thecapitol | (no subject)

Who| Mentors, stylist, escorts, and anyone else keeping up with tributes in an official aspect.
What| The green room
Where| The tribute training center
When| start of the arena
Warnings/Notes| none inherent, tags thread subjects as needed.

The green room this round has been decorated with the sensibility of what would be, in our era, a turn of the century sitting room. Dark wood paneling, thick rich red velvet furniture, and plush red curtains drawn back over various monitors with heavy gold cords. Although the room is quiet large to contain so many people, it gives the impression of being intimate. The Avoxes, decked out in vaguely militaristic attire, serve food and drink in silver and crystal dishes, gold alcohol catching the light of the stained glass lamps around the room.

In the center of the room is a holographic projection of the arena, highlighting in flickering lights where each tribute is. Panels hidden discretely in the wood paneling can change the view of any of the screens so a mentor or stylist can pull up their own tribute, or one whom they would like to observe.

The projection can easily be shifted, with the flick of a hand, on to the person's own tablet, or even to be projected on one of the sitting tables placed around the room. On their screens other various information can be easily accessed: current odds, gossip, and even communication from potential bidders.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"That'll be a doozy?" Johanna was scornful. "You make it sound like a hoe-down.. Do you think they're gonna barn dance around the arena? How out of touch are you? Have you even watched any of these Games? They're more brutal then we were. More creative."

Johanna moved her controls so that her screen zoomed in on Justin. "Idiot." And Homura. "Suicidal." She ticked her tributes off on her fingers. "I doubt any of them will even think of using the roof." She rolled her eyes at Barbara. "You have eyes, don't you? Count the floors yourself. I am not your personal arena commentator."

Did Barbara really want to blabber about their Reapings? Johanna remembered shaking and being physically hauled onto the stage by the Game Makers. She remembered clenching her fists as her name was read out, and saying to herself, 'this is the moment where you win. Make it good."
She remembered looking into her dad's eyes and longing to go home to him one day.

"Oh shut up." She didn't want to think about her father.

She smiled in spite of herself. None of them, or those who had been decent people at some point in their youth, enjoyed rehashing the past. They were forced to often enough on television, live or for a studio audience. They were questioned by curious and invasive faces and personalities anywhere they went. Only the rash of Tributes in this new style of Games was helping pull attention off those love children of the media that former Victors were, no matter how well or ill put together they were in the end.

"More creative, but not creative enough to use the roof?" She cocked her head to the side, eyes lingering on the image of the last Tribute brought up on screen.

Johanna glared at Barbara. She didn't like being pulled up about anything.

"More creative in killing. Lots of blood. What the idiots here want. They're far too eager to appease and make the deaths as violent as possible. The roof won't cut it. It's too quick. Too easy."

Like as not they'd be dragged back down if they did stay out of the firing zone for too long -- or they'd go Enjolras' route. It was difficult to say.

"It's all so sad." She can say this with real regret in her voice. Her sunny expression dimmed for a beat, blue eyes taking in the screen. "Trying so hard for so little in return."

Losing more and more of themselves each time if they fed into the Games. Losing a different portion if they surrendered and died.