thecapitol | The Crowning Of Clara Murphy

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The Crowning Of Clara Murphy

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Possibly. They try and make the Games as entertaining and distracting as possible. For example, look around." He makes a sweeping gesture at the spectacle. "It may be for us, but it's for them as well."

More like it's just for them, all of it, but he has to keep his words even or else it may give them cause to hassle or even arrest him in this climate.

He lets out an exhale, taking a long sip of wine.

"I've heard that, about the Games. My mentors gave me advice, on how to get sponsors." Among, well, other people explaining how things worked here, but that one seems safer to say, considering it's part of the mentors' jobs. "Guess it makes sense that it extends to how they pick the Tributes."

Albert nods to Sam's understanding of the situation. "You catch on quick. Really though, the waiting makes it worse. I'm not chomping at the bit to get in the Arena again but there will be some time before the next one, so I'm given to understand. The time between is hard with little to occupy us but parties and wondering what the next Arena will be. Better to spend it finding Sponsors and preparing than worrying."

Or making allies, biding their time, and secretly undermining the entire Capitol's structure one piece at a time.

He quirks a slight smile at that. "I'm a good listener." Plenty of people had been more than willing to catch him up on what was what here, once he'd shown he was willing to hear them out.

"Yeah, I feel the same here. Quiet and calm's only good when you don't know there's something else looming up ahead, you know?"

It was the same way back when he was actually serving, though waiting between rescue missions or marching orders was a far cry from waiting for a death battle.

By way of agreement, Albert nods again, finishing off his champagne. He's quiet for a moment, white eyes scanning the crowd, debating his next words carefully.

"I think we should work together, if we come across each other in the Arena." An alliance. Not to hunt anyone down, just to ensure they don't harm each other, or perhaps even help each other with supplies or first aid. Albert would do similarly even without a formal offer, but he wants to see how Sam will react to the suggestion, and perhaps dig at the other man's opinion of him considering he can't actually say he doesn't mean to go hunting down other Tributes.

Sam takes another sip of his wine before he responds, mulling over the offer. Really, he doesn't even have to think about it - his plan for the arena so far is pretty much just to protect the people he cares about as best as he can, survive as well as possible, and maybe try to make himself at least decently entertaining. He won't be attacking anyone who doesn't go after him first.

But it's still his first formal offer of an alliance, and he should at least consider it a little. Even if it's only actually a moment or two before he nods.

"Yeah, I think we should. I don't know what they're going to throw at us, but like I said, I was pararescue. I can do a hell of a lot with a first aid kit." And with a knife, but it's the other part that Sam wants to make a point of mentioning. He doesn't really think Albert's proposing they work together to take out other Tributes, but he wants to make that as clear as he can, without actually saying it.

If the grin that briefly flits over Albert's face is any indication, Sam's passed some sort of test. Albert too has no intention of hurting anyone. He doesn't even have any intention of winning, not after what Carlos told him regarding how to get to District 13. Or at least how to make it easier. Sam's answer, the way he answered, is heartening to Albert as a sign they're most definitely on the same page.

"Good. Excellent. My first aid training is limited to the standard basic field training, so your skills definitely surpass mine by a wide margin, I'm sure. In return, I can keep us protected. Jet as well." He thinks it goes without saying that Jet would be with them, provided they do all meet up after the initial Cornucopia, but its better to say it than assume and be wrong.

There's a bit of a grin in return, because yeah, Sam's pretty sure they understand each other. And he's pretty sure he'd been right in his assessment, which is always a good feeling. Even more so when a death battle is looming ahead, apparently.

It doesn't surprise him at all that Albert mentions that Jet would be with him. Though neither one of them had really mentioned the other when Sam'd talked to them, well - among other things, there's only one big upcoming wedding among the Tributes, and it'd been pretty easy to learn the names of who it was for.

And it definitely made him think even more, about that museum piece special ops that Albert had mentioned.

"Sounds like a plan. Did Jet tell you, what he and I talked about on the roof?"

"He did. I'm glad you can understand it. It's one thing to be carried, I imagine it's entirely different to actually fly." His grin turns into something softer, maybe sentiment for his fiance, but there's something sharp to it as well. It's a bit of jealousy, not for the ability to fly, but for Jet having been augmented with something so freeing when he'd been made a living weapon. He thought he was over it, but for Jet to make a friend with someone who really understands in a way that Albert never could brings the feeling back a little too strongly.

He is happy for Jet and Sam though, to find that connection. He'd found similar with Bruce, or at least is close to it by his estimation, and understands how relieving it is to know that someone shares your experience. He would never want to take that away from either Jet nor Sam just by being a little envious. "I'm glad you have that in common. There aren't many who do."

Oh, so he'd told him exactly what they talked about, then. Sam nods, taking note of that, and flashes a little smile. "No, there's not. Been a long time since I had that in common with someone."

And now there's Jet, and even Stark. Sam'd find it weird that it'd taken ending up in a place like this for him to have that back, but his 'weird shit' meter has been raised pretty high, these days. He'd never thought he'd find it at all, so he's mostly focusing on being some measure of pleased over it, instead of guilty.

"But I meant more along the lines of you knowing more about what kind of special ops I did, and that I can guess a little about yours."

"That was mostly what he told me, otherwise all I know was you were in para-rescue, as we discussed when we met." He's a little cautious, wondering what Jet had told Sam about their lives. He's not sure he minds Sam knowing so much as not being certain what he knows.

"He did say you made mention of superheroes... and that he 'sort of' told you about his mode of flight." Albert looks at Sam sidelong, either for confirmation or surprise.

Sam nods at that, giving a little grin. “I was still pararescue, technically, but we branched out a little after that. Rescue ops, infiltration and extraction, aerial combat, taking out corrupt government agencies, you know, whatever we were needed for.” When he says ‘we’, he means him and the wings as much as he means him and Riley. Sam knows they needed him, if only because so few people could work with the wingpack, but he’d be fooling himself if he pretended the wings weren’t the real asset.

He doesn’t mind going into more detail here, especially not when he’s making an alliance. It’s not quite as much of a statement as dropping a highly classified file on the breakfast table, but he’ll work with what he’s got.

“Yeah, he said jet engines in his legs, which, you know, isn’t wings, but still pretty cool.” But let’s be honest, it’s hard to beat wings. “He didn’t mention it, but I kind of figured you had something similar, just without the flying.”

At 'corrupt government agencies', Albert swallows a laugh. On his world, that could have encompassed the NSA, part of the very government for whom Sam ran his missions. It could very well be different where Sam is from. Jet would be pleased, if that were true. A blameless United States, one that never betrayed him, never undermined everything Albert's husband believed of it.

"Less likely to get tangled in things," he smirks at Sam's estimation of Jet's cybernetics, but it quickly vanishes as he explains further. 'Something similar.' If only. "Weapons, actually."

He raises his right arm from the elbow. "A machine gun here. A knife in the other hand, among other even more destructive things." A smirk again crosses his features, this one somewhat sinister even as it's deeply self-deprecating. "Missiles and bombs and all things for killing."

He scoffs a little at that. “I’m not a seagull, man, I’m a falcon.” His wings weren’t getting tangled in anything.

But the change in the mood there is obvious, and Sam’s own smirk fades when Albert’s does. It’s impossible to miss what Albert thinks about his own equipment, and it’s a very different impression than what Sam’d got from Jet. And very different from what Sam’d thought of his own weapons, folded up safely in the mechanisms of his wings.

He’d been working under the assumption that they’d signed up for it, same as he had, but now he’s thinking he might have to rework that.

“They tell you what was going in, or did they just do it?”

"I was practically dead when they brought me in and was... put out that they didn't just let me go." If 'put out' means 'robbed of my free will and screaming in agony that I wasn't allowed to die and turned into a grotesque mockery of humanity instead.'

"It wasn't something I signed up for, no. They picked me up after a failed attempt at trying to get through the Wall to the West." He shakes his head and folds his arms tighter. "It was a shadow organization, a black market weapons manufacturer and war profiteering group called Black Ghost. They kidnapped people who wouldn't be missed - vagrants, the friendless or family-less, the near dead - and turned us into experiments."

He lets out a long breath, almost as if exhaling from a cigarette he desperately wishes he had at the moment. Talking about this is always difficult. "That was more than seventy years ago now, though. We escaped, fought them, eventually won." He shrugs as if it's no big deal. "Some of us - like Jet and I - took government jobs with our respective home countries after that, some just tried to put it behind them."

Why is he telling Sam all this?

Sam stays quiet as he listens. He wishes he could say he was shocked at any of this, that the existence of an organization like that out there was a surprise to him, but even before Barnes, he’s heard too much to be thrown by it. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss him off any less, though.

When Albert’s done, Sam takes a bit to consider his response. There’s a lot there, a lot he could comment on, some he should probably just let stand, but after a moment, he goes with a question.

“Did it help?”

"What, working for my government?" He has to think about that for a long moment. It's complicated, especially when really he'd had little to do with anything. Because of his reluctance to get upgraded save only under the most dire of consequences, all of his parts were one offs and generally from the Cold War in terms of technological design; advanced for their time, but hard pressed to measure up to modern military developments. At the time it suited him. He was a staff captain, mostly an honorary rank though his experience in general likely qualified him for a higher rank, and he trained Germany's brightest into the GSG-9. There's something to be said for teaching, molding minds into working for something greater instead of just taking orders blindly, but in general he was a museum relic that the German military kept around for instructional purposes. He's not sure he made much of a difference there.

And the rest of it, being out of the fighting in general during that time, trying his hand at gardening, rebuilding his record collection, all the small things he'd never had time to try before that he had no more excuses to avoid. Things that should have helped but instead became ways to avoid thinking of other things. Restlessness, loneliness, his feeling of otherness that never went away and was out of his control, and the drive that never really went away to fight, to protect, to keep people from experiencing what he had and keep war from raging among the countries of the world as best they could. Things he'd tried to set down refuse to think about, all packed up under the question he never asked, that Sam's asking now.

Did it help?

"No," comes the answer finally, heavy in the air between them. "I don't think it did."

He waits, not at all bothered by however much time Albert needs to think it over. It’s not exactly a light question, or an easy one - Sam’s been asked it himself, a couple of times. His own answer changes depending on whether it’s a bad day or not, on whether he’s working on maintaining the life he’d started to built or missing how it felt to get out there.

Sam’s not exactly surprised that that’s Albert’s answer, but he is a little bit surprised that Albert had actually given it.

“I’ve talked to a hell of a lot of soldiers, you know. Not many of them’d be willing to admit that. Maybe because you’re not supposed to ask, how serving can help you.”

"I didn't much get the chance. The GSG-9 was my choice, but the rest of it was completely against my will." He sighs, but saying it point blank like that is somehow a little freeing. Before, most of his adopted cyborg family had either chosen to accept what had happened and moved on or kept their self loathing bottled. His cork had been somewhat faulty, occasionally bleeding into bouts of moodiness and depression over the loss of his apparent humanity. The others had at least appeared human. His blocky form and limbs made for killing weren't so easily hidden.

"Even so. I may have been saddled with my abilities for nefarious reasons, but I chose to use them for what I thought was right. The best of a bad situation." He sounds almost defensive, just a little in the undertone. He's been accused so often in his life of being inhuman, of being a monster, a tool, nothing but a weapon, that eventually it all catches up. "I don't think that's something that regular soldiers have to deal with, is it?"

Edited (icon repeat) 2014-12-30 17:00 (UTC)

He isn’t surprised, when the follow up to Albert’s blunt statement and hint of defensiveness is that question. A lot of the special ops vets Sam’d talked to asked him something like that, and even here, that’s one of the first things that Barnes had asked, when they’d started actually talking. They’ve all wanted the answer to be different things - no, they’re not alone; yes, what they’re dealing with is harder than what other people are; no, they’re not a terrible person because of what they’d had to do, because of how they’re handling it right now.

Sam usually just goes for honesty, whether or not it’s what they want to hear.

"Not what you’ve had to deal with, no. But you'd be surprised how many soldiers think they got turned into something they didn't want to be, a little at a time, and didn't realize it until it was too late." Sam remembers the first time he heard it, at one of his early groups, an older vet saying ’They put a gun in my hands and taught me how to use it and told me to kill for my country and I did, and then when I came home and realized I didn’t know how to do anything else, they forgot about me.’

“You said you did what you thought was right, the best you could? Nobody has the right to try to fault you for that, I’m sure as hell not going to.”

If he hadn't caught himself, Albert would have argued. And how many soldiers are remodeled into literal weapons? How many no longer have a heartbeat? Body heat? How many were put in a freezer for forty years? For that last, he knows at least two, but the point is the same; he's not like other soldiers.

But it sounds like a petulant argument and he doesn't want to acknowledge that childish temperament, the drive to say that he and his cyborg family are the only ones who know true suffering, that no one outside their little band could ever hope to understand. It's the insulation that kept them together for so many years, close and supportive of each other, but did it also perhaps stunt them? Being so certain that the world - even after so much had changed over the years - would never understand or accept them for what they were, regardless of their wishes on the matter? They'd kept it a guarded secret where they could. Even after joining respective government or military groups, it was only those in their units or the top brass who were aware of their status. The normal, every day people - neighbors, mailmen, the woman who ran the store at the corner of Albert's block in Berlin - they never had an inkling and he'd never taken the chance of telling them.

It's no noble thing, nothing to do with protecting innocents from enemies he may have accrued in fighting the injustices and secret wars of the world over the years, but because it's much too frightening to bare any of your true self and risk being hated for it than to hide it away. At least if someone comes down on you for being insular, it would be for something you have control over. Being called a monster for being a cyborg, something none of them asked for or wanted, is far more painful. It's that attitude that kept him silent for seventy some-odd years and if it weren't for the invasive nature of technology in the Capitol, he might still have kept silent now.

Albert shifts his feet, frowning and not sure of how to continue. "I'm afraid you have me at a loss. This is... not a conversation I've ever had before."

Sam wouldn’t have blamed him if he had argued. Honestly, this is pretty far above Sam’s paygrade, and he’s going on instinct here more than any training or really even experience.

But he’s here more as a friend, not as a counselor, so he’s not going to fault himself too much for something that might be a little out of his depth.

His chest twists a little, when Albert says he’s never had a conversation like this before. There are enough soldiers back home where the same is true, and it stings him every time. Somehow it feels worse now, maybe because like Albert says, he’s not a regular soldier. Maybe because he’s a friend, or at least well on his way to becoming one.

“Then I’m sorry, man,” he says quietly. “You should’ve. You should’ve been told that you were appreciated. That nothing that’s happened to you, that nothing you’ve done has made you any less than human.”

"There was no one to tell us that." Disregarding anyone they managed to save, but there were other reasons. "It was many years before I joined the GSG-9. Before that we were... freelance, I guess is the best way to put it, and had to hide what was done to us lest we become science projects for other governments. That was the original idea behind the zero zero project, after all, was to sell us as weapons to different countries and allow Black Ghost to profit from the resulting conflicts. They wouldn't have done it in the first place if it wasn't in human nature to want power over other nations."

He shrugs again, but in the last five minutes or more he hasn't met Sam's gaze, instead his expression a stony mask of neutrality looking out at the rest of the crowning. "We had to keep secret or else we could have been used to cause widespread devastation." And Jet... he'd almost been subject to that. Project Lazarus, the United States' zombie cyborg program, was based on his technology.

"It's much more complicated than wanting a thank you or a pat on the back, and there's a certain standard we had to adhere to in dealing with others, a higher bar that was set, or else the consequences weren't just to us but to the entire world." If that makes him sound pompous, so be it, but it's still the truth. He just doesn't see how setting himself and his teammates on that high pedestal is a self-fulfilling prophecy of alienation.

Sam listens quietly, picking up both on what Albert's saying, and on what he isn't. They're good points. Some of it is stuff Sam's heard before, some of it isn't, but ultimately - well, he knows exactly what all of that is.

"Those're excuses," he says quietly, not sugarcoating it. "My government used to have some similar ones back home, and they still do, even though we're trying to change it. They're good ones, but they're still excuses, and none of them change a thing about what I just said. I shouldn't be the first one having a conversation like this with you, and it sucks a hell of a lot that I am."

There's a brief moment, as he considers stopping there, but it's hard to let that last bit go.

"It doesn't matter if you're putting yourself up on a pedestal because you're different or because you want to protect people, it's still a hell of a lonely place to be."

"I'm not putting myself on-" This time he has to cut his argument off due to how quickly the words jump from his mouth. There's truth in what Sam's saying, at least about putting himself on a pedestal, but it's necessary. They were weapons, and because of it held a deeper sense of responsibility to hold to a moral code of justice and prevent themselves from becoming that which they were fighting. To be more powerful than those around you is a burden, especially when others know it and react with fear, hatred, or an immediate plot to use you for their own ends.

But that's not what Sam is saying, or at least he's not saying that the standards they held themselves too were wrong. There's no value judgement in his words on that score. It's just sympathy, and it's so foreign to Albert that he's ashamed it took him so long to recognize it. Easier to focus on the other part of what he said, the part that Albert disagrees with.

"Governments as bodies should hold themselves to the same standards, and excuses or no they are not there to pat their soldiers on the back and give them cookies. Moreover, we were not working for any government for quite some time, therefore even if that was the way they operated, we weren't theirs to pat." Not at first, anyway, but it did strike a nerve. The US having thrown Jet under the bus, his own government all but setting him out to pasture for his age even after he'd shown himself to be an asset. Sam is right on the score that it is nice to be recognized, but Albert doesn't agree that it's an obligation.

All of that and Albert knows he's arguing for the sake of argument, because he doesn't know what else to say and it seems easier to push that conflict than say anything about what he actually wanted, that this sympathy and acceptance is something he's sorely needed for so many long years also makes him feel weak and pathetic simply in the wanting of it.

What's worse, he has the sneaking suspicion that Sam may know all this already without him saying anything.

"Are you a professional psychologist?" It's an abrupt question, but it would explain some things.

The Crowning Of Clara Murphy

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wrap up?

wrap up it is!