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

[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.

My head overflows with joy. It's a weird sight.

[nebbish]

[District Eleven, says one on the far right. And Nine, adds another. A third unifies their message: The Mockingjay is asking.

George doesn't know much of the rebellion. He keeps his nose clean, keeps away from all that. Never paid attention to the Games, didn't watch Katniss Everdeen standing up to the Capitol, just heard about it after; when he sees those spray-painted bird insignias, he just feels a swell of nervousness, not hope. But he knows enough about the rebellion, and knows enough from what he's just heard, to understand what's happening here: Katniss Everdeen must be going back into the Arena, just like Mitchell, and some of the rebels have got it into their heads to eliminate her most fearsome competition before he can get to her.

And this is...bad. George doesn't get into fights, because fights end with someone dragged off by Peacekeepers. But he's not about to break and run, is he - because he's helped Mitchell this far, and once you've helped someone you have an obligation to them, your duties are not discharged -

And he doesn't want Mitchell to die. And he doesn't want any of these angry, desperate people to die, either. But Mitchell suddenly looks so different. So - dangerous.]

We're -

[They all look at him, the group of them; George stammers - ]

We're not looking for, for trouble. He doesn't even want to go back in. He doesn't want to fight. So, it - there's no need for this. Really.

very pulpy, I imagine.

[humanistic]

[Mitchell laughs, a short barked sound. His eyes flick between these men, all of them, ready, and he doesn't know what the fuck they mean, but he doesn't have to, does he. He doesn't need to know anything, but that this is a threat, and threats have to be dealt with. That's the rules.

And for a second, it's like being back there again. The Careers, they didn't know what they were dealing with. They tried to take him down. They failed.

But that little flashback, that split second familiarity--it lasts just for that second, because he isn't alone here. It's not like it was then. Maybe it will have to be, maybe it's going to turn into some fucking kill or be killed showdown, but right now--

Right now, the tense, sensible voice of George Sands (whoever the hell he is) breaks through that. We're not looking for trouble. We. That's a team, that's more than one. Uncertainty crosses Mitchell's mind, even a second of uncertainty.

Is that right. And who the hell are you? one of the men asks, his eyes narrowed. He's not armed. He doesn't have to be.

His spokesman, someone says, his Mentor, and they laugh, a little, but it's tense, it's nervous, and Mitchell's guard goes up again. If they move, he moves. He's ready. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't. He doesn't, not here, but he has to, doesn't he.]

Don't waste your time.

[That's to George, though he doesn't look at him.]

And runny.

[nebbish]

[George ignores Mitchell, because that's just a foolish thing to say, isn't it? Saving lives, avoiding killing - that's never a waste of time. And the thought that he'd duck out of this not because he's scared, but because he's too busy - it's ridiculous.

Instead, he speaks to the lot of them.]

Look - look. You're drunk. We're drunk. Everyone here is, is more than a bit drunk. So let's - let's just - all go home, all right?

[But none of them look like they're ready or willing to go home. They look keen on this fight.]

are these gross eggs now or brains

[humanistic]

[They're keen on this fight, and they don't need a skill at it to be able to do it. They're running on something else--Mockingjay, what the fuck does that mean, is that supposed to mean something--but it means something to them, that's what they need, and they're willing to fight for it. How far they'll fight--that's what they don't know. Men run off. It happens all the time. You get one or two brave ones, they pump the others up, but they don't last, when their leaders are gone.

And there is, in Mitchell, some part of him that is grateful for the sensibility of George Sands. Because he's trying, isn't he. He's trying, to keep this together, to talk them down. That never works. Has it ever worked for him? It must have, or else he wouldn't try it now, and the thought of that--well, it should, maybe, disgust him, in some way. At least inspire some grim amusement, that there are people in the world that still listen to reason, when so much of what he's lived is so bloody unreasonable.

Instead, Mitchell feels a little warmed by it. There are, somewhere in the world, still George Sandses. He doesn't remember what George Sandses are like. He doesn't know what to do with this one.

Their attackers do. They're thirsty for this fight, but not so thirsty that anyone is willing to just run up and attack Mitchell, straight out. But something has to happen, something has to break--and as the little group shifts closer, one of them darts forward, suddenly, making for George--because they don't know what to make of him, they don't know him, but he's not grinning like Mitchell was just grinning, he's an easier target. The man rushes for George with a snarl, but Mitchell is right behind him with an even louder snarl, heedless of the others--]

Eggs 'n' brains, classic dish

[nebbish]

[It's more accident than anything else. The man - who's got nothing but a stick - a branch, really, something ripped off a tree, a few leaves still clinging to it - runs towards George, and George steps backwards from instinct - but Mitchell's there, just behind him, and so George treads on his foot and then pitches backwards, right onto him, a tangle of ungainly limbs. He twists as he goes, frantically grabbing onto Mitchell, to try to keep him from hitting his head and injuring himself on the pavement -

It's a pure accident, of course, but to an outside view it looks like George is bearing the man down to protect him.]

Shit -

[He looks up to see - Well. He's robbed the man who's attacking of a bit of momentum, at least - he stares at George, baffled - And George tries to take advantage - ]

Just get away -

probably somewhere yes

[humanistic]

[This is the most cocked-up ambush ever. It's like a badly choreographed fight scene in some video--it never goes like it does in videos, but it usually happens more quickly than this, and when it goes to shit, it goes in Mitchell's favor. It isn't people tripping over their own feet and staring at one another. The whole rhythm of the thing is thrown off; the others are hanging back, still, uncertain--]

Oh, come on--

[Mitchell snarls the words out, and everyone takes a collective and wary step back. This is a fight that they want, but how badly do they want it? And George has confused it all--

But it would be better if it were just over with, done with--none of this hanging about staring at one another, just finished, and it's in the interest of that which has Mitchell move forward again, pushing past George, grabbing hold of the man with the branch--a cruel and savage grip, twisting his arm so he can shove him to the ground--and the instinct to finish this is so strong in him, a pressing, urging hunger, be done with it and finish and go--]

You know how this ends.

[They're backing off in earnest now, but he's still got this man pinned, his boot on his back, right at the base of his neck, his arm twisted up--]