FIN // TWO // AVARICE

Avarice Orner

[attr="class","dropfrumbodytxt"]APPEARANCE Avarice Orner connects the two fragments of her body together with a deftness that's surprising considering her stubby fingers, whose ends are further impeded by their dark manicure. As she sits on the chair, symmetrical features focussed cooly on her task, both her flexibility and her strength are evident. Muscles roll under her skin like lovers under sheets, in perfect unison and coordination, and her pale, bare chest is pressed against her long thighs as she bends practically in half to reach the lower end of the contraption. In her own privacy, she prefers to be nude. Even with the shocking unnaturalness that is her missing leg, she recognises that she is beautiful. Above that hideous twist of skin that ends her left leg several inches below the knee, purple and puckered as a matron's stern lips, and above the mildew-coloured scars and bruising which will never fade from around it, her body is almost perfectly proportioned. Her hips curve gently into a waist most people around her covet either enviously or lustfully. The skin that stretches finely over her face, neck and shoulders is unblemished, although she prefers to decorate it around her cheeks with dramatic blush, and her eyes with a heavy line. A bold face, paired with the aid she currrently fixes in place, are enough to show anyone who would think her weak that she is not.

The prosthetic itself is, like the real flesh that forms its mirror image on the right, long, strong, and agile. Avarice has a variety of models, thanks to her wealthy lifestyle, some for show, some for practicality and some simply to intimidate her rivals. One of the latter, for instance, is a minimalist pyramidal spike, so black you can barely see your reflection in it, and which Avarice wears at every one of her reapings - just in case she needs to be seen. On most days, however, she chooses something more practical, either for training in the Career Centre or for carrying out her errands and hobbies. Instead, she gives off the threatening aura which the spike is intended to convey in the look she wears on her face. It's a look of total invulnerability, composed from the sum of her high curved eyebrows and the dark, long-lashed eyes that stare from beneath them, her make-up-accentuated cheekbones which point to the end of her snobby, upturned nose (some would say her least attractive feature when she's wearing the elegant prosthetic), and especially her thick dark lips, which rest in a sneer revealing the white teeth beneath. It's undoubtedly a look of total dominance, which complies with her power in everything she does, from holding a simple conversation to defeating other Tribute hopefuls in the combat ring, under the admiring, confident eyes of her trainers. Her fashion sense is much the same - she delights in strapping various pairs of high heels to the technological prosthetic that can keep her balanced nonetheless, but has always preferred pantsuits and shoulderpads - some would say masculine looks, but Avarice just says practical, powerful looks - to inconvenient dresses. Despite this, she knows how to use her elegant curves and angular edges to her benefit, and doesn't mind wearing a frock - or less - if it means giving her some tactical advantage in any situation.

PERSONALITY When the trainers talk about Avarice, and talk about her they do, it tends to be in half-finished sentences and broken thoughts. Not because she is insignificant, not at all, and nether because she is too exasperating to think about - but because she is almost too much for words. Avarice has spent years expanding her personality like a balloon, filling it with more layers of character - sometimes deliberately adding vulnerability to herself for a sense of mystery - trying to be as unpredictable, and as noticeable, as possible. There are a number of people who can see straight through every idea that Avarice composes for herself; her mother especially sees only the shy, terrified girl that existed before her accident, although she respects the woman who emerged from it, and so treats her with the tender yet fierce I-expect-more-of-you attitude that she would do anyone. Avarice isn't phased by the spurning she sometimes receives for, for instance, waking up late or, for example, coming second in class, not first - she both is confident that the mistakes she makes are towards a greater purpose (often as simple as learning for next time) and she also spurns herself enough for them, treating her body and mind with extreme discipline that ignores her disability, and she can therefore ignore what her mother, who she loves but does not respect, tries to drill in to her.

To other trainees, Avarice is not cruel but simply dismissive. Often utterly self-absorbed, working to be the best and treating herself with the adoration she deserves, she hasn't time for friends, save a few who she either is intrigued by or outright admires. During a training day she tends to remain silent, preferring to listen, gather information and understand the world that turns around her more thoroughly. When she does speak, it's always with the intention of impressing her counterpart, gaining a reputation as intelligent or funny or even just pleasant. To accomplish this, she hones certain areas of knowledge until they are as sharp as the blades that are her weapons of choice. One of these, which she particularly enjoys talking about as it provides a delightful look of surprise on the listeners' faces (giving her confidence in her own unpredictability) is Capitol and District politics. Avarice is a self-confessed master when it comes to President Snow's cabinet of counsellors, the Peacekeeper training programme and ranking system and, of course, on debating why the Hunger Games are such an effective mechanism of control. She defends and admires the Capitol fiercely, ignoring its airheaded inhabitants (which in her eyes is a stroke of defensive genius on the government's part) and turning her proud eyes on the President and his Gamemakers. She wouldn't consider herself an extremist - she has heard others curse whenever someone mentions the Rebels, pledging to execute every one of them themselves - nor does she regard the Games as a fan does, with excitement for the blood and the martyrdom and the heartbreak. Avarice simply views Panem as a beautiful piece of clockwork, ticking merrily for eternity, every piece gliding smoothly and in harmony with every other piece. The concept is blissful for her.

It is this government power that Avarice emulates when she holds her head high and dominates those around her. In team exercises - particularly games of Capture the Flag or other strategic endeavours which she loves - she always takes the lead. No one dares or even thinks to protest that her disability hinders her talents, as they've all seen the skill, precision and resilience with which she conducts herself in Training. Her prosthetic made for fighting has springs at the joints, and is much sleeker than the other models made for style or fear-striking. It's Avarice's favourite for its sheer ability, making her feel like her detestable hindrance isn't there at all, and she spends many evening lovingly polishing it, tuning it's chords and joints, and trying to design different patterns to decorate its mass with. When it comes to fighting, Avarice still favours her real foot, but has never felt, or shown, that the artificial one is much weaker. Avarice knows that showing weakness or fear is the largest advantage you can give your opponent (although that doesn't stop her training for hours at a time in fitness, strength and accuracy in various fighting styles and weapons) and so always makes sure to keep her features hard and fierce as she engages in combat, whilst also recognising the fear in the other, using it against them in turn. This is what leaves her trainers speechless, as well as her often confusing counterfeit personalities - sometimes totally witty and loud, at other times vicious in her insults, at others even caring to some people, dare they say it - and the best part is Avarice knows it. Seeing the shocked looks on newcomers' faces as they watch her - a cripple no less in ability than a whole person - gives Avarice a pleasure she cannot describe.

Avarice rarely gets this same pleasure with her platonic or sexual relationships with other people. She uses sex as just one more way to take control, which she enjoys mentally and physically but never romantically. She doesn't believe in aftercare, or forming a bond with a single person. She believes in asserting herself as superior, terminally. In terms of friends, Avarice looks down on cliques and gangs, however understands that keeping connected with carefully chosen individuals has its perks. At first, she was surprised at how many of her father's young colleagues fantasised at being dominated by a young, powerful woman, but now she simply sees it as a joke, part of her morbid, realist sense of humour. She uses these people, mostly but not all men, to branch out, to add information to her store on the financial and political standing of her District and others. Furthermore, the Career companions she chooses are for the techniques they have that she doesn't know and wishes to learn, or because she enjoys the company of someone with whom she has mutual respect. She rarely sees these latter types as potential sexual suitors, rather just fighters that she can see the value in spending time with. Avarice hasn't considered whether she would put herself at risk for any of them, nor how much she actually cares about their deepest secrets or dreams, and she's never had to or asked to. However, she suspects that, given time and warmth, she could. Sacrifice and trust seems to be something that comes with bonds of the sort Avarice is forging.

HISTORY By description alone, nobody would recognise the girl Avarice was before her accident compared to the woman she is today. That girl was quiet, retiring and obedient. Everything she did was inspired by her parents' guidance. Her father brought wealth to the family - he was the head of the District's bank, profiting off the debt and missed payments of those less fortunate than him, which Avarice acknowledged but never saw as a bad thing because her father said it was the way things are done, and that was good enough. He also controlled the tesserae which the District citizens applied for, and communicated directly with the Capitol to report these financial figures before the Reaping every year. Avarice knew this meant that when she turned twelve, and had to join all the other potential heroes in the Square, her father wouldn't be there to see it - but that never bothered her, after all, her mother's heart was proud enough to make up for the absence of her husband, and Avarice was sure he would be watching the whole thing hopefully alongside the governing figures and Gamemakers that the girl so admired.

Perhaps the most significant difference between the Avarice of then and now, the former having been swallowed by History as if by fog, is her submission. As a girl - a whole one, importantly - Avarice had everything to lose. She was pretty, polite, the perfect decoration at her parents' parties and she liked it that way. As a result, she avoided all confrontation, especially with those who could have reason to hurt her because of her social class or bright future. In the Training Academy, which she started attending at the age of eight, like the choiceless children of all competitive tiger-mothers, she preferred to learn skills in first aid, camouflage and trapping. Trapping in particular she enjoyed - as although the snares were small, she could imagine upscaling them to catch other tributes if she had to, therefore being able to do what the Games intended without ever really being responsible for the damage herself. Nevertheless, all her efforts to be ignored and left alone weren't enough for the larger, older Careers. Avarice, a beautiful, frail child, was too perfect, too pure, too easy to manipulate - and manipulate they did. What started as simple bullying, name-calling, whispers behind backs, began to develop into much more. Verbal taunts Avarice could withstand, however when she thought her physical being might be in danger, she knew she had to submit. Looking back now, the woman understands that that leap of knowledge was the stupidest assumption she has ever made - once she showed them she could be pressured, they were relentless.

The night that Avarice lost her leg, close to her fifteenth birthday, was the culmination of almost a year acting essentially as the pet of older Careers. With shrouded threats of bodily harm or lies told to her trainers and parents that could damage her reputation, Avarice saw it only logical to do everything they told her to do, so as to avoid what really were nothing more than words on a wind. Over that year, as the girl grew up in mind as well as body, and had already excelled to the top of the fighting classes she had been taking since she was eligible for the Reaping, she became ever more reluctant to obey her self-proclaimed masters. It wasn't until that night, however, that she ever outright refused.

"No." It slipped between her lips so easily as she stared up at the huge contraption the Careers had built out of scrap metal behind the Training Academy, however the word contained the power of a hurricane as it reached the ears of her oppressors. It wasn't as if they'd asked her to do something immensely difficult - "all you gotta do is stand still, princess" - the ratty-looking one had grunted, gesturing to the metal plate they had placed oh so carefully - "and just make sure you don't flinch, alright?". Avarice had indeed stood there, before she uttered that syllable that changed everything, and looked ahead of her at the huge sheet of metal facing her edge-on, sharpened like an axe-blade. The contraption obviously held dual purpose - to see if their engineering was fine-tuned and impressive enough to show formally to their Trainers the next day, and also for the sheer joy of seeing Avarice standing perfectly still, lest the axe-edge swing an inch too close and slice her body in two. However, the Careers had underestimated Avarice's calculating mind. Whatever damage the Careers could do to her for saying No was less than the damage the axe could do. Besides, at least the torture the Careers threatened was predictable. The swing of this pendulum was, to the Avarice of then, infinitely more dangerous for its total unexpectedness. And so Avarice made the choice to say "No."

What followed seems, in recollection, almost like the moves of a perfectly practiced dance. The twists of confusion and rage on her oppressors' faces were momentary - Avarice didn't have the smallest chance of getting away, even though she still had both her legs. Two hands seized her waist from behind and lifted her clean into the air. Two more grabbed her ankles, a face grimacing up at her as she still tried desperately to kick. Somewhere behing them both, an older girl laughed menacingly, sending a chill of fear down Avarice's neck and through her lungs like ice water. That was when she began to cry - the last time she ever would in her life. They tied her to a metal railing in the line of the axe's swing like a witch at the stake, securing her at her ankles, waist and wrists in an X-shape - by this point, Avarice was screaming, the sound a shrill whistle right from her chest. She should have realised, in a District where brutal acts like this were seen as a Healthy Part of a Career's Development by combat professionals and parents, and so away from which Peacekeepers frequently turned their eyes and ears - after all no one was getting hurt, yet, were they? - that nothing good would come of her screaming.

Left alone as the beams that were holding the pendulum in place groaned their way open, Avarice's will to survive was tangible. She stank of fear and panic, and her eyes were wide and darting, like a rabid animal's. She began to kick her legs against the cable-ties that held them loosely but firmly in place. Still the beams groaned, pulling apart from one another like the lips of some giant, grinning predator. Whose scheme was this? Who had helped a group of ambitious but unimpressive teenagers to construct such an elaborate killing machine? Finally, Avarice had found a groove in the rusted railing by moving her right ankle around, and began to kick it back and forth, hoping she could cause the metal bar to rust through and snap, freeing one vital limb. Through her blurred vision she could see the metal edge winking in the glow of the night as it was revealed, hanging on potential and friction alone, poised like a big cat to pounce on its pray at the last second. Avarice's heart raced, a frightened rabbit in the cavity of her chest, unable to find a way out as hot blood flooded the arterial warrens around it. And then - as the creaking, shrieking machine crescendoed towards its release, some miracle allowed her right foot to come free. The seconds were viscous as Avarice began to kick desperately at the railing, shaking her whole body backwards and forwards using the momentum of her free leg, hoping that if she could get it to fall flat backwards on the ground then the blade-edge would pass harmlessly over her face. Then she heard it - the final cable snapping with a sorrowful alien twanging sound, the whoosh as the metal axe left its perch - and far behind it, away from the scene, the laughter of a large group of sadistic teenagers, impossibly excited to see the destruction they were about to cause.

Avarice detested the doctor who said, months later, that she was lucky the blade swung wide and low, that she was able to bring her free leg up to her chest in time, leaving only the other left helplessly trapped, to be crushed completely by the blunt face of the metal sheet as it twisted slowly through the air. Indeed, for a long time, she detested everyone - her eyes growing shadowed and her muscles limp as she sheltered, a teenage recluse, in the motionless, secluded safety of her room. She hated her doctors, who measured her pain in metric units, and not in empathy. She hated the other Careers, that hatred growing in the place of fear like a strangling vine, leaving the core of her softer emotions as nothing more than a husk. She hated her parents; her urging mother and her absent father whose voice still managed to get into Avarice's head, telling her to get back out there and show them she was made of stronger stuff. For a year, there was no stronger stuff... until her father finally returned home with prosthetics straight from the Capitol.

When Avarice slipped the first, an undecorated prototype, over the tough stump of her leg, it felt like stepping into another person's body. She was whole again, but not like she used to be - weak, scared, submissive. It was as if she had become something more than a person... a king; or a god. She spared no time beginning to practice not only walking, but running, dancing and, most importantly, fighting. She trained privately, in the comfort of her own home - knowing that the Careers who once bullied her were likely Trainers themselves by now, and knowing under counsel from her mother that it was wiser to return only once she knew she was the best, and had nothing to fear from them. 'Show them what you're really made of,' the mother had said, and Avarice took it to heart. At the same time, the girl began to become obsessed with pendulums, the very instrument of her initial downfall. It was as if, if she could understand and predict the motion of the something that changed her destiny (especially as the something was so patronisingly elementary), nothing could ever stand in her way again. She constructed Newton's Cradles, without knowing that was their name, swings that drew shapes in sand as they moved, even full size swings in her room. Finally, she tested herself, by standing in the path of her favourite appendage - that beautiful black spike, sharp as a quicksilver tongue - and letting it swing towards her, so it just brushed her lips and no further. At that point, she knew she was finally ready.

Emerging back to claim her place at the top - undefeated and undefeatable - never struck Avarice with even the slightest touch of fear. She was wholly confident and, more than that, utterly determined that she deserved the power she craved. For what she had been through, and for who she had become, Avarice pledged to herself that she would never - never - be oppressed, controlled, or bested, again.

avarice orner - eighteen - district two