Optional Opening Ceremonies Thread

KLAUS GORAVICH

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♕ DISTRICT THREE ♕

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For somebody so bright, you're awfully stupid.

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OOC: Meg is tribsitting Klaus, so please excuse the awfulness of this post.

"I'M STILL ALIVE BUT I'M BEARLY BREATHING."

[/center][/b][/color]Framed by various horrific-looking tools, slowly an image comes into focus of Klaus’s gaping mouth being violated by a foreign hand, treating the cracks between each of his slightly oversized teeth with some sort of vile-tasting liquid. You watch the corner of his eyes wince as a few drops fall onto his tongue, but a stranger’s blue-gloved hands presses firmly on his face, restricting him from moving anywhere. Once they finish their work, they allow him up, and he spits into a provided bowl.

“What does that even do?” His districter’s voice is earthy and sweet, low notes felt in the dip of your back. You watch his peeled-back lips try to speak without touching his teeth. If his situation were not so serious, you might almost laugh at the hilarity of the picture. The voice that answers him is quite different from his own, syllables seeping out from behind tight muscles. Perhaps some foul-feeling fix had altered it, too.

“After this, Klaus, your teeth will look whiter than the stars. You do want to look your best for the opening ceremony now, don’t you?”

You observe an involuntary twitch of his chin that is written with the mention of the ceremony. His shoulders squeeze like a lemon in a powerful fist, showing his obvious discomfort at being put in the spotlight, in front of everyone. You can almost taste all the places he would prefer to be- in the arena, perhaps- than in front of an audience, where he can make a visible mistake.

Shattered light darts like cockroaches off his sequinned costume, brought in my a very ordinary-looking avox, and, once he has dressed- albeit with a lot of help- you marvel at how like a Capitolite he looks, with the help of his now high-plucked eyebrows and slicked down hair. Pulsating wires of lights slither around him, representing the data- or something- that apparently, in the Capitol’s imagination, flowed freely through his district. Somehow, each of it’s coined hands grab the light, you notice, and throw it in different directions, making you think of a mirror and a candle in a cave, and of all the thoughts that whip through your mind. You note how pale he looks now, how the hue of his face almost matches the silver light given off by his outfit.

Klaus’s pale arm reaches out to take the camera as yet another new voice echoes in the camera. “Time to make your way down to the curtains now, district three!,” the voice commands, and as the camera twists you get your first glance of his district partner. A pallid, matchingly costumed face looks, for a moment, straight at you, and you marvel at how someone that young would ever be allowed into the arena, a place someone of her seeming-innocence could not possibly have featured in their nightmares. But then she is gone and as square blocks of fast-paced corridors hit you, you remind yourself that it is Klaus’s documentary you are following, and no one else’s.

You hear the horses soft nickers before you see the beasts, and with that noise you can almost smell their sweat, a ripe scent that sits deep in your jowls. Staring in awe, you watch Klaus marvel at the beasts. “In the carts, in the carts” a microphoned voice says, and you get a quick pivot of the other districts in their corresponding clothes, before the camera is placed in the bottom of the cart so that you can only see Klaus’s head and the high ceiling on each side of it. You had lost yourself so deeply in Klaus’s unfortunate life that you forgot that there were twenty-three others that shared in his misfortune.

“We’re on in five, four, three, two,” the same voice speaks once more, and your pondering of where it is coming from is lost in the revealing tug of the curtains and the infinite bright that bandages your retinas.

Lights like diamonds flash and glitter high above you, highlighting a myriad of feathers and sequins that constituted the stormy sea of Capitolite fashion at it’s finest. Eyebrows swollen, teeth coloured in jewel shades, each item of clothing more extravagant than the last- these people no longer appear human. They tuft out of the area around Klaus’s head like an elaborate hairstyle, something that wouldn’t seem out of place here. You watch his eyes try to take it all in, only that is quite impossible because there is so much in the small space that you can see, so in the everything that is visible to him, there must be infinity.

You watch the tumultuous ocean of colour around his beautified head chop and change in every direction, a horde of mourners at a celebrity funeral.

“My name is Klaus Goravich,” he says, efforts not to visibly move his mouth obvious, “and this is my life.”

"'COS I GOT TIME WHILE SHE GOT FREEDOM."

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"'COS WHEN A HEART BREAKS NO IT DON'T BREAK EVEN."

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