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MongooseDelta

This is based on . . . My desire to explore what pushes people over the edge, really, and what keeps them sane or empowers them to climb back to sanity. No particular book or genera has any real control over what goes down here, though I have been influenced somewhat by "The Hunger Games" series.

The Setting: North America. The boundaries are ambiguous and don't matter much, because travel is strictly limited to those who are approved by the centralized government, and criminals, who are punished with death if caught. Everyone else stays in whatever district they were born in or assigned to. The districts are logical, based on the current dominant industries of the various regions. The Centralized Government is based in and around Cheyanne Mountain in Colorado, with the favorite district being in what is currently known as the Upper Mid-West (control of transportation of resources via the great lakes). In the east are the coal miners. The south east is mostly gone back to wild except for the cotton farms. The midwest is grain. The south west is cattle and other herd animals. The north-west is logging. Go farther south and west (modern day California etc.) and you get technological research and development. There's not much in the mountains of Idaho, Montana, etc. in terms of industry, but there is a fair deal of mining in the less inhospitable areas. The North East is the center of industrial development, and that and the South West Coastal areas have direct, heavily guarded supply lines directly to the Capitol. There's a legend that if you go far enough north, assuming you escape the guard, you might reach a sovereign nation occupying much of what used to be Alaska and the Northwest territory of Canada. No one's really sure about that, though, because there is no relationship between that nation and the Capitol or any of the districts.

The Premise:

The Capitol is skittish about losing its power, so it rules with an iron fist. Its problem is limited resources, and the fact that everyone in the Capitol expects to keep everything for themselves. So the districts are poor and powerless by comparison. Every year the Capitol collects two people from each district and throws them into an arena where they have to fight and kill in order to survive. The people are chosen by a variety of methods (whatever you, the writer, wants to use), but the competition always makes a good show. It lasts for one week, and the game masters introduce elements into the competition to make it more difficult. Everyone is provided with the same basic survival gear, which I'll list later.

The problem, other than having to either die or kill if you're selected for the Competition, is what the Capitol does to control you afterword. They know all about each person who is selected and they use that knowledge to control and manipulate and usually to ruin anyone who has competed. Yet additional evidence of their power over the districts.

Rules:

I don't care how old the characters are. They don't have to be competitors, but they can be, or they could be residents of the Capitol, the government, members of one district or another, etc. They could be ex-competitors, or children.

No one has super powers. That's for other post-apocalyptic threads

Only the Capitol and the guard have fire-arms or other war-making weapons. Everyone else, if they want to be armed, has to make their own, and if they get caught, they get killed. Probably better to use improvised weapons or none at all.

No godmodding. You can only control your own PCs. If your PC attacks another PC, the other PC's writer gets to decide whether or not the attack worked. Recommendation: People will like playing with you more if your PC takes a hit once in a while.

Your PC doesn't know it all. Only the Capitol knows it all. Other than the legends, but those are just legends.

If you want to do something questionable, ask me about it via PMs.

Let's take some time to establish our PCs.

Go!

4/30/2012 #1
Monsieur-Dollface
(Joining this! Just give me today and tomorrow to come up with a character and I'm good to roll)
4/30/2012 #2
MongooseDelta

"Radar Paint detected," said the un-emotional computer voice. Frederick grit his teeth. He thought they had that under control. He attempted to boost power to the deflector shields. That should make him invisible. The cost, of course, was in speed and handling of the air craft.

"Incoming missile detected," the voice continued a beat later.

"What the . . .? How could a missile be incoming? First, they weren't supposed to have SAMs here. Second, without radar lock, how could the missile be aimed anywhere near him?

"Impact in 5, 4,"

Frederick swore under his breath, banked right, but the canyon wall was there, and while on his right wing, pulled a hard left, effectively taking him into a steep climb, narrowly missing the canyon wall.

The missile followed.

"Recalculating, impact in 3, 2," He swerved, getting desperate now. He'd done this long ago, but had he lost his touch?

He had to pull up drastically to avoid a rock wall that projected into the canyon, and there was another missile in his face! How in the . . .

Frederick's world went white, and he tore off the VR goggled, cursing quietly.

His servant tripped in his attempt to stop suddenly on his approach to his master's bedside, and he now backpeddled and all but ran, backward, bowing, from the room as Frederick struggled to a sitting position.

Weak willed district slaves. If he weren't so physically weak himself he'd wring that one's neck. What was his name? It didn't matter. Good thing Frederick's motorized wheel chair was there beside the bed, and there were no cameras in the room. He struggled into the chair and used the little control at his hand to manuver the chair out the door. So much work to be done. The only time he had to enjoy the simulations was before getting up in the morning. It was a horrible job foisted upon him; President of the Americas. But someone had to do it, and until someone else got the better of him, the job was his.

4/30/2012 #3
Alexander Starkiller

Jason ducked, swerved, and rolled through the dirt, pushing himself up to run around a dilapidated corner. He sprinted down the corridor, his eyes and gun roaming from left to right, right to left, firing laser tags at the targts. He dove forward as one was going to ping his "smart" armour, bringing his rifle to his shoulder as he stood, swinging 90 degrees to the right and popping off two "shots" before running forward again. As he burst through double doors, he fired at three more targets, the final one sounding a soft buzzer to signal the end of the test. He panted quietly, legs spread slightly, letting himself regain some energy.

His hard-as-nails instructor, as usual, came out to tell him what a sloppy job he did. After at least a minute of ranting and criticism, he actually let out a soft chuckle. Jason was shocked.

"Lookie here, boy. You did the test in one minute and forty-three seconds. That's by no fantasy a record, but you've got your a** on the team. A shrimp like you, in the Capitol's elite squad... When I die, I'll make sure to tell you how cold it is," he said, the pride poorly hidden. Jason grinned. He'd known the man for years, constantly being berated and talked down to. But, if anyone was his father, the sergeant was. And the pride was contagious.

[As long as a form of military, or "peacekeeping" group is still around, I hope he's acceptable as a PC. I'll need a tribute PC eventually, but Jason should work for now.]

4/30/2012 #4
MongooseDelta

(works for me. Note the name differences. Competitors. Guard. I still used Capitol, but the word "Government" will appear more often. Still used "Districts." Might change that to "territories," or some such. I'm open to suggestions on all of these.)

4/30/2012 #5
Alexander Starkiller

[Phew. I wrote several different modern day elite groups before I remembered they wouldn't fit. And I had forgotten the word you used, so I didn't use any. So, I'll use Guard from now on. And Competitor... it sounds too noble but too detached. Something more similar to "Tribute" is fine, because it implies the nobility of being such a lofty thing--to the brainwashed Capitol citizens--, and a sort of connection to the people, like they are doing it for their District, not because of fame or because they had to--like a Competitor. But, I know you aren't making this exactly like the Hunger Games, so if that's what you're going for, okay. And if we're going for a more detached feel, Territories would be the right word.]

4/30/2012 #6
MongooseDelta

(You win. Heh. I'll go back to the terms used in "The Hunger Games." Just keep in mind that everyone's free to deviate plot and characterwise.)

4/30/2012 . Edited 4/30/2012 #7
Alexander Starkiller

[I didn't win, really. I just did what I always do: explain things to heck. I didn't know what you were aiming for, so I gave the reasons for naming it either way.]

4/30/2012 #8
MongooseDelta

(After a little thought I realized that genetic engineering and selective breeding would be okay in this thread if they are limited to a very few characters (like, one) in the Capitol. My reasoning: The capitol used these techniques extensively during the wars, in the Hunger Games. Again, this thread need not follow the Hunger Games, but if it's in the books and movie it also fits in here. Space travel, on the other hand, would not fit unless you could make a VERY good case for it. Same with super powers. If you have questions, feel free to ask.

And Valentine, your PC is fine.)

5/1/2012 #9
Alexander Starkiller

[Okay. And space travel probably won't work in this story. But, as a backstory it works. There's a good chance that the government, if they knew an apocalypse was inevitable, would have tried it as a way to escape certain death, even if it failed miserably.]

5/1/2012 #10
Monsieur-Dollface
(Ok, cool. I'll write up something tomorrow maybe, though....my character introduction isn't going to be as....dramatic? We'll see)
5/1/2012 #11
Monsieur-Dollface

(I've been debating and trying to figure out what to write, and I'm not coming up with anything spectacular, so sorry if this intro is lame.)

It was quite dark in the room he woke up in. Laying on his stomach with his, literally red, and fine, hair draped across his back, Oliver O'Brian lifted his head from his pillow, and listened. Judging by the lack of noise, he supposed it was early morning. Blinking a few times, his right eye adjusting, Oliver slid out of his bed and opened the curtains hiding his window. With his window facing away from the rising sun, one could only make an outline of his small, idealistic, and feminine-like frame.

Moving away from the window, he entered into his bathroom, slipping off his clothes, and hung them onto a wall hook before stepping into the shower. The lights had turned on when he had entered his bathroom, and as he fiddled with the temperature, he listened again. Nothing. The lukewarm water sprayed gently on his slim form, and he lathered his mid-back length hair. Quickly washing himself, he stepped out of the shower into another stall, and pushing a few odd buttons, and warm current of air rose up from beneath his feet, drying him off. He brushed his hair, which had no resistance to the brush, then fixed it into a loose ponytail. He'd braid it after he dressed.

Pulling on simpler clothing today, such as simple black pants and a baggy-long-sleeved off-white shirt, Oliver stood in front of a full body mirror braiding the hair that wasn't inside of the loose ponytail, and secured that with an elastic. It still surprised him how small in size, not height, he was and he was femimine in the face, but not so much that he looked like a woman, but he was indeed feminine. That was due to his design, his idealistic, flawless, small, doll design. Sighing, he pulled on an burgundy outer corset and laced it tight. Grabbing a sleeveless, darker burgundy coat with golden metal trim on the bottom with clock gear spokes on the end, he headed to the door of his home.

He needed to check in with the doctor.

And he had to face awkward adorations of the citizens of the Capitol. It was all because of his design.

He heard nothing.

5/5/2012 #12
MongooseDelta

(I see no problem with that. I'll wait for someone to post a game master, or in a few days I'll assume that role if no one else does, and then I'll initiate the selection of tributes, or whatever. Each person playing a tribute or whatever will get to decide HOW their tribute is selected, but wait for me to post something about that before posting the selection piece itself. Thanks.)

5/5/2012 #13
Monsieur-Dollface
(Ok, cool. I've got another character or two, just didn't feel like writing them in right today, I'm still figuring them out, so stay tuned)
5/5/2012 #14
Alexander Starkiller

[Well, what's a sutiably too-grand name for the game master? Just throw one at me and I'll use it, because all I can think of is some horrible adaptation of the one from Hunger Games', and I'd rather not use that.]

5/7/2012 #15
MongooseDelta

(Gilbert. Frederick. Frank. Smith. Jonas. Rodriguaz. Ramoan. Eduardo. Filipe. Antonie. Julias. )

5/10/2012 #16
Alexander Starkiller

Frank Doyle slowly opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. Normally he'd indulge in going back to sleep, but it was that time of the year again and he was excited. He sat up, scratching at his soft stomach, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He forced himself to stand, glancing at his--ever so handsome--reflection in one of his mirrors before walking into his lavish bathroom. Taking a long shower, he eventually felt clean enough to step out and dry off, followed by a walk into his closet, and picking out a sharp forest--ha, forest--green suit with a black shirt and tie. He had a meeting to attend, when he called it to be anyway, and he wanted to look his best. It was that time of year after all.

[Good start, yea or nay?]

5/11/2012 #17
MongooseDelta

(Very Nice. Thank you.)

Frederick's agenda awaited him at the table on the deck overlooking his garden. It was the place he preferred to work. Mesh all around, a translucent roof overhead; it was well protected from all the unpleasant things associated with the outside, but still got plenty of sunlight and a cool breeze. Of course, if it were too windy he'd just go back inside.

The agenda was full. He had precisely 15 minutes for each activity, with a five minute break between. The pace would kill lesser men. He managed it all stoically. People wondered if he had a heart in him. A heart was a weakness, so he didn't much care. Well, if he were to be honest . . . but that would use up another two minutes he could scarcely spare.

He was done reviewing his agenda, and tapped a little bell on his wheel chair arm. 30 seconds later, 10 seconds too long, a servant hurried up, bowing, and keeping his eyes downcast.

"Summon the Game Master. NOW!"

The man backed hurriedly away, bowing all the while until he exited the half-room-half-deck.

Assuming the game master showed up on time -- never a safe assumption, but people seemed to scurry when the president gave the orders. That or they were "replaced." -- Frederick would have 30 minutes to complete a task or two before the game master showed. He might almost be able to relax. With a small grunt he looked back at his agenda, marked an item, and moved on.

5/11/2012 . Edited 5/11/2012 #18
Monsieur-Dollface

Oliver paused at the door, then shrugged off the burgundy coat. The weather was nice enough today without it. A mirror stood beside him, and he stared at himself for a moment. His hair wasn't as short as he thought it had been; it was closer to the waist instead of mid-back, and he was shorter than he thought. A slender, small five-foot-nine. It was interesting what he really noticed about himself when he looked; one feature was inmistakeable: his right eye, the eye that was completely clockwork. It was beautiful, but reminded him that he was not completely human, as with his clockwork heart. He could literally say he did not have a heart, he never knew the sound of a heartbeat.

All was still quiet.

His shirt bothered him, so he unlaced the corset and chose another off-white shirt with a long, wide tail with more spokes on the end that stopped just above the ankle with yet again more metallic gold trim. Lacing the outer corset tighter then the last time, Oliver sighed, playing with a strand of his red hair. He was delibrately delaying leaving his house to see the doctor. He didn't mind the doctor himself, it was the citizens between here and there. He, quite literally, was an object of desire, purely by the design of his features and small, slender body. He attracted himself too much attention for his liking, and it would end up being the end of him. Not that he had anything to lose, except for maybe his entire humanity.

Picking out dark grey pants with black lacing filling holes in the knees and a lace-like skirt attached to the top of the pants that hung down to mid-high, he changed into those as well to pass time. Then, finally, he slipped on small black boots with a slight heel to them and walked out the door. Immediately his right eye, only to his hearing, made a soft whirring noise as it adjusted to the light. Stepping down from his home stairs onto the sidewalk, Oliver turned to the left and made his way to the doctor. Already he was getting stares of affection, or lust, so he hurried his way down the street. He hated these people, he honestly did. He had several thoughts of leaving this place, leaving it entirely. To where, he wasn't sure. Out of habit, Oliver rotated his articulated wrist, bending it in every single direction. There was a benefit of being a doll; he could twist, bend, rotate, move in every way a normal human couldn't; example being that he could rotate his limbs 360 quite normally as if it were the most natural thing, which it was to him. He was the most flexible man out there, there was no one to compare to him.

He paused again. Still nothing.

And more people looked his way.

5/12/2012 #19
Alexander Starkiller

Adjusting his tie, the game master walked to his dining room to a carefully prepared breakfast. As he tucked in to eat, one of Frederick's servants had arrived with a summons. This rather frustrated him, he needed to move his meeting now. But a summons was plenty enough motivation. He ate until we was at least full, smacking his lips at the delicious meal. His servants were performing well. Leaving the dirtied plate, he stood and left his home, walking in a measured sort of way that looked almost silly--not that anyone would tell him this, as he was both a man of import, and there'd been stranger walks.

It took Doyle only ten minutes to arrive after he had finished breakfast, though the total time eluded him--something like 39 minutes had passed since the President had sent the servant, not that Doyle was to know. He let himself in to the manor in which his leader resided, a servant waiting to lead him to the garden. Doyle waited by the door, in a lazy sort of attention as he waited for Frederick to call him in.

5/14/2012 #20
MongooseDelta

The Game Master was late. How late didn't really matter. He wasn't 15 minutes early, therefore he was late. The President didn't have time for people to be late. But to blow up at them would be to show himself a bully, and he was a little too mature for that. Instead he would show his power.

Frederick checked his agenda and began the next thing on the list. Parsing out a budget for public works. He had a staff to do that, but had to double check their work. Nobody seemed to know how to keep the streets from flooding during the rainy season anymore.

That took fifteen minutes, while he knew Doyle was waiting. Then he tapped a bell, a servant showed, and he commanded that Doyle be shown in. In those next moments before Doyle arrived he ran through several possible approaches in his over-active mind, and finally settled on one. He gave the man a blank stare, long enough for him to grow uncomfortable.

5/20/2012 #21
Alexander Starkiller

Doyle was already sweating before he was ushered in, and under the gaze of the president, he started a suppressed shaking, and immediately stopped thinking of the man as Fred. He knew why the president was mad, but it was never a good idea to just assume. The president had all the power, and Doyle knew that if he acted on his assumption, the president could come up with something else just to make Doyle even more uncomfortable and threatened. Still, it was an (un)safe bet that it was because Doyle kept the man waiting for too long that he was in trouble.

Playing dumb, fitting a role he was born for, he asked meekly, "What is it, sir?" He made no direct eye contact, as it wasn't safe to do that until the mood was better, even when the president had no intention of actually killing him and was just making him uneasy.

5/20/2012 #22
Monsieur-Dollface

A few approached him as he walked to his doctor, and he made pleasant small talk in his Irish accent at their admirations. Oh, how he was so lucky, oh how he had a perfect figure, oh how his hair was perfect and this and that was beautiful and they wanted it all. Oliver didn't doubt that they would try something to alter themselves to become beautiful like him, feminized male, although still quite male. Their chatter made him nervous with its energy of envy and lust intertwined inside of it; it would only be a matter of time that there would be some twisted law that would allow people to force him into their company, whatever that would imply.

He kept moving, leaving behind the small group of citizens that continued their chatter. Although most went on about their lives, Oliver still felt their eyes on him. Actually, he hardly felt a moment to where he wasn't watched; which was very true. Realities like that made him feel sympathic towards people who were absolutely paranoid, such as his neighbor, Christian Hudson. The poor fellow suffered from Paranoid Schizophrenia, and hardly ever left his home, which meant that Oliver went over several times to check on the man.

He rather liked Christian, or Chris he preferred, because out of all the insanity of this city, Chris seemed to be one of the few that was sane, despite his mental illness. He even dressed like a normal human being; a disheveled, loose black suit with a white undershirt was something that looked quite bland to the taste of others in the Capitol, but Oliver liked it. It made the man stick out as a reminder of something once normal and less hostile. His pale, ivory skin was also bland in comparison and his slightly messy, medium length black hair was also quite normal. Funny how the most normal of people had a mental illness, but was still the most sane among them.

Oliver wasn't sure if the sanity reached to the higher officials, or not. He highly doubted it, but it wasn't something he should voice. Not quite yet. Chris had a job, although Oliver wasn't completely sure what it was. Something along the lines of communication connections; he wasn't sure. He had some knowledge about the higher ups for sure, wouldn't he? It'd be possible. Ah well, he'd stop in to see Chris after he came back from the doctor.

There was still nothing to hear.

A few more minutes of quick paced walking, and he found himself climbing the steps up to his doctor's office. Resting his small hand on the green metal handle, Oliver couldn't help but smile. He like Doctor Alphonse Green; the man was also sane in his opinion, however, not as normal as Chris.

5/23/2012 #23
MongooseDelta

The President stared dispassionately for another beat at his Game Maker. He liked to see people sweat. But business had to be completed.

He forced a shallow smile and slapped his hand on the table.

"It's time to select the tributes for this year's games," he said. "I don't have to remind you of what happened to the last Game Maker, but I will tell you why. He was SOFT!" He hardly raised his voice, but it was clear that he despised that characteristic. "Thought he could be nice and helpful to the tributes, as though more than one could survive. I'd be happy if they all died, but I realize the public response might be less than optimal to that." He scoffed.

"SO, I want you to make it difficult for them. I want at least half of them to die because of what you do with the arena. The rest can kill each other, but the survivor should be certifiably insane. Much more amusing that way. Do you understand?"

5/24/2012 . Edited 5/24/2012 #24
Fleur-de-lis Evans

Alana Royale slid her eyes to her periphery observing the men and women around her. There were few she trusted outside the capitol, if she ever saw them. And none she trusted inside the capitol. She was, after all, an outsider to the inner workings of the 'state.' In her opinion this made her a good candidate for the job of Weapons Design, Coordination and Distribution. In all honesty, she herself was quite a dangerous person to mess with.

Unlike most women, Alana was fit, muscled and yet lean. She carried a twelve pack, even-toned muscles in her biceps and triceps, and her legs, although in even proportion with the length of her torso, were six-feet two-inches of toned muscles that together made her lethal without the aid of the weapons or armor she designed. People often gossiped about her, saying she was on steroids or that she had clearly taken advantage of the Capitol's anonymous program for transgender transformation.

Like all banal chatter, Alana put those people out of her mind. They were insignificant. The only people in the capitol she cared about were the President and the Game Master. She turned from the loosely packed back-sectors of the Capitol walking swiftly toward the main mansion. She lived, in her opinion in the best way, modestly in a one-bedroom retro-fitted apartment in the 'Soho' district. Nobody bothered her and she didn't bother to speak to anyone, so the privacy afforded her the space and the time to get her portfolio together.

At that thought, she brought her hand swiftly up cupping a Swiss Pocket Watch in her hand. She clicked it open checking for both the time and the small pills she kept hidden in the hollowed out catch. She didn't expect to use them, at least not on herself. To her satisfaction her clock read a full hour before her appointment time.

She approached the mansion, her white-metal briefcase held at her side. She made eye contact with the main guard on this side of the house. She stood by the gate, hoping to be shown in. If any questions were asked she had answers. And, if need be she was ready to demonstrate her skills. She was practical, but not unintelligent. She did the minimal research she could before arriving in the Capitol, and she knew what kind of atmosphere she dealt with.

The kind that made it both a precaution and necessary for her to conceal throwing knives in her boots and one on each arm. To have a bullet-proof and tight mesh vest, which protected against most knives both sewn into and worn under her white suite. And a couple pistols concealed in her jacket, ammunition ready at her hip.

For now, she watched and waited. When a question was asked she answered, "Alana Royale. I am here to see the President about Weapons Design."

5/25/2012 . Edited 5/25/2012 #25
MongooseDelta

(She has an appointment, right? That's fine and I can make something of it, but you'll have to wait a while.)

"Continue through the gate, ma'am" the disinterested guard said, gesturing in that direction.

There was a metal detector and several peace keepers in uniform, armor, and heavily armed. These were different than the peace keepers that operated elsewhere. In the districts they merely enforced the law more or less strictly. They were like a military police, or a more militant SWAT team from before the war. In most of the capitol they were merely glorified security guards. Here at the capitol building/Presidential mansion, however, they were soldiers. They looked and acted like soldiers. They hadn't been in combat, persee, since there was no combat to be in, but their commanding officer had been and he trained them constantly for it. If it came down they were as ready as anyone to kill anything that moved. In a very disciplined way, of course, intended to leave alive anyone their CO said to leave alive.

(This would be an excellent opportunity to bring the operative into play that we saw earlier. He needn't necessarily be on guard duty, but there's bound to be a reaction when Alana encounters the metal detector and guards, and if he's not already there he might be brought in.)

5/25/2012 #26
Fleur-de-lis Evans

[Mongoose:Is the operative someone else's character or did I mention that type of character in my post? I'd like to know the answer, so I know how much to write. I will add if necessary]

The man's body language was stiff and impersonal. He stood ram-rod straight and had that type of "vibe" that spoke of hard training and the ability to be a combative. Alana kept that in mind walking with an equally straight and non-combative stance. She had no reason to start anything with anyone. But if anything did start she didn't intend to be on the loosing side.

Walking straight for the entrance she smiled to herself - the expression making it to neither her face nor her eyes. Her expression remained callous and neutral, but she gave herself some credit for inventing durable knives, which cut like steel and sharpened similarly, but which were made with a non-metal alloy. The casing for them, durable and fire-proof handles, made for sleek, non-obvious weapons which made it past metal detectors. Her other weapons, including her case, however would go through the conveyor belt scanner.

She reached the conveyor belt set her case into a plastic tub and removed all arm and torso weapons. The ammunition belt went into a separate tub, along with her sun glasses and loose change. She stepped up to the detector waiting to be motioned through. She hoped she wouldn't have to go through unnecessary questioning. She was a weapons specialist, requested by the President or his staff. So she had weapons. She also took out her wallet prepared to show licence and ID. The knives, which were stream-line and hidden seamlessly in her boots she did not remove nor did she remove her boots.

5/26/2012 #27
MongooseDelta

(The operative was someone else's. Alexander, maybe?)

The guard on the other side of the scanner took the tub full of items and handed it off to another soldier who carried it quickly to a secure room off to the side. Neither of them said a word to the woman. Neither of them looked at the woman. That wasn't their job. It was the job of other men and women. One of the men motioned her to step through the metal detector and toward him. Even as she did so, he took a step back, barring her path but staying out of her range, ensuring that his weapon was ready, but not threatening her with it.

A female soldier stepped forward and ordered her to hold her arms out and spread her legs. (If the weapons person obeys) she then began a thorough pat down, looking for any object that could be considered a threat. She took her job very seriously, knew where a woman might hide things, and wasn't afraid to invade the subject's privacy or personal space.

The other guards maintained alertness and open lines of fire on the woman being checked, such that they could shoot her if need be without endangering each other in the process.

(Just in case anyone wondered, I don't have it in for this PC, and neither do my PCs and NPCs. This is standard procedure for anyone entering the mansion.)

5/26/2012 #28
Monsieur-Dollface

Turning the handle, Oliver slipped silently into a warm colored, small waiting room with darker forest green leather chairs. There was the scent of fresh spring grass, and Oliver relaxed as he approached the front desk to check in. Anna, the lady with soft yellow hair with extraordinary pink make-up, smiled at him as he announced his presence quietly and got up to get the doctor.

After about 15 minutes later, a green-haired older looking man stood at the door, and gave him a tired, but genuine smile. His long green hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, and his glasses were spotless, "Come on in, Oliver."

There was no hesitation in following him, so in one fluid motion, Oliver stood and was beside the doctor. He remained silent until they entered the first patient room.

"What seems to be the problem, Oliver? We've only seen each other last week, you know."

"It's the silence, it's my heart..."

Alphonse gave a small, sigh but kept a patient expression.

"Oliver, this is what you ask me every time you visit me. You're heart is perfectly fine; it's rather unique, something like none of us have. The one and only purely original in all of the Capitol. No one else is like you. You're perfectly healthy."

"But I sometimes wonder...what a real heart sounds like, instead of the silence or the ever so soft, tic ticking of my clockwork heart. Am I less than the citizens? Less than human?"

He looked up to see Alphonse wearing his tired smile, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"There are many with real hearts, Oliver, that act like they don't have one. Don't judge your humanity just on your heart. Come, I'll take a look at it anyways."

6/1/2012 #29
Fleur-de-lis Evans

She kept her eyes on her belongings watching as the tubs were carried to a secure side room. She knew they were probably going to search through the identification, attempt to open her case, and thoroughly check everything that had to do with her. After all, this wasn't just any mansion she was entering. It was the President's.

Which was why, despite the fact she was here to meet with said President, she was being motioned through the scanner. As usual, the detector didn't go off. She moved swiftly to the indicated area moving her legs shoulder width apart and lifting her arms. She waited for the pat-down to end keeping herself tuned in and prepared for anything to happen. Just because they were the security detail for the place didn't mean she trusted them, and they didn't trust her, so it was a pretty fair bet something interesting would happen, if the pat-down didn't go as she expected to.

6/2/2012 #30
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