thecapitol | The Crowning of Enjolras

The Crowning of Enjolras

WHO| All Tributes and Victor, plus a few Capitol guests
WHAT| The Crowning of Enjolras
WHERE| The Tribute Center
WHEN| A few weeks after the end of the Arena
WARNINGS| Forced medical experimentation, needles.

The atmosphere surrounding the Crowning is both tense and secretive. The style teams flutter around listlessly, having received no information from which to draft their designs. Newspapers take bets on when it will be announced where the Crowning is being held, descending into grousing when no press release is given. Peacekeepers pour in and out of the Tribute Center, accompanied by scientists who occasionally pull Tributes aside and look at the veins in their elbows. Even the Avoxes seem jumpier than usual.

Aside from the Tribute Center's new giant marble statute of a nude Enjolras, posed like the famed David, one could almost forget the party is supposed to be celebratory.

When the day arrives, the Escorts and their assistants don't lead the Tributes to their style teams to be gussied instead. Instead, they hush the Tributes and bring them to their bedrooms, where a Peacekeeper, a white-coated citizen and several Avoxes await them. The Escorts instruct the Tributes to lay down in their bed and close their eyes, and a needle is inserted into their arms that the Escorts insist will 'take them to the party'. It's soon followed by a series of sensors taped to the forehead.

Just relax, the Escorts say, and they do their very best to make sure their Tributes feel minimal anxiety. If the Tributes resist too much, more Peacekeepers are called in, and the Tributes are forced into submission.

The first effect is a sort of paralysis - not the terrifying inability to move, but a signal to the brain that says why move? Moving is so much effort. It's quickly followed by drowsiness, and then a chill that radiates from the needle into the body, and finally, unconsciousness.

And that is when the party begins. The Tributes, now dressed in luxurious 1830's French clothing of a quality beyond even what their Stylists could manage, wake up in the front row of a large stone theater setting reminiscent of, simultaneously, Greek and French architecture. The floor of the theater is filled with buffets of every imaginable sort of food. Rose petals fall from the sky, which displays a sunset worthy of award-winning photography.

For his part, Enjolras sits in a throne made of books on the ring of the amphitheater, flanked by Marius, Cosette, Eponine, and bizarrely enough Venus Dee Milo and Ellie, seated on lush pillows and carpets made of dinosaur skin (with the heads comically attached and eyes lolling).

"Welcome, welcome, our Tributes and Mentors, to the first ever somnofestival, sponsored by Hypnogogia!" Caesar Flickerman, noted talkshow host and Games presenter, appears in a fabulous sequined toga in the center of the amphitheater. He doesn't need a microphone; the acoustics here are flawless. "And congratulations to our Victor! Let us hear it for Enjolras!"

He awaits applause.

"As you may have noticed, you're inside a shared dream, due to the just fantastic technology from the Capitol and certain, ah, biological contributions from our dear favorite Aunamee." He holds a hand out and gestures to Aunamee, anticipating wild applause. "We thought that for our most philosophical Victor yet, we should celebrate in a way that's a little bit…cerebral."

Caesar laughs and gestures at all the food, then puts a cheeky finger to his lips. "By all means, enjoy yourselves. Even the most indulgent desserts here won't show up on your hips tomorrow. The party only last three hours, so you might as well get started!"

He vanishes into thin air, leaving the Tributes to celebrate. Occasionally, the Tributes will hear voices in their heads - chatter from the Peacekeeper and scientist and Escort still in their room, in the waking world. Otherwise, this is a party like any other, if somewhat surreal in nature.

-/-

The party begins the same way for all the Tributes. For an unlucky few, however, it soon diverges as they come under an unfortunate glitch in the system.

They'll look around and find only a handful of their fellow Tributes around them. The sky, rather than being a magnificent splay of color, is now blank white, and yet the lighting in the theater seems dim. A sense of panic, detached from any conscious thoughts, surges forth in them like the tide.

For them, this isn't a shared dream. This is a shared nightmare.

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Sherlock rocked his head back and forth with a hmmm. "Eighty-seven percent sure. But if they've penetrated my consciousness enough to be able to falsify this, then it's already beyond hope and I'm doomed anyway."

Having satisfied himself, he nodded firmly and squeezed John's shoulders.

"Listen. You must listen. First, I won't apologize, because it has only been beneficial, but I need you to understand that everything I say and do has been completely calculated towards your safety. So any romantic intentions are entirely mercenary. That being said, it has allowed me to secure sponsors where otherwise my band would make that entirely impossible, so I expect you to understand."

John didn't respond immediately. Tight-lipped and unnaturally still, he held Sherlock's gaze completely steadily despite the slightly exaggerated rise and fall of his chest that signified one very obvious truth: he was experiencing that strange blend of fury, disappointment and desperate hurt that only Sherlock was capable of inspiring.

"Unbelievable," he said, eventually, shaking his head. "That's what you are. Go on. Get the rest out, god knows we don't have enough time for me to tell you exactly how much of a colossal prick you are. Go on, don't let me stop you."

Perhaps he should have finished with that, Sherlock thinks to himself, but it's too late now and really, it wasn't like it had changed much of anything, so John really has no reason to be angry with him.

He waves his fingers in front of his face and shakes his head as if rearranging his thoughts. "Good. Because you don't. You can be mad at me later, but when the next fifteen minutes are over, both your and my life depend on you pretending this conversation never happened." He leaned in, eyes piercing blue and trapped on John's.

"You can be as mad at me as you want but I need you to trust me. Regardless of what I say, or do, or tell you, once this conversation is over. I've taken pains to arrange certain safeguards in the event of my death."

John listened with growing incredulity, the anger bubbling up through the hurt, making his eyes hard- and then Sherlock added insult to injury by demanding he trust him.
As if he needed to be told. After being played for a fool. And then, he brought up the last horror, the one thing John was certain he wouldn't be able to bear. He snapped.

"No," he said, interrupting, unnaturally calm at first, though it didn't take long for the rage to slip past the tight, overly controlled set of his jaw. His hands balled into fists at his sides.
"No, you know what, Sherlock, no. You don't-- you don't get to just do this, alright? You don't. Do you have any idea--"

He cut himself off and shrugged Sherlock's hands off his shoulders irritably. Seething, feeling utterly betrayed and so, so stupid, he gathered himself together and glared right back into Sherlock's eyes.

"Do you know what I thought, when you kissed me, Sherlock? Did you even care what I thought? Did how I would feel, what I would think- did it factor in at all? Only been bloody beneficial? You listen, Sherlock, you listen to me. When you kissed me, I thought that you were play acting. And then, then, Sherlock, I felt guilty, for thinking that you could be so cruel and inhuman, for thinking so little of you, my friend, my best friend... no, don't even think about interrupting me! I felt guilty for even thinking you would do that, that you would play with our friendship, the only... the only real thing there is in this god-awful place-- no, I'm not done, I'm not, I'm not even half done, so you can save your aren't I clever safeguards and you can at least pretend you understand what you've done, first, because if you don't I am walking away, I don't care how stupid it is. And you can trust me on that."

Sherlock raised his hands to his face and scrubbed it hard, willing himself not to interrupt even though he wanted to, so so badly, because John was missing the point, again, and calling him inhuman, again, and he recognizes that the worst thing he had done in the last few months was reveal to John what he had been doing and it kills him that this is the case. Never again. Not until John was safe. Sherlock simply couldn't risk this, not now, not while everything was at stake.

"Of course I thought about your feelings, I had to factor them in or it wouldn't work." He drew in a hard breath and lowered his hands again, to glare back at John. "I knew you wouldn't be interested in a romantic relationship, so something unrequited would drum up interest without putting you at too much risk. I wasn't playing, John, this isn't a game. I wish we were back home where the game is but we aren't and we haven't been and we won't be. We're not going back. We are stuck here and do you have any idea how hard I have worked just to keep the two of us here? Do you have any idea how high my current risk level is? There are six tributes that have been in more arenas than I have, John. Six. Almost everyone I knew before you arrived is gone. I needed something, and my attachment to you is the only sympathetic feature I have ever had. No one cares about me, without you. Even when I arrived here before you people expected you. Every lie is best based on truth so I took my attachment and I simply - exaggerated it."

Edited 2014-01-01 14:09 (UTC)

"You should have told me," he said with a sigh, all the fight bleeding out. The only thing left was quiet, disappointed resignation. His shoulders dropped. "You could have told me, in the restaurant, but no, you'd rather keep me in the dark like you always do, always working alone. All this time. Even now, telling me to trust you, when you can't ever bring yourself to trust me- when you'd rather risk our friendship than tell me what's going on. Go on, then. In the event of your death, you've done something clever. Because you've already worked out how I'll think and feel once you're dead and factored that in, too."

"I am telling you," Sherlock hissed lowly, with very real annoyance.

"Even the restaurant was too great a risk. If you'd reacted then like you've reacted now, that would have been the end of it. It has nothing to do with trusting you, or telling you, and if I didn't trust you I wouldn't be telling you this now. But I will not risk your life. It is my fault that you are here and I refuse to put you at greater risk than I already have. We have to be reasonable, John, even simply statistically my continued existence is at incredibly low odds and if something were to happen I need to know that you would be safe."

He didn't blink, not once, holding John's gaze with his own piercing blue one.

"I've left a file, on my computer, and on a USB stick taped to the bottom of my desk. It is encrypted, locked to the password 221b Baker Street."

"Right. Okay. File on a USB stick."

What else was there to say? Sherlock didn't get it. Of course he didn't. Sherlock was standing right there staring into his eyes as if anything on a USB stick could make the only person that made life here worth living being dead any more bearable.

"Got it."

"You're upset with me." It wasn't a question. But he pierced his lips and scoured his brain for something that would put things back into place.

He had told himself that it wouldn't bother him - that as long as John was safe the rest was acceptable collateral.

It bothered him more deeply than he could admit that it was affecting him.

"You understand, don't you? You understand why."

He smiled- a tight, tiny thing- he was too tired, too disappointed and hurt to do anything else.

"No," he said, simply. "No, I don't."

Sherlock made a frustrated sound, shutting his eyes tightly as he rubbed his palms over his face.

"No, of course not, I'm too inhuman for you to understand," He said, a glimpse of a mirrored hurt before he composed himself. "Why should the context matter when it's easier to blame me for my actions? For exaggerating feelings that you didn't even pretend to reciprocate--"

"Don't you dare--"

He cut off abruptly despite having interrupted, eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side, as if he was listening to a distant sound, trying to catch it. His fury, for the moment, was forgotten- very suddenly, he had found himself on duty.

"I can hear them," he whispered. "Sherlock. I can hear them, back... they're talking, in my room. My escort and someone else..."

Sherlock wanted to curse. He hated being interrupted and he hated being left out of the loop even more - but he actually did snap his jaw shut and decided to focus on what was important for half a moment.

"What are they saying? What are they saying? I don't know how much time we have left--"

"It's about the Tributes with superpowers," he said, trying not to talk over the conversation as much as possible. "Nano-robots that suppress the powers, not trusting that they always work. Someone in 3 is working on an upgrade, rewiring-- it's gone. They've stopped. She didn't sound happy about it, said there would be glitches, but I can't say I like the idea of rewiring brains..."

"Nano-robots--" Sherlock mouthed, "Nano-robots! The powers aren't something the capitol grants them in the arena or for a fight here in the capitol, they are inhibited when they are brought in with nano-robots--"

He feels like smacking himself in the face. "What do you mean, rewiring brains? What else did they say? 3 as in district 3?"

He snaps his head around. "Punchy. We need to find Punchy. If they are robots, that means they are programmed, and if they are programmed then--"

He flickered. He didn't noticed he flickered but for half a second he was gone before he came back again, his voice cutting in and out like static on a video tape.

"-- anything else? Can you hear anything else at all?"

Edited 2014-01-02 04:56 (UTC)

"Sherlock-- Sherlock, you're cutting out," he warned, eyes wide, clearly worried. "You disappeared, like you're on a faulty telephone line-- District three, yes, a kid in district three, and they didn't know. Called it technojargon, spinning, wiring- Sherlock, you're disappearing--!"

"What? I'm not--" But he flickered again before he could finish the sentence, and that time he seemed to notice. "I don't think I'm waking up, something dark--"

Flicker, then back, but dimmer than before - as if shadows were creeping up over his skin.

"Find Punchy. Tell him what you've told me, before we run out of--"

But then he was gone.

"--Sherlock! Don't you dare be dead!" he shouted, his heart pounding- but it was too late, Sherlock was gone, he was gone- and all he'd done was make an idiot of himself. He glanced about him, chest heaving with quick, sharp breaths, and tried to get himself back under control. Punchy. Alright. He could do that. He'd just have to be very quick, very focused, and deal with everything else later.

Punchy, for his part, wants to figure out how the technology to get his brain to do this is working. At the moment, that's consisting of making 'ohhhhmmm' noises to himself and closing his eyes in an attempt to focus in on those flickering voices that occasionally cross the back of his head.

With his palms planted on each temple, he either looks like he's trying to mind-melt someone or like he's having a massive headache.

He hasn't found a point yet in sitting down, so he's wandering, dressed in waistcoats that, thank God, match his usual complementary colors pallet. Unfortunately, the dream didn't see fit to give him an outfit that wasn't waistcoats, and whenever he takes his hands off his head it's been to either scratch itches from the weird cotton or try to pull ruffles out of places ruffles should not ever be placed. He doesn't even notice John as he walks by.

John didn't recognise Punchy at first, but the minute he clocked that he'd walked straight past his target he stopped dead and turned on his heel, clearing his throat.

"Punchy?"

Punchy jerks as the sound of his chosen moniker breaks him out of his concentrated state. He very nearly strikes a pose, but he never got that far into his superhero education; the media presentation classes were for seniors, and mostly for the higher-scoring ('more promising') superhero trainees at that.

He turns to John with a big doofy 'aw yeah someone knows my name' smile, which quickly morphs into 'and yes, that's my name, and I'm badass enough to back it up'.

"Yo, you beepin' me?"

He blinked, sizing Punchy up silently for a few seconds before deciding that he'd better just get on with the task Sherlock had assigned him regardless of how bizarre it might be.

"Beeping- no, I- Listen, we haven't got much time to talk while we're not being monitored, and Sherlock wanted me to tell you something. I'm, ah, I'm John, by the way."

"Aw yeah, you're his ride-or-die, he's hashed the finers for me about you." Punchy's smile returns, as he's already decided that if John's cool by Sherlock, he's certainly cool by him. His eyes flick up, almost automatically, as if expecting the cameras to both be above them and visible. Instinct.

"Hold up. How you know we ain't got the big wire on us?"

He smiled, the broad oh-god-what-have-I-got-myself-into smile that only ever pushed itself onto his face when Sherlock was involved.

"Right, yes. His... yes. I haven't really got the time to explain even if I knew what the hell I was talking about, so you're just going to have to trust me. Joan overheard people talking in her room, outside of... this. Whatever this is. They were talking about how they couldn't see us due to a computer glitch of some kind. Then I heard some things too, and Sherlock told me to pass that onto you."

Punchy nods, Joan's word as good as currency to him. John has his rapt attention. When it matters, Punchy's down for the count.

Usually.

"A'ight. What Holmesboy say you gotta dot me on?"

The Crowning of Enjolras

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