OPEN Valentine's Day Plot

[thebiddingbaron]

WHO | Everyone
WHAT | Baron sends Valentine's Day gifts to Tribute Tower.
WHEN | Valentine's Day!
WHERE | Tribute Tower
WARNINGS / NOTES | Warnings for drug use and all of the things that go with that. Possibly also sexual themes. The OOC post for this is here.




On the morning of February 14th when the Tributes come down for breakfast they're greeted by an impressive holiday themed spread. Pink and red baked goods, chocolates shaped like hearts, beautiful red and pink flowers, adorable stuffed animals all line the table.

On the table is also a sign in cursive that reads:

To our beloved Tributes, Victors, Mentors, Escorts and Stylists. Enjoy your holiday. -- Bartlett Industries

Most of the sweets are completely harmless, but if the Tributes taste the chocolate covered cherries or caramels they find themselves suddenly acting very strangely...

Comments

[buildingreality]

"An astute observation," Ariadne replied, not bothering to glance up from her latest doodle. 'Doodle' being a relative term - it seemed as though she was designing a building that had no place in reality. It was all sharp lines and gravity-defying angles and jutting plateaus; it looked downright dangerous, yet spacious somehow, with windows indicated to decorate most walls from floor to ceiling.

Putting a final detail or two on the rendering of a south-facing wall, she looked up to see who it was speaking to her. One of the District 12 Tributes, if she remembered well enough; he was new. New enough that she didn't know his face that well, let alone his name. She wondered how long he'd gone without speaking, the thought flickering briefly in her curious gaze.

[downbeat]

He recognized her, but only vaguely. Something to do with ceremonies. Something with interviews. What was important, he figured, was that he was relatively certain she was not a tribute. He would never need to harm her. Never need to watch the life leave those brown eyes.

He raised and lowered his folded arms at her response, a sort of quiet yeah, yeah, I know.

"Are you an artist?"

[buildingreality]

His unsaid response made a small smile twitch at the corners of her mouth, subtle but still there. If she recalled correctly, now that she thought about it, he'd been the one with the odd story on the network the other day; Ariadne had avoided it on the premise that she wasn't a writer, and hadn't anything to say on the matter. Better to let well enough alone.

Studying her drawing thoughtfully for another moment longer, she tipped her head to one side, "An architecture student, actually. I thought I'd get back into it now that I have a bit more free time on my hands." She gestured to the nearby box of chocolates. "And if you watch enough people, these are providing a surprising amount of inspiration."

[downbeat]

He noticed this inspiration, the way people stumbled around and laughed and spoke to things that weren't there. In the beginning, he had thought it was alcohol ... and then he thought that it was perhaps stress, the horrified mental consequences that arose from a never-ending death match. He had guessed at one point that the food had been drugged, and so he hung back against the wall for hours, frozen, his heart leaping in his chest.

He swallowed hard, his comfort visibly deflating.

"So much for being treated with respect between arenas." But then his impulsiveness waned and he found himself looking around the room for cameras, his eyes wide. "O-Or -- it could very well be an accident."

[buildingreality]

She just looked at him, folding her hands over her sketchbook. His reactions were fascinating, to say the least; he was definitely a new one if this was all it took to fluster him. He was a paranoid one, she thought.

"Well, and possible." Not in the slightest; they had 'Bartlett' plastered across the front of them. But Ariadne knew better than to utter such a thought aloud. "We're treated with respect." The Capitol just didn't have the same definition of 'respect' as the rest of the world.

sorry for the delay!

[downbeat]

Katurian ran his hand up his face and settled it on his forehead, his fingers dusting his scalp. Paranoid was not far off. He was a frozen statue one moment and a ball of nervous energy the next, a wind-up man on a frictionless floor. He was thinking about the cameras, the Peacekeepers, death, how Ariadne said we.

"Look at me," he says, giving a nervous, humorless laugh. "I'm not treating you with respect, because, um. Because I don't think we've ever met."

He extends a wet hand, thinks better of it, then withdraws.

"My name is Katurian."

it's all good \o

[buildingreality]

"Ariadne." She'd say it was nice to meet him, but the truth be told, he was sort of disconcerting; she eyed him warily, not daring to take her eyes off of him lest he lash out against someone in some way. "If you're a new one, then I'm not that surprised we haven't met. Not unless you're in my District, which I think I'd have figured out by now."

Re: it's all good \o

[downbeat]

"Twelve," he said. It was strange, how an arbitrarily assigned number became like an address for him. "District Twelve. And I am new, yes. I just finished my first arena."

'Finished' like it was a race, an exam, a work of fiction. Even he cringed at the word choice. It did nothing to explain the lingering coldness that rested under his skin, the copper taste of blood that never really left his mouth.

Of course she was a tribute. Of course. This was no place for an architecture student, just like how this was no place for a writer.

"I don't -- I don't necessarily remember seeing you out there. "

[buildingreality]

She nodded again, watching him with some trepidation lingering just beneath the surface; she watched him like he was something to be studied, in a sense. Something to be picked apart and put back together again once she understood it. Not to say that she'd try it, but it was an interesting enough likening to her thought process.

"That's because I wasn't," Ariadne told him, hands folding in her lap in a slow, steady gesture.

'Necessarily', he'd said. An interesting choice of words. It almost made her smile.

"I'm a Victor. I already won."

[downbeat]

"You're out."

It was enough to make him stand up straight. His fear edged away, retreating like the waves of an ocean. Now awe thrummed in his veins. Envy. Hope. He began to mirror Ariadne's more probing looks, began to study and examine, because here was a woman who proved that surviving was possible, and what did she have that he didn't? Luck? Something else?

"How--"

It was a rude question, and he caught it on his tongue. He shook his head.

"Which arena?"

[buildingreality]

It was always interesting to see the sort of reactions she got when she mentioned that. Most people just went for awe, but then again, most people were Capitol citizens through and through; they loved their Victors almost as much as the spectacle their victory had begot.

"The third. And to answer your other question, I had good allies who kept me alive until the end," she explained, not much minding the 'how'. She knew she was small and not that threatening; it had done her well when people didn't expect her to be able to pack much of a wallop. She wasn't sure how many of the other Tributes had been confused when they realised they were taken out by an architecture student.