aunamee ❱❱ anomie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marcato) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-02-19 03:27 pm
marcato) wrote in thecapitol2013-02-19 03:27 pm
open.
WHO| Aunamee and you.
WHAT| He likes the attention.
WHERE| Performing Arts Center OR any restaurant OR the tribute tower.
WHEN| Post Arena 05.
WARNINGS| Sadism.
Aunamee wore his fame well.
As a young boy, he had been taught to annunciate his syllables and look people in the eye. He had learned to remember faces. Names. He had learned humility and had he learned to smile, wide and bright, his lips choreographed dancers. Upon arriving in the Capitol, the transformation from murderer to celebrity was second nature (or perhaps first nature?) for Aunamee. He said yes to every sponsor. He said yes to every picture. He allowed citizens to stop him on the street and ask him questions, and when they did, he treated them with a gentle patience. He spent the majority of his kill credits buying Howard dinner, but the rest of it he spent on strangers. He gave them flowers. Meals. Drinks.
(He will erase those pictures of his dead face. He will erase those pictures of his rage.)
In the evenings, he would loiter outside the performing arts center until he could convince one of the Capitol families to buy him a ticket to the opera, the orchestra. He would wait near restaurants until someone asked him to be their special, mealtime guest.
In the nights -- the late nights -- he wandered the training center, memorizing faces of the people who were still awake. Memorizing names.
WHAT| He likes the attention.
WHERE| Performing Arts Center OR any restaurant OR the tribute tower.
WHEN| Post Arena 05.
WARNINGS| Sadism.
Aunamee wore his fame well.
As a young boy, he had been taught to annunciate his syllables and look people in the eye. He had learned to remember faces. Names. He had learned humility and had he learned to smile, wide and bright, his lips choreographed dancers. Upon arriving in the Capitol, the transformation from murderer to celebrity was second nature (or perhaps first nature?) for Aunamee. He said yes to every sponsor. He said yes to every picture. He allowed citizens to stop him on the street and ask him questions, and when they did, he treated them with a gentle patience. He spent the majority of his kill credits buying Howard dinner, but the rest of it he spent on strangers. He gave them flowers. Meals. Drinks.
(He will erase those pictures of his dead face. He will erase those pictures of his rage.)
In the evenings, he would loiter outside the performing arts center until he could convince one of the Capitol families to buy him a ticket to the opera, the orchestra. He would wait near restaurants until someone asked him to be their special, mealtime guest.
In the nights -- the late nights -- he wandered the training center, memorizing faces of the people who were still awake. Memorizing names.
.infinity
It was refreshing. It was comfortable. A niche Wesker folded himself into neatly.
They simpered and scraped around him, acquiescing to his whims with breathless whispers. He called them with a gesture, sent them away with a look. A man in his element - a king before his court.
He claimed the best table and looked out upon the city.
There were worse places to start from.
no subject
A 'king before his court' was how Aunamee would describe it, too. He had been watching Wesker from several tables away, sneaking glance after glance whenever his hosts turned their attention away from him. When dinner was through and his dear old Capitol friends had asked if he wanted to join them for a drink, Aunamee declined. No thank you, he had said. He'd like to linger a little longer.
He approached Wesker's table without a greeting, without preamble. He rested his hand on the table, index and middle fingers bent like miniature legs.
"One might say you're accustomed to it."
no subject
There was no food at Wesker's table, no fine china. No beaming Capitol hosts. He sat alone. Did not eat.
But he did drink. A bloody red wine from a long-stemmed glass that waited beside slender, pale fingers of his left hand. (Deceptively elegant hands. The hands of a violinist, an artist. Not the hands that had wrot such easy destruction in the arena.)
"But royalty may be a bit strong. Were I, in fact, you would have waited to be called."
A rebuke. But gentle. Amused. He was feeling accommodating tonight.
no subject
Aunamee didn't wait for anyone.
He cocked his head to the side and watched Wesker for a beat, turning his tongue inside his mouth. Yes. This was the one. The man with the monster in his throat, with the piercing red eyes.
"Do you know who I am?"
no subject
Oh yes, he'd seen the highlights. Had seen the things Aunamee had done. The messes he had made.
Impressive to the uninitiated perhaps, but rather old hat to Wesker. If you'd seen one....
"What's one sloppy butcher, against another?"
no subject
That enraged him. That twisted his guts every night.
He circled around to the other end of Wesker's table, his hand sliding along the table cloth. He slipped into the opposite seat and then leaned forward on his elbows.
He watched Wesker. Silent.
And then he smiled.
no subject
Whatever impulse he had, (that fast bite of anger - how dare this cretin...) he was smart enough, controlled enough to leave it as a twisting heat in his gut, a pretty picture in the back of his mind.
"Perhaps the cameras lied then." A dry response. Baiting. Cutting at Aunamee again. "Poor editing? You should consult the Gamemakers."
no subject
"It didn't lie about one thing," he said, smooth and hard like marble. The smile hadn't left his lips. "You're a monster."
With the smile on his face, in his voice, it was difficult tell if it was a compliment or an insult. He leaned forward.
"Tell me, Albert Wesker." He drummed his fingers on the wood table in front of him, thumpity thump thump. "How many people do you think genuinely want you to win?"
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"Do you really think it matters? To a monster such as me?"
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His eyes danced with life.
"Next arena," he said, "I'm going to end you. And I'm going to be a hero."
no subject
"Good luck." He tipped his head, his grin widening. "On both counts."
no subject
He trailed his eyes down to the glass of wine, the near empty table.
"What is the appeal, I wonder, of eating alone?"
no subject
"Not all of us," the ring finger of the long, violinist's hand tapped lightly against the base of his glass, an even, measured beat. The rhythm of Aunammee's heart, drum-drumming in his ears, "need our hands held."
no subject
Aunamee knew what his heart sounded like. He heard it pounding in his ears, increasing in tempo, in force, as Wesker continued to speak. He listened to the fingers follow. He listened to the fingers lead.
(Thump thump. Thump thump.)
Aunamee was not a man who was easily pushed. He smiled at insults. He took punches with aplomb.
(Thump thump. Thump thump.)
But that was not enough to stop him from grabbing the wine glass and thrusting the contents towards Wesker's face.
no subject
The wine splashed over his skin, (a sharp floral scent), soaked and stained the delicate, crisp linen on his shirt, dripped along his lips. His sunglasses, at least, protected his eyes. Allowing him the pleasure of removing them slowly as a hush fell over the dining room, the other patrons staring, open-mouthed statues.
His red-gold serpent's eyes peered across the table, the long pupils narrowing against the light, and then turned purposely to a nearby waiter, who blinked rapidly, and approached uncertainly.
He didn't raise his voice, didn't snarl or hiss... he merely held out a hand, a request for a napkin, and said, in that same smooth purr, "This is what happens, when you allow rabid dogs into your restaurant."
no subject
(He had lost control because this man was stronger than him, because this man could hear his inner workings and Aunamee could hear nothing, and why should this one be spared when he had lost everything?)
He stood up, disoriented as though he had been punched.
"Everything is all right," he said. To the waiters, to the guests. He didn't look anyone in the eye. "Disagreements are one of those things that keep us human."
no subject
"Tell me," he paused, primordial eyes staring. "Which of us is the monster again?"
no subject
It was one thing, losing your control with your back wedged against an icy wall and a psychopath tearing your arm right out of its socket. It was something all together different, breaking down in a nice restaurant with a man who purred his words, who stared with an icy calm, who moved with the elegance of a dancer.
His mind was reeling. His thoughts were breaking.
What had happened?
He choked a laugh, his gaze fixating on Wesker's and locking with a murderous flare. He gave no word or warning. In an instant, he turned and rushed towards the exit, his heart pounding in his throat. He grabbed an abandoned glass of wine as he went and gulped down the sweet, harsh liquid.