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

Her words strike a chord in him, one that has been slowly building up in sound and him not wanting to have it. What was he willing to give up? Willing o trade for? What would he do, for who he had to protect?

And it wasn't just Katniss. His family, hers. Their tributes, their District 12 tributes were also under his protection because they were family. Once upon ago, Katniss had breached the subject of marriage. He'd cut it off quickly, because he knew they could get their tributes going well, and it wouldn't be needed.

"I'll be honest. I'm not entirely sure." Not sure on what he wasn't willing. Wasn't faking. "It's a really diffract life, here, and I feel like I want to cram it all in on one day, but it won't be just one. It'll take five or ten years, and that might be too slow.

"I reckon you might want to figure that one out, Lovebird." She sounded musing, reaching out to flick her fingers across his screen. One of the Tributes in his district comes front and center. She left her finger on the screen.

"Once upon a time, you had a year between sets. Now you have weeks. It's like they want to work us hard or something!" She laughed without feeling humor from the implication - only humor at this being a grim, unwelcome task earned by those who had been able to survive. "Dough takes time to rise, right?"

Maybe, in the end, you had to give up everything, to gain nothing for yourself. If he could see himself doing that, then he could do it. Maybe, deep down, he could do it. He hadn't had the chance to think of it. There had been nothing that would push him to make the choices that he might have made if things were different.

"I think if anyone should be making bread puns, it's me." Peeta laughed, but not with as much feeling as it should. "I guess they do. Really putting us through our paces and all that." Not that he minded hard work, but he understood. This wasn't something any of them wanted to do.

Barbara stood, flashing Peeta another smile.

"Paces are for horses. The more time we spend out of that chariot, the better." The more of their Tributes who stayed in wasn't precisely the worst, but it wasn't good, either.

"Good luck to your District, Peeta! These things aren't as complicated as they look at first. That's what folks keep telling me!"

There was another laugh, dismissive and light, before Barbara waved and moved off through the room.