a journey not to be lost. | atticus one-shots{s}

Post by [GM] EKRAM NOVARA | mattio on Oct 25, 2016 20:44:33 GMT -5

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Atticus Manor Atticus had hoped and prayed that the fate of Bolts and Deja wouldn’t come quickly, like it had in the past year. Both deserved so much more than a cannon and a quick funeral, only to be forgotten. He knew they needed much more than that. They needed to be remembered, and not just for dying in the games. Their story deserves to be more than death, more than a use to train his future tributes for what is to come. The last thing Atticus managed to give them was a hug and a smile. He didn’t know how to rub his luck off onto them. After all, there were twenty-two others who are probably wishing for the same luck that their mentors had, and their mentor’s mentors. His red-headed pair of tributes was sent off, and it sent chills up and down Atticus’s spine thinking that it may be the last good memory he’d have of both. He didn’t know how much Bolts’s tinkering would help him in the arena, but maybe that skill could help him live long enough to come back to District Three. And Deja, the one Atticus viewed as a loner, refusing to trust even the one person who truly wanted the best for her and nothing else. Who knows? he thought. After all, he almost died due to his trusting Astrid, Nell, and Sol when they left him. It was a short while until he glued himself to the screen where he would view the bloodbath, the end for several tributes, most definitely. There were so many people watching, many of them from Capitol descent, so they were excited. Atticus, on the other hand, felt mortified. He’d wish to go home to Pilot and talk to Angel and Andy and Ester. It was still out of his comfort zone to watch teenagers, all now younger than him, fight to the death. The Bloodbath’s timer counted down, and each second that passed by was like a millennium in Atticus’s mind. Any time red hair popped up on the screen, his eyes bolted to the screen, only to feel disappointment. There were too many of them, to be honest. He wished that it could be different. The game could somehow just be a lie. Everything inside of him wished that somehow they weren’t put into the Games and instead substituted them for other people. Slowly, he saw Bolts on the screen, and quickly after Deja. ”Live. Please. Don’t die.” He whispered under his breath, each word spoken with more desperation than the one before it. Atticus never spoke to the other tributes, so maybe if he had, it wouldn’t have just been Deja and Bolts that he was cheering for. The victor wondered that if he had talked to other tributes, he might have been rooting for others. No. District Three was his blood, and he represented both members of the District Three pair. No matter what circumstances came into the equation, they would be his favorites for this Games. His top picks to win. If he didn’t try hard enough to act optimistic, especially when they were both around for a week, they wouldn’t be ready. Atticus prayed as the counter fell to single digits. He prayed that Deja would manage to trust someone in order to survive. He prayed that Bolts would be able to use his skills in order to benefit him. The numbers grew smaller, and a blackhole of nerves swarmed his body. He allowed one more prayer to slip through his mind. Please, let them be remembered be more than a cannon blown through the air. Give them a story. ~~ And so it began. He watched them all punch and kick each other as they picked up their weapons, then use their weapons to go in for the kill. Atticus’s eyes raced around the screen, trying to find Deja and Bolts. He watched swords and spikes soar through the bloody air and mesh into skin. He saw knives and arrows glide around, many of them connecting into another tribute’s body. There were a distinct few, however, that took the brunt of attacks. It was something Atticus never really understood, how easily they could target one person without feeling threatened by each other. He saw Deja grab a weapon through the corner of his eye, and at the same time he saw Bolts swing at a girl with a glaive. He flinched, remembering when Danny had stabbed into him in the bloodbath. It’s not a fun feeling, getting metal lodged in your body. Not at all. Just as this happened, he watched the boy from four take his sword and chase down Deja. No, no, no. He watched the career swing into her. It connected, and it was a hard one at that. The sword sliced through her leg. Atticus watched as several tributes took advantage of her ordeal. He saw Deja’s leg lay as she fell to the ground. Atticus’s heart accelerated in pace, his heart rate tripling from that of normality. At least four others ganged up on her, each one making Atticus angry. It hurt him to see Deja in pain. He felt her pain, the blood that practically masked her body was her own, and Atticus remembered every day in the arena when pain came upon him. He remembered questioning to himself if his final moments were now arriving. He sat in his chair, gripping the armrests that surrounded him by the sides tightly. She was the prey, and Atticus felt as if all the other tributes were her predators. She tried to crawl away, but it didn’t work as more blades cut into her, stripping her of something that was once her own and now the arena’s. Blood. There was one person, however, who Atticus noticed wasn’t as bad as the others. He recognized him to be the Six boy. He helped Deja away from the bloodbath, despite being on the verge of death himself. The funny part, at least to Atticus, was that nobody decided to chase after them to perhaps get two kills for one. None of them were that bloodthirsty. Instead, the remaining tributes mauled upon other tributes. By the end, he saw four of the twenty-four dead. Bolts and his ‘friends’ remained at the Cornucopia to loot it. He smiled, happy that at least one of the two managed to benefit from a horrible couple minutes. Both Deja and Bolts were alive, still raging on in the battle of death. ~~ It was a little bit after that Atticus heard a gasp from someone whose face was practically glued to the screen. His eyes darted behind him to see a girl, perhaps one of the girls from a higher district, mourning the loss of someone who could’ve been a decisive ally of hers. A casualty of the bloodbath (something that Atticus had never seen.) Atticus sympathized for the girl. She was sad that someone she learned to care about only a short while ago was now dead due to a brutal bloodbath where the death count has succeeded the past four games that barely included any. It wasn’t the fact that the girl mourned her ally that got the room’s attention, but rather what was to unfurl. He saw two girls, one he recognized to be a relative of Saffron, slowly appear behind the girl. Both of them sounded their weapons upon the already hurt girl from two. Although there were two more following the Lowe-girl and her friend, they weren’t needed in order to hear a cannon blow. The room was divided with sadness that their favorite had died and happiness that their favorites were one step closer to victory. Atticus, however, could only remember painful memories of the first day. It didn’t take long for the hunters to become the hunted however. After the cannon sounded of the District Two girl, at least seven or so other tributes pounced on the opportunity laid up on a silver platter for them. A smirk appeared on Atticus’s face when they struck upon the Lowe (who he may believe to be named Mayara.. Mya… Myara?) and the girl he realized was from five. ”Payback’s a bitch,” he said under his breath. It took a moment for Atticus to realize that he swore, but he didn’t mind it too much. This only reminded him of the anger he felt when he saw Lemon’s, Carrita’s, and Andesite’s corpses lay in the swamp with three tributes surrounding them. He remembered it to be an achievement of itself to survive the bloodbath, and Atticus almost assumed everyone would at least let each other live for the first day. That wasn’t the case. Atticus remembered watching the clip of the trio’s death. One after the other, more than half the tributes had took the three down. First Andy, then Lemon, then Carrita. Maybe, he wondered, it would have been me if I would’ve been in that spot. Likewise his allies, Atticus felt dishonor during this. They couldn’t even give them a chance to smile and hear the first anthem, especially after seeing an accomplishment of no death’s at the bloodbath. Atticus could remember it as if it were yesterday: cutting into Celia Mortuus’s body with no mercy, just as she had with the trio who lay dead on the swamp as they fought. He didn’t know why then, but Atticus felt hatred toward her. If only I had made her cannon roar, I could’ve seen Quadrys one last time. Atticus heard from Celia herself that she had killed Quadrys, and his bones lay on her chest to protect her. The day that Noelia died, it took everything he had not to chase her down for revenge. It was evil, but maybe it was just the toxic air that filled the swampy arena. The air made him wish for her to suffer. And she did, dying the next day. The only regret Atticus had was it not coming from his hand. He stood up from his chair, listening to the commentator’s excitement as Myara and the five-girl fled with their backup. Rachel, he heard them call her, the girl who died trying to mourn her friend. They could’ve done it somewhere else, followed her when she moved on. It’s not that hard.. not that hard to let people mourn, you know? Atticus thought of the situation as him being right and everyone else who opposed his opinion to be wrong. He wished that Rachel could’ve fought back like he had given a chance for Iain to fight for Cecelia. But no; these people are cruel human beings, no heart or soul. Savages. He closed his eyes and remembered that it was once him who had to kill. He remembered it like he was still there. He put on a brave face and moved on alongside the screen, which shifted to Deja and her saving grace. ~~ Atticus listened to the commentators identify the boy who helped Deja live as Jackson from District Six. Atticus never got close enough to speak to him. In fact, he never knew his name until now, and at this point, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to forget. The one-legged Deja Hatcher was carried all the way to what looked to be some type of quarry. They went down steps in order to get to a better hiding place, and Atticus wondered if hiding would be the best strategy for Deja, the girl who had less than every other tribute left, including using limbs as a counting measure. Atticus didn’t understand why Deja refused to trust anyone. She said it in the train, and it’s apparent that she still couldn’t put her eggs in someone else’s basket. She urged Jackson to leave her, despite the boy being the only reason she lived. He shook his head. Atticus knew it was stupid to trust a random person, but he didn’t think she had a choice. It was life or death, and the boy could easily make sure that Deja ended up on the short end of that stick. Although he was injured, Atticus knew that one’s personal strength is more powerful when they know their life is on the line. It only took one jab of a javelin to strike down Eryn, so he thought that it certainly could happen once again. But to his surprise, he left her no more harmed that when he helped her from the bloodbath. A small smile emerged from his face that usually lacked an emotion. Today, things were going well. He still watched Deja even when Jackson left her. The training she was given obviously gave her a conservative advantage as she used stones to hide herself from anyone willing to strike upon her like the Lowe girl and the girl from Five. Atticus watched Deja’s lips as it, along with her eyes and nose and little bits and pieces of her body, moved around. But it wasn’t just the uncomfort that the victor noticed as she moved her mouth. It was a word, a name, his name. He stood up and began to pace around the room while she continued this. What did she want? A sponsor (if she would get sponsored, it wouldn’t be because he campaigned for her..)? After mouthing his name, she spoke more distinct words. Knight the name reminded him of Angel, his guardian Angel. Rook the horselike piece in chess. Pawn the small guy that can make or break a game. Queen.. King.. the leaders of a chessboard. The ones that need to be protected. They were pieces of a chess game, something that Atticus used to pass time in the Capitol and in District Three. Why would she just blatantly say it? Was she trying to tell him to be happy, like he tried to tell them? ~~ When the moon and its surrounding stars illuminated the sky, Atticus returned back to the Towers, where he would relax for the night, hoping and praying that Bolts and Deja would be able to as well. He decided to interpret Deja’s advice the way he had first thought: be happy. For a long time, the concept had confused him. For a long time in his life, Atticus wondered how people could just wake up with a smile on their face and live through their day. It didn’t seem as simple as others made it seem when he tried it out. Most of these people had something that Atticus believed was a myth, something that was so out of reach that it could never be his. Happiness didn’t seem real to him for a long time. He let himself starve so he family could make their inventions and play with their toys in hopes of reaching fame. It never happened, and his family suffered with pessimism and negativity because of it. There was temporary happiness, however, and Atticus planned to use that to the best of his advantage. He took the chessboard and opened it up. Just as he prepared himself to get the pieces, he noticed a slip of paper effortlessly float down to the floor. He picked it up, and read it: ***Atticus, By the time you begin reading this, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you are doing for me and Bolts. I'm writing this letter to you in hopes that my story will be known by someone. That someone of power can go and seek justice for what I had to endure. I placed this note in the chess board because since day one, I had been played. A little girl, Annabell, had befriended me. She watched me dance. She helped me practice my recitals. She encouraged me to do my best with every pirouette that I landed. She taught me how to gain confidence in myself when I didn't have any at all. She was my friend... my first ever. One day, it all changed. "Deja. Can you come to my house after school? I want you to teach me some of your dance. We can be friends forever. Would you like that?" I smiled at her, and nodded my head while I started spinning around on one foot. My toe point was as perfect as the piourette was done. I stopped precisely with my toe pointed - my leg was outstretched and straight - and I joined hands with her. I didn't tell my parents where I was going. Annabell didn't want me to. She said that I was grown and that I didn't have to. I would be home for supper. I felt special. I went to her house, and she showed me her toys. I thought it was weird at first since she's fourteen, a year older than me. But, before dinner, her father came in and I don't remember much else. He stuck me with a needle. The rest is foggy, but I remember waking up the first time unable to move. My fingers were still. My back was numb. My eyes felt so heavy and I couldn't scream out for help no matter how hard I tried! I had been dressed in a dolls outfit. She turned me into a doll! She toyed with my emotions. She played me like a game of chess with a cheater. Atticus, if I don't make it back, I want you to find them and make them pay. Please? If I make it back, I need your help exposing what they did to me. I've been too afraid to tell anyone but I don't want to go into this arena with my story untold. -Deja Hatcher Your District Three Tribute P.s: This isn't the only note I've hidden. We all have a backstory... sometimes, It's worth READING*** To Atticus, it was a lot to process. It was more than just a piece of literature because he would’ve been able to understand. He took the chessboard and placed it back on its shelf, and then went to his bedroom to reread it. He stuck me with a needle. unable to move. fingers were still. back was numb I couldn’t scream for help no matter how hard I tried. She turned me into a doll. Atticus knew that there were psychotic people in Panem, including his home of District Three. However, it never crossed Atticus’s mind that someone would be so willing to torture a little girl the size of Deja’s age by practically making her a puppet and a slave to be played with. He laid the letter under his glasses on his bedside table, and got into bed. His body was ready to sleep, but his mind soared with confusion, anger, sadness.. Deja has a story, he thought in his head. It was filled with more emotion in just one letter than Atticus’s would ever be. She had beaten death as a slave by being thrown into an arena where death is basically her only option. Death by murder.. death by nature. Or if she wins, she murders. Don’t let her story be forgotten, if she doesn’t make it out okay, he vowed to himself, resting his eyes. Now, to Atticus, Deja was more than just his responsibility as a tribute. He felt that her telling him this was more than that responsibility. It was a responsibility that forced him to give her what she deserves. Respect. Honor. A story that’s worth is more than many many others. ~~ Atticus went to sleep that night anger yet determined; determined that he would find out more about her life, so her memories and pain wouldn’t just be relying on one little letter. Deja has had to fight all of her life, and Atticus refused to forget that. Keep fighting, Deja Hatcher. We must make sure your story does not go untold. *** - excerpts written by * made by ghosty