thecapitol | (no subject)

Who| Everyone
What| Lockdown
Where| Tribute Training Center
When| Starting around dusk
Warnings/Notes| None atm. If your character tries anything extravagant, shoot the mods a pm.

Dusk was falling when it started.

Anyone in the District 12 suite's would have heard heavy sounds above them moments before a loud explosion rocked the entire building. The electricity flickers once, twice, then goes out, replaced by cool, blue glowing lights running along the ceilings. Avoxes appeared silently, as they do, herding people from one room to another.

Once the door shuts, it doesn't open again until the last person is there, sealed shut. The windows in the rooms with them were darkened, and the computer would not respond to any request to show anything. However, food could be called to the room, the trays appearing as they normally do. But the doors would not budge, and the cool blue lights stayed the only light source, the only power.

Although there was nothing to see, there was lots to hear. Banging, foot steps in the halls, on the floors above, explosions, straining metal collapsing, scraping down the side of the building. Occasionally the repetitive rapping of gun shots. Yelling. Screaming. Those near the top of the building could smell smoke, at times strongly. The elevator can be heard moving up and down, even though it doesn't respond to any calls from those trapped.

The sounds last into the late night, finally quieting around midnight. Finally, at 1 am, a calm, cool voice comes over the loud speakers.

"The rebellion forces have been repressed. We will be clearing the building for the next few hours. Please stay patient and sleep well."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The anger on the other man's face was welcoming. Refreshing. Aunamee let it wash over him, soaking his bones and his joints and the muscles in his face. This was natural. This was expected.

This allowed him to feel in control again.

He took slow, easy steps from the elevator and into the main room.

"Wyatt Earp. Isn't it?"

Wyatt said nothing, only watched, his jaw twitching.

That his anger, his hatred of this place, had narrowed on this one man, he knew didn't make much sense. There were others, just as brutal, just as dangerous... but here he was.

Choking on a bitter rage.

Maybe it was because it been Howard, a boy he knew personally. Maybe because it was the first time he held another tribute, dying in his arms. Maybe it was the way this slick bastard had smiled.

Maybe it was because he'd been useless to do anything to stop him.

"I owe you an apology," he said, noting that anger, watching every little twitch. "You encountered me during a time that I am not very proud of."

There were ways to make those words sound aggressive. Threatening.

Aunamee didn't use them.

His voice was the definition of apologetic, his words sweet and soft and formed with care. His brow was furrowed. His lips were tugged into a frown. All the panic, all the stress melted away as he allowed himself to fall into this persona. He did not expect Wyatt to forgive him, but Wyatt was not the one who mattered.

He stepped closer. Closer. He extended a hand.

"My name is Aunamee."

Even with all the softness to his tone, his face, his eyes were as piercing as ever.

Like a snake in the high-grass, Aunamee's words slipped over Wyatt's ears. Not inherently threatening, but one wrong move - take your eyes off it and the next you know there are fangs in the back of your leg.

He could almost hear the belly scales sliding along....

"I know who ya are." He met Aunamee's gaze squarely, and there, in the darkest parts of his eyes, he could see Howard's grey face. Glassy and still. The great pool of blood. His own uselessness.

He made no move to shake Aunamee's hand.

"And ya can save the pretty apology. I don't want anything for ya."

He lowered his hand. Slowly. Regretfully.

"Of course you do."

The words were easy, forgiving, laced with pity and false sympathy. His hand retreated to his pocket and he stepped forward. He could be a waiter at a high class restaurant. He could be a politician on the floor. He maintained a certain grace, a certain poise and dignity in every one of his controlled movements, until--

Until an explosion above rocked the floor, the walls, and he grimaced at the shockwave. His eyes flickered back to Wyatt.

"You have wanted me dead since you first laid eyes on me."

Edited 2013-03-09 05:21 (UTC)

The ceiling rumbled and the walls shivered and Wyatt's eyes flicked up instinctively - then immediately back to Aunamee, wary and mistrustful.

"Might have something to do with the way ya were butchering a child," he bit as the building groaned and somewhere in the distance something - someone - screamed.

The screams above them were like incomplete music. An opera singer without an orchestra. A quartet with no violins.

"He wanted death," he said, his eyes flashing with intensity. Instead of the dying thoughts above him, the ones he couldn't hear, he thought of Howard's past, his sickening thoughts, his doubt and fear and despair. "Ask him yourself, using delicate words."

"Is that so?" His head tipped, a finger on his gun hand twitching. "Asked you did he?"

He didn't need to ask. That was what his face said, that tiny smile curling on his lips.

"Ask him with delicate words, Mr. Earp. You'll know."

Wyatt's lip curled, teeth flashing, as his palms itched. His knuckles tingling.

For something to do with them, before the gave into the temptation to wipe that smug smile of Aunamee's face got the better of him, he hooked them into his belt, thumbs behind the buckle, pads pressing hard into the metal.

"Even iffen he did, I hardly see why a grown man would need such force for a child half his size."

Edited (wrong icon) 2013-03-11 10:47 (UTC)