67th Hunger Games Victor Presentation Ceremony

67th Hunger Games Victor Presentation Ceremony Aug 17, 2014 10:32:58 GMT -5

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Post by aya on Aug 17, 2014 10:32:58 GMT -5

The president of Panem stood on the magnificent stage in the City Circle, addressing his people as he had done numerous times before. Another of his prized Hunger Games had come to a close. As usual, they had been an enormous success; enough blood, death, and tragedy to satisfy the viewers, and also to subdue the thoughts of rebellion that the high government official knew were brewing in the minds of some of Panem's citizens.

It was oddly satisfying to see a tribute from District Four emerge victorious after so many near-successes. Of course, it had pleased Snow to finally see the third Career district get a win after living in the shadows of Districts One and Two for such a long time. The showdown between the two District Fours had been a much-talked about event, and likely would remain a standout finale for many years to come. However, the president hadn't been pleased by Leon's performance after being declared the winner — there needed to be some champion after all, and suicide was bad for ratings — but still remained hopeful that the District Four could be molded into the proper sort of victor.

He knew that Leon was waiting just below him right now, ready for the platforms to lift him up and out into the light for the first time since he'd left the arena three days ago. The usual upholstered throne was placed in the center of the stage, ready for the victor while he watched a recap of what had been his hell for the past two and a half weeks, including the preparations. It was usually torture for the tribute, but the president enjoyed it very much. He wouldn't deny the sadistic delight that he took in watching each victor witness their own atrocities from afar, powerless to change the course of Games, even if they wanted to. Many of them, it seemed, wanted to indeed.

President Snow quieted the crowd and prepared to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm pleased to welcome you to the victor presentation ceremony of the Sixty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games!" As usual, there was the deafening roar of approval that followed. "Tonight we will show a recap video of this year's Games, so be sure to stay tuned!" Like they have a choice, the president thought. The recap video was required viewing for all of Panem.

Snow went on to announce the prep team, stylist, escort, and mentor of the victor; all were received with tremendous applause. But then, the moment they were all waiting for... Snow plastered a smile across his face before speaking once more. "And now, may I present the victor of the 67th Hunger Games… Leon Krigel!"

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OOC- RPing is permitted in this thread by Capitol characters and past victors. This is the place to have your Capitol character react to viewing the recap video, if you planned on doing that. All characters from other districts can create their own threads in the districts, if they wish.

67th Hunger Games Victor Presentation Ceremony Aug 19, 2014 7:14:30 GMT -5

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Post by анзие (Anz) on Aug 19, 2014 7:14:30 GMT -5

[googlefont="Megrim:400;Carrois Gothic SC:400;"]

Leon Krigel

yeah, you're gonna make them cry

There's a chill in the air that no amount of sun can chase away, that no turn of the heater's dial can fix - or so it seems to Leon, his eyes focused on nothing at all as he's pushed and pulled and styled, baby-soft skin pressing harshly on the worn-out buttons of his broken sanity, the shards of which he wears now like a crown. "Sit still," Jizav says as though from a distant place, but the words are useless because Leon hasn't moved an inch that they have not made him move. Anything more that he says fades into silence, and Leon has glimpses of his stylist's lips moving as he speaks. His gaze slides off a face with eyes too blue now to be real to focus upon the ocean gradient of... of... of someone's hair, someone whose name he vaguely remembers asking for maybe five minutes prior.

He can't remember it now, but he doesn't care.

A relentless tapping sound worms its way into his consciousness, but it's abruptly stopped by a warm weight on his final hand. Leon raises his eyes to see Tobin frowning at him, lips moving as he tries to say something but there's just... just something so much more interesting than the tenor of his bland voice.

(The light draws his attention, and holds it, and Tobin vanishes completely from his mind.)

"What's wrong with you?" Now this is the voice of an overbearing man, the overbearing man whose disapproving look the day after he chose to make bad decisions on that train with the alcohol and the little bird will stick forever in Leon's mind, like so many other limpets made from tired memories and moments of throat-catching silence. The thought makes him smile, thinking of his memories turning into molluscs clinging to his frame as he drifts away, wave after wave pulling him along with the stream.

Fingers click in front of his startled eyes, then a hand grasps his chin (and Leon sucks in a breath, eyes snapping wide open to see everything, and it's all white-bright-horrible when he meets Plato in the eye, his heart racing like it sees a finish line, his lungs refusing to release the air it holds). "Look at me when I'm talking to you," Plato says with a scowl like he's a child, and a flash of irritation flickers through Leon's heart.

"Don't touch me," he says, but his own voice has no strength to give him any authority.

Plato glares at him.

Leon scowls back.

"I need to fix his face now, Plato," Jizav says, successfully breaking the wordless contest. Jizav's warmer expression replaces Plato's grumpy one, and Leon tries not to flinch away from his oncoming hand. "It won't take long," he says soothingly.

This has gone on long enough as it is.

"Do you have to?" Leon says, trying not to sound as anxious as he feels. His voice is rough, and with a start he wonders how long it's been since he's last said a word. To Colgate? How long ago was that?

Jizav's little nod of affirmation does nothing to soothe him, but Leon swallows and closes his eyes when he is asked; a brush slides over his lids with feather-light touch, and when he opens them again his lids are the color of dark, dark gold - a pale compensation for his pallor. "Just a little more," Jizav assures him.

A little more makes him look like a whole new person entirely, and maybe it's for the best.

They put him in color, taking away the overlay of white that was once his shield, but now that he's to be thrown back into a world of a million shades Leon has to match, to fit in even though he doesn't know how. Nothing more that he has in his arsenal suits the carnage he's to be abandoned in, nothing he has can prepare him for anything he might see.

He knows where this leads.

Are you going to tell the kids that I'm okay?

The image he's meant to portray is one of strength, of brilliance that he can't feel for the shadow of his life - he's supposed to be a career like careers are all brutally heartless - the only reason Leon has a cavity in his chest is because his heart died under the guard of someone who never knew he had it - even to the bitter end. And this is where this road leads - it'll take him all the way to the dreaded moment he'll see first Jacinda, then May, and Aelia, and Owen, and Charlotte and Siren fall one after the other, forty-story dominoes that send ripples of turmoil in the form of metaphorical earthquakes to leave him stumbling blind.

He needs-

(But they took it all away, all that numbs his skin.)

Jizav has him dressed in dark blue material that ripples like the ocean's wind-touched surface whenever Leon moves, and the intention, Leon thinks, is to make him majestic - but he only feels out of place like a creature of myth, the god of a broken sun.

But he has no heart to tell Jizav as such when the stylists asks for Leon's thoughts with a proud, beaming smile.

It's for the best.

The glass sealing him into the little tube tears him back to the first time he's been here in this situation; with unexplored land above his head, with his heart racing and his head pounding, Leon thinks wildly, That was a dream. That was a dream, and I'm going to die today.

He's going to die today.

"And now, may I present the victor of the 67th Hunger Games… Leon Krigel!"

The light blinds him.

And then he sees where he is.

He's standing in the eye of the storm, somehow standing against the tide of sounds that assault his every sense; Leon's not surrounded by explosives just waiting to take off a limb - he's not a part of a perfect circle of people with a death sentence on their heads - he's not determined to beat the heat that was never meant to house him at all. He's not in the past in the midst of waves of transparent fire worming its way up to the too-blue sky, wondering how much longer each of them have to live - wondering if living is an option even at the end of all things.

All he wanted was to know who he was.

And now I'm someone I can't even recognize in the fucking mirror.

His smile is forced, like everything else about him; but no one notices maybe, no one cares what his expression is like as he scrambles to find propriety before it's torn away from his grasp. They're fixed on the giant screen before his eyes, and he has to follow. He has to follow.

Leon watches.

In the beginning they caught him with Nocturne, laughter bright and alive on their faces like there's no care in the world but in counting stars and fingers and nothing else - they watched him with Charlie post-punch, and the memory leaves his jaw aching as much as his heart; Aelia and her plants and imagination, "He wouldn't let me die," like she's got her own personal god at hand; and Owen, Owen with, "Number seven," with, "You go first," with, "Let's stay here."

(No.)

His own voice full of false cheer: "May the odds ever be in your favor."

(He breathes slow to beat of his miserable heart.)

He doesn't so much pace through the arena as he stumbles; Leon knows how lost he looks because lost is the very word that described every feeling he'd had in those first few wayward days - from an unwarranted attraction to Siren to losing Owen for the second time, he'd been nothing but an aimless wanderer in more ways than one.

And then he...

Gavin Barker was his first kill, and all Leon remembers of the time is the fire-pain in his arm and wanting to get out before he lost something significantly more important - like a leg. But he'd gotten a good look at Barker's face, and... and...

(The camera lingers on the wreckage, on Barker clinging on to life; and then he sees May fall, the sound of three cannons in rapid succession too loud from the speakers.)

He remembers every moment of his struggle against Ingrid Elwyn.

Like a fool he'd chosen the spear as his weapon, and every jab of its length mocked him even now: do better, you can do better than this. He remembers the rising fury at Elwyn's words (feels it now, helplessly, stupidly), remembers the way the knife in his hand just-

(They show Owen next, Owen with his clothes singed and parts of him reddened by the fire of Siren's axes, his own features oddly lit up against the light of his own flames and he looks beautiful - Leon's heart stutters, slows with the realization that he unknowingly provided the instruments of Owen's death, and it's getting hard to breathe-)

Potato Earnest had a wife.

Leon had unwittingly left her a widow in his own empty anger, the feeling of which is not unlike a void; he thinks that maybe she is there, herself, but she wouldn't be a companion, not when the sword he'd received cut down her husband with no mercy, playing at being a god when he seemed nothing more than a bitter child.

No, she wouldn't be a friend, and they've all got their own black holes.

(His conversation with a spectre, a whispered, "I would have died for you," lingering in the air like a promise he couldn't keep, and Leon still would.

He still would.)

Siren.

(Don't hurt her.)

Siren with her haunting voice, with her fierce determination, with the lingering scent of ocean in her hair as he remembers it - Siren who killed Owen, Siren who snarled, "You'll see him again when you're dead," like she knows without a doubt that each one of them is destined to meet in the same place, the same afterlife - like afterlife exists.

(If you've ever cared about anyone-)

Forever a temptation now, an added bonus to the idea of taking his own life in the way he'd almost done in those final moments; Leon sees the rolling red, can feel now the wrap of the claw around his waist and the velocity at which he was yanked up into the sky leaving him as dazed as they'd struck him on the head.

(He doesn't remember screaming, but he'd been calling for them - name after name after name, "Where are you?" like they were ready to answer-)

The needle in his skin, and his body onscreen goes limp.

"Thank you."

(The credits roll, the movie ends, and Leon's left sitting alone on the raised platform with silent tears running down his cheeks, missing more than he can ever imagine - but he keeps his head high and his gaze steady upon the crowd, because he's not seeing their faces anymore; he sees instead the faces of those he'd lost along the way.

He's used to wearing masks, and if victor is a new one he'll wear it with pride in their name.)

'til they put you in the ground