The Crowning of Maximus Decimus Meridius

[gamemakers]

Who| Everyone
What| Maximus' crowning
Where| Victory Hall
When| Today
Warnings| Violence.


Prior to the Crowning, the Stylists and Escorts were given information: the color scheme for the Crowning is brown and gold, the theme is fire, and for Tributes, Games Staff and Victors in the Capitol alike, attendance is mandatory. No exceptions.

The Victory Hall has been completely refitted to the theme. Great brownstone pillars reach up from the floor, now made of polished marble. Rose petals and dying embers flutter from the ceiling like confetti, and long panels of fabrics embroidered with Maximus' kills pour down the walls. Rather than tables, Tributes are given wooden chairs to sit around fire pits in groups of four, where pigs and sheep are roasting whole, tended by attentive Avoxes. The smell of charring flesh and rosemary wafts through the hall.

In the center of the hall is a pit, fifteen feet deep, ringed with brick and filled with sand. Torches line the inside wall, casting light in every direction. A circular screen up above lets those not close to the edge view the contents of the pit in real-time video.

Maximus' private table has a theme of anachronisms; Tributes from 'less-developed' timelines and worlds are seated around a long table, facing the gladiatorial ring where, at the moment, a full-grown, well-fed Bengal tiger paces. Compared to the muttations of the Arena, it may seem positively demure, up until it bares its fangs and reveals that it's been modified to have saber teeth gilded in gold. Occasionally an Avox will dangle something into the pit and jerk it away if the tiger looks bored and lays down.

Occasionally, with fanfare of music pumped in to announce it, a challenger enters the tiger ring - a hologram of one of the Tributes who were cuffed and marked by the Capitol. The hologram must be affixed with smell, too, as the tiger takes note and attacks like a kitten following a laser pointer, making dramatic roars as it does. The holograms put up valiant fights, and their deaths are brutal, illusory blood flying and the sounds of death rattles and bones cracking coming from speakers embedded in every table.

"A speech," Maximus' Escort says to Maximus. "The General must give a speech."

Tributes who attended Wesker's Crowning ceremony should notice a remarkable increase in security. Visibly armed Peacekeepers lurk behind the panels of fabric, and bulbous, obvious cameras dot the ceiling. Even the Avoxes seem shiftier than usual, and are equipped with discrete tape recorders pinned to their rough-hewn tunics.

Comments

[the_marshal]

"Call me what ya will-" his hand squeezed on his shoulder, mouth twisted wryly, "-but there ain't much I wouldn't give for a pair'a pants right now."

He glanced aside (a woman nearby lifted an eyebrow and grinned slowly) and back, eyebrows lifting. "Yer welcome to yer breeze, er whatever else ya get out of it, but this lot scares me."

And it was a lot harder to slip away when you were afraid of putting your pride on display for God and everyone.

[gluteus]

Maximus chuckled, low and deep. "Freedom of movement, is what it gives me. More than anything else. But like most things, Wyatt, I suspect it has more to do with tradition."

Which only made him look at Wyatt's 'tunic' and chuckle harder. "Though I'm not entirely sure what tradition they are attempting to honour..."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt watched him chortle to himself for a moment, trying to ignore the urge to smile himself. It wasn't funny, he was embarrassed and miserable and wanted his pants, damn it.

But it was hard to stay upset when the moment was so easy.

"A fine friend, you are," he muttered. The words were low, but his mustache was twitching in-spite of himself. "Laughin' at a man in his hour of need. I see how it is."

[gluteus]

"My deepest apologies," Maximus said, bowing his head sharply even though the grin never left his lips. "I shall immediately attempt to secure you a pair of pants. Have you seen any Gauls I could possibly wrestle--"

[the_marshal]

"Bastard."

Wyatt's fist met the armored shoulder, enough to clunk, but not enough to hurt either of them, his own grin splitting across his face.

"I don't even know why I like ya."

[gluteus]

"Eternal Mysteries," Maximus said, still grinning as he pulled out a chair. "Take a seat, Wyatt, I could eat a horse."

[the_marshal]

Did he dare?

He held his breath and gingerly lowered himself to the wood, as if afraid he might startle the chair and it'd run off on him. It was an agonizing series of heartbeats, but for his care he was rewarded with a seat and he hadn't treated everyone in the near radius to an unexpected full moon.

"Jus' remember this moment, Max," he warned (crinkled eyes belying the threats even as his lips made them, relaxing now that he was down and with his friend). "Someday, it'll be my turn, an' see then if I help ya find a skirt."

Not that he'd ever insist on something that would Max uncomfortable.

Not that he was ever going to win.

[gluteus]

"Wyatt, I would happily wear pants for you," He said as he took the seat beside him. "I've been herded like cattle in little more than a loincloth - the only thing they could do worse at your crowning would be to dip me in gold and make me go naked."

He paused, his face falling.

"I should be careful not to give them any ideas..."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt laughed, a rough bark of a sound, and bumped Max's shoulder with his own, the metal band around his bicep catching lightly at the golden fabric.

"Don't worry yerself, Max. Yer secret's safe with me." An Avox appeared, as if by magic, and while he poured bowls of wine for them both, Wyatt slanted Max a look, teeth flashing. "Though I 'spose that would be one way get the sponsors attentions...."

[gluteus]

Maximus chuckled his agreement, bumping shoulders back, but after a moment the laughter slowly faded along with the grin, and was replaced by the slight furrowing of his brow and the smallest of frowns.

"I no longer need their attention for myself," He mused, "But all the same I will need it more than ever."

He said it as if he even expected to survive the night.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt's smile softened and faded and for a long moment he simply let his shoulder rest against Max's, trying to offer whatever support he could.

(He wouldn't regret what he'd done, would make the same choice again and again, but he could still understand the man's reluctance. Knew he would feel the same sort of upset if it were him, watching from the outside while his friends headed back into the arena.

It was perhaps the only time Wyatt would be okay with causing someone he cared about pain.)

"Yer tributes'll need ya, someone has to look out for 'em," he said finally. Wanting for something to do with his hands he pulled the bowl closer, ruby liquid sloshing in a gentle wave against the sides. "...Can't imagine 'em in better hands."

He didn't say it, but it was there, a quick thought in the back of his mind.

Wyatt would need him too. And not just for sponsors.

[gluteus]

He let out a hard breath, resting his chin against his chest as his hand went to his forehead and slowly pried off the laurels he found there. He set them back down on the table, their stiff golden leaves making gentle metallic noises as they touched the edge of his plate, his glass.

"My tribtues," He repeated dully. "As if the districts has ever held any wait on any of us." He didn't want to talk about the future - knew that he was unlikely to see it. But he didn't want to tip off the capitol to his plan, so... He turned his eyes up to meet Wyatt's. "They can try to keep me from keeping an eye out, but they would fail."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt looked at the laurels, and after a beat reached out slowly to touch them, callused fingers taking in the feel of them. A quick, curious brush of flesh against metal before they withdrew again, knitting around his wine.

"Tributes," he echoed softly. "Is what I said."

And that was what he'd meant, even as a man who actually came from the land he was represented... though he did sometimes wonder what the Districts thought about them. How angry they must have been, that the Capitol could bring them back, but not the children they'd killed for so long. How relieved they must have been, to know they would take no more.

He leaned back in his chair - refusing to give the tunic the satisfaction of acknowledging the way it bunched and pulled - and met Max's blue stare with his own.

"For one, I sleep easier knowin' yer out here."

[gluteus]

Maximus couldn't quite reach his eyes, not knowing what what coming. So instead he just reached out and grasped Wyatt's shoulder fondly, looking out to the crowd instead.

"Let's forget it for now," He said, forcing a smile to his lips. "It isn't every day I have a party thrown in my honour where they have a tiger tear apart my friends," He mused drily.

[the_marshal]

Max smiled, but Wyatt well knew now which were real and which he forced. Exhaling, he reached out, taking Max's shoulder in turn and squeezing.

"It'll be over soon," he promised, hoping it would be true. His hand dropped to the back of Max's chair, rested there easily. "If I'd had pockets, I'd have smuggled in some cards for ya."

If he'd thought he'd even be close to talk to him, much sit beside him, he'd have brought them anyway. Pockets or no.

[gluteus]

"I'm not sure I would advice you to gamble when you've so little to gamble with," Maximus said, tugging at the shoulder of Wyatt's tunic before his hand dropped to reach for his glass instead. He let out a slow breath as his eyes fell over the party. Even the forced smile disappeared.

They simply could not keep living this way.

[the_marshal]

There was a retort waiting on his tongue, but Max's face continued to fall and it died a quiet death on his lips.

Instead, he curled his fingers into the back of Max's uniform, tugging and rocking gently.

"Next time then," he murmured, another quiet promise before his hand fell away, returning to the chair, and silence settled over them.

A pocket, just the two of them, as the tiger roared and the Capitol cheered another bloody death.