thecapitol | Kevin's Crowning

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Kevin's Crowning

Who | Everyone.
What | Kevin's Crowning
Where | An outdoor plaza, sectioned off and well guarded.
When | Starting at noon and continuing on until sunset.
Warnings/Notes | This event is mandatory for all Tributes and Victors to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party.

Playful signs began to pop-up all over the Tribute center in the days leading up to the crowning, advertising the mandatory nature of the event itself while also promising an afternoon of delightful festivities. All attendees were loaded onto buses and driven to the location of the picnic, with colorful t-shirts distributed upon their arrival (D1- Navy, D2- Red, D3- Grey, D4- Light blue, D5- Orange, D6- Yellow, D7- Forest green, D8- Royal blue, D9- Purple, D10- Black, D11- Lime green, D12- Hot pink, and White for any Capitol officials in attendance.) Likewise, all the attendees were given name tag stickers and then dispersed out into the plaza. All except guest of honor, Kevin, who was escorted onto the grounds dressed entirely in white and was given a large and ornate golden crown to wear.

Balloons of every color decorated the entire area . Along with picnic tables and benches, a large main stage was erected in the middle of the plaza with a microphone and a DJ, who played the same six songs on repeat. At it's center, Kevin was given a throne to sit on, so that he could preside over the picnic and enjoy his freshly prepared hamburger and french fries.

There were several small tents that ringed the edge of the stage area. Inside a few of them, you might face painters available, but the only design they would do was paint your face to look like Kevin. Anyone who had their face painted was also given an adorable construction paper crown to wear.

In other tents, a few carnival games had been set up for entertainment. There was a shooting range game where the faces of the targets changed to look like you whenever you stepped up to play, as well as skeeball and a rope ladder climb game. All the prizes were stuffed plush dolls reminiscent of famed former victors. All with Kevin's smile.

A bouncy castle that looked a shocking bit like the city hall building found in the last arena was free for anyone to play on. (Complete with fog machine!) And almost directly across the way from the castle, a caged-in area set up to be a ball-pit was also open for all to enjoy. Upon further inspection of the pit filled with thousands of plastic balls, one could clearly see how they had each been painted to look like giant, vacant black eyes.

The only two food options available to attendees were cupcakes and hotdogs. The cupcakes came with sprinkles. The hotdogs also came with sprinkles. The only beverage option was orange juice. And everyone must have a glass of orange juice, otherwise no one can ever leave.

At 2pm, Peacekeepers erected a volleyball net and the Tributes were instructed to play. Anyone who touched the net would get a slight electrical shock. Clearly it was a best to avoid the net.

As the volleyball game came to a close, several officials took the stage with a special announcement. Public polls would be open to all Capitol citizens the following morning to begin casting their votes. Who will be the next tributes to go into the next arena?! Over the next few days, the public will pick their favorites to enter a special bonus arena! Stay tuned for details!

Once the festivities were over and the Tributes were loaded back onto the buses, they would come to notice something new in the lobby of the Tribute Center. On the ceiling above them was a massive crystal chandelier, seven feet across. And it was no ordinary chandelier. It was customized beautifully, in the shape of Kevin's jagged and ever-present smile.

Beneath it, a spread of fine wine and cheeses. A man in a cream yellow suit with cream yellow hair sat at a grand piano in the corner, playing calm and pleasant melodies that might seem almost familiar to some and yet unrecognizable to anyone. Escorts seem to be in no hurry to get tributes back to their towers, and the wine continues to flow late into the night for anyone who lingers around to drink it.

Until next time, tributes. Until next time.

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Stephen Reagan, Escort for District 6, was sitting at the next table over, staying out of the way. He had a paper plate he's fanning himself with, watching the Tributes explore the games, not having much interest in it himself.

Then, a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Stephen turned his head to see a man -- Gannicus, his memory helpfully supplied -- pull off his shirt.

Whoops. Harley had been right. Stephen turned away a little quickly, his face going a little redder. Be cool, Stephen; Tributes are people, too, and it isn't right to stare at them.

"Have something against shirts?" Stephen asked, as neutrally as he could.

He had noticed the young man at the next table earlier but - more taken by the idea of food and (what he had mistakenly hoped to be) wine - had promptly forgotten him in favour of minding his own business. When the blond man spoke Gannicus glanced aside, puzzled at first about what it was he was referring to.

Shirts? Oh, shirts - the purple cloth his stylist had struggled to bundle Gannicus's muscle in to, and that now sat in a crumpled pile on the bench beside him. Gannicus grinned wryly and lifted a tanned shoulder in a nonchalant half-shrug.

"There are many strange things in this fucking world that I enjoy," He replied easily, impervious to Stephen's stare. There's a lick of dark amusement in his voice as Gannicus adds, "Your shirts are not among their number."

Not that I'm complaining, Stephen thought, but I wouldn't want you to get in trouble for it. He didn't quite have the courage to say so aloud, though.

Come on, Stephen, pull yourself together. This isn't the first half-naked man you've seen. Stop going weak-kneed over every gladiator they bring in.

"Clearly not," he said. "But I can't blame you. It's too hot for this kind of party. If I had a body like yours, I'd have my shirt off, too."

The idea that it was strange or in any way remarkable for Gannicus to have his shirt off in the middle of a picnic doesn't even dawn on him; Gannicus has spent his entire life in various states of undress, as have every gladiator and every slave he has ever known. Even as a freed man it had never been expected of him to wear the robes and togas of every day citizens; topless was a natural state of being, as far as he was concerned.

Another blank shrug; Stephen's compliment bounced harmlessly off Gannicus, much like the curious stares of those that passed them by. A gladiator's worth came in their ability to kill others, and by association were valued for the bodily strength as well. Gannicus's life had always been one of public examination and assessment; to be told that he had an attractive body was the kind of thing hundreds of Romans had told his master before. It meant very little, now.

"Would you now?" An empty, filler reply as Gannicus picked up another hot dog. Stephen could take his shirt, his pants and his underwear off and Gannicus wouldn't bat an eyelid at it. Still, the colour of Stephen's shirt made him pause - white, which district was white?

"Which District do you stand for?"

It was just as well. Stephen was honestly too intimidated to flirt. Right now, he was just trying not to put his foot in his mouth too badly.

"District 6." Stephen noticed, though, that Gannicus is looking at the shirt, and decided to clear up any potential misunderstanding. "But I'm an Escort, not a Tribute. Hence the white, not the yellow." He plucked at his own sleeve.

Gannicus nodded his understanding; he'd assumed the man was a fellow Tribute, but finding out he wasn't hardly mattered. Affably, his gaze lingered on the white of his t-shirt for a moment longer before he turned his attention to his next sprinkled hot dog.

"You are native to the City of Bread, then," He observed. It was rather fitting that these new Romans gave their own kind a shirt the colour of bleached bones and a Roman citizen's toga pura. The mark of a free man.

"What name do you go by, escort?"

A nod. City of Bread? What a strange thing to call it, Stephen thinks.

"Stephen Reagan," he answers. "You're Gannicus, aren't you? One of the gladiators, if I don't miss my guess."

"I stand the very man."

Gannicus sounds resigned; he still didn't understand the television screen that aired the arena footage. Really, he thought it all to be a terrible cheat - what he wouldn't have given to feel the hot, appreciative roar of the crowds first-hand instead of having his kills magically recorded and shown to his audience later. It was robbery; this new-fangled technology was not on complicated, it was frustrating his crowd-appeal too.

Pulling himself from his thoughts Gannicused frowns, realising what Stephen had said.

"Who else in the city holds title of gladiator?"

"Maximus does," replies Stephen. "District 3, Mentor. He won a few Arenas ago." His voice is casual, matter-of-fact, doing absolutely nothing to betray the fact that he carries a hell of a torch for Maximus, as well.

This is becoming a pattern. A slightly embarrassing pattern.

"Maximus?" Gannicus repeats the name, toying with it as he draws it out and tries to remember if he ever met the man. With a shrug he supposes not, and grins confidently.

"I do not recall ever beating such a man in my time."

Not meeting - beating. Such is the confidence of the one-time Champion of Capua. Gannicus lifts his cup of orange juice and pulls a face of disgust at its contents.

"Jupiter's cock -- what do they call this piss?"

That sure was some confidence. Stephen wasn't sure Gannicus would have as easy a time as that.

But then Gannicus mentions the drink. "They call it orange juice," he quips wryly. "I'm not convinced. I don't think this has ever been inside an orange in its life."

Gannicus is sure that he hasn't tried anything so exotic and rich as an orange in his entire life, let alone its juice. In a sharp movement he flicks cup and its contents to the ground.

"What manner of celebration is this, to offer no drink?" He laments in exasperation. "In Capua, victory in the arena was rewarded in wine and whores, both enjoyed in equal measure..."

He levels a finger at Stephen in mock-admonishment.

"Your people stand absent knowledge of how to celebrate death and blood in proper fashion!"

"I had absolutely nothing to do with the planning of this party," Stephen gripes, propping his chin up on his elbow and propping his elbow up on the table. "Believe me, if I did, it would be a lot more fun, and involve a lot more drinks." He looks uncomfortable for a moment at the mention of whores, though, knowing what he knows about the bidding system. Stephen decides not to mention it, and instead glances around furtively to make sure no one was listening. "Give it a few hours. You didn't hear this from me, but there will be wine once we're back in the Tribute Center."

Delighted by the news Gannicus laughs brightly and slaps a tanned hand on bare wood of the picnic table top, sending a half-eaten sprinkle hot dog rolling away in the aftershock.

"At last! A man of my own desires, who knows how to celebrate death and victory!" He exclaimed loudly. There's an edge of happy relief in his voice; the knowledge that there was at least something alcoholic on the variety was desperately good. And what's more, Gannicus is completely shameless about making it very clear just how relieved he feels.

"I call this very fucking welcome news."

Stephen breaks into a laugh in return: he can't help it.

"The Crownings are all based on the Victor's home and interests," he explains, finally relaxing a little and losing some of the awkward from before. "The reason this one is so terrible is that Kevin comes from a place that has a very warped idea of fun."

"Does the man not believe in drink?"

Amidst his laughter Gannicus throws a severely askance look at Kevin upon his throne on the other side of the crowds, suddenly realising that it was his fault that there was nothing of any worth to drink.

Still, looking on the bright side, he gestures at a half-eaten hot dog on his gaudy paper plate.

"At least his dog flesh does not turn fucking stomach."

"Oh, no, I've seen him drink." Stephen glances over his shoulder at that, as though he were afraid Kevin would overhear. "I think it's just his world that discourages it. It's hard to be hard-working and productive when you're drunk, and his world has this cult-like obsession with efficiency."

God, just thinking about it made Stephen want a drink.

The idea was clearly as abhorrent to Gannicus as it was to Stephen; he pulls a long-suffering face and shakes his head.

"The very fucking notion eludes me." He heaves a dramatic sigh.

"So," Stephen says, leading into the question as casually as he can, "your world has better parties. How do they celebrate an Arena victory?"

Tell him about your world, gorgeous shirtless man.

Ah, now this was a topic of conversation that Gannicus could warm to. He grins lazily and slides along the picnic bench closer to where Stephen sits on the next one along.

"When I was yet a slave in the House of Batiatus," He starts with a grin, "My victories in the Arena were rewarded with more wine than I could drink, and all the whores I could fuck..."

It was all a slave could wish for, really; if freedom was out of the question, they might as well have a good time behind their locked bars. He doesn't bother to try to whisper the words that follow, despite the fact that they carried a far more dangerous insinuation:

"In later years, when I fought in rebellion with my brothers, celebration was much the same." He shrugs. "Some say soft lips wet with wine are all the sweeter for taste of freedom upon them. I say wine tastes like fucking wine and I would drain a cup of it all the same, free man or not."

Stephen's face goes carefully neutral at the mention of Gannicus's history of rebellion.

"That's a good way to look at it," he says blandly. Then, Stephen glances around. The area is loud enough that he thinks that maybe the Peacekeeper microphones won't pick them up. More quietly, he says, "So if you were not discontent with your rewards, what led you to rebel?"

The answer was complicated - far too complicated for Gannicus to even attempt to explain without a head full of absinthe. How could he possibly talk about his betrayal Oenomaus, of stepping on to the sands to become willingly execute him, of the way that the man had died in his arms and left a hole in the rebellion that Gannicus had no choice but to fill?

He laughed instead, batting away the sharp surge of guilt with a nonchalant hand, throwing his head back as if the question was a hilarious joke.

"Do not mistake me for idealist, Stephen, nor man of noble heart." He shook his head, still laughing between his words to cover the rising sickness of guilt. "I had but grave misfortune of calling foolish men my brothers!"

The nature of the laughter set off alarm bells in Stephen's head. He had just asked this man an extraordinarily personal question, one that Gannicus was clearly trying to pretend wasn't uncomfortable.

He pretended he hadn't noticed.

"I can understand that," he said. "Well, I think I'd better go. I've taken enough of your time." As he stood, Stephen gave Gannicus a warm smile. "Thank you for speaking with me. It's always good to hear about the way things are done in other worlds."

Stephen stood and Gannicus warmly extended an arm - not a hand to shake, but an entire arm to clasp.

"Seek me again, upon a day, and I shall tell you more," He offered, grinning lazily. "In exchange of wine, perhaps? Ply lips with drink and they shall part more freely!"

I'd let him ply MY lips, Stephen thought, but was careful not to say, as he took Gannicus's -- no, not hand his arm, he's seen Tributes do this before.

"Count on it," Stephen replied. He wasn't too sure it was a good idea, getting drunk in close proximity to Gannicus, but that had never stopped him before. "See you later."

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Kevin's Crowning

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