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
GOOD LUCK MAY THE ODDS BE IN YOUR FAVOR
Date: 2013-12-12 10:56 pm (UTC)[It comes out as an actual snarl, nothing quavery or uncertain about it. This conversation is better ended, now, because she's starting to get really angry, because he's picking at things she doesn't want picked at.
(And because he's right. Because she knows she was white-faced and shaking, sometimes. She couldn't stop it. But she didn't cry.)]
Acting. Because I was acting. You think you know so much, just because you've been around--but you don't know the first thing about me. If you did, maybe you'd have done better with your Tributes, but guess what, they died too.
[It wasn't her that killed them. But she killed the ones who killed them; that makes her better. Doesn't it?]
And please. If you're not guilty, then what the hell are you doing here?
Thanks you can keep the evens
Date: 2013-12-13 03:49 pm (UTC)[He finds a frown working its way across the studied neutrality of his face. No - not a frown - an outright scowl. Her anger, brutal and honest, is contemptible, and he holds it in contempt, holds her in contempt, because he is always, without exception, calm - he always, without exception, holds himself in control - Except that there's something about her impassioned, angry attack against him that gets under his shield of calm.]
I do not like murderers, and I do not like liars. I was here to talk to you about being the former, and now we're discussing how you are the latter.
no i hate even numbers
Date: 2013-12-13 11:01 pm (UTC)[If what he's said is true, then it's not by choice. If it's true, then he has to be here, as much as any of them. But she has to hold off the reality of it, for now. One thing at a time. Methodical. It's when she goes over the edge that she loses it, but if she stays steady--like a steady hand, just like she was taught--she can win this too.
She can.]
Do you come here after every Game? Every year? Don't you get tired, of being surrounded by your liars, and your murderers?
too bad you have all of them
Date: 2013-12-14 12:02 am (UTC)And so he says, in a rare moment of honesty, biting out:]
Of course I do. I'm obligated to come, and I'm obligated to be with them, and I despise it. You will too, so don't bother gloating about that.
i pushed them out the window
Date: 2013-12-14 12:19 pm (UTC)[Which will be useless, if what he said proves to be true. But Johanna doesn't know how to roll over and just-- accept defeat. She's never been good at that. So, stubbornly, she holds to that idea; she levels a glare at Edgeworth, unwilling to compromise.]
So who'd they kill, to get you here?
and then you turned around and there were MORE BEHIND YOU, NUMBERS ARE EVERYWHERE
Date: 2013-12-14 02:04 pm (UTC)No one.
[(Sometimes...Sometimes Edgeworth half wishes they had. His dad was murdered long before Miles ended up in the Games, years before; Mom had died when he was little. And maybe if they'd taken Dad's life, maybe that would energize him. Maybe he'd be able to fight back. Maybe he wouldn't be so paralyzed - maybe - )]
They hold the lives of my Tributes in their hands. That is enough.
giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiird
Date: 2013-12-30 09:07 pm (UTC)[She laughs, harshly, her arms folded over her chest.]
You come here because of a bunch of strangers? You don't know them. Who're they to you? They're going to die, anyways--their chances aren't that good. They do something to get you here, what is it?
gourd
Date: 2013-12-31 05:04 am (UTC)That's all they do. That's all they need do. And there are hardly any appealing alternatives. I'm not about to resist them; their power is absolute.
pumpkin
Date: 2013-12-31 10:35 pm (UTC)So you come. So you show up, and you play-- the part they made for you. That's bullshit.
such words of endearment
Date: 2014-01-01 05:07 am (UTC)[But his expression, grim and flat, gives lie to that statement. He didn't fight - couldn't fight - in the Arena, survived only by luck and with help. He's not one to fight out here, either. Even if she does have bold words, some plan, he won't listen.]
You'll have a part as well, and you'll play it. So long as you have anything to lose - even if it's just your life - you'll play it.
well you are a deer to me
Date: 2014-01-01 11:38 pm (UTC)(And the repetition of that truth, so long as you have anything to lose, and she knows, she knows that it's true, but she can't let it be, she can't consider it too closely right now. It's like being in the Arena. You wait. You hide it in yourself, you push it away, and later, later you can understand it. Think about it. Deal with it. Get it out of your life, and-- go.)]
Fuck you.
[She wants it to be fiercer, but it comes out flat.]
Fuck you. You're as bad as them.
[She stabs a finger out--out, toward the party that still roils around itself, a mess of color and sound and smells, sensations that Johanna feels numb to. She feels fucking numb. Later, she won't.]
baaaa
Date: 2014-01-03 03:45 pm (UTC)Outside the Arena, he's held to this: that he's better than the rest of them. He cares about his Tributes, enough that he comes back every year without a fight. Others had to be coerced back with torture or bribery; he came for nothing more than others' lives. And whenever he quails, he thinks about how much he sacrifices for them. He's not killed anyone, where all the rest are killers. Others died so that he can live, but at least he never lashed out with knife or spear or axe -
He's bad. But he needs to be better than them. That's what he holds to.
And so, for the first time, his reaction is plainly visible. It's anger.]
I am not. What I do, I do from decency.
no that's mutton darling
Date: 2014-01-03 08:12 pm (UTC)[She spits the word back at him, nearly as soon as he's said it. If he's getting angry, then she can be angry to match. She's ready for it. Anger is something she's got, and it makes a good protection.]
You think it's decent, giving them hope? You think it's decent, coming to these parties afterwards? You're at their funeral.
[And hers. And it was his, once, too. She's snarling at the wrong person here, but he's here, that's what matters, he's here and he thought he could tell her off for killing people who would have killed her first.]
Yeah, you're right. You sure are decent.
moo
Date: 2014-01-11 02:48 am (UTC)[He bites that out.]
Go home? Not suffer through this idiocy?
[His control is famous, or at least something he prides himself on. And it's not like she's even being that devastating, truly - she's just picking, picking constantly, at his weak spots, at his old wounds. She's breaking down his defenses.]
Do you think I like this?
sausages
Date: 2014-01-13 07:19 am (UTC)[She sneers. She steps in close. Her hands are curled at her sides and her lip is curled and she wants to go home, she wants to get out of this fucking dress and be anywhere but here, right now. Sick of her victory, sick of her ball, sick of him and this argument and everyone, everything that her life has been, from start until now. When does the good part start? When you get to be a Victor, your life is full of good shit. What a fucking joke.]
This is everybody's dream. You win, you end up here, and you don't have to worry about anything for the rest of your life.
[She lifts her chin at him, a little, her eyes narrowed.]
Tell me you're happy. Tell me you like this. Tell me it's all going to be okay, because that's what everyone says. So it's got to be true, right? When you pat your little Tributes on the head and send them out there, you wish them luck. You want them to win. For this.