thecapitol | The Crowning of Tony Stark

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The Crowning of Tony Stark

Who| Everyone.
What| The Crowning of Tony Stark.
Where| The New Capitol Stark Expo!
When| Friday, late afternoon into the evening.
Notes| This event is mandatory for all Tributes to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party. Peacekeepers will be on high alert, so no funny business.
WARNINGS| Alcoholism / References to Alcoholism.

The Capitol might be known for its extravagance, but Stark Expos have never skimped on a show. Combining the two together could only be a recipe for the most wild indulgences. The center theater takes styling after a arc reactor, with glass ceiling and glowing blue lights set right within the metal and putting a glow to the sky. Lightshows go off on the main stage, the stark logo overhead and a massive screen displaying the Panem flag and Tony Stark's image just behind the dancing Ironettes. A circle plattform going off from the stage, clearly reserved for the guest of honor, features a design Panem's bird in red, gold, and glowing blue.

A globe is featured in the outside gardens, showing off a map of Panem, and the park is filled with artistic statues of destroyed Iron Man amror. But there's no quiet here, not with the fireworks going off all night and the consistent playing of music that is not but sounds an awful lot like that of Daft Punk, Eifel 65, ACDC, and one other song that breaks them up.

Various shows can be found about the gardens, including display models of some of Tony Stark's old weapons and Iron Man suits. Further along guests may find the Avengers display, featuring large portraits of the Avengers and their allies, large red x's going over greyed out portraits of those deemed dead, including Phill Coulson, Natasha Romanoff, and Thor. Along with these portraits can be found the Stark family tree, featuring the Victor Tony Stark and all his relations including apparent son Dave Strider, and Arya Stark, Ancestor of the Stark family, not to mention the great Howard Stark who's accomplishments (and tragic lack of care for Anthony) are lovingly illustrated. One such accomplishment being a "flying car" just a short walk over.

There's plenty for guests to do besides just ogle the brilliant sights however! A bar has been set up with a whole variety of drinking games available from Sink The Battleship and Drink Roulette to an extravagent variation of the classic game, Beer Pong, and an ongoing run of the Games with rules of drinking for each emotional scene, funny incident, or death. Those under the age of eighteen will be served fizzing juice or soda instead and can participate in junior versions of the very same games. All the cups are made from the finest glass with Tony Stark images over them. Avoxes are on scene to clean every spill and break of glass that might come.

A cave has been crafted of artificial and real material, designed to look like the Cave in which Tony Stark became a real hero, but with a twist; it's been made into a fun-for-all maze! Guests can attempt to navigate their way to the labyrinth and reach the core, avoiding those nasty pop-out rebels along the way. Those who make it to the fire-lit center may receive a limited edition "Tony Stark Heart" miniature arc reactor in a beautiful glass case.

An indoor sky diving station is also available, large enough that many guests may enter at once and still find it spacious. Here, guests can don Iron Man themed sky-diving suits and experience the sensation of flight, just as Tony Stark once did. Of course, the party doesn't start until the Victor comes in; he'll be appearing by Capitol-controlled suit to make his entrance at center stage. It is here that his Throne shall be raised up through the stage and his crown gifted to him. Following the official Crowning Ceremony will also come a speech from the Capitol's very own, Cyrus Reagan.

Tributes are dressed in formal wear with robotic accents. Such as a full mask or metal armor. Capitolites can be seen with Tony stark styled hair, bearing tattoos in his image, and even with surgically implanted lights, in honor of the new Victor. Available for purchase are handcrafted Tony Stark dolls, Iron Man action figures, and models of beloved robot-pet "Dum-E" in both small and life-sized. The Iron Man light gloves come completely free for all guests.

The Crowning ends off with a bang, as in the center of the sky, a massive "wormhole" opens up showing a vast darkness full of sinister creatures just on the other side, sure to inspire some screams from fans. Guests near to the Iron Man suit displays are asked by peacekeepers to step back-- far back-- but may be the first to witness the incredible scene of all those suits launching into the sky and exploding around and "in" the wormhole. The wormhole shifts to a message stating the show to have been brought to you by the Hunger Game's skilled Sky-Display Designers before going into advertising for the rest of the night as the party dies down.

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If Linden notices the way this is all affecting Phillip, practically making him dizzy with the barrage of blase and disturbing information, he gives no indication. Just continues to sip, with the occasional gulp.

"No problem," he agrees languidly, even though, in all likelihood, it would be, just a little. "And bidding isn't really... it's more like a secret everyone knows than some kind of... I don't know, auction, or something along those lines." He laughs, seeming to find the thought of that highly entertaining. "If a Capitolite fancies a Tribute, they go through the proper channels... back channels... and they work out a deal with Snow or those he's delegated the responsibility to. Money changes hands and then so does whatever they ask for. Sex isn't all people want, though it's certainly popular, especially if the Victors won recently or are especially attractive. It could be anything from babysitting a child to playing a game of chess, or maybe..." he turns his drink in his hands. "Playing out a fantasy, usually one involving power, the... idea is that Victors are the strongest in Panem, so if you can best them, you're strong, too. I understand the allure."

He rattles this all off more or less automatically, then says, pretty bluntly, "If I had to guess, your bidders might want to wear suits. Of the kind you don't like. Maybe even foxes."

That last answer made Gray sufficiently nauseous that he has to cover his mouth to stop himself from losing the contents of the stomach in public. Man up, Phil, his conscience berated, You faced them for years, now you're scared to see them again? The answer was a resounding yes. Of course he was, because the people inside the suits were worse in every way. The bots still had the decency to end it quick.

"I figured they'd...go there. I wouldn't be that surprised," he admitted, as if facing his fear head on.

Rick can't help but smile himself as he followed his gaze, the expression tinged with an undeniable edge of sadness; even now, he was thinking of his son. Cleaned up like the rest of them, grumbling about the product in his hair even as he enjoyed the evening. Talking with Clementine, laughing with Beth. Alive. In Panem. Screaming his name in the arena, pleading for his life as Rick tried so desperately to reach him. His eyes dropped back to his own drink, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the glass.

"Yeah," he admitted with a slow shake of his head. There wasn't much he could say to argue the point; he'd never been much for parties, and the stiff set of his shoulders was evidence enough that nothing had changed since his arrival in the Capitol. If anything, they'd made the entire rigmarole even less enjoyable; instead of worrying about committing some social faux pas that would be forgotten within a few weeks, they had to contend with the ubiquitous surveillance and what might slip out should they let themselves be lulled into a false sense of security.

The silence that stretched between them felt like a physical distance, and Rick couldn't help but notice just how out of practice he'd become with all this. Small talk and social situations were something out of a past life; words had a very different purpose now, and they weren't something that he wasted. Every conversation was a risk, noise in a world where sound could prove deadly. With his family, he never had to actively look for things to talk about, and they functioned comfortably in the gaps in between; the small gestures were far more effective than words could ever be.

He struggled with himself to find his words. It was like trying to force a joint to move after it had rusted - uncomfortable and slow, as though it had forgotten how to work at all. Move it enough and it would loosen up, but those first steps were always the worst. There were things they could talk about. He could talk about what had transpired between them before, after Daryl. About Clementine, before she'd fallen in the arena. About survival and all the things he couldn't stop thinking about.

It was as though he'd forgotten how to be normal. In reality, he probably had.

"Still. It seems like your friends are having a good time."

"Or your stylist wanted you to so everyone could see their hard work," Clara says, cocking an eyebrow at him. "They do that around here. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow, but in your case..." she trails off, offering him a shrug. "I don't think anyone could fault you for wanting to take that off."

She looks him over, trying to figure out if she had been wrong before and had maybe seen him pop up somewhere in the Arena and comes up empty yet again. "I'm guessing that you're new here?"

Edited 2015-04-16 09:42 (UTC)

Maybe it's because of the questions she's gotten since Alex's death, but Clara's felt extra prickly towards strangers approaching her. The only reason she lets her guard down at all when Samuel sits down next to her is that she vaguely recognizes him from seeing him around the tower. He was in Jolie's District, right?

"Evening," she replies before taking another sip of her drink, realizing she should probably say something else. "I'm guessing they never let us stop attending these things," she says blithely, shooting him a glance.

He chuckles quietly, which more or less equates to something that sounds like an amused cough.

"Not really, no."

His voice is so gravelly that it sounds more or less as if he has lived his whole life on a steady diet of nothing but whiskey and cigarettes, but he manages to give it a relatively pleasant tone all the same. Not pleasing to the ear, perhaps, but definitely friendly.

"Gotta show our support and all that. Go team."

If he wasn't already caught up in the mood of the conversation he'd tell El to quit calling him "sir." He's not used to being treated as if he's a responsible adult. It's always him that's the "kid" or "son" that never knows any better. He's been told this by virtually everyone in his life. As much as he tries to shake it off, a lot of it still sticks to him.

And the one time he apparently is supposed to be the responsible adult, it's just his god damn luck that it's about something that he's not in the frame of mind to even talk about.

"Jesus." He answers with a click of his tongue, "Do I look like somebody that has all the answers?"

His annoyance is but a veil to cover his own pain and guilt that has since married his outlook and overall demeanor. He crosses his arms and keeps his eyes away from Ellis - whose questions are still ones that Nick asks himself over and over again.

"Maybe somebody else might know," he says while still looking away. Somebody like his uncle, perhaps...but his uncle ain't here. "But that somebody ain't me."

Wait, what?

What?

"Now hold up!" It's no secret that Nick's prone to out bursts, even he will admit that (albeit, begrudgingly). This moment's no different. It's little digs like the one Gary just made that makes him get all the more defensive. ~~Mostly.~~ That grin isn't doing it any favors either.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

“Wow,” He deadpans with a shake of his head, though the effect is spoiled by the smirk teasing his lips. “You asshole.”

It’s all harmless, playful banter he slips into more easily than he expects to, like an old pair of clothes. Though ones that don’t fit quite the same – quite as comfortably - as they used to. And while Luke’s smile is a shade dimmer and his laughter not as full and free as it was once, before the dead walked the earth and ripped their families from them, claiming them and the good memories they had left piece by piece, he’s trying. They’re all trying. These little moments can’t make up for all the world has taken away. But it’s a start.

He sucks in his lip unconsciously, frowning, while lining up his next shot. And then, the toss – and a soft plop as the ball finds its target. Pleasant surprises are rarer than ever and he can hardly believe it himself, staring a half-beat before clapping his hands together and pumping a fist in triumph.

“Bottoms up, man.” He’s just about beaming like a schoolboy with a prom date as he gestures to the cup with a nudge of his chin, all sorts of expectant.

"I'd welcome you back to the Capitol then..." His smile twitched, pulling more to one side than the other, turning into a wry sort of smirk. "But that would probably sound disingenuous coming from me."

Coming from a man who knew little about the Capitol and who didn't want to be there to begin with.

"But hopefully you can forgive me that as well."

"If it makes you happy," he says ambivalently. He has no great fondness for animals, though his main interactions with them have been the horses on the Compson land that require feeding, care, servants dedicated to knifing refuse out of their hooves and brushing them. They're a suck on the budget he gingerly tends to.

But he'll do just about anything with Swann if it makes her happy. Except take her home.

A painted face passes by and it's moving back, back, away from him. A voice is in his ears: it teases, mocks, sharp, the words less important than the feel. Back and back, tall, face lit by colors. He sees purple, teal, red and orange, so bright against angles all familiar and alighting against skin and fabric in a way that just seems so much like...

He can hear himself snarling above the hiss of breath he suddenly can't catch. This isn't right; he's at a party, at Crowning for Mother Grub's sake, but he can all but feel the pierce of a dragon-headed cane through his chest, and any moment the lava's going to catch up and burn him alive.

"Fuck," he chokes out. It's not him. It's not real. His hand presses under his jacket and across his shirt, feeling to press in (make sure) there's no blood and blade stuck through him. A necklace he didn't have then brushes his hand. "Initiate--"

It's him and not Gamzee, and he won't even say Makara right now for just that, but words are hard and he can't manage much else. He wants to sit down, but where are the goddamn chairs, so he stands there gulping breath with a hand that would shake otherwise pressed still firm to his chest.

She beams at him, reaches for him to wrap her arms around his waist, rising on her toes to kiss him quickly before she goes to get shoes and finish her hair and makeup.

"I think there's a whole exhibit about sharks right now, even big dangerous ones. But even their normal little sharks live in the same tanks as fish! I asked once, and they said that the sharks don't eat the fish because they're already well-fed, I thought that was interesting, that they only hunt for hunger, but a lot of less dangerous animals will hunt for entertainment."

Jason should be so happy to be with a woman who has such a wealth of animal trivia. Surely it will never get tiring.

He knows fear inside and out. He's felt and manipulated all kinds and flavors of it. Even without his powers, it's impossible for him not to recognize.

He slows down to a stop. His expression shifts from that mischievous glee to a whole big mix of confusion, concern, and surprise. The grin has slipped right off his face. He wishes for his voodoo. If he had it he would know what the fuck was being the haps. He wouldn't feel so much like he's missing the obvious.

"Vantas?" He starts. There was snarling there at him, then the motherfucker's pressing as his chest like he's have a pusher attack. He moves closer.

"MOTHERFUCKER, HEY. Listen. JUST GET YOUR BREATHE REAL MOTHERFUCKING DEEP, AIGHT? Hold it a while, breathe out for longer." 'You got a moirail?' goes on through his head but last he knew about that... naw, that definitely ain't being to come up. "CAN GET YOUR ASS WHAT YOU'RE NEEDING. Then maybe you can tell me what the fuck I up and did."

Edited 2015-04-16 19:36 (UTC)

At least the Initiate doesn't react badly: a turnaround entirely from the slam to the wall he got at their first meeting. He's actually trying to help, a fact Karkat can recognize but can't say much to while he tries to get a hold of himself. He manages a bit of a nod and tries for the breathing, though it's not quite easy to get a hold of himself.

He's going to need to tell him, and it probably would have come up anyway, but this situation demands it. First, though, he needs to calm back down. "Chair," he manages between breaths. It should be clear enough.

He'll know soon enough why the moirail question is best left unsaid.

He nods and takes off. It's a bit of a distance and a fair few peacekeepers through side-glances at him, but he figures if he puts on that blank avoxed expression well enough they'll leave him be regardless of how he looks otherwise.

He's got some hope in him that shit won't be so bad by the time he gets his return on, but there's not really a way for him to know. His wishing for his voodoo continues on as a buzz in the back of his mind, all while he's setting a chair down firm just behind the fucker.

After that, he's just got all to step back. Standby and wait. He fidgets with his dreads all lit up in the meantime.

"Very funny," Signless says, rubbing the residual sting out of his ear. "I suppose I can't get out of this by saying I was too busy looking lovingly into your eyes?"

He imagines not. Roland is a lot of things but 'sappy' is not one of them. He has a remarkable knack for being romantic when he doesn't precisely mean to but that isn't really the same thing.

"They seem to work well enough. Why couldn't you knit with them?"

Having Initiate away from him, for all he at least means well, does help in the short term. Not having to engage with someone, just focusing on his breathing--and there, soon enough, is the chair for him to sit in. He sinks down without a word, and while Initiate fidgets with his dreads, Karkat takes his time to get a hold of himself again.

"... Thanks," he manages eventually, because he figures he owes him that. A nervous tension lingers in his limbs and he feels strangely wrung out, but his heart rate has slowed and his breathing is somewhere more in the range of normal. He looks back at him to take in all the details of his costume to cement the differences.

"I don't know why I freaked out so much. You don't look that alike. You just... Something reminded me and..." He shakes his head. It makes no sense without context, does it? So he sighs and says, "I went back after the last arena. To Paradox Space."

Éowyn nodded, interested. It was hard for her to imagine, not least because she could hardly picture a world where magic was treated that way - as a pest, as a problem, rather than something as rare and powerful as it was in her own world. "Are they chosen," she asked after a moment, "or do they choose themselves? I mean to say, are some more suited than others to such appointment?"

Karkat's lips curl at the sap. "I get it, I get it. You love-pity-whatever each other. You don't have to show off in front of me," he says with a shooing wave.

He turns his attention to Roland right after. "And excuse me for doing the polite thing and not gawking at your jacked up prongs all the time. Fuck you, by the way: I'm the one who died from a cave-in in the space arena. I know what they're like." His tone's sharp, but not in the actually upset way.

Fully intending to take and keep firm grasp of the leader position, he storms ahead. If they don't follow they'll get left behind.

He calls back without looking, "He shouldn't knit in the first place if it turns out like that woolen horrorterror I saw last time."

He lifts a brow a little at You don't look that alike. He's not sure what that's to mean. There aren't many what he's got sharing likeness with, and those what he does, he's pretty sure are damn near identical but all how they get to present. He's pretty sure as that's how it all works.

And maybe that's his hint. That little warning he ought to brace himself. That way he doesn't wince so hard when he's reminded, yeah, there is being means of getting put back from where they all came.

Paradox space. He's not sure if he's heard that name for it before. All what he knew was that it was the place beyond his reaching well on into the Messiahs' missions for the chosen. Might be a sorts of sacrilege, his knowing about it at this point.

He lowers himself down to the ground. He's too tall to be doing this shit and he ain't got no problems with a little dirt. "TAKE IT IT DIDN'T GO NO SORT MOTHERFUCKING WELL. Take it all did have doing with a motherfucker what's alike to me."

The grin she gave him in return was quite at odds with her grace and poise. It was the slightly mischievous smile of a girl who knows she is doing something wrong, but is going to do it anyway, and who will take some delight in the wrongdoing. For a moment, she looked younger, as if the years she had taken on herself during the war had melted away, and it was suddenly very clear that she was still little more than a girl.

Kneeling down, she unbuckled her hateful high shoes, and stepped out of them with an audible sigh of relief. "I should hate it to be the new style," she said lightly, bending to pick up the shoes. "The spoiled lordlings here would only stub their fine-painted toes and wail to the high heavens over it."

Karkat lets Initiate sit - it's kinder on his neck - and nods once when he speaks. "Yeah. Gamzee..."

And it's a story he's told before, but his lips press together as he thinks how to tell it. None of the other times were to someone directly related to the motherfucker. Nill and Signless weren't there; Dave went back and had his own death. They were different.

He sighs. "He killed me." Might as well start with that. "He stabbed me twice through the chest, and I fell back off this ledge into the lava... There was lava below us, and... You were backing up--the lights from your garish excuse for a headdress looked like..." He shakes his head. "It reminded me and it hit me harder than I thought it would."

His lips press again, brief. "The story behind it isn't much better."

Gray shook his head, "I'm some no-name guy who doesn't have a spine worth a damn in the Arena. I don't want to let Sandy down again." Or ever, but that was death for you. He was entirely too hard on himself but in his mind, he deserved it. "She told me to go to you if I needed help, and…make sure she has a better chance of winning as long as she's here."

Linden watches with interest as Phillip tries not to vomit. He's familiar with the signs, as they are not a particularly unusual sight at Capitol parties.

"You represent a spectrum of experience. You've survived something difficult, and most of them have not. It can't possibly come as a surprise that they see it as very fascinating," he says softly. "Unfortunately, until you become just like them, they'll see you that way, and they'll try to touch it."

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The Crowning of Tony Stark

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