The Crowning Of Clara Murphy

[etcircenses]

Who| Everyone.
What| The Crowning of Clara Murphy
Where| A refurbished former-medical building within Capitol. 
When| Starting from late afternoon, going into the evening and late night.
Warnings/Notes| Don't forget, peacekeepers are on high alert and will notice any rebellious activity or odd behaviour. 

The theme of the ceremony is corruption and dystopia, with a distinct nod to futuristic aspects and, of course, robots. The room is stark, clean, and foreboding, all done in metallics, crisp whites, and the occasional bit of robotics set up as art. It speaks as an unholy cross between a medical office, a military base, and an extremely well kept prison.

The ceremony is both a chance for Capitolites to have fun and be grateful for the grand and glorious Panem which in no way exemplifies any attributes of dystopia, while also working as a not so subtle reminder to the troublemakers out there of what can happen when things get out of line. Which they surely won't, with all the peacekeepers around.

Tributes are dressed in all manner of thing incorporating chains, rope, caution tape, muzzles, bars and cages, prison stripes, and uniform orange-- all things reminiscent of imprisonment and restriction. Some tributes may be made to look scuffed up, like cartoon-ish depictions of hardened thugs. There are a few references to robotics, and that of evil and corrupt military men and police officers, but all tributes will be marked by some manner of cuff or chain that clearly denotes them as “criminals”.

They’ll also be given a “prison number” that is actually indicative of their district association and an arbitrary letter next to it, for example, someone from district six will have 06 and the first letter of their name. It will be temporarily tattooed somewhere visible on their skin. It can be washed off but it will take more scrubbing than would be done in a single day, let alone a crowning.

The only exceptions to these rules, are those who have been brought to the winner’s table; all those who can be deemed as cyborgs, scientists, and of course, the victor herself. Her throne sits at the head of the table, a robotic contraption that appears almost as though it might encase her. For a crown, Clara has been given one that seems to bear resemblance to a white picket fence, which, when made into a crown, looks far sharper than the idyllic home setting it’s meant to represent.

Avoxes are all dressed as members of the corrupt Detroit military police. The uniforms are naturally given a more sinister edge. None of them are comfortable. All of them are serving “Detriotto” staple foods.

Around the crowning, flat hologram projections of hockey games can be seen. They show the games of a team called “The Rouge Wings” and alternate that with the less spectacular showings of what appears to be a young boy’s hockey team. Commercials fill the times between promoting the work of Capitol’s peacekeepers, showing appreciation for them on an individual level, encouraging obedience in citizens with pleasant clips of peacekeepers speaking to children, and suggesting recruitment in the truly good and noble of Panem. Capitolites may nod along to these as they giggle at the sight of decorative signs, that are most certainly from Clara’s lesser world, about obeying, consuming, and so on, to a less than favourable government. A few posters feature Clara Murphy’s face in four colour palettes, all humorous jabs at dystopia proclaiming; “MOTHER MURPHY IS WATCHING YOU”.

But hockey games are not the only things that can be seen on the projection screens; if tributes take the time to look, they may see their own face projected above in profile and facing forward views like that of mug shots. Though, how the capitol has managed to get these pictures may be entirely a mystery. Besides these mugshots, criminal records are displayed, listing crimes from “lied to their parents” to petty theft to murder. Whether these records are true or not may be up for much debate.

In the mean time, there are plenty of things for party go-ers to do, such as take part in the David For A Day egg and spoon race, in which tributes will all have a chance to dress up (with wigs and matching clothing of all sizes!) as the mysterious David, compete against others, and should they win, be dubbed David For A Day, winning themselves a banner they can wear and a spot at the victor table.

There is also an obstacle course available dubbed the "Clarence Boddicker Memorial Prison Funhouse" designed to look, you guessed it, like a prison. Fun for all ages and demeanours!

For those looking for retreat, there’s a small section cut away from it all, designed to be a pleasant backyard patio setting opened to a starry night sky and small surrounding garden, in stark contrast to the rest of the place. There’s a small area for dancing in, that can really only accommodate one couple at a time, but is nevertheless perfect for a romantic scene. Only two songs play over speakers here, one perfectly fitting, the other a little more jarring. It’s also here that party go-ers can get their picture taken with a life sized ED-209. Many more much smaller ED-209’s can be seen around and within the crowning party. As well as the occasional roomba, which fans of the last arena will surely get a chuckle out of.

As the crowning nears it’s end, those at the victor’s table will be given paintball guns filled up with red paint. They will be ordered to bring the criminals to justice! The criminals being all the other tributes. Those hit with paint will be made to wait within the Memorial Prison Funhouse until all the criminals are apprehended and forced to do their time! No one will be allowed to go back to the tribute tower until all the criminals are caught.

Comments

Brock

[samson]

ONE.

Brock has been to some bad parties in his life, but this might be the worst bad party he's ever had the misfortune of attending. Not that it's not all very impressive, videoscreens and holograms and all, but it's just... dumb. Really, really dumb.

And he likes stupid themed parties. That kind of stuff is his jam. But it's all just in very poor, very dumb taste.

The overemphasis on being authentic to Detroit (apparently) means that at least he gets a better selection of alcohol, in that the alcohol isn't glow-in-the-dark neon doused-in-glitter cocktails. That doesn't mean it's particularly good, though, and he drinks these shitty knock-off beers with a determined grimace. Just awful.

Dressed in a bunch of orange and chains but not really paying much attention to it, used as he is to wearing stupid costumes for stupid reasons, Brock is variously drinking beer and half-heartedly mingling (more like throwing "this is dumb, right" looks at people he pegs as Tributes, and "wow such impressed" looks at everyone else), or looking skeptically at the hockey and "criminal record" displays. God. Dumb. So dumb.

TWO.

At various points throughout the evening, Brock wanders over to the "porch section," which is just as dumb, but at least it's not gaudy. Kind of. Things that are also dumb: Brock's instinctive habit of seeking the outside to smoke a cigarette. He fully recognizes it as stupid because this isn't even for real outside-outside, but it gives him an excuse to get away from everything. He gets the feeling they wouldn't be too keen on him leaving the party early anyway, even if it's just to smoke.

He does roll his eyes up in a grimace occasionally at the music choice, though. Really. Out of all the songs about robots, they had to choose the one Styx sold out on.

He's been observing, and this quiet corner of the party is a good place to collect his thoughts. A lot of kids here. Like, a lot of kids. And people who seem to not be bothered by everything, mingling and partying -- blowing off steam before the inevitable? Too beat down to care? It's something to consider.

But as dumb as it is, it's a good time to seek out more intel and potential allies. Or potential weaknesses, for that matter; booze is free-flowing and people tend to get chatty when they're well lubricated. So as much as he prefers the quiet to how stupid the rest of the party is, Brock doesn't spend that long out here, only enough to finish his cigarette before heading back in again.

2

[smarterthanthem]

Also in the porch section, beside the music, is a giant robot looking machine. If tributes wanted to they could have their photos taken with it.

Clementine doesn't want that but she is peering curiously at the hulking metal contraption, which puts her near the huge mulleted man currently smoking on the porch as she examines it. When she see's her Clementine's going to have ask Clara for an explanation about this stuff.

She thinks this robot's just a model, she hopes it's just a model because dealing with something as big as that would be completely un-fun. Actually... this is the Capitol, they might just activate it for fun to scare all the tributes at the end of the day.

That thought has her cautiously stepping backwards and forgetting how close the porch was she ends up catching her foot and falling back on it. "Darn it!"

oh hello

[samson]

So lost in thought, Brock barely even registered the little girl looking at the robot nearby. He barely even noticed the robot, for that matter; he's so used to that kind of stuff by now that it usually doesn't even cross his mind. If somebody would have sat him down thirty years ago and told him he was going to think robots were old hat at some point in his life, he would have laughed. Or he would have thought it was the coolest thing ever.

All in all, and especially despite this particular clusterfuck of a detour into the murder orgy dimension, Brock's life is pretty cool.

When the girl trips, he blinks and looks over. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he bends over and offers her a hand. "Hey. You okay?"

hello new friend~

[smarterthanthem]

That was clumsy and now that she realises someone noticed, embarassing.

Clementine looks up, and up, at the giant of a man standing over her and offering her a hand up. Wow... she wasn't sure even Thor was as big as this guy. When she reaches up to accept the hand his pretty much swallows her small one up. "Thanks, I'm okay. Just injured my pride."

She'll blame the odd shoes if anyone asks.

[samson]

Wow, okay. She's really little. Twelve, maybe? Jesus. Brock has seen kids around in the Training Center, and some out in the busier section of the party, but she's the youngest so far. As he helps her up, he suddenly feels a little sick.

"You should be more careful," he says lightly, easily falling into the tired and true Brock Samson, Babysitter routine. If she trips so easily out here, she's not going to last very long during the murderfest.

2 yo

[gladiayyygirl]

Another Arena, another Crowning. Gannicus appreciates the booze, of course, but he could do without the trappings that came with it: the ridiculous costumes, the posturing and posing of having to play along with another of the Capitol's mock-up play scenes. The bright, shiny technology is completely lost on Gannicus; it gives him more of a headache than ever before. Alcohol will soothe only so much of the fracturing pain of the bright lights and sharp edges; he needs to get away. He needs somewhere darker, quieter.

Cutting a determined path away from the technicoloured nonsense of the main room, Gannicus too has made a bee line for the quieter confines of the patio. The robot that greets him there leaves him grimacing and hissing a curse; yet another piece of confusing technology, just like every second and third object in this whole world.

"Are we never to be free of this shit?" He laments, throwing up his hands in the direction of the robot and spilling a third of the beer he held in one hand.

aww yee

[samson]

Brock is finding this corner of the party to be very promising for when he needs to decompress. A dude can only stand that much loudness and stupidity before he starts wanting to break shit, and he's trying to be on his best behavior. There is the occasional interruption, of course, but it's all been very low-key so far...

But then there's this big guy yelling and spilling beer everywhere...

This beer is absolute piss water, but he has enough of a buzz going where that's a little funny, so Brock snorts a little amusedly and stands up from the railing he's leaning against. "Robots? They ain't so bad. If you mean all this dumb gimmicky shit, though..."

He gestures in a vague circular motion with his beer. It's all-encompassing.

[gladiayyygirl]

"Robots!" Gannicus repeats, loud and exasperated and just so very done with these kinds of things. He doesn't know quite what the word means - what it includes, what makes a robot a robot exactly, just which are the dumb gimmicky shits and which aren't - but now he's been given the word he will damn well use it.

"Piss on robots," He declares savagely, throwing his beer to the ground in protest at the robot's feet and ignoring the bottle as it shatters and fizzes its contents in to a large puddle. Brock seems to know about these things, so he points an accusing finger at the robot and adds:

"I am finished with their kind."

[samson]

Brock's still a little amused, but also vaguely saddened on behalf of a robot friend that he actually knows personally. Hashtag not all robots.

Still, one usually does not get so vehement about a thing unless they have a really good reason (or unless one is really, really drunk. This guy might be that drunk), so he's curious. He jerks his chin at the robot, who seems to just be innocuously standing there, like robots sometimes do.

"What'd they do, screw your sister or something?"

[molotov]

When Molotov finally ventures out to the porch section, she's pretty far gone on Faygo cocktails and too few of the terrible hors d'oeuvres that the Capitol seems to think represent Detroit. The city may be a cesspool, but they do have some decent restaurants that Molotov knows of.

She really just wants a smoke and to be left alone for a bit, but instead, she sees the most instantly recognizable person that's ever been in her life, even from the back, even dressed in the dumbassery of the Capitol. She freezes, clutches hard at her drink, just watches him for a minute.

"Brock?"

you didn't give me a heading, tag denied

[samson]

Honestly, Brock could have made more of an effort at hiding himself. To be fair, it's a little hard to do when you're bigger than pretty much everyone else around, but still. He could have made an effort of some kind. He could have done that, but there was also a part of him that figured it was inevitable, anyway. She always found him eventually.

Still, even though he was anticipating it, that doesn't mean he's not surprised. Because he is, he's thrown off, and he wishes he'd spent more time coming up with continuity plans.

He doesn't really want to turn around all Hollywood and make this dramatic and stupid, so he just kind of lifts his shoulders, elbows resting on the porch railing. "I really don't know what Hunter sees in you," he says, tilting his head back to exhale a stream of smoke into the fake sky. "Took you way too long."

[molotov]

She keeps watching him, her brow knitting, and when she speaks, her tone says more than the actual words. "Why would I be looking for you?"

Not why would I be looking for you here?, but why would I be looking for you at all?. Her voice makes it clear.

There's a short pause, and Molotov steps up to the porch railing next to him, no longer looking at him but straight ahead. "I'm very busy here. This isn't the spy game anymore, this is something different. Whether you're here or not makes no difference."

[samson]

Brock glances at her sidelong, exhaling smoke out the other side of his mouth, away from her. "Really. 'cause from where I'm sitting, a lot of the same applications overlap." Knowing who your enemies are, for example.

But, still. There's the implication there that he was looking for her, which he wasn't. He just happened to notice she was around by actually paying attention, and he turns to look at her directly and say something to that effect, something really mean and biting about her failing abilities as a spy, but he gets distracted almost instantly.

"And," he says, which is a really good start as he jabs a finger in her direction, but then he glances down, pauses, and drops his hand. "Okay, why do you get actual real clothes and everybody else gets dressed like it's a bad Halloween party."

Re: Brock

[hit_girl_mindy]

There was something to have in common: Mindy did want to get away after awhile, and she knew she wasn't allowed to leave, so she settled on the porch, taking a breath. There actually WERE a pack of cigarettes in her pocket: she had bought a few packs for Nil, and had flirted with the idea of smoking one just so she could see UNDERAGE SMOKING pop up on her long list of offenses. There were way scarier things on the list than smoking, after all.

Mostly though, she just played with the pack in her hand. Every now and again she came across someone knew and met their glance with a nod: at least they couldn't tell her she was being unfriendly, right?

She looked over at the behemoth outside already and was taken aback at how large and offending he was. Whether he was another black Tom or not had yet to be discovered, but it was clear that in the Arena? He'd be a monster.

"Not your style, this kind of party?"

[samson]

Leaning against the porch's railing, Brock glances over his shoulder when he's addressed. Apparently this place isn't as secluded as he thought; every time he came out here for a smoke break, somebody else is in the process of having the same idea. But oh well. Just because he wants a break doesn't mean he's completely antisocial.

"Yeah, it's, uh," he starts, then squints a little as he tries to work out her age. She's a kid, so he changed tack before he gets too far. "It's a little crazy."

[hit_girl_mindy]

"Want a cig?" She held out her pack. "I don't smoke: I have a tribute that wanted some, and I had one over. Not gonna touch it."

Really, the last thing she needed was starting a habit that would slow her down in speed. Never sat well with her, the exchange there.

"This isn't even the worse. A few Arenas back, one of those French guys won: you'll see a few. But they're, like, from an earlier century, so we had to all walk around with that kinda shit. Could barely walk in the dress they threw me in. Don't think the guys were too comfortable either."

[samson]

Brock paused for a second, mulling it over, ticking off contingencies in his head. 1) There was a possibility the pack was bugged if she was offering it to him, an utter stranger. 2) It was probably not drugged; he didn't think she'd be so bold as to try and drug him in the middle of a party. But 3) there was the possibility that it was some kind of slow-acting poison, or nanites, or something else equally stupid.

There was also the wild card possibility that it was just simply an innocuous gesture, and while Brock didn't particularly think that was the case, maybe he would let her think he thought it was. Better to be underestimated.

"Sure," he said, pitching his nearly-spent cigarette over the railing and turning around fully to face her, hand held out.

He didn't think he had met any of these 'earlier century French guys' yet, but that really only read as one thing him, anyway. "Lemme guess, guillotines everywhere..."

Re: Brock

[pimpcanes]

Tom's in a bit of a situation here. He would very much like to sit out here on the patio and smoke from this pipe he's brought, but that requires a flame, and he doesn't know how to use matches or a lighter. He didn't even think to bring either, given that usually he can accomplish the same thing with a snap of his fingertips. He hasn't needed to carry a lighter since he was fourteen years old.

It's not as if he can't function without his powers, but it's an irritant to have them taken away. He remembers to make up for their absence during the big things, but it's the details that throw his reliance on his pyrokinesis into stark relief.

For the most part, Tom's about as impressed with this party as Brock is. While familiar, the aura of a prison isn't a pleasant one to him. He's wasted enough of his life in jumpsuits and on scratchy cots, in about seven different countries, to find much novelty in the theme. He's dressed in an elegant pinstripe suit with the stripes replaced with embroidered barbed wire, and as he fiddles with his pipe he leans on his cane. He looks up and sees a relative giant of a man, but since he's spent at least thirty years at the side of a two-ton human juggernaut, he hardly blinks.

"Excuse me, boyo, but could I trouble you for a light?"

[samson]

Generous is generally not a word that most people associate with one Brock Samson. Terrifying, insane, murderer -- all those things are more likely to be used as descriptors. Maybe generous in terms of the amount of pain he dishes out. Possibly. But in the grand scheme of things Brock is not known for his charity.

That said, he's not a complete asshole (complete being the operative word), and he glances up at this Irish dude, brow knit slightly. Well, he thinks he's Irish. He could just as easily be from some other planet or something and have an accent that is coincidentally Irish.

He tries not to think too hard about those sort of things, though.

"Yeah," he says, fishing in the pockets of his stupid orange outfit for a lighter, which he holds out. "No matches, though. I dunno if you can use this with that."

[pimpcanes]

"I appreciate it."

Tom fidgets with the lighter a bit until he gets it working. He tries to keep it from being too obvious that he isn't used to them, but doesn't have quite the discretion that he's aiming for. If anything it just sours his mood a little further, the irritation in his gut curdling.

Thankfully, he has some ammunition that he plans to use on Brock once the moment is appropriate for a good passive-aggressive flaunting. Molotov appears done with Brock for the night, but Tom's petty. Petty and spiteful.

"I don't suppose you've been enjoying this party all that much." He hands the lighter back. "Seen anyone you know?"

[samson]

Brock notes the way this guy seems to be struggling with the lighter, his brow knitting more, but he doesn't comment on it. For all he knows, he's from somewhere that those things don't exist. Far be it from him to lord technological advancements like Zippos over people.

"Yeah, it's not really my scene," Brock answers, shrugging. Which is a half lie; he loves themed parties and costumes. It's a weakness. But it is a really bad party.

He pockets the lighter once it's handed back, eyebrow quirking at the question. "What?"

1

[worldsaway]

Thor's outfit amounts to what can only be described as a whole mess of crap. A hooded and bare armed top is nothing new to him, nor are leather pants and boots. The cuffs that bind his hands and the muzzle fastened to his face, however, are bothersome. He weaves the crowds obediently anyway, head lowered enough that he can peek out from his hood and seek out anyone familiar to share in the misery.

It's Brock who meets his eyes from a few feet away and Thor finds himself surprised that he's not seen him before. He seems rather a lot too large to be missed, but he supposes he hasn't been terribly observant as of late. The kindred spirit he finds in his unimpressed expression draws Thor closer to the strange man, lifting a hand to his face to tug the muzzle downward.

"Their slights could be forgiven had they been so kind as to provide a stronger drink." He inclines his head toward the sugary cocktails on a passing platter. "Men our size should have to drink a good many of those to ease the trouble." Is that a challenge? Maybe.

[samson]

As the night progresses, Brock begins to reach the conclusion that maybe he doesn't have it that bad in terms of his outfit. Orange and decorative chains aren't as horrible as costumes that literally restrict movement, which he has seen present in several different people, or actual and true muzzles all Hannibal Lecter style.

This guy seems to have won the stupid outfit lottery, having both manacles and a muzzle, and Brock can't help but feel a twinge of pity as he throws a long-suffering look in his direction.

Well, at least he can adjust it. Brock jerks his chin toward him in acknowledgement, lifting the beer he's drinking. He's lost count on how many he's downed so far, but he only has a little buzz going. It's annoying.

"Man, I didn't even touch any of those," he says, eying the cocktail tray. "If there's more booze in 'em than this weak shit, though, sign me up."

[worldsaway]

Two different takes on big, blond walls of men standing in a party mingling. It seems Thor had the unfortunate luck of being pegged as more of a wildling sort, which isn't entirely inaccurate, but no less irritating.

It doesn't take more than a vague interest in the drink for Thor to pluck one from the platter with a growing look of amusement. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to try one, because he isn't wasting time sniffing it.

"It is a risk I am more than willing to take." He assures, drawing a sip from his glass and pulling it away to give it a strange look. "Like something you'd serve a child." He says, but he takes another drink from it anyway before holding out a hand. "Thor Odinson."

[samson]

Better that than a gelding... to be honest...

Brock snorts. He's not sure what kind of children's drinks have alcohol in them, but, whatever. He's starting to get used to all the glitter people pour in everything liquid here (sometimes he's surprised it isn't actually funneled into the water supply), but it doesn't make it any less goofy. That's for sure.

Shifting his beer to his left hand, he takes Thor's hand in a firm grip. "Brock Samson."

It's nice to meet someone else with a ridiculously Nordic name.