor when he was young, but then he turned nineteen and had done with the whole business. He doesn't even watch them now - seems like the only person who's ever set foot in the Capitol who doesn't. He hasn't got any notion why this Victor's stumbling about like that and assumes he's just pissed. And George himself has a drink or two in him; normally he just leaves well enough alone, keeps his head down, doesn't talk to anyone who might ever be under Capitol surveillance, but this one time, he takes the three steps over to John Mitchell, the Vampire Victor (fucking stupid), and grips him by the arm to steady him.]
All right, there.
because george is a good fwend in every universe
Date: 2013-12-06 05:10 pm (UTC)He whirls around, expecting to see her, Iolite, her pretty face contorted in pain and fear, the long scar carved against her cheek, but it's-- a man. Someone. He's never seen him before, he's not from the Capitol--the cut of his clothes and the heavy sensibility in his face is enough to tell Mitchell that, even if they're both on their way to being pissed--and he's gripping at Mitchell's arm.
Instinct rises in him, quickly, the same violent impulse that they've carved into him, or encouraged, whichever, doesn't matter, because all it means is he shows his teeth, first, desperate and fierce, with a harsh breath. And here's another trick of the Capitol, one more enhancement--the threat of the moment means his eyes flick black, for a moment, liquid and unfathomable.]
Get away--
[He growls it, through his teeth--but it loses some of its ferocity in the way that the last word twists, miserably.]
And so is Mitchell
Date: 2013-12-06 08:23 pm (UTC)Or...imagines himself turning and walking away.
Like someone smart.
But instead he stays. When you're in the Capitol, you don't damn well invite trouble onto yourself; you keep your head down, and when there are people shouting or fighting you turn and walk the other way, because the Capitol doesn't care who started a fight, just about ending it. Sticking your neck out is a brilliant way to get your head chopped off, and George has always had every intention of living a long and healthy life.
And yet there's that sob in Mitchell's voice. George doesn't care - can't care - oughtn't care...But that heavy, cruel misery keeps him from walking away.]
Right. Right, so.
[But what's he even to say?]
Been a, a bad night?
:') good fwends
Date: 2013-12-06 10:30 pm (UTC)But this man, common as dirt, he's just-- looking at Mitchell. There's fear somewhere in there, it's like he can nearly smell it on him, but he doesn't flinch away and he doesn't leave, and he does the unthinkable, then, he asks a question. Like they've just met on the street. Like Mitchell is an acquaintance, at least, and he doesn't know what to do with that. People don't talk to him like that. He can't think of the last conversation he had that began with that stammered little question, or something rather like that.
He stares, numbly, the taste of sick in his mouth and his fear in his stomach and his eyes burning, and--eventually--a short laugh wrenches out of him.]
Yeah. A-- really bad fucking night.
[His gaze strays over the man's shoulder, back towards the bar, like he can see the video they're playing. He doesn't need to see it. It doesn't matter, and, quickly, his gaze snaps back to the man again.]
Who are you?
Re: :') good fwends
Date: 2013-12-06 11:32 pm (UTC)[He hesitates, and then, so as to not be rude, adds:]
Sands.
[He considers adding something along the lines of who are you in return - because there must be something smothering about always being known. But George isn't really a dishonest sort, hasn't ever been, and pretending not to know would just make him look like a scam artist or a shambling moron.
So, instead, the sensible part of his brain makes him add:]
And I'm not looking for any sort of trouble. Just want to see if you're all right. Just a, a bit too much?
no subject
Date: 2013-12-07 06:31 pm (UTC)And putting him back in the Games again. Mitchell's stomach pitches again, a sickening drop, and his knees feel absurdly weak, like he's some fainting girl and not their fucking Vampire Victor, the Capitol's favourite monster. He grabs hold of George Sands' arm once again, a desperate, clutching grip--]
It's a Quarter Quell.
[The words sound so bloody formal for what they actually mean. Mitchell laughs, a shaky, desperate sound.]
You're havin' me on, right. Just a bit too much. I need another fucking drink, I can't-- Didn't you hear?
[He's not actually found the one person in Panem that doesn't pay any attention to the Games. Everyone at least knows, vaguely, what's going on, even if they're not actively watching. That's the purpose of the Games, so they never forget. So they always watch, and understand the balance of power.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-07 07:05 pm (UTC)George reaches out, gripping Mitchell's arm back, bracing him with his hand. He doesn't understand why Mitchell's this upset, but he's certainly not going to shrug him off for all that.]
Don't tend to watch when the new Games come around. It's - [He cuts himself off before he says anything reckless about his reasoning.] Why?
no subject
Date: 2013-12-08 04:20 pm (UTC)So Mitchell sort of nods, vaguely, like he gets it even without the sentence being finished. It's stupid, but saying it aloud is like making it real. Like it isn't real already. Like they don't already control every aspect of his life, even the choice to be a murderer or not.
(He made that choice for himself. Maybe he always would have. But God, they helped.)]
They're Reaping from the Victors.
[And John Mitchell is scared. Shit scared, because he's a coward, in the end. Because he loves his miserable life too much to lose it, and that's just the same as it was in the Games that he won; that's never changed, will never change. He looks back at George Sands and he doesn't qualify that statement at all. His cowardice is clear, and he can't--for once--try to take it back. Not just now. Not when he's reeling like this.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-08 05:01 pm (UTC)Second, that Mitchell's so miserable, so shit-scared, when he's got a reputation on all the talk shows and across all the Capitol for loving to kill - loving to kill. But here he is, drunk and shaking and looking as though he's about to cry, and so George, drunk himself, once he's stopped processing turns fully towards him and grips him by both arms. And he says:]
Hide. You could hide. If you run now, or - or find a place, you could...Before they come to get you.
[And because he's drunk, and because he's a fucking idiot, he adds - for some reason, he adds, for this proven murderer he doesn't even know - ]
I've got a, a room I rent out here.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 05:54 pm (UTC)And what did he wants George to say, when he told him? This stranger, on the street--what did he want from him? Why tell him at all? But he had, and now George makes an offer that Mitchell can't wrap his head around. Not at first, at least. He stares, and feels the grip of those hands--]
I can't hide. From them? I can't--
[And the second part, I've got a room, Jesus Christ--]
What are you suggesting? What are you doing?
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 06:34 pm (UTC)They'll not have any idea. Obviously. As we've just...just met. And - all that.
[His shrug is awkward and uncomfortable.]
Just - just better than, than having to kill again. I'd - I'd think.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 08:37 pm (UTC)You're theirs. You're--
[It's a trap, it has to be a trap. But the pressure of Mitchell's misery shakes loose that feeling a second later, it's like emotional fucking whiplash; he can't keep hold of anything. His grip is no looser, but more clinging than anything else, and he struggles to pull in a shaky breath--]
Why. Why would you-- you don't know me. You'll be killed. You can't.
[But he wants to accept. God help him, he wants to take that out. Anything is better than killing again; this is better than anything. Coward that he is, he would let this total stranger risk his life just so Mitchell can live a little longer. Like he deserves that.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 08:56 pm (UTC)And maybe it's true.]
Yeah, well, I had six Reapings of good luck. I guess I just want to - pay that back. A bit.
[He gives another shrug. He hadn't winced when Mitchell had squeezed his arm, or when Mitchell had accused at him; he doesn't wince when Mitchell talks about being killed, because that's a bit obvious.]
Your choice. Not going to force you into it, but the offer's there, you know.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 10:45 pm (UTC)For a moment, just--a single moment, so brief--he feels something like a flicker of hope. And it's that, which makes him say:]
Where?
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 11:03 pm (UTC)[He can see that Mitchell's thinking about it. That's scary, isn't it - because he knows full well that if he's caught sheltering him, hiding him, they'll cut out his tongue or kill him or worse. But it's just right, especially when Mitchell's looking at him - God, like he's some poor orphan been offered a scrap of bread for the very first time. That's more than just hunger in his face - that's deeper. That's the gratitude of someone who's never been shown kindness before.
No. He's got to do this.]
I've got another few beers back there, too.
[And he jerks his head, and sort of leans in the direction of his apartment.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-10 07:57 pm (UTC)(He knows he won't. He knows if he gets in there, then he will kill them, because he doesn't know how to do anything else, how to suppress the hunger that is always under his skin, eating at him from the inside out. He has been taught too well; he has learnt to love it too well to stop.)
And it would be decent, too, to let himself be the one that dies. He deserves it, more than any of the other poor fucks that have earned the title for themselves in the years after Mitchell's victory. He doesn't feel anything for them but pity, no matter how awful they make themselves. Because he's more awful. Because he knows what's underneath, because he carries it in his chest, too. What price they've paid, to be what they are.
But he isn't decent. He doesn't know what he is. He looks at George Sands a moment longer, wavering on this--but it's the offer of beer that gets him to nod, short, to push his hand over his mouth and press it there, briefly, to gather himself together again.]
Just-- for a minute.
[That's the concession that he offers. He won't stay. He won't make him endanger his life, whatever his life is. That's decent, at least, and whatever Mitchell decides afterwards-- maybe that small decency will make up for it.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-10 08:30 pm (UTC)[And by the end of that, George'll be sober, and that's good, and he'll probably come to his senses and huck him out on the street. Right? Yeah, no doubt of it - even if Mitchell wants to stay, as soon as George is sober, he'll be smarter about the whole thing...
Right. Because he'll ever be able to send this poor old bastard with his terror, wavering on the edge of tears, out to get killed. Even sober and sensible he won't be able to do it.]
Got a few snacks, too. You look like you could do with a few of those even more than a...
[He trails off. There's a crowd - six people or so, maybe - standing off outside a bar a block from them - which would be fine, normally, this is sort of an area where people stand in clumps outside of bars - only there's one that definitely gestured in their direction. And that makes George very nervous.]
Right, let's - let's get going.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-11 05:53 pm (UTC)(He could kill the peace-keepers, when they're sent to get him. He could kill them all. That would be a bloodbath they wouldn't televise.)
But not here. Not now. He's tired, he's so bloody tired, and so he turns away, quickly, pulls up the collar of his coat with a hand that does not shake, at all. If he wanted to, he could turn around and slaughter the witnesses that might be marking their departure, even now.
Instead he follows George Sands through the streets, like a stray dog. Pathetic, but better than a murderer. He doesn't know this part of the Capitol too well--half the reason he came down here, to get lost--but it's still a bit unnerving. Even here, he can't shake the feeling of being watched.]
no subject
Date: 2013-12-12 02:47 am (UTC)But, well - probably even John Fucking Mitchell isn't immune to small-talk.]
Weather's...weather's been a bit cold. Lately.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-12 06:33 pm (UTC)Yeah. Guess it has.
[Another beat, and his tone goes a bit more incredulous.]
Are we-- really chatting about the weather?
no subject
Date: 2013-12-12 07:16 pm (UTC)Well, this is the Capitol, mate, so it's either going to be this, how Attractivewoman Richyrich is doing her hair this season, or how the upcoming Games are gonna go. Don't much care for talking about the last one, completely unable to talk about the second, and so that just leaves the first.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-12 10:58 pm (UTC)It's a short laugh, it's got a weariness to it that he can't hide, but-- it's a laugh all the same, half at his reasoning and half at the absurdity of discussing the weather at all.]
You're not into hairstyles? Man, did I read you wrong.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-13 03:41 pm (UTC)[In mock-vanity, he runs his hand over his close-cropped head, primping like some of the ridiculous Capitol models. And then he drops his hand and gives a wry little smile.]
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From:i'm slowly going to drop a lot of things on your precious head, gird thy loins
From:My head overflows with joy. It's a weird sight.
From:very pulpy, I imagine.
From:And runny.
From:are these gross eggs now or brains
From:Eggs 'n' brains, classic dish
From:probably somewhere yes
From: