Private Training Stations

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pup Veteran Member 3,008 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Sept 14, 2023 20:52:48 GMT -5	Private Training Stations Feb 1, 2017 19:46:10 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by pup on Feb 1, 2017 19:46:10 GMT -5 post of all of your beautiful training stations here <3333
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pup
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Private Training Stations Feb 1, 2017 19:46:23 GMT -5

Post by pup on Feb 1, 2017 19:46:23 GMT -5

[googlefont="Sanista:400;Ubuntu Mono:400"]

eva hope

Fire.

I have yet to relight the fire inside of me, but when I finally gain that fire cannot let it be extinguished or else I will go down the path Lily and Paige both galloped down in leaping strides. I cannot let death’s icy hand envelope round my extinguished soul, and so I need the flames that Lily and Paige had both had as they volunteered for another to survive. I need the flames that Preston used in his act of rebellion. I need that fire that I once had, the fire that was extinguished as Circe Lyon stabbed my sister’s eye out. They say eyes are the window to the soul, so I suppose that’s why she finally died, the fire her blade had touched within Lily had finally burned her.

I feel the ghost of Lily and Paige’s flames warming me from the inside out as they urge me to finish what they started, my face a rosy red as I step into the area where we have been prepared to die. My green eyes, a forest set alight, meet the eyes of those who judge me. These are the people who will instrument my death, and I have plunged head first into whatever they are planning. I don’t understand many things about these games, like how Cricket Antoinette emerged from her games alive, seeing up close the horrors concocted, only to continue on by torturing others. I was only a small child during her games, but I still hear stories about her guiding deaths chilled hand towards many tributes’ lowering flames.

My nose inflates as oxygen pours into my lungs, feeding the fire that I try to borrow from my siblings who are far away from this place. Hopefully Paige and Lily are in a better place than where Preston or I am, hopefully they are resting easy as angels in a sky free from the need for fire within one’s soul. I hope they are free from the constant thought in their mind of whether they will live their lives in torment. I also hope I do not need to see them anytime soon.

My burning eyes continue my glare towards those who act like gods when really they are really mythical beasts who have no real power over anyone.

“My name’s Eva, and don’t forget it anytime soon.” I say boldly, announcing my presence to Hera and Crickett, “Because I’m going to be leaving your hellhole soon enough and I’ll remember the people who want to make us think we actually have a choice about anything in our lives then laugh at us as we really don’t.”

I flip my golden hair over my shoulder as I spin around, marching off towards the fire lighting station I had spent a bit of time at, and I grab a few small wooden logs, a lighter, and on my way back to in front of my judges who glare down at me from above I grab a can of spray paint from the camouflage station.

Then I rush back to grab a few more logs and repeat the process a few more times.

My legs move swiftly under me to accommodate for my short time restraints. One of the trainers told me it was to accommodate for the short time frame you would have in the arena, but I really know it's for when a tribute begins to bore the chirping Cricket and the old lady who must have such short attention spans.

I drop my materials down in front of the game~~meme~~makers, before scurrying back beneath them to grab my final material.

Entering the poisons station, my eyes begin to scan the racks of bottles. A trainer here told me they are labeled left to right from “One drop will definitely kill you” all they way down to “Have a mild stomachache.” My mind whirs with the thoughts in my mind of previous chemistry lessons in school, no matter how short they were.

One chem lab that stands out in particular to me that seemed to be the standard chemistry lab and seemingly the most detailed lab the capitol allowed for us to do was a lab relating to colors and fire.

The really dangerous poisons were sealed up, probably to stop tributes from committing suicide or something like that, but the “Have a mild stomachache” chemicals were open to the public. I grab one off the shelf labeled “Potassium Chloride.” I can remember the teacher explaining to us how they looked like salt, but it wasn’t.

That teacher was in a place far away, but in my head I thank them for teaching me this small tidbit of knowledge they were allowed to by the capitol. Thank ripred I’m away from his dreary classes, though. Unfortunately, I may not be in a place much better.

Holding the bottle in my hand, I rush back to my area and set it down gently before running one last time to grab a large rubber dummy to drag it unceremoniously across the floor to where my previous items sat.

I begin to arrange my items in the order I want to, laying out my logs in the pattern I wanted, a few of them encircling the training dummy.

Then this is what my pyromaniac brother taught me. I think to myself as I shake the can of spray paint before the misty paint came pouring out onto the dummy and the logs around it.

The red paint marks the entirety of the rubber figure, making it already appear as if it was soaked in blood.

I back away to a small distance, by one log at the start of the word I created, sprinkling my salt looking Potassium Chloride on the logs and the dummy.

Raising the hand with the spray can in it next to the log, I look up to the victor and the gamemaker with my shining green eyes, I wink, then I turn the lighter on.

The logs flash to life, then I stand back and take a look at my burning creation.

The word HOPE had been spelled out in blue fire, the dummy alight in the same color fire in the center of the O, the Potassium Chloride I had sprinkled all along the logs and rubber figure changing the fire from a red to a bright turquoise.

I look away from it and back up to the gamemakers for a moment before turning away to march through the exit.

I had my fire that I always wanted. I have lit it, and there is no one who can extinguish the fire I have set, for instead of being a red fire, the fire in my soul are searing blue flames that will scorch everything it touches.

"How many days did she have to burn everything? And the only thing she thought to toss in the fire was potassium chloride? No copper? No iron? No lead? So many missed opportunities. Nevertheless, I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky she didn't toss any of the plants on there — although they removed the deadliest ones after the chubby boy in the Games that followed yours ate poison ivy during his training session... but purple fire does certainly have its place in our — what did she call it? Ah, yes, our hellhole."

"Obviously she meant glorious utopia of blessings and opportunity! Choice. She's a volunteer! They're all volunteers! You know who didn't sign up for this? Me! I just came here to have a good time and I'm feeling so attacked right now..."

"Oh, please — she can't possibly still be upset about those... sisters of hers. That was half a decade ago. Where the Games are concerned, it may as well be a century."

"She had sisters? Names do start to all sound the same after a while. That fire is pretty though..."

"If she doesn't ditch that negativity when she sees what we have in store for her... well, hopefully it doesn't come to that."

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Last Edit: Feb 4, 2017 20:38:56 GMT -5 by pup

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kap
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Private Training Stations Feb 1, 2017 20:46:38 GMT -5

Post by kap on Feb 1, 2017 20:46:38 GMT -5

Sage Scarborough

“Sage Scarborough, District Twelve,” the boy said when he entered the room and faced the Gamemakers. Originally, he wasn’t sure of what he was going to do, but he’d finally narrowed it down to a few options, then deciding on something. The first thing he did when he got started was make his way over to the improvisational weapons station. Taking some wire, as well as a medium-sized piece of wood that fit into his grip nicely, he also retrieved a knife from another station. He would be using this to cut the wire, as he wouldn’t have the option of wire cutters in the arena, most likely.

Sage took the wire and cut it into strips with the knife, each about six inches long. Then, he laid the strips of wire out in a line, and one at a time, began wrapping them around the piece of wood, which was about the length of his arm. As each wire piece was wrapped around the wood, the ends were left sticking out as points, like spikes. When he was finished, he had a long piece of wood that had its upper half covered in spikes. The lower half would be used as its handle.

To follow up, Sage took the weapon he had created over to the targets on one end of the room, and brought the knife along, too. First, he set the spiked club he’d created off to the side and threw the knife into one of the human-shaped mannequin targets. It hit it in the neck, piercing in deep. Success number one! thought Sage. Then, he picked up his creation one more, and stepped back from the targets. He lifted up the club so that he’d be ready to swing the weapon.

Running forward, the fifteen-year-old boy mustered all the speed and strength he could for his next move. He ran at full force towards a second mannequin target, and swung down with the club. The improvised weapon imbedded itself into the target’s face, knocking the entire thing down to the floor. Sage knew that, had that been a human, it likely would have been a killing blow. Then, he yanked the spiked weapon from the mannequin, and tossed it to the side, before turning to the Gamemakers once more. Bowing to them, he thanked them before exiting the room.

Hera drains her glass and frowns. "Well, at least he tried to be interesting. Which is certainly better than District Twelve's usual — in case their abysmally boring tributes that they've been beneath your notice all these years. I certainly never pay them much mind." With a dismissive flourish at the mere thought of the dullest district, she turns her attention She snaps her fingers at the avox in charge of the tray of champagne flutes.

She sighs, exchanging her empty glass for a full one and narrowing her eyes at the maimed dummy. "If only his attempt at creativity extended into the... bashing." Sip. "Still, there's something to be said for the efficiency of a club to the face. Even if it is dreadfully brutish. A six, then?"

Last Edit: Feb 4, 2017 21:30:42 GMT -5 by kap

Gryphon
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heading to cloud nine

Private Training Stations Feb 5, 2017 5:55:18 GMT -5

Post by Gryphon on Feb 5, 2017 5:55:18 GMT -5

d i o r i t e
♕ f r a y ♕

They're alive again.

Two completely different worlds, one thriving inside a dreamer's mind and the other wrapped around the dreamer's vision.

"Not again," I whisper softly to myself as my hands move to grip my temples tightly. Once more they can talk, and it's become a screaming match raging inside me as feelings that clash like swords stack on top of one another,

(Why am I HERE--)

(Because you wanted to be, idiot.)

I'm quickly, suddenly shoved into black and air bubbles from my lungs out the warm, chapped lips of an insecure career, I'm trying to fight for my life but the force is

too strong.

I can't get up, I feel hands around my ankles and wrists.

They're trying to drown me again.

(If you wanted to take back being here, you shouldn't have volunteered in the first place, stupid.)

(I didn't think--)

(You don't ever think. Not in this life, you're too busy trying to experience another in your head.)

Stop stop STOP STOP STOP, PLEASE--

(I don't want to do THIS--)

(You truly are a pathetic excuse of a career, Diorite Fray. I don't feel sorry for you, but only for the people who have to share their blood with you.)

I grit my teeth, and that's when my soul's had enough.

My fingers can no longer press up against the smooth surface of flower petals. My hands can no longer make something of its own out of what nature's offered it. My spirit can no longer escape to tall grass fields and clear skies in peace.

My mind can no longer summon make-believe voices and sounds, the objects of the universe I so dearly dream for us all to be a part of, not with weapons and dummies on our minds alongside training to the best of our ability and entering the arena and death on the horizon--

There's an intense burning surrounding the weight on my limbs, and almost immediately is it all lifted.

I have to smile, laugh, eat, spend time with tributes, other people my age, we all have calendar-marked hearts and soon they will feel the last beat of it and last breath out of their lungs as the last box is marked.

I hear agonized screaming underneath this dark blanket of liquid black, the heavy feeling of heat moving up my arms and legs drawing themselves a path to my chest in the process.

I want to make my parents proud. I want to prove that I can be and am a skilled career. I do have a name in the Fray family.

I want to save them all from starvation, keep their skin glowing like the stars in the sky and stomach full like the moon.

It keeps getting stronger as the voices continue to cry out, until they are no more as I explode.

I...

I remember how after this, I can no longer enjoy levitating on the surface of a dripping galaxy and watching the heavens glitter with light.

The volcano in my soul erupts once again and hot, boiling anger builds up in the back of my throat ready to rush out of the vent above my chin.

Our private training sessions are starting, and it's time for me to make my impression.

I exhale deeply, calming myself down just a bit but not allowing the piling rage in my being to subside--mainly because I can't prevent it from jetting out of me.

The sky becomes gray, stormy, my expression grim and my gaze cold. I fling the doors open and stomp into the room, halting just for a brief nod at Hera and Cricket,

I still can't believe she's here and she's actually a mastermind behind one of these Games this time around,

before scouring for all the dummies I can find.

I quickly move to set them up, most of them facing me but forming vertical lines right next to the stations and leaving emptiness in-between for the two women to still see what I'm up to, but after I place another in the center behind my design, I then block myself with a single horizontal line of dummies right in front of me and the previous configurations I've created.

I head over to the blades station and grab myself a belt of throwing knives, taking one out then dropping it to the floor as I grip the single hilt with tightening knuckles, staring the center dummy dead in the eye.

"You're a useless daughter, Diorite Fray."

The shadows are alive now,

but it's time to fix that.

Short yells and grunts of lava pour out of me and I tackle the fake body to the ground and stab fake blood out of it mercilessly,

over and over and over and over and over

And the first figure of darkness becomes brutally mutilated. Eyes are stabbed out and red sprays all over my face and paints my sky, I draw lines on the corners of his lips to curl them into a bloody smile, I shove the blade into his neck and with a screech of effort

pull it downwards to his stomach.

I take a brief break to catch my breath, then stand up and make quicker but just as fatal work of the others in line with my first victim of blackness.

"No wonder you're a worthless career, you don't even look like your own family. You're no Fray, you're a fraud."

I stab the second in the throat with the precision for crimson to continue painting me, the walls, the floor after I yank out my gore-glazed blade.

The third tells me love is the only luxury I can't afford in my district, so I shove the same one through his chest, ripping open his heart.

Fourth calls me weak, and he finds two new knives to his knees, two more to his hands, and one more in his forehead.

Fifth says I'm the dumbest person in the world to dream.

I was pulling two more knives in and out of his temples until blood reached the hafts, and left them there.

I have one knife left,

and I know just how I'm going to use it.

Stepping over the pile of bodies I've made, I walk towards the fire making station and find a stack of fireproof tarp. I take one and expand it to learn of its length, and laying the cover over the table discover it's just about enough to protect the whole piece of furniture.

So I shield the stations near my planned area of damage with them, except the one I'm now using.

I take jars of tar and place them in front of the intact dummies, next to a couple bottles of rubbing alcohol I've collected from the first aid station before veiling it in the tarp.

This is the next best thing to releasing all of this magma out of my aggravated spirit, like the stars are the next best thing to living out the world I'd have the privilege of being in.

I drown some dummies in the alcohol, and daub others in the thick liquid, a less gooey mixture of the two having caked the area around them and around me. Returning to the fire making station once more, I pick up a single match and slowly place myself outside the first pile of bodies.

With one winter's glare taken at the Gamemakers, I drop the match on a puddle--

And everything I expected to goes up into flames.

I pick up the last throwing knife I have and adjust my posture, moving the sharp edge behind me as a frosted-over gaze has its full attention on the last dummy behind the shape of bloodletting.

"You will be stuck forever between dreams and reality."

I scream with temper one last time. I spin around, let the knife soar above the fire, and watch as it buries itself in one more eye.

I back away towards the doors as one more look is exchanged with Hera and Cricket, and I turn around and away from this presentation of what I need to be, but what I don't want to become.

This is the result of my own destruction.

Last Edit: Feb 5, 2017 6:05:16 GMT -5 by Gryphon

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Python
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Private Training Stations Feb 13, 2017 22:16:05 GMT -5

Post by Python on Feb 13, 2017 22:16:05 GMT -5

Her conscience sought to destroy her.

It had taken a voluntary death sentence to spark her realization: you’ve gone mad. Nights of biting her pillow, clawing at bedsheets, and waking up in cold sweats with her empty eye socket burning had gradually inched her toward the edge of an abyss. She didn’t know when she had finally taken the plummet – probably when you volunteered – but there was no crawling her way out.

Even now, she could not focus. She usually had a plan when she was meant to do something important, especially if it enabled her survival. Impressing the Gamemakers felt like an obvious path to take, but her mind had blanked. It was as stale and grey as the walls enclosing them. So many tributes were living and breathing and shifting in one room. She wondered how many of them regretted it. No matter how strong they thought they were, they would die. And this moment would not matter.

Castor’s goal was to make it matter. How, she did not know yet.

Just let me be heard.

Her name rolled across the speakers. She walked past a line of dead bodies – so many whose names she would not remember – and into the grandiose room she had grown so fond of. It was an environment meant to breed their country’s next infamous killers, but there was something absolutely stunning about it. Trees planted among technology with trap-building supplies, obstacle courses, holograms, and enough dummies to populate an entire district.

She took center stage and cleared her throat. ”I hope you like stories,” she announced, because she would not be silenced anymore. Her timeline was too short.

”I need someone to hear mine before I disappear.”

Once upon a time, there was a tragedy. And that was the life cycle of the Karmichaels; every new “once upon a time” they tried to create ended in blood and cinders. Now she had sealed their fate. There was no end but in bloodshed.

She grabbed a knife, sleek and slender in the palm of her hand. It was almost exactly like the one she had held two years ago, but expertly crafted. Silver perfection.

”I had a little sister, Ellise. She was a baby.” So frail in her arms, always wiggling around as if time would never rest.

”We were in the market when a riot broke out. A bunch of stupid rebels.”

You all died for nothing.

Castor eyed one of the lifelike dummies and stood in its path, imagining it clad in white.

”Peacekeepers fired their guns into the crowd.” Because violence was their native tongue. Keeping the peace one corpse at a time. ”I don’t think they were aiming for anyone in particular.”

Smoke clouded her vision. She remembered the explosion of sound, the disturbances in the air as bullets whistled past their ears, as bodies toppled onto the cobblestone Square. Their desperation was muted by screams. She could still feel the weight of Ellise on her chest – lively and wiggling, then abruptly still. Limp. Heavy.

”One of them shot Ellise while I was still holding her.”

She wondered if The Capitol ever experienced tragedy. Real tragedy – not the minor aches of watching their “favorite tribute” suffer a gruesome death onscreen. In her mind, wherever there were humans, there would be tragedy. Perhaps not the same brand of tragedy, like riots and collateral war damage. But these colorful robots and their holographic souls certainly had to experience some type of pain, right?

Her grip on the blade tightened, pinching the palm of her hand. ”I can show you what happened next.”

She charged the dummy like an electric current, knife plunging into its chest as she tackled it to the floor. Fake blood pooled and wet the tips of her fingers. She didn’t count how many times she yanked the blade out and plunged it back in, because she hadn’t counted back then either. Gash after gash after gash fell beneath her hand. She hadn’t stopped until Jano desperately pulled her away. Time brought her back to reality now, because she couldn’t waste it on one insignificant dummy.

She stood up and wiped the blade on the thigh of her training suit. ”We became fugitives after that. They decided to blame both my brother and I for the Peacekeeper’s murder, even though I was clearly the only one who attacked.”

There was no justice in the districts.

”We found ourselves a treehouse,” she continued, sauntering over to the plants station. She climbed one of the trees and hoisted herself on a high branch with ease. Then, she dangled her legs and smiled. ”We had to learn how to survive on our own, stealing and scavenging and rationing what we could find.”

She fell backwards, the training center twisting upside down. Her muscles tightened and she hung, knife pointed to the soil.

”I got caught, of course.”

Because they were unlucky children with unfortunate lives.

She released her hold and flipped, landing on both feet. The impact crushed pins and needles between her nerves. It left a numb sensation in her legs that she had grown accustomed to, but it was nothing compared to the climax of her story.

”In the Detention Center, I tried to clear my brother’s name. As part of the bargain, they took something from me.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she lunged for another dummy. One movement, that was all, blade thrust into its left eye.

The first and last time she ever planned to cry real blood.

She turned to the Gamemakers, one eye open and the other hidden behind a bedazzled eyepatch; courtesy of Brooke Destin, who fancied diamond on black. Apparently, there could be beauty in tragedy. She flipped it upward and slid her own bloodied blade across her cheek, harmlessly smearing the blood beneath her eye. There was nothing she could do to simulate how the gore had truly appeared, but perhaps that was better for everyone.

”For the story’s sake, pretend it’s gone. My stylists decided to give me a glass eye for aesthetic purposes.”

To me, half of the world is black either way.

Her final aim was the nature section again, but she grabbed tar along the way. ”The funny part is, they still whipped my brother for his so-called ‘crimes.’”

And they tried to start anew, only to meet failure again. Who would’ve thought that it would lead them to this very death sentence?

To this moment, telling a story to potentially deaf ears.

”I thought we were free after that, but I was wrong.”

She dipped firewood in her tar, and knelt down to spark a flame with friction, rocks, and wood, because a woman of the woods knew how to start her own forest fire. With her newfound touch, she touched it to the branches of the tree. A gentle kiss of fire. It would burn, but not strong enough to harm. She knew the Capitol had its safeguards.

Her house did not.

”The Peacekeepers found us again and burned everything.”

She watched the flames grow, writhe, and hiss.

Consume.

”And then I volunteered for the Quell the next day.”

She dropped the torch and buried it in soil.

The end.

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lance
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Private Training Stations Feb 13, 2017 22:23:43 GMT -5

Post by lance on Feb 13, 2017 22:23:43 GMT -5

l u c a s o ' h a r a

He'd spent the better part of a day and the majority of what would turn into a sleepless night planning for this moment.

Normally, he would not bother going to such extremes to prepare for just about anything. Anything had initially included this particular event, the one thing that could be the difference between a glorious death in single combat or starving to death in an arena utterly devoid of anything edible.

But two things had changed his mind and driven the normally laid-back boy into a state of productivity. The first had been a realization, early into the training sessions on the first day, that a plan of such great magnitude would ultimately require far more than the twenty minutes allotted for the standard tribute.

This was further reinforced by the second thing, the knowledge obtained through hushed conversations at dinner that night that the Gamemaking pair, particularly Cricket herself, had taken to dismissing those that had put on lackluster displays well before the twenty minutes had expired.

That had thrown a second wrench into his plan, for it was anything but flashy.

So, he had planned, and he had worked well into the night. By the time he had called it quits, the first rays of the morning sun were peering through the window and illuminating the bedroom in a soft golden glow.

Had this not been a regular occurrence for him, he was almost certain that he would have passed out in the waiting room before his session had even been close to starting. As it was, he had found it increasingly more difficult to keep his eyes open as the small army of from the lumber district slowly filtered into and out of the training center.

Eventually, the seven Sevens had finished, along with the three from Eight, and it was then when things started to get interesting.

He'd first noticed the pounding in his chest when Zanita's name had echoed through the room, a pounding that felt like his heart had conjured a hammer from his ribcage and was desperately trying to escape. The adrenaline had flooded his system like liquid nitrogen when the speaker had crackled to life moments later, only to be replaced by a tidal wave of warm, soothing relief as Helios' name was spoken instead.

His hands interlocked, fingers twitching subconsciously every few seconds. His foot tapped a steady metronome on the steel floor, matching the rhythm emitting deep from within his breast. A single drop of sweat dripped down the nape of his neck, and reflexively, one hand disconnected from the embrace with the other and wiped it away.

Ripred, he was nervous.

It was as much of a startling admission to himself as it would have been to the handful of tributes that shared the waiting room with him had he spoken it aloud. He was always someone who had prided himself on his steady, nonchalant demeanor to problems and life in general.

Hell, he hadn't been this nervous even when he had made the decision to throw his life away with the simple uttering of two words.

His veins freeze a second time with the uttering of his name over the speaker.

Inhale.

It was now or never.

Exhale.

The breath comes out slow and ragged, and his mind registers a faint success as the icy grip on his nervous system loosens it hold.

He stands, faintly registering the slight bump under his left heel and the second, more pronounced object pressing against his Achilles tendon.

Eyes close, reducing the world to darkness for just a moment.

Here goes nothing.

They open, and the mask of relaxation and apathy, so naturally simple to apply under any other circumstances, is set in place.

He stepped forward and into the tunnel, leaving behind the Lucas that was nervous and fearful and replacing him with the Lucas that had spent half the night preparing for this very moment.

The tunnel opens up into the training center he had become acquainted with over the past several days, restored to pristine condition and giving him not even the faintest clue as to what Helios had did before him.

His gaze drifts towards the stage, where two women were sitting, clipboards in hand and gazes fixed firmly on him. The woman on the left was elderly and severe looking, and he swore that if looks could kill, he would have been shot dead that very second.

The figure on the right was one he had seen before, both on television ever since his childhood and, much more recently, in person as well. Cricket Antoinette had mastered the art of the poker face, and even as he drew nearer, he found that he didn't have the faintest idea of what she was thinking.

His stroll came to a halt just short of the center of the room. The corners of his mouth tugged at his lips as dipped his head in greeting, the slight smile proving to be the finishing touch on what he hoped was an equally flawless mask of his own.

Then, he got to work.

His first order of business was to sit, left leg crossing over right. Both hands gripped onto his left shoe, and with virtually no effort, the piece of footwear was smoothly tugged off of his foot.

In one smooth motion, the shoe was flipped, the sole no longer facing the floor but staring at the ceiling. Slowly, he tilted it further, raising the toe and dropping the heel, and with a soft plunk, two items fell from within its depths.

The first, bouncing against the stainless steel, was a pencil, reduced almost to a stub by excessive sharpening and dulling. The second, landing with more of a plop than a plunk, was a piece of paper, folded over itself many times over.

Shifting into a laying position, he almost lazily reached out and grabbed the paper first. Jis grin grew ever so slightly as he began to unfold it, layer by layer, until the finished product is revealed to his eyes.

He stared at it for perhaps ten seconds, taking in the fruits of his labor, until common sense kicked in, along with the reminder that his audience was far from patient.

The second phase of his plan began with him vigorously flattening the paper against the steel floor with both hands, a task he took with extra care as to not accidentally reveal its contents to either member of his audience. Once it had reached a point he had deemed satisfactory, he nabbed the pencil with one hand and promptly covered up his work with the other, arm curling around the top of the paper in a clearly intentional attempt to prevent either Cricket or the old woman from stealing a glance.

And so he lay, room eerily quiet aside from the scrtchscrtchscrtch of pencil graphite on paper, for perhaps three minutes.

Even he found himself not immune to the growing tension in the room, though whether it was a figment of his own imagination or a pseudo-physical manifestation of the impatience that was no doubt being felt by one, if not both, Gamemakers was unknown to him.

Regardless, the very possible fact that such an occasion would arise had driven him to develop a phase three, and as the tension in the room reached a fever pitch, he enacted it.

"You know." he began suddenly, voice shattering the silence like a bullet would glass.

Phase three had been developed after the knowledge of the previous dismissals had reached his cranium, a distractionary tactic of sorts to pause the two women just long enough for him to complete his objective.

"You know." he repeated, louder this time. "For pretty much my entire life back in Nine, I was regarded as something of a black sheep."

He paused, both in words and in work. "Outcast, really, would probably be a better way to describe it," he added after a second.

His drawing resumes, pencil scrtching across the paper at a faster pace than before. "Do you want to know why?"

In actuality, he doubted that either Gamemaker wanted to hear exactly why a volunteer from an outer district was considered an outcast back home, but at the moment, he couldn't care less.

"It's because I happen to carry a certain set of beliefs about something that apparently aren't shared by many around there." he continued, gaze still locked firmly on the paper.

He paused again, then chuckled. "Actually, as far as I know, I am the only person in all of Nine to think this way." Pause. "Or was, anyway."

Just a little longer, he added silently to himself.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he chuckled again. "See, the fact is, I'm not afraid or terrified or disgusted by the Games, not really."

There we go.

His work completed, he finally shifted his gaze to match that of the younger Gamemaker. "Honestly? I find them to be beautiful."

Though it was far from the first time he had made such a statement, the added weight and significance of the words in this situation did not elude him.

After all, these were the only two people in the entire building who would even have a slight chance of relating to such a statement.

"The raw beauty in seeing a person forced back into their very roots to survive. The raw beauty in a struggle for life to determine the strongest of a group. The raw beauty in a glorious death, one that snuffs out a flame of life in an instant." Here, he dropped his gaze back down towards the paper. "I thought for eighteen years that I was the only one outside of the Capitol that thought that way."

His head raises again, and for the second time his gaze locks with that of Cricket Antoinette. "But then I saw a news flash on the television earlier this year. A news flash that revealed that one of this year's Gamemakers would be not from the Capitol, not an ordinary citizen, but a woman who had once won the Games themselves over ten years prior."

He grabbed the piece of paper in one hand, intentionally keeping its contents hidden even as he got to his feet. "And for what other reason would a woman, one who had experienced the hell that is an arena firsthand and barely gotten out alive, want to take the position of Gamemaker?"

He intentionally ignored the other, darker possibilities that could have thrust Cricket into the Gamemaker position, instead focusing on what he hoped was the accurate one as he began to close the distance between the two.

"It would be because they too view the Games in a positive light as well." he said, voice dropping to a murmur as he drew nearer to the forcefield.

"And that would mean I'm not alone."

He paused, so close to the forcefield that he could hear the faint humming emitting from it. "So, assuming I am correct in my assumptions, I just have one last thing to say, Miss Antoinette."

Breath.

Then, "Thank you."

His grin grew wider. "Thank you, for showing me that I am not alone in my beliefs."

His hands fumbled with the paper ever so slightly, the only betrayer of the bundle of nerves growing in the pit of his stomach.

"But it would be rude of me to simply say 'thank you' for something this important to me and leave it at that, wouldn't it be?" he added suddenly.

"So, to show my appreciation, I made you a gift."

He takes one last breath, before flipping the paper, revealing its contents to both the younger and the elder Gamemaker.

The drawing was something clearly out of a Games from years past. In the first second, one might notice the four figures, two in the foreground, two a bit further back. The setting is distinctly forested in nature, covering the entirely of the background, and seemingly ordinary in appearance.

A second second reveals the flames, as black and white as the rest of the picture but unmistakable in their shape, forming a virtual ring of fire around the figures and much of the background. One might also catch that three of the four shapes are feminine, while the fourth is distinctly masculine in shape.

By the third second, a trained eye would have caught the distinctive pixie cut on the sole feminine shape in the background, the expression on her face unmistakably one of rage as she launches a kick towards the back of the masculine shape with what appears to be a boot with a knife attached to the sole.

The fourth second reveals the drastic difference between the pair of feminine figures in the foreground, one sporting a head of frizzy hair and wielding a sword while the other is halfway through what appears to be a handspring, a knife soaring through the air towards the other.

By the fifth second, the scene would be revealed as one recognizable to all but those that had never seen a highlight from the Sixty Third annual Hunger Games in their life before.

And Lucas O'Hara gazes upon the face of Cricket Antoinette as she takes the picture in, grin turning almost cheeky in nature.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks, intentionally adding an innocent undertone to the question that is anything but.

He bends over, carefully placing the drawing against the edge of the forcefield, still in plain sight of Gamemakers both old and young.

Then, his plan executed and his gamble thrown, Lucas O'Hara exits stage right.

credit to darsypoo uwu

credit to fireflyz!

credit to stare!

Tom
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Private Training Stations Feb 15, 2017 15:14:16 GMT -5

Post by Tom on Feb 15, 2017 15:14:16 GMT -5

No one will remember him.

Only a tale of a bland man with no talent, but singing and acting. They write his name upon the page with a black ink of the tragedy that was only just beginning.

The final act was approaching.

The show must go on.

It's the same story told twice more. A boy falls for the girl, until she runs off. Heart ripped from his chest as he writes the words upon the page. The End. Another tragedy written upon a napkin that was nothing more than his nerves filing out onto a napkin to calm himself. He's done so many shows that have ended in both disaster and success that his nerves shouldn't exist, but in his head, he can feel it. The idea that this could be his last performance for anyone, until the games. Violins play in the back of his mind as he thinks of the creation he made last night. Tightly wrapped together, prepared for the big highlight of the entire show. The final acts of his entire life were coming closer and closer.

Everything that led up to this moment of self preparation and last words to the two people who determined if he lived or died from the world of the arena. The bundle that he created filled with ingredients to make a surprising result. The trick up his sleeve that he only figured out from watching and learning. If this was a play, he would be at the rising action of the plot. Anticipation stuck within the veins of all who can see. A gentle bite of the lips as the person continues watching in curiosity. The show must go on, even if he's tired of it all already.

Heart strings play a tune like the violins in his mind. The thump of the heart pulling all the nerves away as he truly remembers the gorgeous woman that he dreams about. Tears want to pull at his cheeks, but not then. Not anymore. A life of moving on from it all. No more drinking. No more heartache. No more living a life of sorrows. Strength was going to be the last thing that people saw him as. Only so they could try to remember him. Riordan Einfallen, the tribute who had dropped it all to be reunited with the one he loved. A sacrafice that his parents and adopted brother should have understood.

"Fucking hell, Rio. I hope you die. You deserve it all."

The words of his adopted brother eat away at his soul, even though he knew that it didn't matter. Everything he tried to make the boy normal and realize how evil his parents truly were was out of the question. That was up to Caspar to solve now. Everything that he was leaving behind was out of sight and out of mind. Tempus would become barren, unless someone else took over. Seat 23 with names stitched into the chair, dusty and old. The red velvet curtains that was missing a piece that had been taken so long ago. Changing rooms filled with photos, props, and so many memories that could flood into the eyes of an onlooker. The final act of Riordan Einfallen would be aired across the nation as he would give it his all.

The night before had eaten away at his soul. Sleeplessly, he couldn't help but think about everything that was still to come. The performance of his life in front of the gamemakers. The capitolites would be waiting enthusiastically for the tributes to get judged to make their bets. Their dangerous bets that could make them richer than anyone else. It all came down to the gamemakers and the other tributes. Him. It all came down to him. This was just another act in his play as the tension builds for the star to break out. It could be him or it be anyone else. All that mattered was it was going to be the show of his lifetime, which was shortening every second of every day as the games approached over like a looming storm.

Breathe.

They call his name. Riordan Einfallen. The name of a man who had given up on everything in his life. Selfishness within his veins. Death to his name. All he could do was perform like it would be the last performance he ever gave. The screams and clapping of an audience as he bows forward. They let him through the doors to the ever so frightening training room, lined with weapons of all sorts. The room that had been filled to the brim with tributes as they explored the trainers who seemed overwhelmed with them all. If someone told him weeks ago that he would be fighting fifty one other tributes, some part of the Eckhart family, he would have punched the person. A deep breath fills his lungs out as he stares to the two woman who would determine his skills.

This is your show. It must go on.

Instead of speaking like the rest of the tributes would have done. Words lost to something about how Cricket betrayed the districts. Anything of distrust at the gamemakers. He wasn't like them. He wasn't like them. Riordan Einfallen had a story of who he was. He's been broken and destroyed by so many people. He's loved and lost so many people in his life that he loses track of it all. Alone and afraid for so long in his life that acting out what a life that wasn't like that was easy for him. Weak characters who died in the end. Broken characters who cried themselves to sleep. Characters who tried to be strong, but lost it all. They weren't him. He was going to prove himself for once. For once in his damn life, he was going to be strong, make up for the weaknesses that he's had so many times before. Emotionally unstable, but on the floor in front of the gamemakers, he feels alive.

Unreasonably alive with a fire in his soul, threatening to shove itself out. A performance that was going to be talked about for ages. Feet move quickly to the plants as he drops the bundle of plants out of his pocket and put it on the plants station. Different names, colors, textures. Dried leaves, berries, and all sorts of things. The main ingrident that he needed is the start of it. A plant that was known as the gas plant, technically called Dictamnus. He's seen it time and time again. When Brooke was putting flowers in his hair as he named of flowers. When he passed by the station to punch Atlas Lumiere in the face. A flower that could be like him. Beautiful to look at, but highly flammable on the inside. He would show the true way to set a heart ablaze.

Dried leaves of different bushes and trees that he's tested flames upon to see what burns quicker. He bundles them together as he ties it into a ball, about the size of his palm. A opening that can see the bits of the flower and plant know as dictamnus. This was his trick. The card up his sleeve that would have made anyone freak. A nice surprise to add a bit of pizzazz to his session. A smile upon his face as he points at a trainer. Whispers shared as the gamemakers watch, probably bored out of their mind as Riordan moves away, grabbing throwing knives off of a table and a jar of tar from a shelf.

Tar is spread upon the blades carefully. Three blades for the Three dead in his life. Their souls enveloping him with a passion as he hums to himself like nobody's watching. Just another show with another tune within his mind. Violins, cellos, and so many other musical instruments blazing away within his mind as he lights the tar finally. As soon as it was lit, he grabs them by the handles. Eyes stare up as the gamemakers as the fire burns a bright orange and red. Heat radiating from the metal tools that could cut someone open with just a strong throw. A smile plastered on his face like he's done this time and time before, when really, this was only the third or fourth time he's actually done this. Practicing things in his own time when everyone was gone.

Three blades. Three flames. Three balls of plants. Three dummies.

Victors do not come from District Six.

They didn't, but mad men do. Riordan was just like them. Mad in the head with something more than just putting on a show. Dying or living were the stakes of the show, but he'd play his heart out to it's content. Hurting others wasn't in his nature, but fighting to live was. He's fought his entire life. Broken bones, shattered hearts, and crushed dreams. He's fought em all, suffered through hell and heaven. This was the finale of his life, death's grip on him would take him down under. If he was to go out, it was going to be flashy and with a big bang of the show. The blades were off.

They soar through the air gently above him. One by one, the were thrown just right with enough precision to make sure the handle fell into his hands. It took him a few tries and close calls to get it just right. It started with only one and then it became three. This was just the beginning of the show. There was no need to curse. There was no need to whine. He volunteered for this moment. It was selfish and a mistake for sure, but if he had the chance to do it again. He would do it the exact same way.

Heart set ablaze as he watches the blades and flames fly up and down, hands moving quickly keeping up a nice pace that makes him want to chuckle, but silence is what he holds onto. After all, everything's been silent since the violins and harps stopped playing. As he looks over to the trainer, the message is clear. The trainer throws the first bundle up above the first dummy, just a swish of the wrist. The flaming blade flies next to the bundle of plants, the size of his palm. Accuracy coming in handy as he smiles.

The ball flickers to life. Flames tickling the beautiful plant in the center, until spreading to the rest as it slowly falls. The string around it breaks and the plants spread. Flame upon them all as they fall to the dummy. Catching it aflame as he Riordan watches. The words that he's heard in an old book coming to mind.

Set fire to the rain.

It's pretty, but not a giant flame that could burn a person alive. A surprise is what it would be and quite painful burns would spread across the body. Clothes could catch, but nothing too drastic, after all, he's never truly hurt someone. The flame inside his heart ablaze and bright like the stage lights that would be shining down on him as he faked death or stabbed a hero in the chest. The sound of the audience gasping as they were impressed with the acting. This was different. Truly, if he tried, he could see their emotions, but he didn't want to know. He didn't care to know if they liked him or not. Let it be a surprise for him so he can either curse their names or bless their names with whatever he could. All he wanted was for a finale, the grand finale to be big and for him to go out swinging, until his final breath took him. Watch the scene play out before him as the curtains closed on the final act.

The second one was bigger than the first. The blade soaring and the flame engulfing the ball into a fire. He added more of the gas plant to that one than the first one. The debris falls on the dummy, singeing the skin with black marks that looked painful if he was to imagine it. This was what his heart could do. This was what he could do with the mind he had. Bullies, parents, the dead loved ones, friends, acquaintances, and everyone he's ever seen or met flash before him. This isn't his death, not yet, but he can see all the souls that touched him within the flames. Memories of pain and suffering, love and compassion, fear and strength come rushing to him. All he wanted was to see everything he's ever been or created burn down and leave nothing, but his corpse blackened, so he could be free.

The third one was bigger. The flame seemed to grow. The string breaks and it's like it's raining flames from the heavens. Punishing the dummy below. If only it had been someone like Atlas Lumiere so he wouldn't have to worry about the career. As he turns towards the gamemakers, he bows. Head down on the floor as the scene of damaged dummies and flaming pieces sits next to him. His show was over. The audience in his mind would cheer. The act was finished. The show must go on. The final act was approaching and he could feel it in his bones. The characters he's played would come forth as he would turn on his heel and exit the room.

The show must go on.

Echoes of footsteps ring as he walks away, small fires blazing behind him. Just how he wanted it to happen.

"Let it burn."

Made by gamemaker 💀 hades lochlan

marcellus rhodes 11b arc
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Private Training Stations Feb 15, 2017 22:44:46 GMT -5

Post by marcellus rhodes 11b arc on Feb 15, 2017 22:44:46 GMT -5

My footsteps felt about as hollow as the brains of the people that decided this quell. They felt meaningless, really. Maybe that's because they've been put onto a path they didn't really want to walk. It could be the silence of every single letter that whispered inside your head--

Ah, fuck. What the hell am I going on about? They felt hollow because of the fuckin' echo that came with my every step. It was like some sort of constant ticking. The only damn thing you could hear was the clock ticking; reminiscent of those classrooms children wait in to get excused from. It ground into my mind like that too; it was (or, for better words, is the one time that your heart was racing for no reason. 'Ya looked like a bunny. Jumpinghopping, skidding at every single sound that appeared in this large room.

The world, looking at you as if you were its prey.

[ not like i wasn't already ]

The president, sitting there with his white toothed grin and joyous blue eyes reminded me of a child. A child witnessing their first sunrise or sunset, one that runs through the fields chasing butterflies and seems to have an entire life ahead of them. It was like he was youth again, chasing those butterflies and catching the dreams he dreamed of. I was the butterfly, he was the child. ANYWAYS. Let's forget about that fucker, he's completely irrelevant to whatever the hell I'll be trying to do today (and hopefully something better than standing and comparing a murderer to a fucking child).

I made my way to the medicinal area, first placing the rubbing alcohol on the side of the table for me to use later. After that, I made quick time scanning the room of avoxes to find one. One that was broken, damaged. They hadn't been able to speak their story, but now they can't express it. They're criminals are placed under a category of an evil story, where they cannot break free of, even if they did want to be their own. They're placed under this story that everyone else believes, because everyone judges a book by what they hear.

You never hear of their stories; their motives, their logic to the 'crime' they committed. You hear of the bad things people say of it, because let's be real - everyone lies when they say negativity isn't the world's largest downfall.

In the corner, a male of white to purple; purple to red skin tones dot his body. A long, red slash can be seen down his arm. A black eye and a face that pleas of help is something that catches your eye. Brown hair and pearled white teeth; eyes that seem to resemble the color of an evergreen forest. It's hard to not recognize that male standing in the corner. Who wouldn't recognize the boy who taught you life itself?

It seems that he knows that I need his assistance the moment we connect eyes. It lingered, for that quick second, but then he started to approach me and I couldn't help myself but show immediate interest in helping heal him. Who wouldn't help the man that saved your sanity. Taught you what you know.

"Now, I'll start with one of the biggest points I'll make in this entire session;" my eyes collided with his in the same moment that he did mine, and I continued. "These men," I made a general motion towards the rest of the avoxes in the room. "They've got their own story, likely one different from what you believe. They cannot talk, so therefore, they cannot show their own story."

I look down at the wound on Cinder's arm.

"That's the first problem, underestimating, or even overestimating the people around you."

A pause.

"Now, a good replacement for that is typically hand motions." I move over to Cinder, giving a small (yet soft, I don't want to break the dude) nudge, and as I assumed, he winced in pain. "For these guys, it's not possible." I give a small nudge of my head in the direction of the table. "I think that's a bit rude, isn't it?" I question the intentions. Who wouldn't question their authorities in a world where they could be the murderers of your own children?

Taking the washcloth, I slowly start to begin my slow (yet steady) process.

"Everyone should be able to speak their own story in my mind. How else do you learn from your mistakes, and how else are you supposed to grow from new experiences? It's important to be able to speak it, because in a world like this - every story is portrayed differently." I hang the washcloth over the side of the bowl, giving another quick rinse of my own hands. Gloves coming on, I started to become lost in my words, as my practice is too familiar with me at this point to necessarily need to focus. "So, if you beat them down and break them apart, that's ruining the story. They have to work harder to get to it, and, really, it's hard to fix a story that's already been told by a polar opposite."

"So there becomes this build up, this wild mashup of millions and billions of different ideologies and whatever '-ologies' you can think of."

I tended to speed up when I wanted to avoid things, and at this point, I wanted to avoid looking at him. Every time I looked at him he reminded me of home, and at a time like this, I can't be reminded of a place that made me so week.

"Disagreements, and arguments. Different ideas- they all have a place in this odd little puzzle we've all placed this country in." I give Cinder a small pat once I finish wrapping the wound, picking up the rubbing alcohol and a small match beforehand. "Hell, you and me? We both play a part in the downfall of every dream and story, every hope that this world tries to keep burning." Dousing the tree on fire with the alcohol, I grab the match and light it.

"However, the biggest thing we attend to in this world is the spark that starts our own story."

Because, let's be real, we won't let anyone else blow our spark out.

"I guess you could say this is the one that started mine."

The tree was dancing, and as was I;
there's no man who can't stop from performing his own dance as is his story.

[ and as he flees from the ashed ground, he gives a blessing for the male that shares his name ]

cinder demheaux, a boy who he never thought he'd see in the flesh.
[ firestorm ]

[/b][/font]

solo
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Private Training Stations Feb 15, 2017 23:30:25 GMT -5

Post by solo on Feb 15, 2017 23:30:25 GMT -5

Riven Fowley

On the day of our private training sessions, when it's lunch time, I sit by myself in a small corner of the room. My knees are tucked up under my chin, arms wrapped around my ankles, small hands clasped tightly at the front. My grey gaze stares straight ahead, looking but not really seeing what's in front of me. Earlier today, my mind had been racing. What to do for the Gamemakers? What is there about me that could possibly interest them? And then I realized: it doesn't matter. I'm going to die anyway. Who cares if I impress them or not?
And so I sit, humming softly to myself, not really paying attention as one by one, the other tributes are called in before me. Some of them look nervous, others confident. Their names turn to white noise as they slowly run through the Fives and Sixes. So many tributes. So many volunteers. So many sacrifices. All of them here by choice. I shudder at the thought and close my eyes, pushing it all into a dark corner of my closet-mind, a corner with cobwebs and mold.
I lean back against the wall of the dining room. My eyes open. I feel so small, so pathetic against the rest of these forty-some wolves. I watch as they drift past, eyes alight with hunger, licking their teeth, just aching for a taste of my blood. I try to find my little butterfly and then realize they've already called her. What did she do for them? What grand scheme did she come up with? Whatever it was, I'm sure she charmed their socks off.
The tributes from Eight are being called one after the other.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. I am not here. I'm home, waiting for Hendrick to return from work, wondering if Dad will be intoxicated tonight, praying that Kennedy will help me this time.
Kennedy. Oh God. Will they ever forgive me?
I hear the number Nine and a shiver runs down my spine. So many of us and I can't help but wonder if the Gamemakers will be bored by the time I get there. But then I remember, I'm not supposed to care. I won't be doing anything special. I should be glad if they aren't watching me.
In the few precious minutes I have before I am called, I steal myself away to the place where I am at peace, endless fields around me, flowers at me feet that I would die to paint. They push up through melting snow, bright and pink and yellow and all smiles, tucking away the old lady we call Winter. I can almost hear their teasing laughter.
“Riven Fowley, District 10.”
I grow cold. I am still for a moment, but then I rise, striding past the few tributes who remain. Most of whom I have spoken to, few of whom I like. None of which I trust, all of which will be trying to kill me in a few day's time. I feel my fingertips turn to ice, and I pull the ends of my sleeves down to cover them. I slip through the doors and don't even look at the balcony where the Gamemakers sit.
Instead, I make a beeline for the camouflage station. My pace is quick, my gaze steady, but my hands twitch ever so slightly. I want to be anywhere but here. Another reality, a creation of my own making, molded by these small, pale fingers. I reach the table, and my hands jerk toward it, knocking over a cup filled with brushes. A very faint gasp escapes me and my fingers scramble to sort it all out, put it back where it was. After a few seconds I give up and instead grasp at a clean pallet. Globs of green, blue, yellow, red, and every other color appear on it. I grab a fistful of brushes and then my feet are carrying me towards one of the walls. It's completely empty—the perfect canvas. A place to make my creation.
I am focused, my hand motions suddenly smooth, my racing heart slowing to a steady thud, thud, thud. Streaks of green and blue suddenly stretch across the blank wall. Dots of color appear in the empty spaces, the margins of this reality where I start to draw forth another. I reach up to itch my nose and I think some paint rubs off over my freckles. My fingers tuck the brush behind my ear, grab another, and dab white across the blue expanse of my own sky. I stand on my tiptoes, reaching up but still oh-so-far off from the ceiling. I start to hum again. Tiny daisies peek up out of the grass, spans of yellow grain visible in the distance. Miniature black and white cows scatter across the hills. Life comes out of the dead. Hope rises from my ruin. My brush sweeps across the wall, broad strokes of color overlaid with accents and shadows. Hints of a place forgotten, memories of a home left behind.
And then suddenly, it's complete. My world is whole, perfect, wondrous in front of my twinkling eyes. I scratch my nose again and step back, slowly drop into a sitting position. My legs form an x as I cross them, like I'm in preschool again. Elbows lean against knees and chin tucks itself into folded hands, hands covered in the remnants of a creator's work. I am surrounded by the countryside of my not-yet-forgotten home. My heart stretches out before me in the form of vast hillsides and fields and wild flowers. Remnants of a childhood I gave up when I came here.

{Word Count: 937}

Last Edit: Feb 15, 2017 23:33:41 GMT -5 by solo

pogue
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Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

Private Training Stations Feb 16, 2017 1:06:12 GMT -5

Post by pogue on Feb 16, 2017 1:06:12 GMT -5

High noon.

The sun sets in the sky, dripping through the window and painting his skin a million different colors, blood reds and cinder orange, they swirl around his face and drown every pore in their beauty. If he is a painting, then his mother is the artist, beneath shattered skies and paintbrush the knife that is interlaced between her fingertips, twirled effortlessly through the air before landing in her palm. Soft, stoic, the fear in his eyes is like ice against the acrylic hues of fire that hang from his skin.

Rigid, emotionless, his mother speaks with the souls of a thousand bleeding hearts on her lips, puppet strings tied loosely to her fingertips. She walks, heartbeat by heartbeat, to the window, watching as the life drains from the sky, the moon shattering above.

"Lazarus.."

And her words are water and ice, dousing the flames that spring up from his skin, turning his bones to ice and crack crack crack

Bit by bit, frame by frame-

"What would you do if you were forced to kill your sister?"

Wine glass and water sips, Oni stares down the boy from Ten with a calm look in her eyes, grin pulling at the edges of her lips, fingers peeling from the glass and returning to strum against the table, nails painted the color of rose petals. She wears her style like fire, burning through Capitol fashion and into something simpler, enriched in a culture that she was never supposed to know about, long since dead to Panem.

And the boy stares back, his aura sparkling with twinges of fire and ice, lawless and chaotic, murky like the deepest of ocean waters. She sees darkness in his eyes, but every time he blinks she sees the shattering of broken glass, disintegrating into pieces before hitting the ground. She'd found him snooping the hallways, with the shadows draped around him like a cloak. Oh, honey, she'd thought, making no effort to silence the clicking of her heels against the metallic floors as she approached from behind him.

Hiding in the shadows may do wonders for some, but she has lived in the shadows all of her career, watching her mutt creations held on pedestals, credit weaved into the careers of her bosses. From shadows, she has risen, only to settle into the murky depths of her predecessors, feeling the golden touch of their fame settle into her bloodstream. It is enough, it is never enough, toying with her fate like a child with dolls, pawns on a chessboard, hopelessly searching for something that is not there.

Perhaps that is what drew her to him, curiosity sinking into her bloodstream with every calm, cool-like-ice explanation he spat at her in the hallway of the training center until, finally, he realized that she was not going to budge, an immovable force pushing against his existence.

"Walk with me, Lazarus.."

Because when she looks at him, closely, with ice in her eyes she sees the stitches etched into his skin, carved like the boundaries of a kingdom into his soul. Molded, fit to be, used. She has seen it in her profession, watched aspiring Gamemakers tear themselves limb from limb in their climb to the top, stitching themselves up under the guise of a midnight mirror, until they are no more than threads to be pulled, manipulated-

And, when those stitches come undone, when they are cutlike the heartstrings of two hopeless lovers, they crumble into obscurity, a name on the tongue that reeks of poison, easily forgotten amidst the neon lights that seem to hang from the sky of the Capitol. Devilish, daring, she feels his eyes staring daggers into her, traces the stitches that run across his throat.

She has no ill-wishes against this boy. No, he is going to die, that much is certain-

And yet, every part of her wishes to see what that cool, calm, icy demeanor does for him when a single stitch is pluckedfrom his body. Disintegration, glued ash into dust, she smirks before speaking to him-

"So, Lazarus was it? What, exactly, were you looking for down in those hallways?"

His gaze drops, the act of the innocent boy from Ten seeping from his pores with every second that ticks by, the bustle of a Capitol street the backdrop of their conversation. He knows, she knows, he knows she knows what he does not want her to know. Pressure points, she presses against them with words that are sweet like honey, deadly like the toxins of a snake.

After a moment, he speaks, voice held steady.

"I guess I was looking for someone like you."

She smirks, oh, raising the wine glass and giving it a swirl, raising it towards him with one cocked head before sipping-

"And what, my dear, would I be able to do for you?"

High noon.

She walks away with the sunset lighting her steps up in flames, feeling the dark fire and ice of his aura clinging to her skin, meshing with the shadows she's lived in her entire career.

"I'll agree to help you, Mr. Stroms, but don't expect it to be easy."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, would we?"

She would destroy that confidence, tie it against the stake and light it up, fresh, watch it smolder and burn in the diminished daylight under a cotton-candy sky. Stitches, stitches, they cannot protect him from what is to come.

Lazarus Stroms stands with the past heavy on his shoulders, hearing his name echo through the near empty waiting room. Wordless, without voice or reason, he twiddled his thumbs while the other tributes left to perform, names called out into the darkness. He sees their hearts stitched into their sleeves as the walk past, beating ever so slowly with anticipation. Shaking, trembling in their boots, his mind throws images into his brain, seeing the wife of a shopkeeper, knife in one hand and pride in the other. And then, like ash to fire, he sees the life drain from her eyes, blood trickling from her lips, gashes running too deep, unfixable even with the finest of stitches. Stitches, he knows them well, rising from the grave bloody and beaten, torn at the seams and bleeding out his own memories. Rose petals pasted, plastered to the back of his skull, bullet shell honey bee resting on their edges.

"Lazarus Stroms."

And, like so many other times, his name sounds unfamiliar as it drips from the lips of the speaker. He rises, doing his best to shake the shadows from his pores. Slice, dice, he sees Oni's grin with every blink of his eyes.

Aggression is best left under the skin, running through the boody like veins. Aggression is best when it's rotten, vile, ugly, dangerous, bubbling up from the surface like bubbles of lava, scorching and bright. Aggression is best nurtured by those molded from the forgotten, ripped from their own memories given sword and knife, burns and five-finger slaps in the study.

He grabs a sword and a knife, hearing the timer start his countdown. Three heartbeats and he is at the simulation area, gently placing the required equipment onto his body. He casts a glance towards the Gamemakers as he presses the button to begin, his footsteps screaming through the empty training room.

Aggression, the ugly sister of hate, jealousy it's brother, and regret it's cousin. He breathes as the lights dim and the machine begins, pixelated dust rising from the floor like ash, embers floating up into the sky as he pulls out his knife. Immediately, he recognizes the figure and he smirks, withdrawing his knife and spinning it effortlessly in-between his fingers, narrowing his eyes as the simulation is completed.

His father stares back at him, clutching the handle of a knife and staring, longingly, towards the boy he brought back to life. Ever so silent, ever so afraid, Lazarus watches the fear dance through his eyes, coded in by the same woman who had told him it wouldn't be easy.

But this, this seemed too easy.

He takes a step forward, flipping the handle of the knife so it is pointing downwards. His father mirrors his movements, but they are rigid, fearful, desperate to avoid what is coming. He knows those movements, he's practiced them in every conversation he has ever had with his own mother- in every cold-sweat nightmare he has ever faced.

"Lazarus-s"

His father's voice rings through the simulation as if this is real life and his father's eyes are wild, focused too much on the knife that Lazarus raises in the air. He smirks, raising an eyebrow and swiping the knife at his father, testing the reflexes of a man too old to be toying with life and death. His father stumbles backwards, barely catching himself before raising a trembling knife towards him, voice again ringing out-

"Please, don't come closer- Ple"

Lazarus slaps the knife from the hologram's hands and it glitches as it hits the ground, clattering and sliding away from the pair. And then, like the strike of a snake he drives the knife into his father's eye, watching as the hologram glitches once, twice, before it shatters into nothing. He lets go of the handle of the knife, listening to the sound of metal on metal as it hits the floor. He breathes, casting a quick glance to where the Gamemaker's stand, watching. Their faces are masked by shadows, obscured by the darkness and, as he hears the sound of a new simulation being created, he realizes-

Perhaps this was never to get a good score-

Aggression is best dealt with by the heartbroken, gun fights at high noon, knife fights at dusk. Harbored by the wicked, burning like fire beneath his skin. As he turns to face his mother, withdrawing the katana from the sheath and dropping the latter to the floor beneath him, he realizes that this was more for him than anything-

With steel in his eyes and forgotten memories dripping from his fingertips, he raises his sword towards his mother.

And then, she charges.

Swords clash, slice and dice and the sound of steel against steel rings through the training room. He feels adrenaline pump into his veins as he steps backwards, parrying her strikes and trying his hardest to anticipate her movements.

Oni had been right in saying this would not be easy- she is like the lightning to a brewing storm, fast and sensible, planned and precise, and he understands anew why he feared her back home.

He twists on his heels, momentarily losing sight of his opponent-

And that is when the holographic katana slices along his back, the vest he is wearing sends electric signals rocketing through his body and he gasps in pain, stumbling backwards away from his Mother and clutching the hilt of his sword. The pain is there, like a ghost hiding in shadows, but he does not feel blood dripping from the wound.

His Mother circles around him, his heavy breaths echoing her words as she speaks.

"Silly boy likes to play with swords..."

And he finds her eyes, slowly rising to his feet again, the pain in his back dulling slightly before flaring up again. He grinds his teeth as she continues, white knuckles laced around his sword.

"But just remember, I brought you into this world, and I can take you-"

His vision goes red as he charges, a hollow battle cry escaping from his throat like some rabid animal. Fangs bared, foaming at the mouth, he hears gunshots in his brain as she deflects his blows, stumbling ever so slightly at the ferocity and speed of the onslaught.

Steel on steel, bloody red hues drip into his vision as he thrusts his sword forward, broken memories of every heartless thing this woman had ever done to him flashing through his mind.

And then, his sword slides into her chest, hologram buzzing slightly as he stands, breaths labored and heavy, ghosts buzzing in the back of his brain.

She disintegrates, sputtering words that were unrecognizable as the hologram collapses. High noon, he stumbles backwards and takes one deep breath, narrowing his eyes before cracking his neck, waiting for the next simulation to appear.

And his blood turns to fire when he sees her.

She pulls the boy's file up on her server, fingernails clicking against the keyboard as she inputs commands. Under the cover of the sunlight he had asked her to code into the simulation his own family, and she had chose to abide his wish, seeing a fire in his soul that yearned to be unleashed, seeing stitches on his skin that she wanted to tear through.

And yet, he is a puzzle that is missing it's own pieces, craters in his background, files missing from the system. Her eyes narrow, inputting a new command into the system and leaning back in her chair.

It fails, and her lips curve into the slightest of grins. Lazarus Stroms' past was as shady as his future, forged in the shadows and forgotten in the sunlight, ripped from the earth and exposed to the moon. She becomes the storm, sunlight leaking in from the windows around her and highlighting her every movement. It is a dance, the way she tears through the stitches of his broken past, radiating light as she moves.

And then, a tape, grainy and pixelated, slowly coming into focus on the figure of an eight year old Lazarus Stroms, the candlelight of a birthday cake illuminating the angles of his face. She hears the laughter of a home, his home-

But it is not his home.

And then she sees the girl next to him.

She smiles, inputting a new code into the system.

She comes, like a wolf in the night, fangs bared and face contorted in anger. With steel at her side and shotgun shells for eyes she raises her sword. And, with every blink of his eyes he sees the same girl that walked in on him in the bathroom, nude and afraid, with tears in his eyes and confusion hanging in the air around him. He sees the same girl that he has hated his entire life, knife fights at dawn, sword fights at dusk. He sees the same girl who helped him to kill husband and wife, shopkeepers from Ten- they hand't even known their crime.

Perhaps, in another life, they wouldn't have hated each other.

He wonders if he had ever met her before everything went black, before his mother had coded him only to see in blacks whites and reds.

Their footsteps are light like air as their swords clash, the same way they have for years, knife to throat, words dripping venom and blood, boiling in their veins just like they were taught-

They pull back from one another, he is sweating and her wired lungs are heaving, eyes still driving daggers into his image.

"You have this coming, Lazarus-"She raises her sword again, the sins of them both reflecting in her blade.

He spits, winking at his sister before motioning for her to attack him.

And they are at it again, side stepping and slicing and dicing and it is as if every moment he has ever wanted to drive a knife into her heart is at the forefront, boiling and burning his movements. His vision is red, sirens blaring in the distance and, in a midst of fury, he misses her, giving her the chance to slice directly across his chest.

And he sees stars, electric shocks radiating through his body and pain erupting anew. He gasps as she goes for another strike, barely managing to deflect it before swiping at her ankles, listening to the hologram scream as her ankle is sliced open. She stumbles back, phasing in and out as her body hits the ground, sensors readjusting to fit her frame. He rises, clutching his chest for a moment and walking forwards.

She swings wildly and he deflects her blows, before knocking the sword from her hands, watching it disintegrate into the air.

And then, he drives the fucking thing straight through her thigh, grinding his teeth as his sister screams.

He grabs the knife from the ground and, in one quick motion, drives it into her throat, listening to the glitch sounds of gargled words, choking on digital blood.

bitch has it coming.

He stumbles backwards, catching his breath for a moment and waiting for the simulation area lights to come back on, signaling the end of his fight.

But it does not. His blood runs cold instead.

He is still clutching the knife when he sees her form built upon light, sees his eyes and his hair falling down onto her shoulders. Every nightmare he has ever faced, every shadow in the distance of his dreams, destroyed with theclick- bangof a shotgun-

He sees his sister, his true sister, in digital flesh, transparent but he swears he can see her heart beating in her chest, sees life in her veins.

She steps forward and it is as if his heart has flooded, but it is not with joy, he is not wired for this.

He is wired to kill at high noon, drive steel into flesh, not to have his heartstrings cut to bits, stitches torn from his skin and left to rot.

She steps forward and he speaks first, clutching the knife in his hands, trembling.

"No-"

"Do you recognize me, Peter?"

And his name, his true name, slips from her tongue, laced with the most toxic of poisons: love. His knees nearly buckle and it is all he can do not to collapse against the metal floor. With every fiber of his being he wishes to be done with this, to be out of here- he breaks.

His mother always said those who were broken were the most dangerous-

She takes another step forward and he lashes out just to make it stop, driving the knife straight into her eye and falling to the ground as her form does too, again and again, over and over he buries steel into his forgotten memories, the sound of his sister's voice echoing in his head.

"It's me, Peter- It's me, Peter- It's me, Peter-"

His strikes are driven into the metal floor now, the hologram of his true sister long since disintegrated, carried away by the winds and left to rot in the back of his mind. There are tears now, streaking down his cheeks as the timer signaling the end of his training session goes off in the distance.

He does not stop, driving the knife down into metal over and over and over

A broken boy is raised to break others, after all.

There's men in white rushing in with electricity in their hands and he feels his body tense and shut dow, muscles failing.

And then, like his nightmares, darkness.

She wrapped his present in a white box with gold lace, carried it delicately to the boy's room at the precise time of his training session, her heels clicking against the metal floor.

On top, a note-

I said it wouldn't be easy, didn't I?

Hope you enjoyed your training session, Peter...

She leaves with his stitches running through her fingers. Click-

bang.

table by elegant

I am also going to link this thread, as it directly continues what happens after his PTS <3

Last Edit: Feb 16, 2017 11:54:10 GMT -5 by pogue

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“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

Private Training Stations Feb 16, 2017 11:10:48 GMT -5

Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Feb 16, 2017 11:10:48 GMT -5

INGRAN ANSGOT

"Irritated by me? Then live like me.
Think you can walk in my shoes?
Look at me now, I’m your complex, bitch"

Your feet are bare.

That's the first truth you know; the first strangeness.

Mother stands above, scalpel still in hand. She just used it to cut into you, to make sure you bleed. A beat tinkers in your chest and a heart stands its ground, pumping blood through your ecosystem, causing something lush to grow inside of you.

"Everyone said it couldn't be done," she whispers in wonder, "They all said I was crazy." It's because she is crazy, honestly quite insane. You can't know that, you're just a bundle of nerves, a mass of energy. You're a screaming, bleeding heart, made for a singular purpose.

You get placed in a room, propped up on a pole. They put you in darkness and you stand there in a strange semi-circle with your brothers and sisters, as if you're performing some bizarre sort of ritual. In the darkness you stand for endless hours. Hours turn into days and days turn into weeks, then months. Finally, lights flicker on and a clock on the wall begins counting down in big yellow numbers.

They enter one by one, figures and forms like mother. Some of them do nothing, just standing there, talking like mother did. They stand there and yammer, expressions earnest- earnest means honest and good, sometimes hopeful. At first their presence was shocking in your quiet world but you begin to grow used to them. You become complacent.

Then, the third who enters takes a glinting metal object from a table and throws it point-blank at the dummy beside you. It enters their forehead and blood, angry and dark and violent comes out the back through the tip. The dummy bleeds, blood gushes out of the wound when the tribute pulls out the knife. As programmed, it falls to the ground and it wilts, succumbing quickly.

You were made for a purpose.

It is alright, you cannot feel pain. Fear is foreign to you, as is the concept of breathing. Your world is self-sustaining, you require nothing from this one to exist. They made you but you are whole without them. Like a knife is made to cut, you were made to die.

He knows it, the one that comes in next. He notices you as soon as he comes in, staring at you from across the room. His skin is dark. There's nothing for you to compare it too, there has not been much variance until him. Your own skin is factory made, rubber. It covers your metal bones and synthesized muscle.

The others often stopped, staring across the room, behind you. There are others that must be there. This one does not, he simply walks forward with purpose.

You almost don't see him slip the knife off of the table, in fact, you were staring straight ahead, unable to turn your head. There is no movement, only the pumping of the synthetic blood through your system. The numbers begin to tick down slowly on the wall and he grins.

The thing that you are feeling is a sense of dread.

INGRAN ANSGOT

"This is how my personality always is. Even if there’s no problem, fuck em"

The entire world spins.

He stands, fingers pressed to the back of his neck, steadying himself. A broken rudder.

"Someone must have dropped him as a kid," they whisper behind his back. He's not all there, they say things like that. (Then where is the rest of me, you stupid fucks?)

Maybe it died.

After all, his mother probably did drop him once or twice. She wasn't a very careful woman.

Ingran walks like the earth isn't underneath him, like there's nothing in front of him. Each step is more purposeful than the last, his destination predetermined. He's a bullet heading in a straight line, the world moves to accommodate his trajectory.

The first thing that he sees when he walks into the scoring room is a dummy. It is directly there, in front of him, in his path. To get past it, he will have to remove it. There is no question as to why, no thought into simply moving around it, it's in his way so it has to be destroyed.

He lifts a knife off the table, movements sleek. A clock on the wall tells him that he has ten minutes; he doesn't need that long.

The dummy doesn't move at his approach, it can't. It's stuck in place, good. He digs the blade sideways into the skin of its arm, a non-fatal area. Blood leaks out, unrealistic and too bright. Whoever made the dummies were either squeamish or had never seen blood before, maybe both.

He removes the blade and digs his fingers into the cut, digging his nails into the flesh and getting a good grip despite the way the fake blood made it slippery. Grip established, he pulls the skin away from bone and muscles, using the knife in his hand to cut away more of the flesh.

There is a faster way to kill a man but life is art and Ingran often reflects it.

He works at the skin of the arm efficiently, dragging the blade down roughly in a long line to peel it away. The blood spills onto the floor, too much of it. There wouldn't be that much so immediately. The fingers require more concentration but this isn't his first time skinning something and it's laughably easy when the target can't move.

He finishes the left arm at the shoulder and moves on to the right. Ingran moves methodically, letting the skin fall where it lands with a slick thud, similar to the way that a fish sounds, flapping frantically on a dock.

He began with a grin but now his expression is carefully neutral, almost bored as if he's already lost interest. Perhaps he has. He steps back after finishing the dummy's left leg. Blood slips along the floor, a steady stream into a drain. There can't be much left. It bleeds out too quickly, he notices.

Tendon and muscle glisten lazily in the fluorescent lighting.

He turns his head, gaze falling on a second dummy. It is pristine, a fabricated, hyperrealistic perfection. Disgusting in all aspects. He knows how it might look better.

With renewed interest, he leaves the half skinned dummy to bleed out and expire.

The knife in his hand turns and he plunges it downwards into the belly of the second. Upwards would kill it too quickly. He slices down with expert precision, rough movements drawing a rush of blood. It isn't correct, the intestines of the dummy slip out of the stomach too easily, as if they were simply stuffed in without much thought.

Someone made it based on fantasy.

The large intestine's head hits the floor with a moist thwack. Ingran picks it up, tugging the rest out. The heart inside the dummy still pumps, it's louder now that he's opened up a hole to it's cavity.

Neither of the dummies will 'die' quickly.

The first's heart is slowing.

The second will soon follow.

He looks up at the clock on the wall.

Ten seconds.

He turns swiftly and plunges the knife into the chest of a third, puncturing its lung.

It's heartbeat grows frantic and Ingran leaves.

Last Edit: Feb 16, 2017 11:11:10 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

compendium / avriel
clown car / pietro
2022 tracker / 2023 tracker / 2024 tracker

Sleepy Fluttershy
District Mayor

970 POSTS

last seen Mar 30, 2022 16:20:24 GMT -5

«Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm». (Winston Churchill)

Private Training Stations Feb 16, 2017 13:25:20 GMT -5

Post by Sleepy Fluttershy on Feb 16, 2017 13:25:20 GMT -5

Leticia Wheeler

"I might only have one match,
But I can make an explosion..."

I don't know why, but I actually managed to get some sleep tonight and was feeling much better when I woke up. Maybe it is because I made a firm decision to do the best I can, no matter what. I can't change what happened, what I did to myself. The only thing that is left to me now is to try and fulfill my duty for my allies, make sure that my family won't be ashamed of me, stay myself, whatever it might take. I just have to face the fact that I will maybe screw everything up again and Marcus will never know what I want to tell him and it will mean that all this – volunteering, leaving home, struggling to become the best in training despite sleepless nights and depression – that all of it was for nothing. But if I got here, I must live these days as if they were my last (which they probably are) and prove that this damn sacrifice wasn't in vain.

Today I have to demonstrate my skills to the Gamemakers and a bunch of other capitol guys, who will only look at me like some meat chopper, wondering only how many people I am capable of murdering. Dammit! And damn their violence and irrelevance! But fine. They want a show – I'll give them one. I put my training costume (shorts, a t-shirt and a hoodie) on and head to the training center.

So how can I show off? And what have I learnt? I am rather good with an axe. I spent a lot of time getting the hang of it, just for the sake of my image. Wood chopping is one of the most popular professions in district seven, so in my hands the weapon would look pretty symbolic. Which skill can I present? Self-defense? Who am I going to defend myself against? Something else? Definitely not trapping, it will bore them. What else can I do? I can make a fire. Yes, a fire will do just fine. I have an idea already and thinking about it makes my lips twist into a sarcastic grin.

While I am thinking, I reach my destination, sit down and wait. Dammit. Waiting is boring. I wonder, what will they all do? Definitely something not as crazy as what I am planning. Finally, it is my turn. I open the door and enter.

I don't give a damn care if anybody is watching, but cough loudly, just to gain confidence. Then I throw my hair back, make a handstand and run as fast as I can to the part of the training center where I have been learning to make fires.

[Leticia Wheeler, the district seven female tribute, makes an epic entrance]

The gymnastics stuff wasn't really necessary, but I need it to warm up a little... However the real warm up is still waiting.

I proceed with the firemaking and finally smell smoke and small flames appear from the bottom of the stick which I am holding in my hands.

Before anyone can realize what is going on, I pull off my hoodie, throw it down and set it on fire. Then I rush to the place where the weapons are hanging, grab an axe and return. The fire is now dancing wildly on the floor and throwing horrifying shadows on the walls. And at this very moment, I feel really furious. I swing my axe and slash at the burning remains of what has just been a part of my clothes. Jumping wildly around the improvised bonfire, I cut into the flames, avoiding them at the same time. This one is for mom. Damn, the fire almost touches my shorts. But I swing the axe again and again. This one is for Luke, this one is for Aileen, this one is for the eternal hunger, this one is for Marcus and DAMMIT don't you dare tell me that we brought it all on ourselves. YOU were the ones who started it! And I hope you get the message. If I could, I would have ruined you already, just like this damn fire! In a minute it will all burn out, but now the flame is still snapping at me fiercely, trying to destroy me. I will not let it consume me. Never. I am free, dangerous and dammit, I am angry. At least I can let it out now and show how I feel about you all, you damn Capitol folks! If you didn't interfere, things could end up being just fine or at least better than they are now. Even if I didn't realize what Marcus means to me, he would be happy and alive. If you didn't invent this damn quell, he wouldn't have volunteered!

The flames die out slowly. I watch them disappear, turn around slowly, throw the axe at some sparring dummy in the corner (accidentally cutting it right in the middle) and walk out without making a single sound. Dammit. Damn the Capitol. And damn the Hunger Games.

[Leticia Wheeler wheels out of the damn place]

"This is my fight song!"

Last Edit: Feb 16, 2017 13:32:30 GMT -5 by Sleepy Fluttershy

(graphics by Kaplan)

☆GABRIELLE☆

d1b. xylia fray ♕ kaяi
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basically miss america

Private Training Stations Feb 16, 2017 13:35:50 GMT -5

Post by d1b. xylia fray ♕ kaяi on Feb 16, 2017 13:35:50 GMT -5

E S Z T E R

It feels like only a day since I’ve left home, but I know it’s been much longer. And somehow I’m still alive, breathing the same polluted air as all of the other walking corpses. I am not dead yet.

Unfortunately.

They’re keeping us around for no reason honestly. Why don’t they vote on a victor and just kill everyone already. This has become such a waste of my time, training, learning how to kill. It’s not like I’m going to win, it’s not like I want to actually win. But here I am spending day in and day out how to properly yield a knife or how to tie the perfect knot.

How exciting.

I guess I asked for it in a way, volunteering for my own death. Stepping up with the others from my district, but I’m the only smart one, I believe they hope. Me, I have none. I thought it’d be quicker though, they always say it’s quick. But I’ve been dying for years-

I can tell you there’s nothing quick about it.

They also say that painless, that you should feel nothing. But my entire life is full of pain, from every step I take towards my death, from every breath I take that I know is closer to being my last, is painful. I can only hope that for once they may be right.

My mind wanders as I sit there for what feels like hours on end. It normally wouldn’t take this long, but who knew so many people would be dumb enough to volunteer for their own slaughter. I wonder if they have substance. I wonder if they are something. I wonder if they had a life.

Because I have nothing.

Patience has never been my strong suit, and mine has certainly run thin from sitting here. Every part of me tells me to get up and walk out. It’s not like it matters. I will not do well. No one is going to sponsor. I am going to die. It is something I’ve accepted a long time ago

After what feels like centuries, my name is announced.

“Eszter Summit, District Seven,”

I force myself to get up and brush myself off to make myself look slightly presentable. And I walk into the stone cold room, my shoes clicking on the hard metal with every step. I’m standing in the center, staring up at them, finally realizing I have nothing to show them. Nothing that will impress them, nothing that they haven’t probably already seen.

Well shit.

I stare for a few minutes, trying to think of something, anything. And I realize my best option is to just be myself. I have nothing to lose. And then sarcastic smile slowly spreads across my lips.

“I’m not even going to bother to tell you who I am, it’s not like you’ll remember anyway,”

My eyes roll to the top of my head and I turn my back on them and make my way towards the weapons. I consider for a moment before picking up something that I know I’ll be comfortable with. My hands fall on a single axe. Predictable for a District Seven, but at least I know that I won’t accidentally kill myself with it.

I find a stationary dummy and just stare, considering it for a moment. It seems as if I’m frozen, never to move again, but in an instant I’m dragging the axe across its next. It happens so quick, that if you blink you may miss it.

Blood splatters the floor and my clothing, while some drops manage to find my face. I turn to the Gamemakers, axe still in hand, and I kick my leg up, making my foot touch my free hand. My face is still straight, not betraying any emotion. Not that I am capable of feeling anything anyway.

“Woo,”

I turn and spot another dummy a few yards away. I surely can’t do the same thing, that would just be boring. I run my finger down the blade of the axe, testing its sharpness. My eyes then lock with the Gamemakers, and I let my axe fly. There’s a loud thud as it makes contact with the dummy, right in the center of its skull.

I go down and do a split, bringing my hands up wiggling my fingers a bit, clearly showing my excitement. My face is just as straight as the moment I began, no amusement crossing it what so ever. And my eyes, never leaving theirs. They are going to remember this face.

“Ta-da,”

My voice as expressionless and dry as my face. I force myself up from the ground and turn my back, finally breaking eye contact with them. I strut out of the room without another word.

That’s because there is nothing left to say.

table by fox

❝ moon dust in your hair, stars in your eyes ❞

kousei ♚
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now and forever

Private Training Stations Feb 16, 2017 19:56:54 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Feb 16, 2017 19:56:54 GMT -5

Our existence may be marked on the permanent pages that mark our timeline that stretches to infinity but everything is limited.

The only hope I ever felt was towards a madman who may have fitted together these puzzle pieces that would've helped me regain control. I am not royalty, this fact is only evident in the fact that I am here, waiting for my turn with my stomach churning and anticipation and adrenaline diluting the blood running through my veins and leaving my heart --- b l a n k.

I trace a sturdy finger across my jaw, wearing confidence along my sleeve because - ('we knew you'd be strong enough to carry the weight of the world if you wanted to') But they never dared let me ask what they would've done in the event that I wasn't strong enough to keep the world at its fragile equilibrium - if I was just to become a statistic of the careers who tried and the conquerors who could've been.

Even kings are finite after all.

Besides, I never once deluded myself into thinking that I could extend control beyond the confines of our family manor, much less the goddamn Capitol of all places - a prison built upon the statistics of those who could've been.

Like everything else that would dare mark its existence on infinity, control is only finite.

"Atlas Lumiere."

Besides, no amount of drink and drugs could delude me into thinking I have even a semblance of control in a place run by Cricket Antoinette of all people. Who could make someone an orphan and not need to live with a mask of magnificence to bear steering the remains of her bloodied path of destruction through the repeated cycle. I'm miles away from my so-called kingdom but when I close my eyes I can still feel the phantom of the crown rested upon my golden head and grip everything I could've needed in my bloodied fists and bruised knuckles - my mother and I love the idea of a dream but I could never be Cricket Antoinette.

A grown man who lives on distractions through any means possible; static flood, women, drink and drugs and hesitates when he sees himself in the mirror as a result, who has nothing to offer besides a name molested by the madness of his predecessor and skills earned from his teaching at an early age - someone like that could never extend control to a domain whose strings are held by Cricket Antoinette.

I've been polarized since five, I should be good at this.

(so why does my heart skip a beat when I feel the pressured gaze of two strip me bare?)

There are no distractions in sight, no exit routes to be found in a place whose foundation if built on statistics. And yet when I take a deep breath her voice plays on repeat in the corners of my mind - ("you're all boring. Terribly, terribly boring... but we'll fix that.")

During being forced to make something out of nothing, I realized control only gave the illusion of being infinite while I was within the confines of my supposed kingdom. And while I'll likely never touch another needle nor will I hold the neck of the bottle again, I think the intoxication of illusion is enough for me.

Reality on loop in the background ("you're all boring") and the pressurized gaze of two faded to static background noise, I begin to fashion death from nothing.

Knife in one hand, I thread something knew to mark itself on this infinite timeline -

(something to fade like we all will)

- from the longest branch I could find, sharpening the end to make a spear and wrapping bandages around the shaft to avoid splinters but I'm unsatisfied. I begin to tie knots from steel wire because rationale gained from polarization in the career center tells me that it's light enough that I'll be able to maneuver effectively but strong enough that it won't snap and leave the illusion of control nothing but shattered.

I am sustained on distraction, I the tight split into equal lengths is an estimate but there's exhilaration in the uncertainty. Six equal lengths attach themselves to the back of the makeshift spear with knots facing outwards. I twirl the spear once or twice, taking two practice swings just to ensure I have the balance.

Random chance - there's always been a sense of probability in everything we do and it's evidenced when I pick the first trainer I see standing along the perimeter and point at him, I'll make sure these next few moments are not based on chance. "Fight me, and use the best weapon you're most confident in because trust me, you're gonna need it." And I sew confidence to my chest and toss him a smile and a wink because that's just what I do.

(that's all I know to do)

I grip the red and bite my bottom lip when he picks up his sword, we dance in the face of expectation.

My movement is automatic, aggression is my new reality because that's all I know. In the space between the tip of the blade nearly catching my cheek and neck numerous times his skin fades and his flesh becomes transparent - he is no longer a trainer but a pair of lungs, a beating heart, a set of muscles and ligaments all entwined with a network of veins and arteries and kill points.

I do not lunge.

Dancing out of range, deflecting hits on the flat of his blade just so I do not splinter the wood it all becomes routine. My feet dance, lithe and quick while my technique is peppered with the occasional jab and swipe in an effort to keep up this facade.

(because that's all we may as well be)

I open my guard, an opportunity for him to slip into reach of the spear but it's preemptive plan and he's fallen into web.

(spinning tales, spinning lies - that's what I know)

As he steps forward I dart to the side, looping one of the free nooses with my free hand up and over his head, pushing him up and through it with the shaft of my spear and turning his momentum into a weapon so his neck is through the loop and I tug.

We stop and I breathe, he doesn't.

Even his yell is stifled he flails for behind him in an effort to catch his bond but I don't let him, jabbing forwards with the spear and slicing his hand, his sword dropping to the ground with a resounding clatter. Second loop tight in my free hand I loop it around his hand and pull it over his wrist and I tug hard so it tightens and in the process of his confusion and pain I take the window of opportunity to get the final loop around his next hand and I tug, pulling his hands back behind him but ensuring I don't pull the loop around his neck, lest I strangle him to death. "The more you struggle, the tighter it gets, the more painful it gets."

I grip the makeshift spear tighter, he is mine and he stops struggling, his composure partly regained.

"Now if you don't do as I say then this spear goes right through you and don't think I won't fucking do it because I will, now nod if you understand," I command and I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief when he nods with a slight grunt. "Now, I'm feeling hungry, so we're going to take a trip, that station," I motion to the plants station, "now walk, you go first."

He steps slowly, I step with him, ensuring the leads remain even partially slack so he doesn't accidentally choke himself.

(a pair of lungs, a beating heart, a network of pressure points,veins and arteries

It's a shaky process and we may as well be walking on ice but he makes it to the roulette wheel all the same.

I motion to one plant, "I like the look of that, but I need to know it's safe, so you eat it first, call it 'picking your poison' I suppose."

A make-believe scowl grows across my face I press the point of the spear against his trembling flesh, leverage a loaded gun at my side.

(my finger trembles along the trigger)

He eats the first batch anyway.

Finite time ticking to infinity, he doesn't keel over and die so I mark them as safe.

I motion to the next batch, blind to probability, numb to humanity - I'm intoxicated on the very illusion of control itself. "That one." I tug backwards with the loop connected to the left hand and point it towards another random bush of plants. The way his hand trembles tells me he's found a bullet. He picks them but they go nowhere near his mouth.

"I-I can't it-it-"

"Kills you?"

He shakes his head, but it does something.

"Eat it."

But defiance runs flows through his veins like a river, I sigh.

"How... tragic."

(my finger trembles along the trigger

I heft my spear, movement automatic and driven by thirteen years of being driven by the polarized.

Riptides- control hangs in the balance, white and blinding in the face of risk. For a split second he's no longer a network of veins and arteries, more than a set of arteries - perhaps even a family to feed that's untouched by the polarized system. Perhaps, he was someone else's Asha.

(don't shoot)

I see riptides and they call; I lunge.

(we sink)

He

falls.

There's always a hidden poison behind gashing someone along the thigh, years of seeing humans who just happen to step foot in my sphere of control as nothing but a network of arteries and veins have taught me that- it's evidenced by shades of red that swim across my eyes. Deaf to humanity's cries, colorblind to conscience, I grunt, twisting to aggravate the wound and pulling to free myself from the consequences of polarization.

Heartbeat ticking to finality, control is finite on this timeline and so are we.

"I've just pierced your femoral artery, now unless you find some kind of medical help you'll just fade, and I don't think we want that."

(I drown)

I always considered myself reside on the spectrum of the doomed and the damned, after this I suppose I'm a little bit of both.

(control; it tends to slip through the crevices of reality)

When Asha Lumiere dared to spill the blood of innocents with his blade he saw it as an art form and never thought to utter a single apology in hope of repentance for his sins. I suppose we are similar in that respect because when I turn my back to the aftermath of a lust for the unattainable the countless waves of apologies die in my throat. They would never be heard in the grand scheme of an infinity I only wish to leave my mark on, even if it is left in disgusting shades of red.

heather - d2 [mylee]
Retired Staff

528 POSTS

last seen May 30, 2023 18:02:03 GMT -5

Private Training Stations Feb 17, 2017 11:11:49 GMT -5

Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Feb 17, 2017 11:11:49 GMT -5

I have long often wondered,
Weary and worn
If this heart here of mine
Loved the grim scene of war—
Loved the sight of flesh torn.

Bare body of bone
Etched with symbols of pride
Shone bright in the darkness
Each long lonesome night—
Each dreaded sunrise.

I have since then determined
No heart and no home
Give this body of mine
Youthful thought to long hold.

Fragmented and fearful I bounce my foot against the linoleum floor of the hallway. Shards shoved together and held in place by last remnants of sanity, I think of where I was when I had seen that my sister had done nothing more than the single digit number of one. I suppose my own expression had dropped and given my thoughts away to my father, who had then scoffed and mused about her unlikelihood to mold to established standards to begin with.

Rebellious daughter never participating in the rebellion itself— the ultimate form of activism unnoticed.

Between midnight musing and pacing I had remained sober for a solid five minutes of consciousness during my time wasted here, and now was no exception. The floor seemed to give way every time my toe tapped against it, my memories of time spent in the training center blurring together like a drawn out breath that did not give life to any being in the surrounding area. I had acquired no knowledge and passed none on in the meantime, simply existing in the space in between with no apologies to be found or received.

There was no rest for the wicked or the righteous, and I had reason to believe I was neither defined yet given no time to think either—

“Shelby Leviane.”

Cold and metallic and void of emotion, I stand up from my place and stumble forward, the echo of my name spoken still in my ear as though it was a personal reminder of who I supposedly was.

The doors giving way to the touch of my cold palms, I break into an atmosphere quieter than that which I had just left, impossibly still and shielded in glass, waiting to be shattered by voice, fist, or metal alike.

No need for a name already known, I pace forward, watching one foot set down in front of the other like a tightrope of paper balancing act. One sway of the wind and I was gone— how this storm of mind was ready to break the horizon.

I pause, staring blankly at the space above me as though I was staring into the sun— blinded, eyes squinting, I make out two prominent figures seated front and center. One looks familiar enough to single out in a crowd but make no passing gesture at, and the other would seem to strike no similarity into an even sober mind.

Wide-toothed grin of the same given to the boy from nine as we stood in the few moments of precious light that then gave way to darkness, I beckon for them to lean in as I speak in a voice just audible yet not proud, “I have a secret to tell you.”

No interest given and no interest lost I continue, “I am so fucking hammered right now.”

I am a woman of truth and not decency.

Nor complacency or ease of method, I turn my back on the two and haphazardly make my way to the long range weaponry and study it with peaked interest.

The only thing I touched in this room when it was occupied was a single bow and arrow, but beside the point, I knew my shot was just slightly askew when not sober, and I knew as good as any on a proper method of catching items on fire.

Child’s play and sophisticated methods of destruction are only differentiated in process of execution.

As an older sister, Cha would sit me in the hammock with her on clear nights and point to a line of stars that curved just down at the right end on an angle. She said the point led to the place she knew she would find one day— that all there was left to do was to reach it. I asked her how she would get there, and she simply smiled— I could count the number of times this occurred on one hand held palm up— and she told me that there was no set path by which to reach this destination. I thought the idea was absurd, for it stood to my mind that every destination could be reached with navigational ability and endurance defined by discipline.

Faced with a blank canvas of my own now, I reach for the handle of a bow, instantly caught off guard by its weight sinking my light frame. Set on the ground by my feet I take hold of four arrows, silver tipped and more straightforward than Cha had ever been, and set them parallel to the bow.

I leave the range, where familiarity had just begun to settle unnervingly in my bones, and make my way over to where I had watched countless others try to start fires— some successful; others not, and all with common value in mind. One jar of tar and four matches later I am looking at an assembly line of disaster sitting at my feet, waiting to lurch forward and be the determiner of a fate I was not to realize.

First arrow now dipped in tar and held delicately between my fingers, I strike a match and hold it at the tip alight. Sparked and spitting I lean back slightly in surprise while holding it aloft and reaching down with a free hand to take hold of the bow.

Target farthest to the left I take aim, shaky breath and twitching wrist predecessor to the release of tension as the arrowhead sinks into the center of the replica’s head.

Reaching for the second arrow I repeat the process, nicking my finger with metal white burning in the process and grimacing as I pull the string back and aim at the second target. Just to the right and still in center I reach for the third arrow in time to see blood running down the inside of my wrist.

Burned path of navigation I set fire to the third and make similar practice of the target’s head— this time just a bit more off center than the first two.

The fourth arrow now in grasp, I strike the final match and revel in the glory at my fingertips one final time before taking aim, this time only for the target’s heart.

I am no lover, fighter, or anything in between— simply traveler, drunkard, and fearful—

Set fire to the remnants of a memory and you have nothing left to grieve.

Extinguished now I make my way to the line of four arrows once ablaze and remove them one by one— beginning with the three shot eye for eye and ending with the last, still warm, at source of bleeding.

I step back, discarding the singed arrows at my feet and reveling in the constellation I had once seen so often in the night sky— I do not know why it had been so hard to find.

Just beyond my grasp, I point with bloody hand, “Cha Leviane was looking for something— I believe I just found it.”

table by elegant

Bad bitches only
Ain't no mediocre
Don’t want no mediocre

I'm so fucking hammered right now. "Me too! Me too!" Cricket wails, giggling as she turns in Hera's direction with so much enthusiasm that she falls over into her lap. What happens next is part hug, part oh please no. By the time the victor is sitting up again — only this time cross legged on the floor — she's missed whatever else has been going on in the mean time. Despite knowing full well what state her co-gamemaker is in, Hera still wonders aloud: "Was it just me, or did that make no sense?" To which Cricket can only reply, "I don't really know what was happening either..."