Synis Raphael St. Claire - District Thirteen [FIN]

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Dr. Hansel Kristoff
Resident Psychologist/Refugee Interviewer
Time: 4 36 PM, January 16, Year of the 56th Hunger Games

At this time, I will now be interviewing one; Synis St. Claire
She is twenty four years of age
Stands at five foot eight inches tall
And was formerly residing in District Six
She has one twin brother, Malcolm St. Claire
It is unknown if she is mute, or just refuses to speak
Let the interview commence

Ragged Rainments on a Rough Reality

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Another day, another refugee. I sigh and make my way through the winding corridors that mark the interrogation room of District Thirteen, noting with a critical but detached eye all the skeleton bodies that wait their salvation. They all turn with hopeful stares at my crisp uniform, but shudder in disappointment as I breeze past them on my way to my objective. Currently the door is closed - a portal into another world - and a guard gives a lazy salute before handing over my latest charge.

[/size] "Better watch this one, boss."
He mutters to me, shifting from foot to foot and glancing every so often into the crespuscular room where I can barely make out a slim outline of deeper dark; undoubtedly the latest one seeking aid. "She's special." I roll my eyes but give a slight wave at his advice, entering into the cramped space designed for utility, and not comfort. Just like everything else in this damnable place. When I sit upon the cold metal chair, the body across from me does not move an inch; but I can feel an inquisitive stare tracking every flutter of my fingers. It's well known that you can't give them even the slightest inkling that they're in control, or else they will twist and turn it on its head. Still, when I flip open my notebook and finally glance upwards, I'm met by the most intense pair of incandescent viridian eyes that glare outwards with too much maturity for such a young face.

For a moment our gazes lock, and I attempt to battle into submission the stare that is narrowed into one of utmost seriousness, but is usually quite open. Coupled with the set of pale lips set into a firm line, she appears much older than her written twenty four years. After a few breathless moments her orbs slide away, and it's easier to study the small details of her countenance.
"Well, you must be Synis, then." She gives a curt nod and her hair that lifts out in jagged spikes by her head, but bristles and curls in all directions nearing the ends bounces slightly with her. As per all the wanderers and lower Districts, it is oily and rough, but tamed into a windswept quality.
As I review the sparse notes on her past life and reason for being, she absently rubs a thumb along narrow ridge of her nose; likely a nervous habit. The nostrils flare out in agitation as I take my time flipping through the pages (admittedly, most are blank), deliberately tapping out an erratic rhythm with the toes of my foot. To her credit she barely stirs - instead staring at the wall just past my head. "Care to tell me why you're here?" Again she stays silent, the severe frown swiveling to watch me without distraction. It vaguely occurs that I should be mildly uncomfortable under such scrutiny even as she traces the planes of my aged features, but I remain still and impassive under her care. Eventually she relents and the positively drawn angles of her face reverts to simply defined yet elegant angles, a sharp jaw rounded out by a firm, stubbed chin. Her bangs fall in front of her eyes, hiding her large forehead and tapered temples from view.

Synis is indeed special, as the guard had previously warned. For a moment it's unsure whether or not she actually possesses the female parts required, but a cursory glance down confirms underdeveloped breasts hidden behind her threadbare shirt and loose fabrics. She cranes her short, but admittedly feminine neck - in fact, it's the only way to easily discern her as the correct gender, she lacks an Adam's apple - backwards to crack the swanlike bones inside, flashing glimpses of a delicate collarbone and the shallow hollow of her throat. Her off-white shirts rises up for a moment along with the shrug of her oddly wide but still lanky shoulders, a hint of lightly tanned skin that tightly covers the faint outline of curving ribs and taut planes of muscle painstakingly carved from countless nights of walking back and forth between the Districts.

I raise an eyebrow and jot down a few careful notes into the blank book, noting with a sigh that it will either remain almost empty or be filled to the top. There's always those people that can't be easy to admit or reject, and you have to dig deep to uncover their reasoning. For a moment I'm tempted to just throw her out, but there's something about the way her biceps that curve with tightly defined lines as they're perched in her lap with spindly fingers that drum a nervous tune against the ragged fabric of her jeans. The skin around her nails are eaten away from another habit she's probably yet to break, leaving them a slightly lighter pink than her chapped knuckles and creamy forearms.

"Well?" Despite being known as a reputed interrogator, patience is not my strong suite. She will either spill her sad story (and really, aren't they all?) that remains lodges in the recesses of her throat, or she will ushered out and back into the burning light of day. For a moment she hesitates (yes, little girl. Speak your mind.) but I can almost see the tense of her jaw as the words remain nothing but echoes in her mind. My head shakes of its own accord and she curls in further to herself, arms linking around gangly legs that fit into a pair of skinnytight jeans, ripped beyond all normalcy and fashion. From their wear it's most probably the only thing she owns, but the stubborn stance stops whatever small vestiges of pity that would well up and grant me a temper to help pace through this perhaps pointless interview. Her fingers play an invisible instrument against the slim expanse of her thighs, where they fit into pants that should really be too small for somebody of her stature. Synis' calves are curled in so that large feet rest comfortably against an armrest, slight muscle pressing against the larger portion of her legs. With her back against the other bare, metal bar, it's a wonder that she doesn't snap in half. Though it's obvious I'm staring not so subtly, I can't help but he temporarily entranced by the shifting of bones underneath her skin; her spine arches out from neck to tail like an serpentine beast that would slither right out of her flesh.

She plays with the laces of her worn shoes again, shrugging in that non-committal way of people who have much to tell but little want to do just that. It's been a good fifteen minutes that we've been watching each other with clandestine movements and careful readjustments of the body - that's plenty more than I should have given. I stand up briskly, fully intending to tell her off for wasting my time. Instead, a completely different sentence spills from my mouth. "Will you ever be ready to talk?" An open invitation. The girl stares hard for a moment and I turn to walk away - from the corner of my eye I see an almost white tongue come out to wet lips that have lost their edge. "That depends. Will you ever be ready to listen?"

She just talked back to me. The thought is but an undercurrent to my obvious curiosity; she frowns and clears her throat as if she isn't happy with the way she sounds. Her voice is deep and musical, it holds a boyish charm but is entirely too svelte to be of the male gender. I sit back down slowly (she plays absently with the collar of her button shirt while watching me with that fierce glare) and twirl the pencil within my fingers. "Of course. What will I be listening to?"

---

A Sympathetic Sinner in a Sea of Stained Saints

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She pulls in a hesitating breath and scowls, eyes boring holes into the stainless steel table. Now that I've got her attention I'm not planning on letting it go any time soon - she's just too interesting a case to pass up. From the corner of my eye I see the guard out front tapping his wrist impatiently (what are you doing? you're taking too long) but I wave him off with an impatient flick of my now stationary pencil. Even as her teeth grit in annoyance I see her hands curl into fists and press against her lower back - where the shirt has ridden up I can see swirling marks embedded deep into her skin, elegant and wrapping around the feather-light bones of her hips. Tattoos? In District Six? "I never wanted to do it." She offers to the air, eyes glossed into some distant time from a far away place. A thumb uncurls to run along the seamless flesh, inky black marks smooth from a professionals touch. "I hated showing my body to strangers. It make me feel inferior." I arch an eyebrow, and quietly scribble down the first thing in my blank pages.

Self Conscious.

My body settles back into its - slightly - more comfortable chair, watching her form with impassive eyes. "You were a prostitute for a long time. You haven't gotten over it?" Syins shrugs one shoulder and sighs, never taking her gaze from the glimmering table. Yet, she seems more or less in this reality now, not trapped in another nightmare. "Not really. I did it for my brother. As long as he was safe, I could stomach whatever came my way." I flip back through my notes, scanning for a family member. The only other person she cam e with was a boy named Malcolm St. Claire. Thinking back, I thought I recognized two twins huddled together, with almost identical clothing. However, the shorter one seemed more... damaged. Like his delicate bones were unable to take the weight of what happened.
"He's everything to me." She murmurs quietly, a rare smile gracing the continuously frustrated or eerily blank expressions that dominate her features. Again, the pencil moves.
Protective.

I clear my throat, and it snaps her out of her sentimental daze. Again her eyebrows draw in and I see the walls closing back up, so I throw out the only thing that seems to make her want to talk. "What have you done to protect him?" The smirk that crawls up her lips is positively wicked in its execution; eyes narrowing dangerously as she recalls with a much darker voice than I initially thought the young woman sitting across from me could conjure. It just doesn't sound right against her husky vocals. "There was some john going to him, touching him in all the wrong places. That really pissed me off, so I did the first thing I could think of - I took a beer bottle and smashed it over his head." Sometimes when people speak of past crimes they are almost looking for a sort of repentance; she almost seems proud with the smug satisfaction painting her countenance in the cruelest light. This one goes down without a thought.

Rash.

The sudden silence is deafening against the previous onslaught of noise, we eye each over cautiously through clandestine glances. Synis shifts to move - I notice with a restrained eye that she arches her chest out naturally - and her muscles roll in one co-ordinated motion; I highly doubt she notices the sudden lidding of her eyes and the seductive expression that momentarily overtakes her face. As she settles into her new position ours eyes lock, and she notes my expression with a certain degree of irritated confusion. "What?" she snaps in kempt annoyance, before glancing down at her now languorous but provocative posture. With a quick sigh she curls back into herself, before hesitating and throwing ratty shoes up onto the table. To my credit, I don't scowl.
"Sorry." The girl grumbles, crossing lithe arms across her small chest. "I don't notice that I do it at times. I've been a whore for so long that it's all I know, despite the fact that I hate it."
Conflicted.

"How did you escape?" It was always a question of mine. While some places are more lax than others, getting out of a District that boasts guns, guards and electric wire was always a question of mine. Synis twists her lips up into a self-satisfied grin, watching me with her head tilted back. She subconsciously rakes short nails up and down her arm as she thinks, undoubtedly trying to articulate her thoughts into sentences that will impress me. "We were hired for a john that likes the twin act." At my confused expression, she waves her hands in a dismissive gesture. "Some sick fucks like to watch us because we look the same. Don't ask me why," She grimaces. "Anyway, he was going to a lower District by train. We would be his consorts by day, and entertain him at night. On the third day, we waited until he was asleep. See, the train would always stop at about three in the morning for fuel, because that monster swallows like nobody's business." Her mouth quirks at the crude joke she executed. "With well-placed fingers, we got past the guards and never looked back. It took ages to get here, though. Stole all of the bastard's money that was meant for the ring that handled us." It's unsure how much of her story is actually true, but my head bobs of its own accord and scribbles down hastily. Cunning.

There is a certain hard glow about her that draws one in like a moth to the flame; many people here have the veiled heartbreak in their eyes, but she wears it proudly as a shield. It's strange that she can use something broken to guard her so well, but it seems to work. "Do you hate the johns you've serviced?" That seems to give her pause - emerald eyes narrow thoughtfully for a moment and she studies me with a hint of amusement, though her face remains carefully neutral. "Nah." she shrugs, lapsing into silence. I wait a full half-minute before raising an eyebrow, motioning for her to go on. She sighs, like explaining to a slow child. "They just wanted satisfaction. Some were a bit more rough than others, but I don't think they knew or wanted the treatment they were going through. It's nature's fault for giving them raging sex drives and a penchant for younger prostitutes." It floors me how she can so easily shake off all the humiliation projected to her, but it becomes apparent soon enough that her hate lies with her masters, not the pawns.
Forgiving.

I've long run from the scheduled time given to me, but this requires more thoroughness than usual. I've yet to receive an emotional reaction akin to what would be expected - whether it be a spout of irrational anger or incoherent tears - and it's slightly unnerving to view the blank expression save for the everpresent frown that marrs the delicate plains of her face. "What did they do to your brother to make him hurt so much?" It must have been the wrong question; her eyes harden to unbelievable degrees and the frown morphs into a scowl, lips curling slightly to expose teeth kept slick for whoever might want them. The slight twitch of one of her feet becomes violent and constricted, almost vibrating with unspoken tension. We watch each other warily, locking eyes and daring the other to speak.

"I don't have to answer that. Why do you want to know?" She snaps, even her voice oozing cold edges that has seeped in from her thoughts. The suspicion is from years of people taking advantage, I'm sure, but it's still uncalled for. Perhaps I'm exhibiting more interest than is healthy, but I know she knows she has to eventually if she has any hopes of seeking sanctuary. Guarded.

Silence descends once more and she twitches uncomfortably, fiddling with the frayed hem of her shirt and tapping against off-white nails. Twice it looks like she wants to speak, before massaging her throat and scowling at herself. In this light, she almost looks vulnerable. A soul too old to match the body. "I'm no good at this, you know." Synis sighs, running a hand through haphazard locks that spike out to frame her face. "This emotional shit. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. We were taught not to show our emotions, because the clients don't care about what's inside." With nimble grace she gets up and stretches, bones popping back into place from time spent cramped and cold. "I'm not going to change. If you take me, know that." I smile quietly. "I'm not asking you to." Her smile is hesitant - as if her mouth is trying to remember how to look content. The age melts off of her and all of a sudden she looks young again, like the twenty something she's supposed to be. A door slams and ruins the moment. "Good." She growls gruffly, back to her usual demeanor.

I get up from the uncomfortable chair and head for the door, eyeing the way she massages her throat wearily after the confrontation. "I'm going to go get some water. I'll be back soon. Take a break." Synis nods and turns away, watching the two-way window with a hint of trepidation. Just as I exit, I glance down at the last thing written in my book. Rough.

Tainted Truths Turn to Troubled Torment

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When I return she has perched herself on the edge of the table, playing a silent melody against the ragged stitching of her jeans. She looks up and takes the glass of water offered with a bob of the head I've come to learn as thanks, draining it quickly and blinking luminescent eyes in the cool half-dark. It seems she gathers up her strength for the epic tale she will have to weave; Synis has not spoken one in the several minutes that I have fluttered about this room in preparation. Eventually I settle down in the same chair - still slightly warm from ambient heat - and flip open my bound book, pages now filled with scribbles or absent notes that will later be drawn together into a profile.

She plays with the raw flesh around her fingernails and doesn't even flinch as she irritates the nubile skin, salt seeping into her wounds where it lingers and undoubtedly creates discomfort. The girl licks her lips and opens her mouth, frowning slightly and forcing the words in some jerky, stilted story. "Mama was good to us." She starts, fiddling with her shoelaces in an effort to release the nervous energy coiled inside her digits. "She worked real hard an' she had to - what with twins and Papa walkin' out because he didn't want any babies. Long hours, little pay, begged the neighbors to babysit us 'cause she was out washin' dishes all night. Mama wasn't brain smart like the scientists with the fancy gear an' complicated formulas, but she understood the ways of the world. That if we had any hope of becoming anything she had to work herself sick to provide for us. That scrapes and bruises were good for becoming who we were, an' adventures were encouraged." The faint, melancholy smile on her face is wistful and perhaps even pleased at the remembrance of careless days and sound nights.

"While Malcolm and I looked the same, we couldn't be more different in spirit. He was soft, quiet. Gentle an' kind to everybody that passed, but could hold a grudge like nobody's business. Unlike me, he was actually smart." Laugh. A low, melodious sound that could entrance a hapless bystander on the edges of this tragedy. "I was brash, loud an' rambunctious. I didn't care for skirts and dresses, an' I always came home muddy while he was squeaky clean. I struggled in school while he excelled, an' learned to be his protector because he couldn't do it himself. Much to Mama's annoyance, I adored an' was quite good at playing tricks on people."

She steals my water and takes a sip, lips quirking up into a faint smirk that disappears when the next sentence comes out. Her pitch drops several marks and clouds appear as a hazy nimbus in her eyes, brows drawing close into a pained frown. "We were eight when the dealers came.

The section we were living in was 'protected' by mobsters. You know, the types with sharp tongues an' sandman hands. Papa was in bad debt with the wrong people, an' she had continuously fended them off until now. When they came around to collect what they were due she hid us away in the dresser so that we could only hear them when they started to yell. Like if you can't see the monster, all the nightmares will go away."

Her jaw clenches.
"Well, they didn't. They pushed Mama onto the bed an' started to take off her clothes when Malcolm started crying. I tried to hush him but I was shaking too an' he was too loud, so they heard him an' stopped. When they opened the dresser an' saw us, the leader got this really nasty look on his face an' told his goons to back off. You know what he said?" It comes out as a hiss, slippery smooth and serpentine in her anger that still runs deep after all these years.

"We've found our payment." I've unconsciously leaned forward in my seat, tense with anticipation at the next move. She gives a grim smile and leans back, eyes trained on the dull ceiling to hide the rage in her eyes that glitter furiously. "They took us kicking and screaming. Mama was beside herself and fought so hard to get us back, but one guy smacked her upside the head an' knocked her out. Malcolm was limp an' crying but I struggled so hard I tore my shoulder. I bit one of the goons an' he still has a little scar today. My autograph, free of charge.

They threw us in a cramped room with two other children. It was dark and smelled bad and they wouldn't feed us for days on end. There were glow in the dark stars - I guess to replace the ones in our eyes - an' not even one tiny window to tell us where we were. My time in there was warped an' I dunno how long we spent in there. Must've been at least a week.

Sometimes they took us an' stripped us down naked to take pictures of us and prod at our skin, mutterin' things like 'too fat' or 'too bony'. They liked one boy a bit too much; he was always the last to come back and had a scared look in his eyes, but he never said what they did to him. About a month aft'er we were taken they started introducing johns. At first we didn't know what to do and just quivered there, but then the leaders would get all angry at us and withhold food, so we had to learn how to do it best. As bad as it sounds, me and Malcolm practiced on each other. It was gross an' wrong but turned out to be useful. We were fed more an' didn't go hungry. People started to compliment us on how we looked, so the masters went easy on us. Trust me, the other kids had it a lot worse."

My fingers are white from gripping my pencil too hard and the notes I've scrawled are messy at best, too busy listening to really pay attention to what I'm writing. "Were you beaten?" She thinks back, holding her chin in her palm and eyes clouding over in concentration. I shudder slightly to think of the slideshow that must be going on in her mind. "No. They wanted to keep us in shape for the clients. Nobody wanted an ugly whore, did they?" A smile graces her lips; faint and bitter, but there all the same. I can't fathom how she manages. "We learned, we adapted. I became sarcastic and violent as a coping mechanism; the johns often complained - or complimented - 'bout how I'd leave little half-moons in their skin. Lashed out at the other prostitutes, became really protective of Malcolm. Malcolm..." Heartbreak shines quietly in that single word.

"It was bad for him. He was always a fragile boy at heart, an' this... it shattered him. I tried to make him smile the best I could but that kind of thing just saps the will from you. When we were nine he-- he was surprised by three johns. Raped so badly I had to carry him around for a few days in order to go anywhere. Even the masters didn't allow that kind of violence around there; what good would it be if the merchandise couldn't service because every movement felt like his hips were 'bout to explode? He was just so hurt that I had to do something.

So I cut off most of my hair an' wore baggier clothing, drawin' my eyes an' squarin' my shoulders. Without the medium length locks to frame my face I looked exactly like him. The masters didn't care - I'd be pulling double shifts but money is money - an' if they wanted a boy then they'd just get another kid. Simple as that. I was never a girly person to begin with so it didn't bother me terribly. We tried to get people to hear us but they would never hear us, so eventually we promised each other that we wouldn't talk unless somebody was willin' to listen.

We worked in the brothel for a long time. Malcolm healed a lil' bit an' could work again but we were known as the 'Twin Act' deep in the reaches of the child ring. People would watch as we did things to each other, an' the masters loved it because we got paid real good. So we were allowed to be rented out, so to speak, to rich snobs wantin' some lust on those lonely nights. I told you 'bout the train, and the rest is history."

When she finishes she looks pained, clutching her throat and downing the rest of my water. It's been much too long since she's talked and now is paying the price - all muscles must be exercised so they can be used without hurting, vocal chords included. We sit in companionable silence for a moment, before I carefully raise myself to my feet. She glances at me warily when I stick out my hand, but takes it in her own rough palm with hints of trepidation. "Well, Synis. I'm not sure what you can bring to the table, but welcome to District Thirteen."

Underhanded Utterances

codeword: odair
face claim: katherine moennig
other: finally done. Ripred help me.[/size][/blockquote][/color]