7th Design [accidental video/voice]
[The video opens on Cinna, sitting on the train. The device is laying on the seat across from him so the view is a little cock-eyed, but you can clearly see him sitting on the seat, hand-stitching the hem of a skirt and trying very hard not to look out the window.
Every so often the picture goes to static or jumps and rolls as the signal waxes and wanes in strength.
Finally, he finishes his hem, ties off his thread, and pulling the scissors from his bag, he snips the end. Once finished, you can see him place his instruments back in their proper places - needle in a magnetic case, spool of thread in a plastic one, the scissors slipped into a case of their own all with their own places inside his bag. Meticulous, thy name is Cinna. The skirt is draped over the seat.
It's Rue-sized, for those who would notice those things, and embroidered with yellow flowers.
The picture jumps again, this time blacking out for a moment, the sound of the train continuing on in the darkness. With a hiss of static, the picture's back and Cinna can be seen, but not his face as she's standing, arms up like he's reaching for something. When he comes into view the bag is gone, presumably neatly stowed on the rack above his head.
He pauses, eyes tranfixed on the view for a moment as the picture rolls and words can barely be heard.]
That's Twelve.
[It takes a moment for him to tear his eyes away and when he does, they fall on the network device, it's blinking red light letting him know he's been seen. His eyes roll with the picture as he reaches out and picks it up, his expression solemn, but slightly amused.]
At least this saves me the call I was going to make. Yes, I'm on the tr--n, and no, the --rse didn't end at midni--t. But I do want to say th-s - if you're not on the train already, don't get --. I've seen new people arri-- and they become as tra---d as the rest of us.
Katniss and Finn--k, I'm talking to you.
[He sighs, as if he knows his words will fall on mostly deaf ears. Rubbing his eyes he pauses like he's trying to think of something to say. After a moment his eyebrows raise and he speaks again, shifting in view of the camera. He pulls up his train ticket, a little worn from being in his pocket since yesterday.]
You know, I think the man check--- these is the same one that I've seen at the H--l of the Missing? I've gone there once or --ice to look at the paint--s - different fash----, different eras. As depressing as it --, there's some ---y good portraiture in there. [He pauses again.]
Ah, well. Katniss? Can you check on m- sh-p --d ma-- s-re....
[The video goes entirely to static, the audio mostly a mess. What can be heard is the snippty-clack of scissors, opening and closing swiftly, over and over and over again, before a hollow thud send the picture to black and the audio to silent.
Time clicks on, one minute, then another, before a hazy image appears, the device shooting from the floor. On the seat to the left of the view, one can see Cinna's bag, closed and neatly placed on the seat. The skirt he was working on is neatly folded and next to it. But as the static makes the picture shake, it's not the bag or the skirt that will hold anyone's attention.
It's Cinna, slumped on the ground in a sitting position under the window with his own scissors protruding from his chest, crimson blood wet and dripping down his shirt. His breath hitches once, twice, and he looks down at the hand in his lap, ticket still in his fingers, but now burnt and singed. His chest rises, but when it falls, it doesn't rise again and his eyes, still open, loose focus.]
[ooc: Backdated to high noon. Anyone is free to action or otherwise spam this post.]
Every so often the picture goes to static or jumps and rolls as the signal waxes and wanes in strength.
Finally, he finishes his hem, ties off his thread, and pulling the scissors from his bag, he snips the end. Once finished, you can see him place his instruments back in their proper places - needle in a magnetic case, spool of thread in a plastic one, the scissors slipped into a case of their own all with their own places inside his bag. Meticulous, thy name is Cinna. The skirt is draped over the seat.
It's Rue-sized, for those who would notice those things, and embroidered with yellow flowers.
The picture jumps again, this time blacking out for a moment, the sound of the train continuing on in the darkness. With a hiss of static, the picture's back and Cinna can be seen, but not his face as she's standing, arms up like he's reaching for something. When he comes into view the bag is gone, presumably neatly stowed on the rack above his head.
He pauses, eyes tranfixed on the view for a moment as the picture rolls and words can barely be heard.]
That's Twelve.
[It takes a moment for him to tear his eyes away and when he does, they fall on the network device, it's blinking red light letting him know he's been seen. His eyes roll with the picture as he reaches out and picks it up, his expression solemn, but slightly amused.]
At least this saves me the call I was going to make. Yes, I'm on the tr--n, and no, the --rse didn't end at midni--t. But I do want to say th-s - if you're not on the train already, don't get --. I've seen new people arri-- and they become as tra---d as the rest of us.
Katniss and Finn--k, I'm talking to you.
[He sighs, as if he knows his words will fall on mostly deaf ears. Rubbing his eyes he pauses like he's trying to think of something to say. After a moment his eyebrows raise and he speaks again, shifting in view of the camera. He pulls up his train ticket, a little worn from being in his pocket since yesterday.]
You know, I think the man check--- these is the same one that I've seen at the H--l of the Missing? I've gone there once or --ice to look at the paint--s - different fash----, different eras. As depressing as it --, there's some ---y good portraiture in there. [He pauses again.]
Ah, well. Katniss? Can you check on m- sh-p --d ma-- s-re....
[The video goes entirely to static, the audio mostly a mess. What can be heard is the snippty-clack of scissors, opening and closing swiftly, over and over and over again, before a hollow thud send the picture to black and the audio to silent.
Time clicks on, one minute, then another, before a hazy image appears, the device shooting from the floor. On the seat to the left of the view, one can see Cinna's bag, closed and neatly placed on the seat. The skirt he was working on is neatly folded and next to it. But as the static makes the picture shake, it's not the bag or the skirt that will hold anyone's attention.
It's Cinna, slumped on the ground in a sitting position under the window with his own scissors protruding from his chest, crimson blood wet and dripping down his shirt. His breath hitches once, twice, and he looks down at the hand in his lap, ticket still in his fingers, but now burnt and singed. His chest rises, but when it falls, it doesn't rise again and his eyes, still open, loose focus.]
[ooc: Backdated to high noon. Anyone is free to action or otherwise spam this post.]