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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Sorry, Firo's reaction may not help with that embarrassment. His eyes are wide once again, though his incredulity doesn't have any mocking edge to it. "Seriously?"

This is a problem that must be fixed immediately. He draws himself up to his full unimpressive height and holds his hands out as he tries to figure out where to begin. "It's like... Well, basically it's a place where you gamble, but that could really mean anything from a crappy backroom to a real joint."

He's completely transparent in his pride as he grins. "Mine's a real one, obviously. So... picture a big room, right? A real nice place and all. And then put a buncha' tables for cards in there and a couple roulette wheels and slot machines and a whole lotta people, and you've got a casino."

It's only after he's almost talked himself out of breath that he leans in to look at her again. There may have been some important details left out... "...Hang on, you know what gamblin' is, right?"

Maybe proper ladies aren't allowed to do those things, though she hardly seems that proper.

He grunts, glances briefly over the whole of her, then holds his right hand out in her direction, the cigarette held between two sets of interlocking polished gears. The machines clink gently against themselves as he flips his hand over, then pull too close together and end up mashing the cigarette's end. He sighs and brings his left hand, still the more trusted of the two, to rescue the slightly squashed cigarette and try holding it out toward her again.

"Than most in Panem? Cry pardon if you're native, but you could put a whole regiment out here and they'd keep quieter than that lot." He nods toward the building, from which the oh-so-delicate strains of something pumps itself out the doors and through the garden, distant but clearly audible even here. That isn't the only type of quiet he means, but it's a fair example. "Though you've at least escaped the attention of the vultures for a while. Not flashy enough out here."

"I've been called worse than picky." Tabris replied cheekily, looking over the other people. "I guess I made out better than some people--So did you, have you seen Joel? Poor man. Poured out a beer in honor of him. Andraste bless his soul." She made a gesture with her hands that was probably something similar to crossing yourself for Christians. "Look at that woman, those boobs are one jiggle loose from escaping for the promised land. Maybe I should ask to dance with her instead."

She grinned at Shepard, giving a shrug. "I hit on everyone I think is hot, Commander. Ask me to stop, I'll do it. And for the record, I have no fucking idea how to dance like--that." She gestured at the people bumping and grinding and whatever else Capitolites do. "It looks like it involves a lot of flailing around like an idiot, though, which I can probably manage, while scandalizing everyone from Thedas."

She laughs a little. "Of course I do. Dice and cards, at any rate. The others, I fear, are strange to me, but I can understand the idea." Not that she was particularly keen on it. Skill was what appealed to her, not risk. Her luck had been poor too often for her to want to stake much on it. Besides, she had never really had the time for that kind of diversion. Games were a distraction, and she mistrusted distractions.

But his pride is rather endearing, and it isn't as if there's anything fundamentally wrong with gambling. So her smile is genuine. "I should like to see such a place, I think. It sounds very far from the gambling houses I have seen, and those have been few and far between."

She's been a little grateful that her stylist hasn't opted to put her into anything terrible so far. There's been no inappropriately revealing outfits or body modifications or uncomfortable footwear choices. This dress is no different - it's actually kind of one of the prettiest things she's ever worn, the tiny lights gradually changing colours from blue to purple to pink and back again. For a moment, Beth feels a little bit like a girl at the prom or something - not that she's ever been to a prom. The zombie apocalypse sort of took care of that particular opportunity.

It doesn't do a lot to erase the mental scars the latest arena has placed on her - she has more people she cares about in this world now, and a lot more to lose. She's killed people in an arena for the first time. But she'll play a game of beer pong because it's something people play in college and she'll never get to go anyway. Might as well make the best of it.

Also, she has really good aim from consistently fighting things that require headshots to be put down. So Beth stands on her tiptoes and eyes the cups in front of her before tossing the ball in a nice little arc. Plopping it into one of the glasses and doing a little twirl.

"Thank you, thank you," she says with a ghost of a smile and a mock curtsy. "I think that means I get to go again, right?"

Éowyn's sniff is ladylike, but no less transparently contemptuous for that. "Native? I should sooner be native to a dunghill than to this place."

She takes the cigarette with some caution, examines it for a moment, then takes a drag - she's not much of a smoker, but what harm can it do? It tastes more or less like the pipeweed the Halflings favour, and any difference is too subtle for her inexperienced palate. Mostly, she's curious about the thing itself, which is certainly not a pipe. But that's the least strange thing about this place, so she doesn't comment on it as she hands it back. Probably it's something from his own world.

"My thanks." Putting her shoes down beside her, she settles her back against the tree and gives him a little smile and a nod. "Éowyn is my name, by the way. Éowyn, Éomund's daughter. And you?"

Tabris grins like a predator that had just caught its prey, and leans forward, until she's scarce inches from him. The lack of personal space is actually quite practical, however, as Quintus will realize once she begins speaking in a hushed whisper, aimed to keep their conversation as private as any conversation in the Capitol could be. A little glance around, just to make sure no one was lurking near.

"Well, it's two possibilities. You're a control freak, that's pretty fucking obvious. Now, some schools of thought would say that a man with responsibilities wants them taken away in the bedroom. Let the woman take charge, tell you what's what. But you, Quintus." She looked up and down him slowly, chewing on her bottom lip, as if taking careful considerations. "You'd go against that, I think. You want to be in charge the entire time, don't you? Tie her up, make her beg for every sensation, and it's on you alone, whether to give or not. Put her on her fucking knees and make her call you Master, until all she can think about is getting off, and she's forgotten what pride is, because all that matters is you." As she speaks, she slowly runs a finger up his black sash, eyes locked on his.

"Make that bitch worship your cock like a fucking god, because in the bedroom, you're the god, and you're the one making the rules here, aren't you? So tie her up, and make her beg to come." And then, quite suddenly, she steps back, a little, giving him his space, though her eyes are still dancing, and that smirk is just as firm. But Quintus has a little breathing room, at least.

"Or, at least, that's what I think."

Phil had moved hell and high water to avoid her after their little run-in at the roof. He'd obviously crossed the line by being so crass and direct. Shepard had been in mourning all right and he'd basically spat on her face that time.

But it wouldn't do much good if he didn't at least apologize for his behavior then. He'd been surly but it was no excuse to be an ass.

"Excuse me?" Gray began, "I want to apologize for the other day. I was disrespectful to you." Diplomacy was a start.

"It wasn't without lack o' tryin'," Ellis joked around, "Gave my Stylist a fit when I pulled out tha' sorta clothes. But at least now, I know these," he playfully flexed his arms, "Still got it."

The beer is so welcomed, and it's so chilled, "Oh, Ro, this is cold, I wanna cry o' joy if people would stare at me like I'm insane." They probably think he is but that was part of the draw. She would spot how easily he'd shy away from Capitolites who waved at him, offering a meager return. "I'd peg ya as more o' a sleek dresser," he tried to sound casual and hoping Rochelle wouldn't see this side of him, the consequence of being a Tribute.

"I dunno, I like these songs," Phil said without a hint of irony. He grew up with these sorts of jams on the radio, and even hummed to them. Early 1930's, meet early 1990's. "Jazz is good too! I prefer Coltrane...but I'm guessing you're not too keen on this, huh?"

Astute, isn't he? Or sarcastic?

"Oh is it now?" a familiar laugh would greet Julian. Though they hadn't crossed paths in the Arena, Phillip cheered his fellow District 6 tribute regardless. Bradds had outlasted the former guard by a week and by God, he was impressed. He just wished he could have done something to help the younger man out.

Gray knows better than to egg his friend on so he simply stands up from the makeshift lounge, "Good to see you again, Jules."

Last Crowning, Psii was wearing far less than he was used to. This one, he was sleekly armored head to toe as if for airborne battle in golden plates, tubes, and spikes over a skin-tight suit. LED indicator lights in red and blue blinked on and off beneath glass, though Psii wasn't sure what they were supposed to indicate exactly. His wings could fold and unfold with the press of a button, which meant Capitolites bombarded him with inane requests to "unsheathe" for them. God help him.

The only trolls with wings were legendary mutants, indelibly marked for greatness or infamy. Psii felt as if he was wearing another's skin, an interloper posing as a character from a wiggler's tale. The party's speakers blared heavy thrumming bass like the revving of engines. It wasn't his usual fare, but Psii could get used to this human Sabbath of Black business. It had a contrary, almost rebellious ring to it.

Psii was bobbing his head slightly to the music when the heavens opened. His red and blue eyes widened behind his visor. The wormhole revealed either an interplanetary invasion force or horrorterrors—he wasn't going to linger and find out. Trolls survived by reacting quickly. He screeched, half battle cry and half alarmed bug noises.

"SKREEEEE!!!"

And there was some imbecile ripping off chair legs for weapons. Really? Fighting off interdimensional horrorterrors with those? Really? Psii expected to be hit with a big blast of some sort, so he did the smart thing and tried to get people to safety. He sprinted and grabbed at several people near him.

"Down, DOWN! Get in the cave!!"

Since his foray into the Arena, Nick has been making something of a name for himself. It isn't the best reputation to have amongst Tributes, but amongst Capitolites he's made himself quite popular. It feels a little dirty, really, like being that kid who asks for extra homework and makes friends with teachers. He schmoozes anyway, forcing a charming, smug smirk through conversations before he excuses himself to wander around.

When he's not being a dancing monkey with a lifetime supply of one-liners, he's skulking around the sidelines of the party looking sullen and grimacing. Occasionally he'll shoot a pointed glare or a bitter look at whatever happens to be symbolic of Tony at this moment. He doesn't particularly care about Jason's opinion on alcohol, and it shows in the fact that he has a different drink in his hand almost systematically.

Eventually his ass finds a chair and he decides he doesn't really care if he looks like a pouting child. His legs are spread, his elbows propped on them so he can rest his chin on his hand. A glass of scotch rests in the other hand and he occasionally drinks from it, casting a glance around before deigning the closest person worthy of conversation. "It's all kind of pointless if any asshole can win, isn't it?" Bitter? Him? Never.

If honesty includes full-disclosure, he should mention something about how said casino is completely illegal where he lives.

He beams back at her. "Yeah? Too bad it's probably not possible, 'cause I'd love to show it off."

"They're not that nice where you're from, huh?" He knows there are plenty of places back home that he'd want to steer people away from; not to convince them that his place is better, but because the likelihood of getting stabbed or shot was way too high. Or maybe she's just not allowed into too many?

Firo had been watching the sky as well, though his reaction had gone from the expected startlement to dim curiosity. His eyes weren't well-attuned enough to technology to recognize it as a show, but he had the feeling that this wouldn't be the most entertaining way for the Capitol to take them out.

That doesn't seem to save him from nearly being bowled over by a more guarded Tribute. He regains his balance and spins to look at the guy.

"Hey! Hey, pal, calm down!" He reached out to try and grab the guy by his shoulders and hold him still.

"Coltrane?" That musician was still about a decade after Firo's time, so the name didn't ring any bells. He chalked that up to his ignorance of music in general, though.

He shrugged. "I don't really like music at all, but especially not like this. People back home listen to, like... Caruso and stuff."

You know, normal music like Italian opera.

Firo's been watching the games as well, less for fun and more to keep his eyes sharp. He's not throwing away the near decade he spend working in the casino by letting himself get sloppy here.

Unfortunately, with a good amount of the players either inexperienced or pretty drunk, the show isn't too interesting. The stakes people played for back home just aren't here. His eyes wander to the other man watching and eventually Firo sidles up to him.

"You thinkin' of givin' it a try?"

"Mostly filled with soldiers and merchants. Back rooms and barracks." She waved one hand dismissively, shaking her head. "Though I should be the first to say I have little experience of the matter. Even if 'twere proper for a King's sister to spend her time in such low places, I have never been one for games of chance, I fear. And cards... I have not the stone-faced gall for it." She smiles, self-deprecating. It's not really true. She's a diplomat. Keeping a poker face would be child's play next to smiling every day at the man dripping poison in her uncle's ear.

"But come," she says, after a moment, "I have been remiss! We have not even been introduced! Éowyn is my name. At your service, Master...?"

"C'mon, there's a lot more to it than chance..." Firo could wax poetic forever about the skill and finesse involved in cards--remarkable considering he's hardly the type given to poetry. It was a good thing their introductions cut him off.

"Firo Prochainezo." He grinned, waving his hands around. "No master or mister or anything." What was with these polite people? Firo was much more accustomed to being referred to as 'hey, brat' or something along those lines.

"It's nice meetin' you, Éowyn." He hesitated, "Er, I don't hafta call you anything for bein' a king's sister, do I? What even is that, a princess?"

When Cullen spotted her, he was far less concerned about the state of her cleavage (he avoided looking at it) than he was in how apparently close she was to losing her footing entirely and toppling over.

Needless to say, his manners kicked in and he was soon at her side. "Lady Éowyn," he said, offering her his arm. "That footwear doesn't seem very practical at all."

When Arya comes tearing round a corner of the maze, Joel is surprised for a moment, but he acts quickly, turning a bit so she practically barrels into him.

"Whoa, there, kiddo," he says, assuming her fit of pique has something to do with her outfit. "You think you got it bad, just be glad you haven't got facial hair to be messed with."

He points to the ridiculous LED lights Jolie forced on him, twinkling away in his beard. He's here in the maze mostly because he's tired of being laughed at and is ready for a little peace (and to pull the damn things out, probably).

"Not very practical is certainly one way to put it," Éowyn agreed wryly, taking his arm with a little smile as she steadied herself. "I did try to warn them that putting me on these stilts might end poorly for all concerned. But it seems that they believe balance in footwork and balance on twigs to be of a muchness." Her smile was, for all her practiced diplomacy, a little sheepish. She hated to be seen failing so significantly at something she ought to have been able to do. At least she hadn't gone tumbling head over heels just yet. Small mercies.

"I see they gave you something more wearable, Commander. I have to confess to no small envy."

Linden gives the other man a pale half-smile. How many times has he made that promise, to just get "buzzed enough", only to wake up the next morning half-clothed with hours that were lost to him forever, and the reliance on strangers to tell him what he did?

"Yeah, I was trying to get out of it," he replies shamelessly. "I usually do; I hate parties, especially these days. Unfortunately, the syrup of ipecac stunt didn't work this time, so here I am, and that's why she was pissed off. I'm going to have to get really creative the next time a Crowning rolls around."

He turns at an angle, grateful that the stylists were able to find out what the Avoxes would be wearing so they could help him blend in a little better. Even if it's ironic considering the reason for his altercation with Jason, he is not complaining about the fact that he could be easily mistaken for one and overlooked.

"Every Crowning is different, but they all seem to share a common goal: celebrating one life so fully and lavishly that the other ones are easier to let go of. They haven't really let go of that, even though real death these days is rare."

To both the tributes and sponsors who have only ever seen her in the arena, Jane is almost unrecognizable tonight. Thankfully, this isn't her first crowning. That, coupled with the fact that they aren't being filed into a culty cave (there is a cave present, but she couldn't avoid it any harder if she tried), is doing wonders to keep her off edge. The glass of rum in her hand isn't hurting, either.

The silver accents on the sheer base of her dress practically soak up the surrounding light, like puddles reflect a lit-up city when it rains at night. She thought her luck had run out with her stylist after several stints of forced grooming left them decidedly not on the best of terms, but even her heels are solid and comfortable, her makeup flattering. To her surprise, there's a part of her that appreciates this, appreciates looking as good as she does. The glowing contacts are a little strange, eerie even, but that didn't lose them any points in her book. It's so satisfying to catch people staring as she makes her way around, keeping an eye out for Clem, Nick, and Luke while getting a look at how the competition is doing. She's never been in this to win, but she isn't above a little schadenfreude at the expense of some of the long faces present in the throng. Good. Fuck 'em.

She's also not above getting some people uproariously drunk with a round or two of beer pong. Jane found the tables set up not long after making the rounds, and she's pretty sure she's found her place for the night. It's a one on one game for now, but depending on who's asking, she might not object to partnering up.

Edited 2015-03-30 05:26 (UTC)

It's all a little too much for Bayard. Dressed in a red metallic three-piece and with his reddish hair dyed gold and laden with shimmer, he could look like he fits in the ridiculous setting - if he weren't hiding under a table, knees tucked to his chest, grasping and ungrasping his hands over each other and peeking out for a few seconds at a time, only to disappear again behind the tablecloth.

Each time he peeks out, he focuses his eyes on one thing, and then disappears behind the tablecloth trying to make sense of it. First, he looks at the Tributes - fellows, he imagines, and even the most gaudily-dressed are only in these fancy clothes he's never seen before, not monsters or machines or anything like that. The giant light in the sky must be lightning that the Capitol has managed, somehow, to contain and hold there, like a wild animal. The giant televisions are just paintings that have been done like those with the eyes that seem to follow you, which he's never seen but which he's heard his father talk about - they must have used whatever technique causes the locked vision on every part of the image. The noise - well, he isn't sure if it's music or the sounds of awful things happening outside, but the people here don't seem terribly bothered by it.

It's not even that he's scared, so much. He's even managed to get himself a gear-shaped bowl full of sugar cubes, and is letting them melt in his mouth one by one, certain he's never tasted anything so fine in his life. He treats himself to one each time he feels as if he's made his peace with another incomprehensible sight.

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The Crowning of Tony Stark

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tw; tabris' filthy ass mouth talking about The Sex

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