Tigers On A Gold Leash :: [Misfit Mafia/Freakshow]

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L△LIA
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BOOM SH△KALAKA

Tigers On A Gold Leash :: [Misfit Mafia/Freakshow] Jun 16, 2013 17:42:06 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jun 16, 2013 17:42:06 GMT -5

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e v e r y s o n g ' s l i k e :
gold teeth, grey goose, trippin' in the bathroom
bloodstains, ball gowns, trashin' the hotel room
w e d o n ' t c a r e
we're driving cadillacs in our dreams

There's a five-hundred-something pound tiger staring me down, but that golden glare is not why I'm nervous. Despite the deadly ripple of his stripes each time he inhales and a grin wide enough to consume me with a single snap of his teeth, my fear is not spinning wild within each twitch of my nerves because of him. The tiger is lovely; it's that I might not measure up to his majestic presence that worries me.

Genetically altered so his fur gleams just as metallic as the solid gold chain links of his leash, it is only his beauty that carries my breath away as my fingertips trace the patterns of his stripes and wonder at how such a creature could ever belong to me. One of the Capitolites who watched my Games swooned over the bending of my body and wanted to give my circus and I a present as eye-catching as my tricks. Another gifted me with a set of crimson silk aerial ropes the exact color of the blood I drew from River's veins to claim my victory, while others sent a bed of nails made of platinum and mahogany, jewel-encrusted corsets for my next stage performance, love letters and requests for the Misfit Mafia to perform at their next grand soiree or child's birthday.

"Oh, Cricket-darling!" My Escort's voice trills through the train car with a giddy over-enthusiasm that hasn't left her lungs since I was crowned and brought a new level of glory to both our names. A stack of silvery bracelets ring out like tiny bells as she waves with one hand to ensure my attention and hands me a crystal glass of champagne with the other. I've lost track of how many days have passed since I left the Arena, measuring time by the number of parties we've attended and how many congratulatory glasses of alcohol have been bestowed upon me. Head already spinning from the scent, I bring my newest gift to my lips and pray that the little bubbles will fill me up until there's no more room for my stomach to flip and tumble-turn in anxiety. "Surely you're excited to see District Two again. I'm sure your sister and those little circus friends are just dying of pride that you've done so well for yourself."

It's not that my smile is fake — after all, I'm proud of myself — but there's no doubt that my sister won't be waiting for me on the train platform when I arrive and so my confidence and bravery begin to flicker when I try to imagine who will be waiting for me. Mac will be there, I reassure myself while imagining that the shadow of her sky-cloud tall frame can stretch so far as to be visible from the train window. ~~However, when I look to the blur of trees we're passing by, I can't see a hint of gray through the green and try to tell myself everything's still alright.~~ One by one I mentally tick through the faces of people who loved me before I left them — the Ringmaster, Breyer, Wolfboy, Felicia — and attempt to picture their faces alight with the pride Glitch speaks of, but looking into my memory is no more concrete than a glance at the scenery we're speeding by.

I've changed and so maybe they have too. There are still-healing wounds scattered across my body and while some of them are hidden beneath flesh and bone, the ones that aren't have become shrines to my victories. With help from my Stylist, my skin has become a patchwork of gruesome battle scars interwoven with tattoos dedicated to the opponents who gave them to me: a puckered slash across my left thigh surrounded by a technicolor swarm of butterflies that scatter their wings to every patch of untouched white, a line running down one bicep transformed into the needle within a compass, the precious gleam of a silver ring surrounding a small mark on my stomach, a dense pattern of crocodile teeth wrapped around my upper left arm, the faint ghost of a green battle-axe on my right hand, a charred rose blooming over the stab wound upon my foot and bursting into flames that curl up my ankle and lower leg.

The people I'm returning to have witnessed these parts of me through the warped vision of a television screen, but I've begun to realize that the past few weeks might just have been something more than a performance. If anyone should know that I am more than my stage presence then it should be my follow circus performers, but even to them I don't know that I have shown much more of myself than the contortionist fantasy I present to our audience.

Glitch seems to catch me surveying the new imagery of my own skin and chuckles as both our gazes come to rest on the anatomic depiction of a heart across my chest. "Don't worry, my little Victor, you look stunning —" Reaching out, she smooths her fingers down the curls of my hair, still shining with the artificial brilliance of Capitol technology, and straightens the golden crown I now wear that once belonged to Noah Ripley in the Arena. "— although perhaps a little under-dressed." I'm not sure if she's being sarcastic or not, but I roll my eyes because this is an argument she has already had several times with my Stylist. In theory one might expect a Capitolite to take less of an issue with my arsenal of underpinnings as outerwear, but I guess my aversion to proper clothing rules out too many options for her taste. Today's corset and scandalous shorts have been stitched together from honest-to-Ripred Nakom wings that were gathered up after my near-death fight with them on Day Two of the Games, paired with a thin netting of technicolor stockings to match and lace-up boots that cover more skin than anything else I'm wearing. "That boy of yours will be speechless!"

Real heart seizing until it's as still as the fake one drawn over it, my grip tightens on the champagne flute in my hand so suddenly that the golden liquid sloshes out and splatters across the floor. The tiger at our feet lazily shifts to lick the spill up, his massive tongue sliding along the edge of my toes as my nerves prickle in the wake of my Escort's accidental dig at my lack of confidence. Before, that boy of mine always had so many words and if he loses those then I don't think he'll have anything left for me. No words. No feeling. The same muddled confusion that nagged at me in the Arena returns to stir the anxious acid burn within my stomach and I quickly down the last of my drink in a pathetic attempt to numb the pain.

I'm selfish enough to hope that I'm the only one who has changed and maybe everyone else will have stayed exactly as I left them, but I can't help remembering the way Zombie Boy fell to his knees in the Justice Building as he clutched at me with a desperation I never saw coming. He begged me not to go even though we both know I wouldn't have given up the Games for him even if I'd still possessed the option. That mentality of mine was enough to earn my sister's hatred and maybe it was enough for his too. For everyone's.

The train slows to a stop as my veins begin to buzz with a bubbly haze and I am torn between the champagne giddiness of pride for my recent Victory and the haunting worries that my past won't be able to reconcile itself with my present. Glitch pries the empty crystal glass from my hand as she ushers me toward the door, jabbering on about another parting gift from a Capitolite biologist. With the false reassurance of my drink gone, I clutch at my tiger's solid gold leash as if that might be enough to rein in the both of us.

With a burst of blinding sunshine, the doors open and I step onto the waiting train platform as hundreds of butterflies flutter into the air in my wake, a dizzying cloud of color and beauty that engulfs the sky. Another fleeting present for the Nakom Victor. My footing finds itself just as it always does when the spotlight scorches my skin with the addictive rush of a new stage and so I follow in the effortlessly graceful steps of my new pet, twin killers whose stripes match more closely than those around us might ever know — my rippling scars and ink just as deadly as the graphic black and gold of the creature accompanying me. "District Two!" My Escort's voice echos like magic in the air as a flash of serendipitous light blazes across the crown I wear. "Please welcome the return of Cricket Antoinette, Victor of the Sixty-Third Hunger Games!" A wild roar of applause twists through the crowd and when I look up at them there is a smile of infinite confidence on my lips that doesn't quite reach the nervous, searching doubt of my eyes.

e v e r y b o d y ' s l i k e :
cristal, maybach, diamonds on your time piece
jet planes, islands, tigers on a gold leash
w e d o n ' t c a r e
we aren't caught up in your love affair

(OOC: Anyone in the Freakshow/Misfit Mafia plot is welcome to jump into this thread! This is post-Games, but pre-Victory Tour.)

Last Edit: Jun 16, 2013 18:25:02 GMT -5 by L△LIA

( C H A R A C T E R S )

charade
Retired Staff

3,811 POSTS

last seen May 1, 2024 12:08:12 GMT -5

Thinking

Tigers On A Gold Leash :: [Misfit Mafia/Freakshow] Jun 17, 2013 21:04:08 GMT -5

Post by charade on Jun 17, 2013 21:04:08 GMT -5

Buzzing. That's what the air feels like. The district is alive with the sounds of thousands of people crawling over each other like flies on a rotting carcass. We have never been much other than an odd attraction to most people, but now we are the talk of the town. I have been unable to go anywhere without getting swamped by people begging to get some insight into the life of our newest victor. I've ignored them all of course, as Cricket's story is one that is only just beginning.I can admit that I find it strange that I've seen people trying to match her style of dress, or even playact the games and try to pretend to be her. I've even seen her hairstyle appear on several heads. They can try all they want, but they'll never be anything more than a pale imitation of the real thing.

As I make my way to the train station, I rapidly outdistance everyone else from the circus tent. It's not that I'm running or that I'm particularly fast, its just that my strides are much longer than anyone in the district. Maybe even the country. I pass dozens of people until the citizens begin to form a crowd. It takes no time to make my way through to near the front, as they are almost too happy to get out of the way. I've come just in time, because the train is just now pulling in and an air of excitement is bubbling around the gathering like ionic energy before a storm. During the games, I heard some people say that Cricket moved like a whirling tornado. It makes sense. We aren't ordinary and we shake people to their core. We blow them away. The door slides open and the escort announces her. For half a second I contemplate stomping and wonder if it would cause an earthquake.

She looks larger than life; and coming from me, that's really saying something. The amount of colors she is wearing is dazzling, eye catching and a hundred other adjectives that I don't know the words for. By her side is an honest to goodness tiger, which she is leading on a golden leash. I can only imagine the conniption that Breyer is probably having. His cats are small fry compared to this magnificent creature. I've lost sight of the others in the throng, but I know we'll be drawn together. We always are. I can't help but let a large grin split my face as she descends the steps to thunderous applause. She is a living performance now, and I doubt anyone will ever let her forget it. And yet...

Something seems a tad off-kilter, but its nothing that can't be fixed by being surrounded by friends and family. And the lines between those distinctions are blurred for those of us for which they are one and the same. I'm sure she can see me towering over the crowd, standing out like an oak tree in the middle of a field of bushes, but I wave anyway, before wading between the knot of bodies (which clears out as soon as the realize I'm coming through) and coming to a stop in front of my amazing little sister. At this range, I can tell that her eyes seem hollow, like she's just gotten over a frightening ordeal. There are tattoos on her body of all manner of thing, and Z-boi is going to like them, I can already tell.

The escort, a woman so gaudy its a wonder people don't mistake her for a shop mannequin, pales visibly as I draw near, her eyes widening in a mixture of awe and fear. I have that effect on most people. But Cricket is not most people and she looks... relieved? Happy? I don't know. I'm good at reading body language, but faces escape me sometimes."Welcome home!" The words come out in a shout, and the escort jumps a little. I throw my head back and laugh a mirthful laugh before wrapping Cricket in a bear hug that lifts her several feet off the ground and would probably hurt her if she wasn't so springy. I drop her down and place my hands on my hips. I don't know what the crowd thought of that, but then again, I haven't cared what people think about me in a very long time.

I can hear the tell-tale pitter-patter that signals the rest of the circus is close behind, and so I adopt a concerned look, before raising an eyebrow and placing one massive hand on Cricket's shoulder.

"You ok?"