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thecapitol2015-08-01 09:29 pm
conifer) wrote in thecapitol2015-08-01 09:29 pm
Entry tags:
Dear shadow, alive and well
Who| Emily and YOU
What| Emily checks up on her Tributes, reacts badly to her Victor's Reel and has very vivid dreams
Where| The training centre, and in dreams
When| During the current event
Warnings/Notes| A catch all for Emily's dreams in Fourth Wall and for her reaction to the Victor's Reel. Warning for torture in prompt d). Prose or brackets both welcome, I'll match your format. Please let me know if you'd prefer another starter for your character and I'll write one up for you!
a) District 7 suite
Emily had switched the television on midway through the Victor's Reel, and her stomach twists as she sees a much younger version of herself on the screen. She can almost feel the unbearable heat of the desert around her, until she realises she's flushing hot from her own panic, her cheeks and ears and the back of her neck burning. She wants to look away but finds herself rooted to the spot, seeing it all play out in front of her again in high definition and glorious technicolour, feeling the too-familiar guilt flare up in her at Calder's glassy, dead stare.
When she can finally move again, she turns off the TV and goes almost mechanically over to the corner to her little indoor garden, crouching with her back to the room, her hands trembling as she tends to the plants and takes cuttings of the herbs, shaking so much that she gives up on trying to arrange the miniature worlds in her terrariums and just sits there in a daze, thinking how weak she must be for that footage to still hurt her so much so many years later.
b) Training centre
She decides the best she can do is just to keep going, to press on as she always has been. She forces herself down to the training area to see how her Tributes are getting on, steeling herself against the harsh clash of weapons. If anything she seems even more focused than usual, concentrating on the need for another District Seven Victor and on going forward rather than reliving her own Arena. She's sure that most of her Tributes will have seen the highlight reel by now, and while she's always been forthcoming about her Arena, she resents the Capitol packaging it up to present to them rather than having the control over telling of her experience herself. Despite how hard she's pushing them, how much she's trying to keep the focus on the Tributes rather than herself, there are moments where she sees Calder staring back at her rather than the Tributes she's trying to train, and it's difficult for her not to bolt out of there.
c) Dream: Day 3, a paradise
Emily's paradise, perhaps unsurprisingly, is a forest. The lumber camps of District Seven, riddled with their poverty and disease, are nowhere to be seen. The trees and flowers wave slowly in the wind, in a silence only punctuated by the call of birds. Emily can be found wandering idly through the woods, or sat outside a treehouse, whittling away at carvings of rabbits and songbirds and humming to herself, without a care in the world.
d)Dream: Day 6, a bad memory [Thanks to Quintus' mun for collaborating on this prompt!]
Emily's in the middle of a crowd of dirty, under-fed woodsmen. There are children there too, and more emerging barefoot from the outskirts of town where the little one-room cabins like the one she'd grown up in were situated - poor even by District Seven standards. She feels her chest tighten as she's hemmed in by people on all sides, remembering how badly the last big association of Districters had gone. This very meeting was in response to that, to what was already being called the Woodcutters' Riot. Unlike then, however, there is no sense of solidarity at all among the people here today - they're hushed and skittish, whispering to each other craning their necks to look over heads. It’s not unlike the scene one might expect at a car wreck, or clustered around a TV screen to watch the disasters of war, the motivation somewhere between curiosity and social obligation. There is a need to be here, because someday someone might ask—where were you when it happened?—and one can’t go without an answer.
A tall piece of chain-link fence has been affixed to wooden posts rammed into the dirt. Three weathered, muscular men are bound to it, stripped of their shirts, their wrists and ankles wrapped with wire. Bruises from a previous beating are evident on their faces and arms, and one spits blood periodically, glowering at the small group conferring across from him—the district commander, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair slicked tight against his skull; two helmeted guards; and a younger peacekeeper in a plain white uniform. The latter appears thirty at most, with sagging posture and corn-colored hair, and when he turns his head the onlookers can see a mass of bandages covering his left cheek, from the base of his eye to the edge of his lips, the adhesive strips stretching down to his neck and back towards his ear.
After a few minutes, the commander steps in front of the bound men, just out of spitting distance. He has no microphone, but as if on cue, the whispers stop to let his voice sail unhindered through the stagnant air. He recites the names of the prisoners and announces their charges: assault, murder, conspiracy and treason. The punishment, he declares, is the fate worse than death—avoxing. A soft stir rolls through the crowd, is there and then gone, like the passing of wind through the woods. The peacekeepers before them tense, but no one moves.
The commander pulls a long, thin prod from his belt, a different weapon than the standard-issue baton, and offers it to the bandaged peacekeeper. He switches places with the commander, facing the prisoners. There is a beat of silence as he collects himself.
“You three were almost the death of me,” he says with a heavy lisp. The prisoners don’t respond.
He whips around to face the crowd, raising his voice, enunciating every word as best he can. “I want all of you to understand the nature of this crime. It isn’t just a crime against me and my comrades. It’s a crime against the state. Against order. Some of you out there might feel sympathy for them, might’ve been told that it was about feeding their families. Let me ask you then—” Reaching for the bandages, he yanks them off, giving an involuntary cry at the pain. Beneath, much of the flesh is gone, scar tissue framing a rictus of white teeth and swollen gums. The crowd gasps. “What kind of family man drives an axe into another man’s face?!” he shouts. “What kind of citizen murders out of rage? Are these your heroes, District Seven? Are these your crusaders for justice?”
He pauses to breathe, pressing a hand up against his side as though to keep his bones in place. “This kind of violence solves nothing and says nothing. There is nothing brave or honorable about it. It’s a threat to the framework of society, and as protectors of society, we refuse to let that threat continue to exist.”
He raises the prod, closes the distance between himself and the prisoners, and the purpose of the chain-link fence becomes suddenly clear. A spark of electricity arcs from the end of the weapon as he presses it to the metal, and the men convulse, their backs arching and feet scrabbling. When he pulls back, they slump to the ground, and he jams the prod into the abdomen of the prisoner nearest him, the one with the bloody mouth. The man screams and screams.
In the crowd, a woman begins to sob. A few men start forward, but freeze as the peacekeepers point their rifles. In spite of it all, no one is able to bring themselves to leave, rooted by the shock of the sight.
It’s difficult to tell, but through his pain and the oppressive heat, as the prisoners seize and shriek at his mercy, the peacekeeper’s disfigured lips tighten into something like a smile.
e) Closed to Quintus
Between the Victor's reel and the nightmare, she's regretting having arranged to meet up with Quintus. She was still astounded at herself that she considered him a friend, but the idea of associating with the Head Peacekeeper today was making her feel more than a little apprehensive, especially going to do an activity that would place so much trust in his hands. Still, it's too late to back out of it now.
She's rather pleased with her swimsuit, but that's where her enjoyment ends, sat on the edge of the pool with her feet dangling in the water, waiting for him to arrive.
What| Emily checks up on her Tributes, reacts badly to her Victor's Reel and has very vivid dreams
Where| The training centre, and in dreams
When| During the current event
Warnings/Notes| A catch all for Emily's dreams in Fourth Wall and for her reaction to the Victor's Reel. Warning for torture in prompt d). Prose or brackets both welcome, I'll match your format. Please let me know if you'd prefer another starter for your character and I'll write one up for you!
a) District 7 suite
Emily had switched the television on midway through the Victor's Reel, and her stomach twists as she sees a much younger version of herself on the screen. She can almost feel the unbearable heat of the desert around her, until she realises she's flushing hot from her own panic, her cheeks and ears and the back of her neck burning. She wants to look away but finds herself rooted to the spot, seeing it all play out in front of her again in high definition and glorious technicolour, feeling the too-familiar guilt flare up in her at Calder's glassy, dead stare.
When she can finally move again, she turns off the TV and goes almost mechanically over to the corner to her little indoor garden, crouching with her back to the room, her hands trembling as she tends to the plants and takes cuttings of the herbs, shaking so much that she gives up on trying to arrange the miniature worlds in her terrariums and just sits there in a daze, thinking how weak she must be for that footage to still hurt her so much so many years later.
b) Training centre
She decides the best she can do is just to keep going, to press on as she always has been. She forces herself down to the training area to see how her Tributes are getting on, steeling herself against the harsh clash of weapons. If anything she seems even more focused than usual, concentrating on the need for another District Seven Victor and on going forward rather than reliving her own Arena. She's sure that most of her Tributes will have seen the highlight reel by now, and while she's always been forthcoming about her Arena, she resents the Capitol packaging it up to present to them rather than having the control over telling of her experience herself. Despite how hard she's pushing them, how much she's trying to keep the focus on the Tributes rather than herself, there are moments where she sees Calder staring back at her rather than the Tributes she's trying to train, and it's difficult for her not to bolt out of there.
c) Dream: Day 3, a paradise
Emily's paradise, perhaps unsurprisingly, is a forest. The lumber camps of District Seven, riddled with their poverty and disease, are nowhere to be seen. The trees and flowers wave slowly in the wind, in a silence only punctuated by the call of birds. Emily can be found wandering idly through the woods, or sat outside a treehouse, whittling away at carvings of rabbits and songbirds and humming to herself, without a care in the world.
d)Dream: Day 6, a bad memory [Thanks to Quintus' mun for collaborating on this prompt!]
Emily's in the middle of a crowd of dirty, under-fed woodsmen. There are children there too, and more emerging barefoot from the outskirts of town where the little one-room cabins like the one she'd grown up in were situated - poor even by District Seven standards. She feels her chest tighten as she's hemmed in by people on all sides, remembering how badly the last big association of Districters had gone. This very meeting was in response to that, to what was already being called the Woodcutters' Riot. Unlike then, however, there is no sense of solidarity at all among the people here today - they're hushed and skittish, whispering to each other craning their necks to look over heads. It’s not unlike the scene one might expect at a car wreck, or clustered around a TV screen to watch the disasters of war, the motivation somewhere between curiosity and social obligation. There is a need to be here, because someday someone might ask—where were you when it happened?—and one can’t go without an answer.
A tall piece of chain-link fence has been affixed to wooden posts rammed into the dirt. Three weathered, muscular men are bound to it, stripped of their shirts, their wrists and ankles wrapped with wire. Bruises from a previous beating are evident on their faces and arms, and one spits blood periodically, glowering at the small group conferring across from him—the district commander, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair slicked tight against his skull; two helmeted guards; and a younger peacekeeper in a plain white uniform. The latter appears thirty at most, with sagging posture and corn-colored hair, and when he turns his head the onlookers can see a mass of bandages covering his left cheek, from the base of his eye to the edge of his lips, the adhesive strips stretching down to his neck and back towards his ear.
After a few minutes, the commander steps in front of the bound men, just out of spitting distance. He has no microphone, but as if on cue, the whispers stop to let his voice sail unhindered through the stagnant air. He recites the names of the prisoners and announces their charges: assault, murder, conspiracy and treason. The punishment, he declares, is the fate worse than death—avoxing. A soft stir rolls through the crowd, is there and then gone, like the passing of wind through the woods. The peacekeepers before them tense, but no one moves.
The commander pulls a long, thin prod from his belt, a different weapon than the standard-issue baton, and offers it to the bandaged peacekeeper. He switches places with the commander, facing the prisoners. There is a beat of silence as he collects himself.
“You three were almost the death of me,” he says with a heavy lisp. The prisoners don’t respond.
He whips around to face the crowd, raising his voice, enunciating every word as best he can. “I want all of you to understand the nature of this crime. It isn’t just a crime against me and my comrades. It’s a crime against the state. Against order. Some of you out there might feel sympathy for them, might’ve been told that it was about feeding their families. Let me ask you then—” Reaching for the bandages, he yanks them off, giving an involuntary cry at the pain. Beneath, much of the flesh is gone, scar tissue framing a rictus of white teeth and swollen gums. The crowd gasps. “What kind of family man drives an axe into another man’s face?!” he shouts. “What kind of citizen murders out of rage? Are these your heroes, District Seven? Are these your crusaders for justice?”
He pauses to breathe, pressing a hand up against his side as though to keep his bones in place. “This kind of violence solves nothing and says nothing. There is nothing brave or honorable about it. It’s a threat to the framework of society, and as protectors of society, we refuse to let that threat continue to exist.”
He raises the prod, closes the distance between himself and the prisoners, and the purpose of the chain-link fence becomes suddenly clear. A spark of electricity arcs from the end of the weapon as he presses it to the metal, and the men convulse, their backs arching and feet scrabbling. When he pulls back, they slump to the ground, and he jams the prod into the abdomen of the prisoner nearest him, the one with the bloody mouth. The man screams and screams.
In the crowd, a woman begins to sob. A few men start forward, but freeze as the peacekeepers point their rifles. In spite of it all, no one is able to bring themselves to leave, rooted by the shock of the sight.
It’s difficult to tell, but through his pain and the oppressive heat, as the prisoners seize and shriek at his mercy, the peacekeeper’s disfigured lips tighten into something like a smile.
e) Closed to Quintus
Between the Victor's reel and the nightmare, she's regretting having arranged to meet up with Quintus. She was still astounded at herself that she considered him a friend, but the idea of associating with the Head Peacekeeper today was making her feel more than a little apprehensive, especially going to do an activity that would place so much trust in his hands. Still, it's too late to back out of it now.
She's rather pleased with her swimsuit, but that's where her enjoyment ends, sat on the edge of the pool with her feet dangling in the water, waiting for him to arrive.
a
It's maybe five minutes after the reel ends that she sticks her head into the District 7 suite, then steps inside with a little smile. "Em? Bought you some cake and a bottle of wine. Thought you might need it." That isn't the only thing she's offering, but do you want sex to take your mind off things? usually doesn't work nearly as well as you might think. Still, it's there at the back of her mind, the easiest way she has to distract or comfort people, and the first solution to come to mind. Which is why the carrier bag she's holding doesn't just carry cake and wine, but a few other things she's pulled together out of her private cupboard.
For now, though, she just kneels down next to Emily, offering her a little smile. Her tight t-shirt, black from a distance, glimmers like a jackdaw's wing under the lights, subtle colours dancing over it. Her long nails shine with the same kind of iridescence as she reaches out, putting her hand over Emily's.
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"Thanks. We'll probably have to go to my room to drink it - Jason doesn't like alcohol around the suite."
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Squeezing Emily's hand again, she moves to get to her feet and help the other woman along with her.
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She stands and follows along after Beck, enjoying the feel of her hand enclosed by the other woman's, throwing her tools in a drawer where they're locked away along with her carving chisels, sitting cross-legged on her bed and patting a space nearby for Beck to join her.
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With a little smile, she pulls Emily in close, kissing the curve of the other woman's jaw. "Are you okay, though? I mean, are you gonna be?"
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She smiles as Beck kisses her, nuzzling her face into the other woman's hair. She resists the urge to just say I'm fine, thinking she deserves more than that lie, even if she doesn't want to make her worry. "They could have done much worse to me than air my bad memories for the whole of Panem to see." They had done much worse and would do so again, if she was sure of one thing it was that. "I'll manage."
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With another kiss, just below Emily's ear, she straightens up and reaches for the wine. "I'm sorry. I'm probably not helping, am I? I can't imagine what you're going through right now."
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She reaches over to stroke Beck's arm, hoping to be reassuring.
"Just you being here is helping."
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