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

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--]