and after an earthquake, a thunderclap {geebs wp}
Jan 6, 2019 23:47:14 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 6, 2019 23:47:14 GMT -5
She is, of course, as late as fashion will allow.
Drones float around her as she strolls, flashing gently. The warm light cascades onto her skin in waves, paparazzi anxious to get the right angle of the Head Gamemaker, newly freed from a solitude of her own creation. She doesn't pause, not even once, to pose - all she needs after all is a single subtle smirk and a long-legged stride.
Zaya makes her way into the sprawling complex, the forcefield shimmering into view behind her as she passes through the threshold. Stuck on the other side, the cameras slowly shudder to a halt, photographers packing up for the day, wishing they could get a first-hand glimpse at the world beyond the screen.
As she steps into the elevator, and as the doors slide shut, they know that it's not as glamorous as she makes it up to be - even if Glamour Kinkade decides to rear his ugly head. Her life is a performance, but their sacrifice: of privacy, of empathy, of sympathy, is for art in all its nature - tragedy and joy, destruction and passion, love's petals intertwined with hate's thorns. She does not take it lightly.
They crack his neck as the elevator rises, and she fixes her high heel, leaning against the pristine glass. They've never been in this section of the Capitol before - and as she steps into the apartment perhaps it's due to its thesis: expansive and sterile, cloistered away from the throes of the populace. Their closet, cluttered with corsets and dresses, backless numbers and capes, is eclectic and narrow, and they thrive when they melt back into the crowds, sipping on a whiskey in a dive bar. This space, charcoal walls and white trim, walnut wood floors, is... Cliche.
Part of her wants to be back home, sipping on a hot drink and flipping through the pages of a novel, vivid with age. But she's curious of the only two people as reclusive as they'd been for the past year.
Charlie Garnet and Warren Whip - the latter already deposed of his position, the former turning towards specifics when the Games are about the whole package. An in-building coffee bar lunch was rare from the two, much less an invitation to their home. A post-quell celebration, the cardstock had read with a flourished hand. A guest-list, in simpler handwriting - Charlie's, no doubt, was slipped into the envelope. A small reminder that a performance artist was always on the clock.
Shifting the fur on her shoulder, Zaya smiles. Her plum lips curl as Charlie Garnet walks up to her, and she kisses her fellow Gamemaker on both cheeks, waxing pleasantries on the penthouse. But her mind is sharp, focused like a fox leering at their prey.
"I'd love a tour, thank you Charlie - but tell me, I've been gone for so long - how has your year been?"
Drones float around her as she strolls, flashing gently. The warm light cascades onto her skin in waves, paparazzi anxious to get the right angle of the Head Gamemaker, newly freed from a solitude of her own creation. She doesn't pause, not even once, to pose - all she needs after all is a single subtle smirk and a long-legged stride.
Zaya makes her way into the sprawling complex, the forcefield shimmering into view behind her as she passes through the threshold. Stuck on the other side, the cameras slowly shudder to a halt, photographers packing up for the day, wishing they could get a first-hand glimpse at the world beyond the screen.
As she steps into the elevator, and as the doors slide shut, they know that it's not as glamorous as she makes it up to be - even if Glamour Kinkade decides to rear his ugly head. Her life is a performance, but their sacrifice: of privacy, of empathy, of sympathy, is for art in all its nature - tragedy and joy, destruction and passion, love's petals intertwined with hate's thorns. She does not take it lightly.
They crack his neck as the elevator rises, and she fixes her high heel, leaning against the pristine glass. They've never been in this section of the Capitol before - and as she steps into the apartment perhaps it's due to its thesis: expansive and sterile, cloistered away from the throes of the populace. Their closet, cluttered with corsets and dresses, backless numbers and capes, is eclectic and narrow, and they thrive when they melt back into the crowds, sipping on a whiskey in a dive bar. This space, charcoal walls and white trim, walnut wood floors, is... Cliche.
Part of her wants to be back home, sipping on a hot drink and flipping through the pages of a novel, vivid with age. But she's curious of the only two people as reclusive as they'd been for the past year.
Charlie Garnet and Warren Whip - the latter already deposed of his position, the former turning towards specifics when the Games are about the whole package. An in-building coffee bar lunch was rare from the two, much less an invitation to their home. A post-quell celebration, the cardstock had read with a flourished hand. A guest-list, in simpler handwriting - Charlie's, no doubt, was slipped into the envelope. A small reminder that a performance artist was always on the clock.
Shifting the fur on her shoulder, Zaya smiles. Her plum lips curl as Charlie Garnet walks up to her, and she kisses her fellow Gamemaker on both cheeks, waxing pleasantries on the penthouse. But her mind is sharp, focused like a fox leering at their prey.
"I'd love a tour, thank you Charlie - but tell me, I've been gone for so long - how has your year been?"
