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

Katurian honed in on Grey like a hawk. His pupils widened in the darkness. His vision tunneled.

Take everything away from a man, and fear becomes different. Blunted.

He didn't even think. He just moved, taking big, wide steps to close the distance betwee him and the other man.

It's easy to pick out the rapid and agitated movement among the other tributes, and he calmly smirks when he sees who it is that's approaching, remaining where he is.

He knows what happened to Katurian after he'd left the man bleeding on the ice. He always watches the games when he comes back. To study his opponents and their methods of surviving, their methods of killing.

To watch them bleed.

Wesker was high on his list of interests.

And Katurian knows what happened to Grey. Katurian is not usually one to take delight in the pain of others, but he cannot deny the thrill bubbling in his veins as he watched Grey take a knife to the gut and just lie there, dying, bleeding out in the snow. This right here, this is narrative justice. Or irony. (Or irony-esque.)

He had practiced lines beforehand. He had practiced what he was going to say. And unlike his chance encounter with Wesker, this time he is prepared. This time, he has the upper hand.

"So after killing me, you decided to try your hand at killing little girls, did you?"

It was supposed to be dark and threatening and dangerous, but instead, his voice cracks.

The scientist laughs. "You don't seem to understand how this Game works. To win, you must kill everyone. Come now, is this really such a difficult concept to grasp?" He looks down his nose at Katurian, cool and condescending. This man was an insect. Good for little more than pinning to a board, than pulling the wings off of, than turning a sun reflected magnifying glass on.

This one would burn every arena.

"You're insane."

They slip out so easily, those words, because they're always the first to come to mind when Katurian thinks of this man. He doesn't shrink away. His anger holds him up like stilts.

"You're a fucking psychotic."

His hands are gripping the front of Katurian's shirt in an instant, jerking him up and forward. "Do you want to say that again?" He hisses in the other man's face, eyes slightly wild. It's not the first time he's been accused of these things here within the Capitol. Far from the first time overall. But they're wrong, they're all wrong, too simple to ever understand.

There are two men inside Katurian. The first is cowering, a pyramid of apologies and flinches who cries between his fingers and begs for mercy as though it were air. The second is the one who emerged on the ice in those split seconds after Grey stabbed him, who swung his knife with abandon, who rode inevitability like a sled down a hill. This one learned to turn suffering into fuel. This one learned to rebel. Fight.

His feet scramble for purchase, but he still says the words slowly. He pronounces every syllable.

"You are a child-murdering psychotic."

Releasing Katurian with his left hand, he pulls it back, drawn into a fist, before driving it forward in a brutal punch just as the Peacekeepers reach him, the two of them grabbing him by the arms. He shakes them off, glaring at them and then turning his venomous gaze on Katurian one last time before storming off.

The world explodes into stars.

Katurian doesn’t make a sound as Grey hits him, but he does afterwards — a gasp, ragged yet nearly silent. He shoots his hands up when the Peacekeepers approach, an automatic mask of subservience, I had nothing to do with this, please don’t hurt me. He tastes blood in his mouth, warm and coppery, and it’s not unlike the last time he saw Grey, expect this time it feels right, this time it feels deserved.

Even surrounded by Peacekeepers, even with his hands in the air, Katurian smiles.