open rp post

[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

Comments

:') good fwends

[humanistic]

[Confusion tempers his defensiveness, at least, cooling it somewhat. Misery lingers, and fear--he fought for his life, and he's had a life--whatever else can be said about it, he's lived, he earned that much--and to be pulled back to this, to another slew of murders, to desperation he wants so badly to be done with--no, fear stays, heavy in him, fear for his own miserable life--

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

[nebbish]

George.

[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?

[humanistic]

[George Sands. It's such a simple mundane name, and he's just-- looking at Mitchell. George Sands, and he has to know who Mitchell is. That's not even arrogance, that's just simple fact: everyone knows who Mitchell is, thanks to his victory in the Games. You'd think they'd get a new favourite, but they just keep replaying his win every Game, inviting him to parties--

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.]

[nebbish]

[The words Quarter Quell do mean something to him, of course - he grew up in the Districts; he hasn't forgotten everything about the Games that was drilled into his head. There's always some twist to the Quells, right, but - what? That's why he looks so miserable? Because it's some new version of the Games.

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?

[humanistic]

[He doesn't have to finish that sentence. People enjoy the Games, but there's always this underlying thread of--something else. Something sinister. All of them have to play, don't they, in one way or another. You can't help but have a few feelings on that.

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.]

[nebbish]

[It takes a moment to process that. First: the full implications of it, and the nastiness of it, and the cruelty - because those poor bastards, those poor Victors - anyone who went through the games went through hell, and to go through twice...If it were George, he knows that at the very beginning he'd just sit down, let himself get killed so that he didn't have to go through it again.

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.

[humanistic]

[It takes Mitchell, in turn, a minute to process George's answer. A full minute, nearly, or at least it feels that long, maybe longer--the ringing in his ears began when they made that first announcement and it hasn't eased since, because Mitchell hasn't eased since, because he can't fucking think straight, and that's not from drinking, that's from the magnitude of what's before him, the sheer fucking magnitude that he can't confront. The thought of going back, and killing again. The thought of being controlled, again. Of living a life he used to love, his full reputation that he earned--but he's tired of it, now, he's so tired.

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?

[nebbish]

[He doesn't know. Being a bloody idiot, that's what he's doing - but he's made the offer, and he's embarrassed by even just the thought of taking it back. And probably it's a bit of a stupid thing to do, getting yourself killed over being too embarrassed to admit that you've thought better of a very stupid offer - but, well, that's how it is.]

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.

[humanistic]

[They'll track him. Somehow, they'll track him and find him--and Mitchell can't tell if that worry is based in something genuine or if it's leftover from the Games, like he's got his tracker back in his arm again, like they never took it out, so they could keep tabs on him for all of these years--like a flashback, like this is already the Arena, and for a moment his grip on George's arm goes a little harsher than perhaps it needs to be, or was before, as a brief paranoia overtakes him--]

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.]

[nebbish]

[George gives an uncomfortable half-shrug. Why would he? He gives an answer that sounds a bit better than I'm too embarrassed to take it back.

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.

[humanistic]

[He stares at George Sands a moment longer, his fingers gripped tight, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He still feels wretched; he still tastes sick when he swallows. He feels the deep weight of his fear, he can't shake it loose--and he stares at George, his plain face, not marred by the Capitol, but just-- a person. When was the last time he was faced with a person? Everything is gauche and loud and violent and hedonistic, no one says the offer's there. No one gives Mitchell choices, not really. Options that look like choices, but they're narrow, and they always end the way someone else wants them to.

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?

[nebbish]

About...four - four blocks from here, maybe.

[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.]

[humanistic]

[He has to say no. Mitchell has never done a decent thing in his life, and it would be at least decent, to say no. Accept his fate and go to the Reaping--and if his name was drawn, then go back to the Arena. Maybe he could not kill. Maybe he could let himself be killed.

(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.]

[nebbish]

Yeah. For a...minute.

[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.

[humanistic]

[He follows George's glance--and for a brief moment, there is something very predatory in him, some gleam of what earned him all his accolades. Threats are threats. Threats are dealt with.

(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.]

[nebbish]

[George wants to make small talk. But what the hell do you say to John Mitchell? So, about that time you killed those people with your teeth - That's a lovely conversation-starter, isn't it. So how old are you actually, so about those rumors that you drink blood - Each one's just better than the last, isn't it?

But, well - probably even John Fucking Mitchell isn't immune to small-talk.]

Weather's...weather's been a bit cold. Lately.

[humanistic]

[There's a moment of silence, and then Mitchell looks around at George--somewhat slowly.]

Yeah. Guess it has.

[Another beat, and his tone goes a bit more incredulous.]

Are we-- really chatting about the weather?

[nebbish]

[And George looks at Mitchell - who looks so ordinary, really. And that's a bit weird, isn't it? He was built up as this monster, this impossible, inhuman thing, but he's just an unusually good-looking guy who needs a bit of a shave. That's it.]

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.

[humanistic]

[He stares at George a second longer--just a second, mind--and then, despite himself-- he laughs.

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.

[nebbish]

Oh, no, mate, this is effortless style, isn't it.

[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.]

[humanistic]

[He snorts, and this time it's a little more genuine still. Slowly he's beginning to feel nearly drunk, but he isn't. This is just madness. He's wandering around in the Capitol's version of a slum with this-- madman. A very normal madman.]

Ah, you be careful. You'll make it a trend. Simplicity. God, can you imagine?

[nebbish]

I don't think that's possible. They'd try simplicity, but achieve it by - selling millions' worth of products to help make you simple. Which is sort of defeating the point.

[It's stupid. He's done the stupidest thing of his life. Of his whole damned life. And it's going to get him killed. But talking with Mitchell is really easy and natural.]

[humanistic]

You've cracked the code. Now you just have t' get in early, with that idea--make a killing off of them. Line your pockets.

[The word killing shouldn't unnerve him as much as it does. But as he finishes off that sentence, there's a sound, behind them--probably nothing, probably just-- a stray animal, someone shutting a door too loudly, it could be anything, but Mitchell looks around with sudden sharpness, his shoulders rising defensively. Like what's he going to do here and now, in the street, if they are being followed.

His tone, when he speaks again, is still fairly even.]

Nearly there?

[nebbish]

Nearly, yeah...

[The sudden tension from Mitchell gets him tense, too. He can see the way the man is suddenly on edge once more, and that's unnerving. He looks around - like his eyes, accustomed to poring over user's manuals all day, will spot danger more quickly than this Victor's - but sees nothing; they walk a few more steps forward, another half block, but then -

John Mitchell?

It's not Peacekeepers. No. This isn't anyone from the Capitol; George is certain of that. There are seven - no, eight - of them; they're dressed in practical, unremarkable clothes. They don't mean well. One has a stick.

George looks over uncertainly at Mitchell.]

i'm slowly going to drop a lot of things on your precious head, gird thy loins

[humanistic]

[It doesn't take much, to recognise weapons. What they have to teach you is how the recognise if the person holding the weapon is one that knows how to use it. What they have to teach you is how not to be afraid, and Mitchell isn't afraid, when he turns and looks at the man that's called him by name.

Somewhere in him, there is fear. Because this is it, isn't it. He's going to do it again. It wasn't the love of killing that made him kill in the first place, it was simple fear, defensiveness, kill-or-be-killed. That only lasted for a few moments. Then it was over, it was like waking up, there was blood on his hands and he liked it, he was good at it, and his horror began to fade out as everything else took over, instinct and pleasure and success. It was an easy wave to ride out; it rises in him now.

He doesn't want it. Somewhere in him, he knows that he doesn't want it, that he's tired of killing, but his instinct is too strong and it rises too sharply, so when he turns--it's the fucking Vampire Victor that turns, and his hands aren't limp at his sides. They're curled, ready.

He shows his teeth when he answers. It isn't a grin. George Sands might well not even be here. Everything has narrowed, all at once, to a grim coiled focus.]

Who's asking.