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thecapitol2014-05-01 05:20 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thecapitol2014-05-01 05:20 pm
Entry tags:
The Family Mock Arena
That morning, all the Tributes and their visitors are roused early by Escorts, Stylists and gaggles of "fashion interns", all of whom appear to be vying for the attention of the head Stylists more than their assigned competitors. Everyone's dressed in frilly outfits, all ruffs and bustles, and then ushered out to the helicopters that will take them to the nearest Arena.
The Escorts, even though many of them aren't terribly good at looking concerned for their Tributes' well-being, seem even less bothered than usual, and reassure everyone that this Arena is "just for fun" and "won't last long". The Tributes and their visitors are led to the tubes to their pedestals.
"The goal is to be the last one hit," the Escorts say, and the Stylists fuss over how they should take care of their clothes in the Arena.
The Arena appears to be a baseball diamond, and the Cornucopia lies at the batter's cage. There are no supplies, but weapons include marshmallow guns and plastic pool noodles. Both marshmallows and pool noodles are covered in wet glittery paint. The Arena's confines extend up into the bleachers, but otherwise it's a relatively straightforward and uncluttered playing field.
If any Tribute or visitor steps off the platform before the end of the countdown, they'll be sprayed with confetti and sequins. The countdown begins, a cheery, chiming voice reading out numbers like a kindergarten teacher.
"Three...two...one...go!"
The Escorts, even though many of them aren't terribly good at looking concerned for their Tributes' well-being, seem even less bothered than usual, and reassure everyone that this Arena is "just for fun" and "won't last long". The Tributes and their visitors are led to the tubes to their pedestals.
"The goal is to be the last one hit," the Escorts say, and the Stylists fuss over how they should take care of their clothes in the Arena.
The Arena appears to be a baseball diamond, and the Cornucopia lies at the batter's cage. There are no supplies, but weapons include marshmallow guns and plastic pool noodles. Both marshmallows and pool noodles are covered in wet glittery paint. The Arena's confines extend up into the bleachers, but otherwise it's a relatively straightforward and uncluttered playing field.
If any Tribute or visitor steps off the platform before the end of the countdown, they'll be sprayed with confetti and sequins. The countdown begins, a cheery, chiming voice reading out numbers like a kindergarten teacher.
"Three...two...one...go!"
no subject
"Hey, isn't that cheating? Whoa!"
Fortunately for Gale, foam noodles made for slow-moving javelins. He threw himself out of the way -- it was close, but when he rose above the row of seats behind him, he was as glitter-less as ever. Instincts nearly took over: he leveled the marshmallow gun at his assailant, crouched, sighted -- but his finger hesitated on the trigger. Hadn't he just been thinking that this whole event was ridiculous? Was he really so easy to manipulate that all it took to get him to play along was one attack?
No. This woman wasn't suffering from the glitter's effects. If it was poisoned, she would be the first one writhing on the ground, considering how much of it she was sporting.
Gale stood up, squared his shoulders, and held the marshmallow gun to his head. He waited a moment, to make absolutely sure he had the attention of at least one of the cameras, looking handsome and dramatically backlit. Then, he pulled the trigger. A marshmallow hit his hair, smearing a track of glittery goop across his temple and down his cheek.
"Looks like I lost."
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"You gonna stand there and keep taking the piss, kid, or are you gonna have some fun with it?"
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"No thanks," he said, pulling out one of the chairs in the row in front of him. "This isn't my idea of fun." He threw his legs over the chair-back and sank decisively into it.
...he wiped at the bridge of his nose again, and his fingers came away glittery.
no subject
Gale, you enormous, joy-killing stick-in-the-mud. Not that his recalcitrance was unwarranted, but there were so few opportunities for a little guilt-free happiness around here that quashing the only one they got seemed...
...well, it's a little petty.
But maybe District Twelve has earned the right to be petty by now. If anyone can. Regardless, Shepard rolled her eyes at him and turned away. She might be 'dead', but she wasn't out of the game yet.
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