Marius Pontmercy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saisamour) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-05-31 11:59 pm
saisamour) wrote in thecapitol2013-05-31 11:59 pm
Entry tags:
[open] 'cause you and i, we were born to die
Who| Marius Pontmercy and OPEN!
What| Marius in the Capitol being Marius. Everything happens so much.
Where| Training Center Central Commons and some random place in the Capitol
When| First couple of days after his arrival
Warnings/Notes| suicidal thoughts; far too much pining for Cosette
} Central Commons
It takes a couple of hours for Marius to push himself off his mattress, and several more to drag himself outside his lodgings. A dazed and befuddled look eclipses his face as he walks aimlessly throughout the Center, still reeling from the explanation provided to him about the Hunger Games, and the absurd notion that he has to participate in an event reminiscent of the ancient Gladiatorial matches.
Is this truly real? It seems far too impossible, to be pulled into this unknown space, this unfamiliar world that makes him feel all the more lost and abandoned, now that he has been forced further away from his Lark. Now that he may never be found again. Where is Cosette now, he wonders? Does she think of him, even for a moment, the way he thinks of her even when he's dream-lands away?
Perhaps this is what it is, though: A strange, bizarre dream. He must have fallen asleep while taking a rest at the barricades. When he opens his eyes, this scene will disappear, and he will be allowed to die fighting for the France that his father wielded his weapons for. To die so that he can be the gentle wind that caresses her face and teases out her kind, loving smile.
He soon enters the Common Room, wherein an offer of drink to him is only acknowledged with an absent-minded nod of thanks. He wanders the area, wine glass in hand, with a hazy and distant look in his eyes that hints at his inattentiveness to his surroundings.
It is this preoccupation that causes him to clumsily trip and spill his drink on you. It might have only dripped on your shoe and perhaps soaked your sock, if you're lucky; it stains your entire outfit in a splatter of red, if you are not.
} Somewhere in the Capitol
How strange, he thinks, that he has yet to awaken.
For he has come to the conclusion that this is simply a long, odd dream; it is folly to think otherwise. Or, at least, that is what he has decided at the moment. As he roams through the streets, before the entrances of shops and restaurants, and among the people that his imagination could not possibly conjure, his mind shifts continually between belief and disbelief, real and unreal, wakefulness and dreaming.
When he is caught staring a second too long at two ladies with powder-white faces and wigs that strangely resemble horns, his face turns red and he hurries his footsteps, overhearing their high-pitched giggling and assuming it is because they find him amusing, or funny, or too pitiful to be taken any seriously.
That is when he bumps into you and... Well, he simply stares, with a befuddled look on his face as if internally debating on whether or not you are actually real.
What| Marius in the Capitol being Marius. Everything happens so much.
Where| Training Center Central Commons and some random place in the Capitol
When| First couple of days after his arrival
Warnings/Notes| suicidal thoughts; far too much pining for Cosette
} Central Commons
It takes a couple of hours for Marius to push himself off his mattress, and several more to drag himself outside his lodgings. A dazed and befuddled look eclipses his face as he walks aimlessly throughout the Center, still reeling from the explanation provided to him about the Hunger Games, and the absurd notion that he has to participate in an event reminiscent of the ancient Gladiatorial matches.
Is this truly real? It seems far too impossible, to be pulled into this unknown space, this unfamiliar world that makes him feel all the more lost and abandoned, now that he has been forced further away from his Lark. Now that he may never be found again. Where is Cosette now, he wonders? Does she think of him, even for a moment, the way he thinks of her even when he's dream-lands away?
Perhaps this is what it is, though: A strange, bizarre dream. He must have fallen asleep while taking a rest at the barricades. When he opens his eyes, this scene will disappear, and he will be allowed to die fighting for the France that his father wielded his weapons for. To die so that he can be the gentle wind that caresses her face and teases out her kind, loving smile.
He soon enters the Common Room, wherein an offer of drink to him is only acknowledged with an absent-minded nod of thanks. He wanders the area, wine glass in hand, with a hazy and distant look in his eyes that hints at his inattentiveness to his surroundings.
It is this preoccupation that causes him to clumsily trip and spill his drink on you. It might have only dripped on your shoe and perhaps soaked your sock, if you're lucky; it stains your entire outfit in a splatter of red, if you are not.
} Somewhere in the Capitol
How strange, he thinks, that he has yet to awaken.
For he has come to the conclusion that this is simply a long, odd dream; it is folly to think otherwise. Or, at least, that is what he has decided at the moment. As he roams through the streets, before the entrances of shops and restaurants, and among the people that his imagination could not possibly conjure, his mind shifts continually between belief and disbelief, real and unreal, wakefulness and dreaming.
When he is caught staring a second too long at two ladies with powder-white faces and wigs that strangely resemble horns, his face turns red and he hurries his footsteps, overhearing their high-pitched giggling and assuming it is because they find him amusing, or funny, or too pitiful to be taken any seriously.
That is when he bumps into you and... Well, he simply stares, with a befuddled look on his face as if internally debating on whether or not you are actually real.
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INDEED. HE IS LIKE ADONIS REBORN."...I see!" At this, Jack crossed his arms, his stare deepening. "And what District were you put in?"
Perhaps his? Maybe not.
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Marius takes a deep breath and fans himself upon being confronted with this god-like specimenMarius resisted the urge to curl into himself at the stare, did not allow himself to feel distressed at the interrogation by this complete stranger."District..." His brows furrowed as he attempted to recall what he had been told. "District three, monsieur."
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AND WITH A MIGHTY NOD, Jack Atlas flexed his muscles seductiwaitSay what one would about him, Jack certainly had the potential to exude a very overwhelming, even intimidating, presence. At the very least, no one was going to ignore him when he came into a room."AH!" His outburst is loud and sudden after a moment of silence. "Good. Maybe you'll give District 3 a win! As long as you focus and remember why you're fighting, nothing is impossible!"
He didn't care that this guy wasn't his Tribute. Really, at this point morale amongst all the Tributes seemed low, with everyone acting sullen (if not downright seditious). And if he had to be the one to whip everyone into metaphorical shape, so be it.
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I-Iyaaa Monsieur Atlas~!He jerked back, very visibly, at the sudden outburst, his eyes wide and more than a little perplexed. The speech was equally baffling to him, and his eyes darted from side to side, completely uncertain as to the proper reaction to this sort of situation."I... But..." But how does one go about telling someone he had just met that he did not intend to win, that he simply wished to die?
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At this, he pointed right at Marius' chest.
"AND THAT IS...PEACE!!"
Several people who had stopped to see the King of Victors yelling began to clap in response to his rousing speech.
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Dear God what is ridiculously handsome man doing and can Marius just die right now.
Marius glanced around at the applauding crowd and felt the urgent need to dig himself a hole on the ground and crawl and hide inside it until this was all over, or he died of starvation. Either way. He felt his ears on fire and he took a small step back, staring at the finger pointed at him, looking almost ready to bolt. Or faint.
"'Peace'?" He got that much out of the rousing speech, at least. Unfortunately, though, it didn't make much sense to him.
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A few heads in the crowd instantly bobbed up and down in agreement. Peace was good. Killing was bad. Except in the Games, where killing was good.
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His hands were shaking faintly, and the crowd's presence was still a source of great intimidation, but he will not forgive himself if he did not voice his thoughts against an idea he found wrong and twisted.
"You say that the Games are to prevent the killing of others, and yet to win in the Games one must kill all their opponents to be crowned the victor. How does that bring peace?" His voice was, perhaps surprisingly, clear and sharp for someone who had earlier displayed more than a little timidity.
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Stop trying to make him question himself."Look. It ensures peace because its part of a promise. Before the Districts would send Tributes to the Games as a sign to the Capitol that they wouldn't cause another devastating civil war like back in the Dark Days. Now, the Capitol brings in you guys from other places as their way of saying that as long as the Districts continue to behave like they should, the Tributes representing their Districts in the Hunger Games don't have to come from their...well. Their Districts."
Its an easy, nice justification. Isn't it?
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"And so us Tributes, who have done nothing against the Capitol, are to be stripped of our freedom and forced to kill one other?" Not that he particularly cared about what would happen to him—he had gone to the barricades to die, after all, and that did not change. However, the others who had been forced into the Games, who had something to live for: why must they participate in an event that was created not only as a sickening form of entertainment, but to also instill fear among the Districts?
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"Like I said, you're here to ensure the peace of Panem. Its a worthy cause others would gladly jump at! And in return you're rewarded generously for your participation."
Though it of course depended on how you chose to look at certain aspects of it--"A life of luxury and comfort in the name of peace. The fighting part is merely a fleeting moment of worry in comparison!"
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If Marius had not only just arrived, or perhaps if he had been warned beforehand to watch his words, then he might simply have bowed out of this conversation—or maybe he would have done the same thing regardless. Either way, he saw little reason to hold himself back. Not even the crowd, with their looks of disapproval or amusement or entertainment, could stop the words that spilled from his mouth.
It's like word-vomit"So we fight, against our own free will, not as citizens but as slaves, so that the Capitol would continue their rule of fear?"
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Perhaps it was a bit harsher than Jack had intended. Almost defensive. But he looked down at Marius, his eyes darkened.
"The payment we are given for our sacrifice is a generous one, after all."
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But he tightened the curl of his fists and told himself that he had nothing to fear, nothing to lose anymore. "The only payment worth our blood and sacrifice is freedom itself."
A bit hypocritical, perhaps, coming from someone who wanted to die because of a lady, but it was not something he had noted about himself just yet.
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That look was becoming a glare. Stop tempting him, Marius. Stop trying to push it.
"And what kind of freedom would it be? It would be anarchy, like the Dark Days!"
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Come to think of it, Marius had little idea of how Panem had become what it is today, and how long it had been since 1832 Paris, since that fateful and condemned early summer of June. His spark dimmed, replaced by his earlier aura of confusion and bewilderment.
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because where is my Vic Hugo thousand-word backgrounder on places and events and the Capitol sewer system??he made an almost unnoticeable tilt of his head as he continued his questioning with, "What had made them engage in warfare?"no subject
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But before he raised that question...
"Monsieur." His voice had the air of caution and careful politeness. "If you would... kindly speak in a softer voice, please?"
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