Marcus Leon Moreno -- District One

.// marcus leon moreno

.// details

NAME -- [ Marcus Leon Moreno ]
NICKNAME -- [ Marcus ; Leo ; Or your king but anyway ]
AGE -- [ Seventeen ]
GENDER -- [ Male ]
DISTRICT/AREA -- [ District One ]

.// appearance

In the intangible haze of reckless nights all mashed into a distant memory to look forward when the boulders on your shoulders gets a little bit too heavy (or when you have finally come to the bitter realization that the piercing ache on your back were indeed concrete objects and weren't just figments of your imagination, envious glares cutting you in half), you remember a voice, clear enough with the incomprehensible power that keeps on tugging at your heartstrings (what heart?) gut, persistent in keeping your attention at bay, for once not concentrated on your reflection floating over the rippling waters.

It speaks of a tale, and now this one's a shocker, since you were the least to listen to some bloody foolish tale, probably about someone else's story about fulfillment or accomplishment or all those other kinds of bullshit that you were sure you never gave a single care in the first place.

[/color] You contemplate on maybe wearing a sign over your neck, painted in big bold letters: I don't give a fuck. But then that would steer you in a completely different direction to as where you heading for ― it was all about what the eyes could see, because perception was for suckers and those who wanted their pretty little heads cut off.[/color] Even in an intoxicated state, system beyond filled to the brim with alcohol and pouring through that weak trap you call your mouth, you were sure of one thing (besides the fact that that someone spilled some of his drink on your trousers, and as his now-warm drink seep past through the fine quality of your clothing, it sends a rapid-fire mental note taped into your brain: 'Beat him to pulp. Later.') ― the world has no place for people who think, or those who speak. It was all about action now, and you will to move fastfastfast in order to dodge those kickpunchblow ―[/color]

At least, that's how our President wants it. And when he wants mindless minions with bulging muscles, then that's what he gets. No one wants a thinker. Thoughts are ideas, and those ―

Wait. Marcus Leon Moreno doesn't think. Dammit, he sees.

"― ne'er heard of such a story as this. Well, my blub―" Hiccup. You crinkle your nose in disgust, upper lip slightly raising as you look away from the liquid dribbling from your mate's lip. But the world has always been your mirror, the one to tell you on what you shouldn't be, more than what you should be, as you consciously and discreetly try to wipe your mouth. And let's face it, this place isn't exactly a perfect fairytale plucked straight from a storybook with enough morals to force-feed someone to death.[/color] "―bering gram'ma said that that―" He jabs a finger at the table, mistakenly using the wrong object for presentation. "―is actually human." His voice ends as a hoarse whisper, staring menacingly out in the darkness, shadows hovering over his bleary eyes. A moment of silence came upon the raggedy group of Career misfits, uncharacteristically unfit for one night of measly drinks, but broken all too fast when everyone laughed hysterically, fists pounding on the wood as they shake in uncontrollable insobriety.

And now, a calm, clear-headed Marcus (after an excruciating haul towards his bedroom in the crack of dawn, only to race towards the bathroom when the gravitational pull of the earth seems too be a bit too strong on that big head of his, pulling it down, down, down until it finally met his knees and the cold, hard surface of the toilet seat) faces his ― well, what else? ―[/color] mirror.

Actually human.[/color] His binging mates (of course they're only for drinking, why the hell would he want to be seen in the harsh daylight with those inebriated idiots?) always acts as though they're on crack and allows nonsense words pass right through their lips, swift like how they chug eight mugs of beer down their throats. But with association comes attachment, and with attachment comes connection, and with connection, you become a psycho-dumbass who fluster over every single detail, such as a simple incredulous story about how something inanimate could be human.

Oh wait, you thought I was talking about his mates? Dear Ripred bless your poor soul. Let this word be heard and spread over the four corners of Panem: Marcus does not love anyone except himself. And his reflection comes to a close second.

There he stands in front of the reflecting glass, thick caterpillars for eyebrows furrowed in deep thought over something so daft and superficial. Top that with large, expressive (he would literally beat them to a coma if they don't counter those pleading eyes of that dog he saw by the corner the other day)[/color] dark eyes, complemented with thick lashes (a couple of his siblings have seen him tending to it with such care as though it was his own child; some of his sisters have whispered suspicions of mascara mysteriously disappearing and Marcus' lashes looking incredibly and fabulously lush)[/color] that he has practiced fluttering and batting like a little girl asking for a doll. Then there's that nose, not even close to perfection but certainly not a mashed-up lump of vegetable. It's just there, with pouted lips (possibly covered in lip balm? His sisters could only hope the opposite) and a not-so-prominent chin and jawline covered in stubble, with a penchant in doing disappearing acts. Really, it appears at the most random of times, with his buddy the under-eye circles that speaks behalf of the half-moons they have been through. Or perhaps it was that time when a chest-blessed woman passed by and through the thick fog of overpowering perfume that surrounded her, whispered, "You would look so manly with a little bit of stubble..."

Ha! With an impatient hand, Marcus waves it away a week too late, desperate for the image of him falling over like an obedient little puppy over that woman to just disappear.[/color] He could have turned her away with his non-existent swagger, or perhaps counteracted her own devilish charm with his own ― but no.[/color] Not anymore! All of this is for no one, and they can all lick the glass case surrounding me.[/color]

But he sure wouldn't mind asking the mirror itself whether he was a lovely sight to see. And what was there not to enjoy? I'm a sight to behold![/color] Sure he was. With a toned physique, features all in the right place and ― by Ripred, his hair, no doubt.[/color] We can all agree that my hair is beyond the point of perfection. Rumors have circulated (started by yours truly, obviously. After all, there will be no wildfire without a few sparks here and there) that this mass of immaculate strands were weaved by the gods themselves ― and goddamit, just get through that annoying thick head of yours but I'll leave that up to you to ponder over. If this man-or-woman-in-the-mirror is real, he/she is just one of the living witnesses to see just how many hours he spends in front of the mirror just to get those fancy locks in place. Do they stay upright throughout his whole Career training session? No, but he does make sure to dart right inside the stalls to fix it, that's for sure.

Because if there's one thing the Morenos have taught me, aside from the usual fight-or-die technique that either scars you for life or morphs you into a completely different person, it's that appearances are key ― be sure to wipe that blood off your chin, dear. Wipe that dust of your shoulders and get your swag back on because no one (and I mean no one) should be able to see the Hell you've gone ―
[/color][/justify][/blockquote]

I have been through three hellholes in my lifetime.

One was when a hole was dug up right underneath me, right after the minute ― the second I was born. Marcus didn't know those hands that took a shovel and had no hesitation in literally letting the ground crumble underneath him before he could even walk, and perhaps it was better off that way. He could not only walk, but he could also kick you back right down to the floor and with a twist, now you could earn a one-way ticket to the District hospital. Oh, but I would do so much more ―

I wasn't expected ― Knowledge can be a great burden to some, but Marcus glares at it with so much disdain and uncertainty that there is no question as to how he really sees it. It was a gift from the devil with a blessing from an angel. There was no doubt that if he had known where on earth he came from, gritted teeth and balled-up fists would not satisfy with growing need for spilled blood, something so terribly horrifying that he had known it didn't grow with him throughout the years. Life inside that four-walled Arena had fed the growing monster inside of him, that crept up right underneath the floorboards of his heart. But with nothing to believe in, with no sturdy pillar to rely on when the cuts gets too deep or when the knuckles dig in deeper until it meets his bones, it was getting harder to get by without a definite reality to look back upon. With the hatred nursed inside of him, he made up his own definition of self: only a by-product of misdirected passion and uncontrollable lust of a supposedly-respectable man and a virgin sent in the wrong path. It was too much to be kept hushed, he was too much to be just placed there. He had to be thrown away ― immediately.

― and by Hell I can say that I was never wanted in the first place.

[/color]

Two. That hole sent me straight to the streets and a house that burned right back to ashes.

He was six when he remembered all the wrong things for such a young boy like him. He recalled of no love spared for a helpless orphan, without a family and without a single parent to come home with open arms, regardless of the roof on top of his head, of the food inside his grumbling stomach, of the people that were never significant in his eyes, only blurry figures that he shared an apathetic state with. But he remembered the loneliness, the self-loathing and -pity finally gnawing him inside out. He remembered how the woman would burn away the paper with the glowing-red lashing tongues of ― fire. That was the answer. Maybe that would eat away all of these inside of him, why he could never be happy unlike those kids that he sees outside his bedroom window every single day. He envied them for everything they had, for the arms that wrapped themselves around them, for the smile on their faces. Yes, to burn away these was maybe the final answer to find his happiness.

But it wasn't.[/color]

Three. The ashes kept my footprints, and the footprints led those damned Peacekeepers to snake their hands around my neck to drag me where all too-young delinquents served lived: the community home.[/color] Need we any explaining here, folks? The dreaded two words that would make any child of the slums in their right mind cower in fear, casting them off to scramble behind the safety of their makeshift-barricade of a trash can. But the comfort found in a mangled piece of metal filled with disgusting waste was so much better than the hostility in those In my point of view (which is the only thing that matters compared to your sorry little one), it wasn't even fitting to call it a home. Kids who were dumped in there stayed for as long as the streets refused to welcome them as their own, and in here we battled bullies until we became one ourselves, survived mini-pandemics when someone was brave and reckless enough to put a poisonous leaf inside the whole cauldron of soup and no one ever did pass by to adopt a homeless kid and to give them a chance at a world that would be at least safe, and only to drop off more 'insolent rascals.'

Except the Morenos, that is.[/color]

They took him in, and maybe it wasn't the loving embrace that he always wanted, the one that was always dreamed of when he finally settled under the covers for the night. It was a lot harder, a lot harsher than he expected, but who was he kidding?[/color] It wasn't any better off than the community home, but in a sick kind of way, it was.[/color] The fists and the kicks resulted in purple marks than tainted his beautiful skin, but that was the way life was, and the Morenos had taught him that. For any of the bitterness that he had, it had been stowed away in some dark corner inside of him, hopefully to never return while he strolls through the hallway, successfully dodging attacks. Before, blades and punches knocked him to the ground, but now he only bent down to set a trap. This was his daily routine, and who's complaining?

No one. And amidst the morbidity of his current life, he had enough light, or whatever it is that gave people the courage to make a foolish wish before they realize that no, dear, things don't work that way.

I wished to think that I was a Moreno in the first place, that I never was a dirty little scrum kid who littered the hallways of the public home. But no. I had to come from a family that I never knew, a family that I will never know, and I'm only glad to have it that way. Living in this family was another definition of survival on its own, but I can live with waking up to knuckles smashing into my jawbone, because that's how we say any greeting here, and there has never been anything more bittersweet than that.

[/color][/justify][/blockquote]

But you can't describe me as bittersweet. Although the unnerving amount of bruises on his skin and the amount of bones that he breaks would undoubtedly terrify anyone out of the loop in this sadistic family, Marcus has found an unusual sense of complacency with every drop of blood that manages to dribble from the side of his breathtaking lips. It wasn't that he saw it as a sign that he was indeed alive (didn't he have much of those moments whenever he gasped for an almighty gasp of oxygen after a fistfight too long?), but instead as a slap across his beautiful face that said you have been plucked out of the mess you were born into and this in the measly price you pay for. It isn't much, just your life at stake with every second you spend in this house.

Well, certainly sweet, but why the hell would I want to be compared to something so unwanted by many?

Oh wait.

[/color]

[/color][/justify][/blockquote]

.// others

CODEWORD -- [ Odair ]

FACECLAIM -- [ Zayn Malik ]

NARRATION -- [ 364461 ]
EMPHASIS -- [ 4D686F ]
SPEAKING -- [ E3BA6A ]
OTHERS SPEAKING -- [ BFA374 ]
THOUGHTS -- [ 6D756A ]

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