#mj.open

[bludstaine]

open  to  —  everyone            location  —   the  hunger  games  exhibition,  day  two

SHE  CAN  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  HER  VOICE  BEING  CALLED,  five  syllables  uttered  in  such  ecstatic  excitement,  like  she  is  the  thing  being  celebrated.  katniss  doesn't  often  find  herself  in  the  capitol  outside  of  the  games,  but  here  she  is  swaying  on  the  spot  as  she  attempts  to  avoid  the  exhibition  taking  place  before  her.  a  recreation  of  her  and  peeta's  arena,  a  hologram  of  her  own  tiny  self  moves  through  the  trees  before  her  —  sixteen  years  old  and  forcing  herself  through  each  day.  there  is  this  terrible  urge  to  reach  for  the  hologram  katniss  and  pull  her  into  a  hug.  as  though  she  might  keep  her  safe  from  the  inevitability  of  everything  that  comes  next.  her  head  turns  towards  the  capitolites  calling  out  to  her,  and  katniss  forces  a  smile  she  has  grown  used  to.  a  dimness  settling  in  her  eyes  and  her  lips  forced  into  this  odd,  unnatural  shape.  the  capitol  wears  her  out,  and  to  be  here  even  months  after  the  ninety  first  games  feels  much  too  soon.  “is  it  really  that  exciting  for  them?”  she  asks  the  one  stood  by  her  side,  watching  the  hologram  scaling  a  tree.  was  she  ever  that  tiny?  “i  thought  we  were  old  news  by  now.”

[vilebodys]

STATUS  :  OPEN LOCATION  :  anywhere  your  heart  desires 

     “  this  can’t  be  real. ”  her  voice  frayed,  a  smile  plastered  on  her  face  like  a  bandaid  slapped  on  a  festering  wound.  one  that  the  capitol  had  inflicted  a  long  time  ago,  one  that  had never  really  healed  and  was  now  opened  again.  she  turned  to  the  other,  her  head  shaking  as  if  denial  could  rewrite  the  truth.  she  almost  laughed,  but  the  sound  vanished as it was  simply  brushed  away  by  silence.          “  it  must  have  been  a  mistake.  it  doesn’t  make  sense,  right  ?”  but  it  did.  it  began  with  the  exhibition  reminding  them  of  who  they  belonged  to  and  it  would  end  in  the  arena  again.  in  death.   still,  selin  clung  to  disbelief.           “  they  promised  us  …  ”  her  voice  cracked  again,  splintering  like  glass  and  she  swallowed  the  shards.   “this  was  the  deal  right  ?  they  can’t  do  that.  again ...”  but  she knew  better.  that  naivety  was  a  privilege  she  wasn’t  allowed  to  borrow.   soon  reality  would  settle  ,  and  then  …  she  didn’t  know  what  would  happen  then.  but  now  she’d  allow  her  to  be  foolish.  hopeful.  although  hope  was  a  fragile  thing  and  she  was  holding  it  in  shaking  hands. 

[rebelience]

time: early afternoon.   location: at the entrance of the  exhibition  of  the  hunger  games. status: for @jcohannas/@trinketcs, @xwithoutfearx,@bludstaine, @suchtragedy + 0 open spots.

after  everything  hyacinth  has  been  put  through  by  the  capitol  and  their  president,  it  is  the  entrance  of  the  hunger  games'  exhibition  that  truly  has  her  frozen  in  place.  inside  cini  is  a  whirlwind  of  confusing  emotions  and  at  the  eye  of  that  hurricane  is  a  poisonous  and  wondering  mind  ━━  the  victor  doesn't  know  what  it  is  they  can  expect  to  see  in  there  and,  truthfully,  they  don't  know  what  they  would  rather  come  across:  the  worst  things  they've  ever  done  or  none  of  it.  the  former  would  be  a  reminder,  the  latter  a  confirmation  that  the  dried  the  blood  under  their  nails  was  forgotten  far  quicker  than  it  ought  to.

the  victor  turned  mentor  stands  only  a  few  steps  away  from  the  main  door,  arms  crossed  and  feet  planted.  the  arrival  of  another  presence  still  not  enough  to  pull  her  gaze  away  from  something  she  doesn't  know  whether  to  hate  or  ignore.  there's  a  small  sigh.  "are  you  gonna  go  in?"  maybe,  if  their  answer  is  what  cini  needs  to  hear,  then  they  might  rip  this  band-aid  off  once  and  for  all  (  and  maybe,  no  nightmares  might  come  that  night.  for  the  first  time  in  years  ).  "i've  heard  people  say  it's...  good."  as  good  as  a  show  of  slaughter  can  be.

[gladiatefm]

open to all ( 3 / 3 )

shaky breaths , fingers trembling , fulvia navigates the day as they would any crisis ; full of self importance , frazzled but without a hair out of place . perfection was bred into them , the cardew line weighing upon statuesque shoulders as heavy as a boulder — they cannot forget what is expected as they chirp towards the cameras that everything is fine .

the journalists turn elsewhere , and she glimpses a spokesperson from snow's office before she dashes free of it all . a rotten rebel they make , stumbling free and into the fresh air where they immediately light the cigarette they've been saving for this exact moment . " don't judge . plutarch has officially pushed me above my pay grade . " they grumble around the cigarette , struggling to light with shaking fingers .

[victoriams]

ᴡʜᴏ: ANTONIA VICKERS & OPEN ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: TRIBUTE TOWER, LOBBY BAR ᴡʜᴇɴ: SECOND DAY OF THE GAMES

For the most part, Antonia's job was over long before the games had commenced. Sure, she still had a few final touches to make on some of her creations ( there were some that she was particularly proud of this year ). And, sure, she could always be working on something new for next year, or the year after, or the year after that. She could be down in her dark, dingy lab, running experiments and taking samples and what have you – but, instead, we find Antonia in the tribute tower bar, taking what ( they believe to be, at least ) a very well-deserved break.

In one hand, she has a glass of white wine, in the other, a mouse. No reader, you have not interpreted this incorrectly. Here, we introduce Antonia Vickers, but we must also present Norman McMouse, former inhabitant of the tower laboratories, current inhabitant of Antonia's purse. Antonia sips at her wine and examines Norman for a few moments as he scuttles around on her palm, before releasing him onto the bar in front of her.

Antonia smiles to herself as she watches Norman skitters across the counter, pulling a handful of pumpkin seeds and feeding them to the mouse slowly. They pause only when they sense the presence of someone hovering over their shoulder. "You can sit down, you know. He doesn't bite." She says, popping one of the pumpkin seeds into her mouth as she speaks.

[reblrths]

OPEN STARTER | capping at five ( 3 / 5 )

a sharp, ragged gasp is what slices through the air when they awake, feeling every bit as in pain as if they were the one to go back into the arena. it takes peeta a moment to remember the events that had occurred before waking, to remember why they can hear their heartbeat racing in their ears and why it hurts to take a deep breath, why there's sweat pooling on their forehead and why there's a deep, gut-wrenching panic that drives them out of bed despite wanting to rot away in it for however long it takes to stop feeling like this.

it's not unlike when he wakes from a nightmare, though it is when his first instinct is to reach over in bed for katniss that he fully realizes. it plays back in his mind - it was no nightmare, though it felt like one had come to life. dragged from her arms, watching with faded vision as she screams for him going up the tube and unable to reach him, unable to scream back, unable to do anything until there's a blunt force against his head that makes everything go black entirely.

peeta, by some unknown driving force, makes it to the nearest television, right when the bloodbath occurs. the cameras are everywhere, it's getting harder and harder to see who is who with all the panic and running. until he does see her, and then he can't not see her in every shot. but something's wrong - he's not there.

the blood in their veins runs ice cold and the lightheadedness swells behind their eyes, not realizing they've stumbled a bit and gripped onto the nearest chair with a white-knuckled grip. peeta tries, he tries, to take a deep breath, and another, and another, tries to level themself but none of it works. anger and remorse fill his veins and he isn't sure when the chair he gripped had ended up on the floor in his rage but his head is in his hands now, that much he knows. it was all for nothing - every single bit of it, every attempt to get them out. katniss - oh, what must she think? the worst, probably. that they've taken both her husband and her son from her - this makes them turn to the tv again, watching her in action, fear gripping at him entirely until the sound of someone approaching makes him jump. peeta looks around at the scene before him, wishes he could regain what semblance of composure he might have, but it's all stripped too thin. "sorry," they mumble. "i hadn't meant to make a scene."

[ingenuitycfchacs]

tw:  alcohol, knife, mentions of blood, guns & death

the night was winding down, or perhaps it was early morning. arachne wasn’t sure. she didn’t care. almost two bottles of wine warming her stomach. she had not a care in the world. not now at least. four hours ago? two bottles ago? one death flashing through her mind - gun to a head, blood spewed across the cameras and down heath’s forehead - had turned to another - Justice, his blood on her hands, his sky blue eyes staring up at her as he gasped for breath, his canon seeming to echo that of the gun that had killed heath - and then another - clove, her aunt, held aloft against the cornucopia by the boy from eleven, the girl from twelve (the girl Arachne had shot a deadly look from across the party just seconds before ordering her fourth glass of wine) scrambling away, the girl from two screaming for her district partner, a rock causing the canon this time, another canon to echo the gunshots. 

they’d all been chased away. the first bottle drowning out the fine details. the second wiping them all from memory - for now. 

now she felt giddy. giddy and impulsive. her fingers withdrew the butterfly knife - the very same that had ended not one but six lives - from the pocket of the flannel she’d snuck into the bar much to her stylist’s disdain. a simple flick of her wrist had the blade exposed. hand placed on the bartop, she looked up as someone approached. “wanna see a party trick?” her words were more than a little slurred and she giggled afterward, splaying her fingers wide over the smooth wood surface.

[invictus-smile]

Invictus had been watching the Tribute Parade from his box seats when the power had cut out and the message had flashed across the screen. In the dark, the corner of Invictus’ mouth had curled up. They were making themselves known. 

Now sat at the Tower bar, Invictus sipped at his lavender colored drink. “Got any early favorites?” He asked of the person beside him, eyes on the screen above the bar which played highlights of the Parade. 

[bludstaine]

open  to  —  everyone  .      location  —  a  packed  bar  in  the  city  centre,  first  night  of  snow's  birthday  week  .

THE  BAR  IS  PACKED,  but  they  had  expected  as  much.  libra's  eyes  shift  around  them,  taking  in  the  excitement  of  those  they  have  lived  amongst  for  eight,  long  years.  it  sickens  her  down  to  the  pit  of  her  stomach,  but  she  has  come  to  block  out  the  attitude  of  those  raised  within  the  echo  chamber  of  the  capitol.  how  else  can  she  survive  the  anger  which  drives  everything  she  does?  it's  a  smothering,  terrible  thing.  a  fire  licking  brazenly  at  her  skin,  and  all  she  can  do  is  pretend  not  to  feel  a  thing  —  because  this  deep,  seething  hate  which  motivates  her  every  move  will  likely  get  her  killed  should  she  not  show  some  caution.  they  sit  over  the  bar,  drink  in  hand,  and  their  posture  is  nothing  like  those  around  them,  a  sure  sign  that  libra  rivera  does  not  belong  to  the  capitol,  but  rather  has  been  adopted  into  it.  the  stool  by  her  side  sits  empty  and  awaiting  plutarch  heavensbee,  he  who  had  told  her  to  pull  a  smile  onto  her  face  and  be  ready,  to  celebrate  such  a  wondrous  occassion.  she  had  almost  spat  her  drink  out,  had  shared  something  of  a  smile  with  the  head  gamemaker,  such  a  rarity  for  her.  a  brow  arches  as  the  seat  beside  them  is  soon  occupied,  and  though  they  have  no  business  saving  an  empty  space  in  the  middle  of  a  crowded  bar,  their  head  tilts  towards  their  new  companion.  “that's  taken.”

[rebelience]

time: early morning, not long after sunrise.   location: avenue of the tributes.  status: closed.

the  sun  rises  but  it  doesn't  feel  like  morning  ━━  it  feels  like  mockery.  gold  spills  through  drusilla's  apartment's  window  like  melted  jewelry,  warm  against  the  marble  floor  of  her  place  in  victory  village.  she  hasn’t  slept,  not  really  (  how  could  she,  when  the  safety  the  victor  thought  was  a  sure  thing  turned  out  to  be  as  fickle  as  the  capitolites'  attention?  )  ━━  she  closed  her  eyes  for  an  hour,  maybe  less.  flickerman's  voice  (  "this  year's  tributes  are  to  be  reaped  from  the  existing  pool  of  victors"  )  kept  echoing  like  war  drums  inside  a  mind  that  only  wanted  some  reprieve.  it  isn't  fair,  none  of  it  is  fair.

the  marble  rose  cracks  under  the  realization  she  is  not  going  to  survive  another  time.  from  the  cracks,  spills  grief  for  her  own  life  and  anger  for  those  that  did  this  to  her.  she  is  supposed  to  be  safe,  live  out  her  life.  this  wasn't  the  deal.

many  thoughts  run  through  the  messy  mind  of  a  victor  turned  lamb  to  the  slaughter  again  and  drusilla's  eyes  are  glued  to  avenue  before  her.  her  eyes  track  the  motion  of  a  peacekeeper  pacing  nearby.  she  doesn’t  blink.  doesn’t  flinch.  even  as  she  feels  eyes  burning  into  the  back  of  her  head.  footsteps  catch  her  attention  but  not  her  gaze.  "it  was  never  enough  to  take  our  lives  once."  a  scoff,  a  shake  of  her  head.  a  beat  and  the  shadow  shifts  nearby.  "now  they  want  to  see  how  we  break  the  second  time."  drusilla  could  say  so  much  more.

[gladiatefm]

libra clearmark & open ( 1 / 3 )

her fingers fly over the keyboard , glowing blue buttons hover in the air before her as libra takes part in this collective condemning of twenty four children . she watches them , the wolves which circle them , those waiting in the tree line , searching for a way to their loved ones . she is despicable , and libra is certain that she needs a break , she needs a drink .

she frees herself of the gamemakers room , walking as fast as her feet will take her to the downstairs bar when she orders a drink , breathless . " pretty big , isn't it ? another twist in the games . . . those poor kids . "

[victoriams]

ᴡʜᴏ: CELESTIA DOLITTLE & OPEN ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: TRIBUTE TOWER, LOBBY ᴡʜᴇɴ: DAY OF THE (FAILED) LAUNCH

Celestia was not having a good day. Her first thought upon noticing that the elevators weren't working this morning was that she had somehow messed up, which would have been very embarrassing. Once it became clear that the faulty technology actually had nothing to do with her ( yay! ) her second thought was that this delay would be kind of annoying for her. For one thing, she'd already picked out her outfit for the launch party she was attending tonight ( a very flattering hot pink slip dress and matching kitten heels, of course ). For another, this meant that she wouldn't be off the hook from the responsibilities that came with her job for another couple of days at least.

Usually the launch was the end of things for Celestia ( unless her tributes won... which had never actually happened, but maybe soon! ). She would take her tributes down to the basement, bid them farewell, and wait for them to die. She never really watched the games ( they were a tad too boring for her taste – ninety-five percent of the time nothing happened, and the other five percent was a little too gory ), so she would generally be informed that they'd died while she was out at some sort of games-adjacent party. She mourned, of course – sometimes even for a week – and always thought of something nice to say when she wrote home to the tributes' families, but the launch generally marked the end of her active involvement.

Truthfully, Celestia was a little confused as to what she was supposed to be doing now. She'd already done all of her little tasks before the games were supposed to start, and the parties she was supposed to be at right now had been postponed. Instead, she finds herself in the lobby of the tribute centre in her party outfit, sipping on a matching pink cocktail and waiting for somebody to tell her what she was supposed to be doing next. Thankfully, she spots a vaguely familiar face walking by and shuffles over to grab them by the arm. "So... like, do you know what we're supposed to be doing right now? Because usually someone, like, tells me what I'm supposed to be doing. And are we going to get new outfits for when they re-do the launch, because I feel like my one has been spoiled and I really hate repeating outfits, you know?"

[reblrths]

OPEN STARTER | capping at five. ( 5 / 5 ) when: after their interview

finch was upset.

they'd stormed off of the stage with no care for the crowd's reaction, ripped the microphone from where it was attached to their clothing, and thrown it haphazardly to the side, avoiding any peacekeeper that wanted to get their hands on them. there was no need to drag them off the stage -- it was the last place finch wanted to be. in all honesty, they knew these interviews weren't going to go well, but they hadn't expected it to be that bad. finch should have known flickerman was going to bring up lark, at the very least expected it. and when he did, that familiar sense of rage rose out of the shadows and finch let it take the reins. a fourteen year old boy who lose his father at the hands of the capitol would now likely lose his own life the same way -- how could they not be angry?

they find the nearest empty space, shoving the door open so harshly it hits the wall behind it and when they find something to lean on, it takes a few minutes to steady their breathing. they can just about make out amp's voice behind them on one of the many tv's in the area, but they try not to focus on it. the reality of everything is closing in on them now, that too familiar feeling from their own games -- acting careless when in reality they were, though they'd never admit it, fucking terrified. when they hear someone approach, finch hardly looks at them, eyes squeezed shut and knuckles practically white from their grip on the counter. "room's occupied. if that wasn't fucking obvious," finch grumbles, running a hand over their face -- fuck the makeup. "does this look like the stage?"

[bludstaine]

open     to     —     everyone

her  anger  is  a  buzzing  thing,  a  thrumming  beneath  her  skin.  lavender  can  feel  a  heavy  hatred  for  this  place  thrown  over  her,  warm  and  comforting  as  a  shawl.  it  is  something  to  hold  onto,  or  so  she  tells  herself  as  she  pushes  from  the  chariot  following  the  tribute  parade.  how  foolish  she  feels,  ridding  the  life  she  has  earned  to  be  thrown  back  into  the  arena,  into  the  maw  of  the  wolf  awaiting  her  delicate  flesh  with  hungry  familiarity.  they've  decked  her  out  in  gold,  having  taken  inspiration  from  some  deity  of  olden  times  for  her  costume,  long  before  panem  was  even  a  glimmer  in  the  future.  a  crown  resembling  grain  sits  upon  her  temples  and  she  feels  it  knocked  askew  as  she  pushes  past  the  journalists  desperately  trying  to  grab  her  for  a  comment.  but  then  she's  stumbling  into  another,  watching  curiously  as  they  adjust  the  crown  atop  her  curls.  “you  don't  have  to  do  that,”  she  states,  her  voice  a  thing  made  of  steel.  “honestly,  i'm  desperate  to  get  this  thing  off  me.”

[rebelience]

time: early night.   location: rose garden, presidential party. status: for @xwithoutfearx,@vilebodys, @survivorsblood + 2 open spots.

drusilla's  face  hurts  from  putting  on  a  smile  that  weighs  more  than  the  nightmares  that  keep  her  awake.  though,  lucky  for  her  (  and  everyone  around  them  ━━  for  their  bite  is  not  just  words,  not  ever  since  the  games  ripped  away  whatever  human  part  of  her  could  have  stopped  her  teeth  from  sharpening  ),  she  is  nothing  if  not  smart  enough  to  play  along:  be  the  graceful  victor,  the  tribute  many  want  to  own  for  a  night,  the  marble  rose  that  still  captures  the  capitol's  attention.  that  is  the  skin  that  drusilla's  puts  on  for  the  night  but,  even  after  years  of  performing,  it  still  feels  like  it's  corroding  the  person  underneath  ━━  and  they  don't  know  if  they  should  let  it.

the  peace  of  the  gardens  is  a  welcome  one.  in  drusilla's  hands,  there  is  a  rose  ━━  separated  from  the  veins  that  feed  the  rest  of  it's  kind.  for  a  few  moments,  silla  merely  holds  it  in  their  hands.  blue  eyes  focus  on  the  dying  petals,  and  then,  the  still  sharp  thorn.  the  victor  pricks  themselves  on  it,  pressing  her  fingertip  into  it  until  blood  draws.  footsteps  don't  break  away  her  gaze.  "it's  quite  the  party,  isn't  it?  i  can't  remember  the  last  time  i  attended  one  as  grand.  we're  lucky  to  have  been  invited."  the  odds  are  ever  in  their  favour,  are  they  not?

[gladiatefm]

open to everyone . ( the medic bay )

she awakens slowly at first , but soon it is pain bringing her rushing back to consciousness . bleary eyes blink open to find herself attached to a variety of tubes , sweating in a hospital bed with no memory of how she got here . had they finally broken her ? mind , soul , and now body ? a hand reaches to feel the tiny bump forming beneath the hospital gown and she begs some unknown force to keep it alive . she killed for it , and it is all she has left in this world .

mina , determined and afraid , is a defensive sort of animal . unsafe , she pulled the tubes from her and feels another , fresh rush of pain . wincing , the tiny creature pulls herself from the bed . she is fragile thanks to her stay in the capitol , but she manages to push herself to the doorway and out into a cold , sterile hallway . she is walking , it feels like forever that she is walking barefoot and shaking . but she finds someone , reaches for them wearily . " are we here ? did we make it ? "