My Empire of Dirt // [78th Games District 12 Train]
Jan 28, 2018 21:53:05 GMT -5
Post by Gamemaker Lauren Kinkade on Jan 28, 2018 21:53:05 GMT -5
The music the Capitol escorts pipe throughout the train twangs. It's undoubtedly designed to make them feel at home: a deep bass makes a passing attempt to keep time with the runaway guitar. To his homegrown ears, it sounds like the superficial Capitol's attempt at imitating his culture. It's all he can do to keep himself from plucking up several tissues and stuffing them into his oratory canals.
He'd thought, after they'd said their painful goodbyes in the Justice Building, he might find some solace in his old friend. But Stella's given no indication that she's made of anything but bone, sinew and steel. When they boarded he mimicked her, thinking it the highest form of flattery, but the moment they walked into the plushly furnished car and found themselves in the company of distinguished victors, he lost his nerve.
Ale climbs onto one of the barstools, next to Victor Halt. There's an impressive array of glass behind the counter. He wonders how it all survives the train's resonance; and a moment later realizes it doesn't matter. It's all temporary, ephemeral. If it breaks, it will be replaced -no, improved, by a Capitol that cares not a whit that his family starves in the interim.
He studies Arbor for a long moment. No one's inclined to talk because, thank the moon, the escort has disappeared. The entire car is populated only by those born in District Twelve and he's relieved to find that many trips to the Capitol have not robbed the victors of their love affair with silence.
It's with some guilt, some heady defiance, that he breaks it. "This the part where you tell us we're gonna die? Or it's all gonna be alright? Because what is there to be found in an arena, other than victory or rot?"
He'd thought, after they'd said their painful goodbyes in the Justice Building, he might find some solace in his old friend. But Stella's given no indication that she's made of anything but bone, sinew and steel. When they boarded he mimicked her, thinking it the highest form of flattery, but the moment they walked into the plushly furnished car and found themselves in the company of distinguished victors, he lost his nerve.
Ale climbs onto one of the barstools, next to Victor Halt. There's an impressive array of glass behind the counter. He wonders how it all survives the train's resonance; and a moment later realizes it doesn't matter. It's all temporary, ephemeral. If it breaks, it will be replaced -no, improved, by a Capitol that cares not a whit that his family starves in the interim.
He studies Arbor for a long moment. No one's inclined to talk because, thank the moon, the escort has disappeared. The entire car is populated only by those born in District Twelve and he's relieved to find that many trips to the Capitol have not robbed the victors of their love affair with silence.
It's with some guilt, some heady defiance, that he breaks it. "This the part where you tell us we're gonna die? Or it's all gonna be alright? Because what is there to be found in an arena, other than victory or rot?"
