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Deleted 0 POSTS last seen Apr 28, 2024 5:28:45 GMT -5	making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 2, 2017 22:04:02 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Deleted on Jul 2, 2017 22:04:02 GMT -5 stick em up! post all those 76th private training sessions + juicy gm reactions below

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making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 2, 2017 22:06:45 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jul 2, 2017 22:06:45 GMT -5

"District 6 female, you're up!"

I've always been a girl forged from adventure, I walk with nervousness in my legs, in my eyebrows -- twitching. Anxiety in the pit of my stomach, stick to what's natural, Basil, breathing uneven tides under too tight training clothes. I have to be honest here, the door shutting behind me and the smell of immaculacy overwhelming -- I've never been a business woman.

Kaiser has muscles, he's an idiot sure but he has something to sell, Lace has her fists, Titus is a gang member he's bound to have something, but as much as that, sex sells. On the edge of their seats, men are the most absurd; gamemakers are harder to buy but it's too late not to try. It's a walk laced with fantasy soft, feminine -- burlesque in my hips, dropping the training jacket to the lines of my shoulders.

"Basil Isley, district sex" oh, quite the slip up there.

And maybe it's tacky, bringing old dancer tricks to the training station, I drop the jacket to the ground, eyes trained on the plants in the corner -- perfect. Ripred built paradise in a week, let's see if I can do better. Five minutes, clocking in my lungs and I don't waste time past walks, power in poise and this has to look seamless, even cleaner than it is. I find my home in the plants station, fake trees lining but there's no hiding here, if only. I have shit to grab first; adorning myself in stations in line. The weaving center, the camouflage station, the dummy camp -- this one's for the girls back home, dancers, artists, Heaven.

I bite my lip.

I stuff black and green paint cans in my pockets, two trapping pins. Rope between my fingers, tango dancing with the dummy for a second, staining a kiss on the side of its face between before dragging it, my own ass and one axe to my make believe forest; I don't have time. Tick tock, whatever, it's a lot of behind the scenes anyways, entertainment's bitch. I dogpile one more essentials - dogbane, dried and perfected and not touched yet - amazing. Four foot stalks, that's perfect, and I position myself between the trees right in view, rope and tweed and paints. "Oh, I only wish I had more time." A pout, this old show girl routine probably only works in district six but whatever.

Five minutes, all I'm asking for. I mix the paints, more green with less black, camouflage -- nothing amazing here slathering the rope in it as fast as I can. This isn't about perfection, this is work. More natural, more lucky I'll be but I can't waste enough time, sitting aside rope to dry after a cute minute- fuck. I've gotta work faster, checking back up to the gamemakers every few seconds, smashing dogsbane apart by the seams, tearing apart stalks into fibre as fast as I can. "Sorry for the mess," this is jacked ugly.

"Fast pace has me bothered."

God that was stupid, I can't help but to laugh at that nonsense but hey - it works sometimes. I grab my ropes and fibres, snatching the tie out of my hair before taking refuge before the tree; I've gotta make this work. And I drop the sex act, obstructed from view, stripping off the training clothes and biting the fibres, tying and re-enforcing all this shitty ass stalk together; they've been messing with mother nature out here. But it's a show, I have to keep them occupied -- when haven't I.

It's a show girl's stage, sliding to the floor and slipping in teases -- nude legs down to training boots, showing my face from between the show curtains. All the while my hands twist the noose's shape, twigs and stalks and fibres and thank god -- dogsbane's tough enough to hold a dead body's weight. And just in time. Next they see me, I'm exhaling on top of the trees, tying the dogsbane to the strongest trunk, god this is stupid. It's been past five minutes oh definitely, I straddle the tree branch, black underwear between plastic leaves, "they call it Mother Nature's burlesque." I drop the noose, hooking around the dummy's neck and for a second I smell the tension, breathe it, "I call them mother fuckers," the words ugly. Spat out as I pull the dummy's neck- I'm not finished.

I don't finish second.

I hold the dogsbane to the trunk as hard as I can, grabbing my huntsman's axe with my free hand, twisting up side down in a show girl's finale, slamming the blade into the dummy's forehead. The hit echoes, in my stomach with fake blood on the axe and I crawl to the ground. I am no business woman, exiting the room with no clothes on my back but a two piece.

But sex sells.

“Oh la la, now that is fancy.”

They were on the tail end of the first session after the short break that had been Jacob Wickham’s fifteen minutes of no-show, and the District Six female was proving that just because they had left the Careers behind did not mean that they would be devoid of impressive physical performances.

Basil Isley, for her part, had proven that improvisation was an art that transcended home, for she had turned what was essentially a stripper’s show into something much more… useful. A knot tied out of dogsbane had been tied to the trunk of the largest tree in the room, a lithe form clad in nothing but underwear had traversed the distance from floor to branch almost too quickly and nimbly to follow, and as she watched, the grand finale of her act went underway.

The improvised noose found its way around the neck of a wayward dummy. One blink, and suddenly said dummy had an axe sticking out of its skull.

Her descent was as graceful as her ascent were, and she doesn’t bother putting her clothes back on before exiting.

To her right, Charlie shrugged, looking visibly uncomfortable. “Sex sells,” she managed, before taking another sip of her wine.

“Well, she definitely held my attention the whole time,” Callie declared, earning a look from the former.

“Let’s hope she has a few more tricks up her sleeve then.” Charlie replied. “I don’t think her fellow tributes will have the patience for a striptease.”

Deep down, Amethyst agreed, but it still didn’t stop her from writing a neat little 9 in the margin next to Basil’s name.

That one will be interesting to watch, she thought. And not in the way that many other people would think, either.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 11:49:12 GMT -5 by Deleted

Python
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making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 2, 2017 22:07:45 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jul 2, 2017 22:07:45 GMT -5

The fire of enthusiasm pulsed in his veins, sending a spike of adrenaline through his system. This was the first morning he hadn’t taken a single sip of alcohol because he knew today was important. His family – Justice included – could call him stupid all they wanted, but whether it was true or not he knew he was not stupid enough to fuck up his private training session. This was the main event, the very beginning of garnering support. Granted, he was a famous career family member and the brother of a victor, but he needed more support if he wanted to outshine the existing legacy. He didn’t think of Justice as any king, but the Capitol sure did worship him.

The scores were all lined up in his head, a history book written in Capitol media. All of the Frays had scored below a 9, which was the standard for “impressive” back in District One. Somehow, Scout had been robbed of a good score and was delivered a three, as if to mock the Fray family. He didn’t know if Scout had offended the gamemakers – which was possible – but he knew he couldn’t pull any shit like that. He had to impress them. He had to surpass Justice.

The pressure was on, but his nerves didn’t crack. His name was first to be called, and he strutted into the room with his eyes trained on the weapons rack. He flashed a charming smirk at the Gamemakers and grabbed his favorite – a spiked club, every point sharpened into a silver glisten under fluorescent lighting.

This was the easy part; show them his expertise from his years and years of training.

Any career could do this. He swung the beastly thing with lopped the head off of the nearest dummy. A display of strength.

He walked behind another one and lodged over half of the spikes into its spine and lungs. Stealth.

He added a second grip to the hilt and leapt, bringing the bloodied weapon down onto a third dummy’s skull. It split into two undefined pieces of gory matter, painting his cheeks with blood speckles. That one was showing off, but isn’t that the purpose of all this?

”That was a warm up,” he said, dropping the spiked blunt. ”Easy stuff.”

Time for the fun shit.

He ransacked the trapping station for a piece of wire. Thin, and long enough to wrap around both of his hands and pull tight. His eyes darted to the nearest dummy, narrowing with predatory focus. One leap and he was sprinting again, imagining himself as a tiger pouncing from behind a bush. His prey was standing still, of course, but a target in motion would only require a few extra punches. He wrapped the length of thread around its neck and kicked out with his right leg, stealing the wind from within an otherwise lifeless dummy. He pushed with his foot, further sinking the flesh of its neck into the wire until it began to bleed. One second, two seconds –

He tore through flesh and vertebrae, wire slicing clean through its neck. The head dropped to the floor and he grinned. No sweat broken yet.

His next victim was a few feet away. Another unsuspecting dummy; imagine his horror! This time he knocked it to the ground and wrapped the wire around its arm. The connection point between arm and shoulder felt the wrath of his brute strength, the wire like hot steel pressing through fake bone, muscle, and blood. Good thing it didn’t have working nerve endings; this would hurt like a bitch.

Arm severed, he unraveled the bloody wire from his hands and replaced it. This was not only a display of creative brutality, but of resourcefulness. Everything could become a weapon if you tried hard enough, and this severed arm was a fine example. He twirled it in his hands, deciding on the wrist as his hilt, and smiled with teeth. This was the best part!

He brought the arm down upon the dummy’s face, bones and all. One smack from a fleshy arm wouldn’t cause too much harm, erhaps a nasty bruise. But he wasn’t finished, oh no. He brought it down again. And again. A bone snapped along the way – probably its nose – and he continued on until the arm was too disfigured to be of use any longer. Then he snapped one of the bones away. Radius or ulna? Kaiser didn’t know science. To him, it was simply a tool. The smallest arm bone snapped away from that poor severed arm. He aimed and quickly jabbed it through the dummy’s eye.

That bitch wouldn’t wake up now

”Woo! That was fun.” he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead for dramatic effect. He donned a giddy smile because he had no shame in his enjoyment of violence.

”That’s all folks.”

A little wave, and he was gone.

[ dars ]

pup
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making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 3, 2017 13:20:05 GMT -5

Post by pup on Jul 3, 2017 13:20:05 GMT -5

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cam

My heart thuds gently in my ears while I await my turn. There is no point to all of this. There is no point to showing us off, giving us a score to be speculated at by the analytical minds in the Capitol. There is no point in broadcasting us to everybody everywhere because all but one of us will die anyways.

Then again, this is a show, a performance, a game. I guess that’s why it’s treated like one, with the interviews, the flashy lights, the drama. Did Amethyst Starfyre get a new dress? How much did it cost? Why did Charlie Garnet do this or that? How does Callienta Minorae do her hair in the mornings? It’s all a game they play, and I guess it’s almost my turn in the game.

All around me my fellow ‘tributes’ pace the room, sit in chairs wringing their hands, some have their eyes darting around the room. I don’t pay attention to who is who in here, and honestly I don’t care anymore. They just need to let go and agree to play the game. All we all need to do is agree to play the stupid game, and then this will all be over sooner rather than later. Even if it means you will die, who wants a long, drawn out death instead of a short, swift one.

I know I don’t want to die, and I don’t plan on letting death enclose me in his twisted trap just yet. Maybe when I am old, sitting in a rocking chair in victors village, sharing stories with Patricia I will be able to let go from this world, but for now my grasp on the ground is firm. I am not ready to leave the game just yet.

One by one, tribute after tribute, they are called in to face the three people who tower over us like they own our bodies and souls. They pretty much do. They have taken us from our homes and broadcast us, inspecting us from every angle and every point of view. They decide whether I live or whether I die. Even when I win, I will be stuck in their trap getting every move I make observed from every which way. At least it’s better to be in their besmirched game than death, I suppose.

I don’t know what the other tributes are doing, whether they are stabbing dummies with swords, dousing avoxes in fire, or even just singing for the gamemakers. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that with each person that enters I am closer and closer to the point where I need to ‘show off’ how I will ‘win” their game to them.

In my mind I am able to recall what Patricia told me before I left in the elevator.

“Don't waste your energy. Showing off acrobatic knife skills in a quiet room is totally different to doing it when multiple people are trying to kill you.” I nod and agree on the outside, but on the inside I fight her advice. Patricia doesn’t want to play their game, she never did. I’m different, I know what I need to do survive. It’s all just a show, an act, a performance. I can’t let my audience down. I need to feel the cheers, the roses being thrown at me. I need to feel the winning.

My name is called over the loudspeaker into the room, a smooth voice urging me closer and closer to the gamemakers. I’m not scared. I’m ready to play their game. Our game, now. They make it, I play it. It’s a twisted symbiotic relationship that I hope I live long enough to continue. Well, I don’t, really want to be a part of it, but I said it before. It’s better than death.

My legs pull me into the room, the door closing with a clink behind me. My bright green eyes settle on a pair of avoxes who are eyeing me warily. I suppose this is what it feels like to be one of them. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than death. I nod to them, acknowledging them, silently telling them not to worry. I’ve heard stories about tributes walking in here, slicing up an avox, then leaving. That’s not playing the game. That’s no fun. That’s just killing for the sake of killing. It’s a bloody mess for no reason. When I kill, it will be an art, and it will be done in a way that isn’t just for the sake of killing. It will be so that I can go back home to my parents.

I move my sparkling green eyes to the gamemakers sitting on their chairs up above me, judging me, waiting for me to do something. I nod to them as if they are my equal, a friend I am passing by on the street, a small smile gracing the corners of my lips. They think they’re better than me. They probably are. Their faces are clouded with judgement and the harsh beauty the capitol forces upon them. My face hasn’t been picked and prodded since birth like the people in the capitol’s have. For that, I kind of feel sorry for them.

I prepare, my mind whirring with the memories from last night. I was feeling the feeling that every tribute must have felt, my face clouded with the envy of sleeping in the bed that probably no one alive in our district besides the victors had felt before. My hand grazing the soft silk sheets and remember the dry, thin sheets that everyone in district five lays claim too. Then the thought of who else slept on this bed each year reminds me how I am sleeping where years upon years of corpses previously slept. My face had changed from one of envy to one of determination. I will not let myself just be another face in a darkened sky.

My parents had wanted to prepare me for a job when I grew up, and my mother who worked at a battery factory helped me learn all that I needed. I remember thinking about what she had taught me all those late nights when she came home from work, and what I could use that I had seen in the training center. I had lept out of my bed to grab one of the fancy pens and clean sheets of paper. The ink from the pen flowed smoothly onto the page as I listed out my thoughts, each line and curve pouring out to make what I wanted, my brain whirring with excitement and memories of my life before I was reaped.

My green eyes flow away from my judges to lock on the objects I need. I have limited time, I need to move fast. An invisible force pushes my body towards two glass bowls with water and milk in them, I take a look at them for a moment before grabbing them and dumping them onto the floor, sending an apologetic look towards the avoxes who will probably need to mop that up before my counterpart I saw on the train enters. That reminds me of another thought, why does Jacob always wear that creepy gas mask? I still vividly remember my eyes widening on the train from surprise and laughter when we entered the train together. An old broken gas mask won’t do much to help him in the arena. It’s just extra weight.

I move and place them one next to each other on the floor in the middle of the training center, my eyes quickly scanning the room to see what I needed next. I move to grab the rubber gloves hanging on a wall near what I needed next. I place the rubber gloves smoothly onto my hands, feeling awkward in the gloves that are just a few sizes too large for me.

I move along the nearby row of new-looking cabinets. Natural Toxins, Known Muttation Toxins, before settling on Metallic Toxins. My gloved hand reaches out and flings it open, hand moving from bottle to bottle searching for the right ones. I find the Copper Sulfate first, grabbing it in my right hand before moving onto the Zinc Sulfate next, grabbing it in my next.

My legs pull me back to the bowls in the center to dump each chemical into separate bowls like two flowing toxic waterfalls. I can feel the eyes of the gamemakers burning into my neck as I spin to find my next ingredients. There are a row of metals that I rush towards, sighing inwardly as I try to determine what each metal is, trying to remember what my mother taught me while she taught me how to make the battery. I grab what I think is the copper wire, then zinc wire, and a long stretch of thin silver wire.

My legs move almost without command now, knowing I need to finish quickly. I drop to the ground in front of the bowls, tying the Copper and Zinc wires together at one end before placing the other end of the Zinc wire into the bowl with the Copper Sulfate and the Copper wire into the bowl with the Zinc Sulfate. Then I tie the end of the long silver wire to the tied ends of the Copper and Zinc wires and begin to pull the Silver wire gently from its roll, and I move, running around the entire training center.

Then I stop, the one part I haven’t thought through, a human volunteer.

My eyes gaze frantically around the room before settling on the avoxes, my heart races, but I know what I have to do. I run quickly over to them and smile at a girl who looks about my age, with bright red hair similar to mine.

“Hey,” I say softly to her soft features that are contorting in fear, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you” badly. My thought ends the sentence. I gently grab her hand and lead her to a sink, “I just need your help with a demonstration.” She nods and complies as I turn on the tap and let the water flow over her right hand.

I lead her to a cooking station. I don’t even understand why they have a cooking station in here. I’m not going to be making a gourmet meal anytime soon in an arena. I grab the salt and pour it on her arm and hand and rub it gently onto her to mix with the water on her skin. Her confused look reminds me to not think about what I am doing, to not show any weakness. My gloved hand leads her to the wire draped over a metallic rack of metal weapons. The salt water plus the electricity should be enough.

Leading her by my gloved hand like death leading a soul down to the underworld, I move her hand to the rack, and as soon as her hand touches the rack, her hand touches the metal and she lets out a small shriek of surprise before collapsing to the ground, disoriented. I give her a pitiful smile that says sorry. Before I make my way over to the gamemakers. She’ll be fine, just a bit disoriented from the zap.

I look up at them, my green eyes locking on each of theirs and giving them a small smile before giving a slight curtsy. They want to play at gods. I’ll play their godly game. I’ll be the mortal life they want to play with. I’ll put on the performance they want. They want something amazing. I just charged most metallic things in the room with a homemade battery that my mom taught me to make. I hope that’s dazzling enough for their judgy tastes. I’m not the best at the weird electrochemistry things my mom has been doing, but hopefully the other avoxes know enough to clean it up with getting a shock because it seems like what I wanted to do worked out alright.

Then just as I entered, my legs carry me out, my face set with determination.

I’m ready to play their game.

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2068 words :hellmo:

[note to gms]
If you need help sorting this out here is the lit scientific explanation:
Pretty much I had Cam making an electricity trap using Zinc Sulfate and Copper Sulfate which when combined together with touching pure zinc and copper can create an electrical current. She used the silver wire because silver is one of the most conductive metals, and so by laying it around the area when connected to the copper and silver wires, she could send an electrical charge to the conductive metal objects. I assumed that the racks of weapons and such were made out of some form of metal. I did some little calculations with the assumption that I was working with enough chemicals to house multiple regular double A batteries (with the exemption that double A batteries use Potassium Sulfate instead of Copper Sulfate, but the Copper Sulfate would create a stronger current) to figure out what a touch to the hand would do to a human. Happy hunger games! <3333
Visual Representation: chem.libretexts.org/@api/deki/files/170/galvanic_cell2.png?revision=1&size=bestfit&width=550&height=410

:dab:

Callie stared at the red-headed girl, her eyes already starting to glaze over. Designing the arena had been fun; creating the mutations exciting; determining the uniforms exhilarating. But watching tribute after tribute try to prove something of themselves? If she had been one to stress eat, she would have been digging into the plates already. They weren’t even halfway through all of the tributes, but she needed someone—anyone—to spice things up.

She hoped this little girl had promise.

Her eyes followed the girl as she moved between stations, grabbing this thing and that, stringing wire until there was a little contraption in front of her. She couldn’t see too much but she knew the little girl was mixing chemicals of sorts, meaning she was trying to generate a reaction. Callie scribbled on her clipboard before her eyes went back to the girl. The avox girl was on the floor and Charlie was already beginning to speak. "Okay, Five - Dialate. I thought the electricity was a neat trick, but she didn't think about how to execute her trap and kind of half-assed it at the end, which doesn't give me a lot of confidence." So structured, so stuck on a path.

Then Amethyst offered her thoughts: “She shocked an innocent avox though. Rude.” Callie couldn’t help but stare at Amethyst with a look of amusement and bewilderment. Innocence meant nothing in the Games, and the avoxes weren’t avoxes because they had a clean slate. “At least she’s not dead,” Callie offered. This one has too big of a heart. “Well, I’m excited to see what she can do with this, though I highly doubt she can do the same trick twice.” In my arena. She scribbled the number 6 on her clipboard and showed it to her fellow Gamemakers who responded with a nod of agreement. If you let me down though, District 5—

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 11:39:11 GMT -5 by pup

^Made by the amazing Onyx^

Gryphon
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heading to cloud nine

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 3, 2017 20:38:07 GMT -5

Post by Gryphon on Jul 3, 2017 20:38:07 GMT -5

McCarthy Balmain

table made by tom <333333

District one female.

The words echo throughout the walls within my head as the girl with the number sewed into her uniform stood up and walked through the doors into the gym.

We all waited in silence as one by one, we were all called to go in alone--just us, and the Gamemakers. Private Training Sessions. They can make or break your chances of surviving the first day, and how many sponsors you get throughout your time in the arena--you don't want it too low or you're gonna have a hell of a difficult time getting any, but you don't want it too high or you're gonna have everyone's eyes trained on you as the countdown gets closer to starting us all off.

I hope I sit somewhere in the middle. Good enough, average, unnoticeable. It's weird, feeling like wanting to live but also wanting to die--but I want to leave this Earth on my own terms and not because of my training score. I look around at the expressions of the other tributes in the room--some are clearly nervous, some are definitely prepared for this, and some I just can't tell how they're feeling.

But me?

As the Gamemakers move down the districts I find myself falling back into my own personal routine of mental torment. This isn't a good time for it to be happening but the situation we're currently being faced with isn't helping, and all I'm seeing as I wait is red and orange and yellow and white and black mixing with red into something horrific as red string slowly wraps itself all around my body, tighter and tighter and I can't breathe as I watch a huge plank of wood fall into the flames, I'm losing my ability to breathe and it's just suffocating me and pulling tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter and--

District eight male.

The words I've been waiting to hear are finally said and I instinctively get to my feet before blinking back into my senses--I'm still here, in the cold greyness of this training center, surrounded by other tributes, and now I'm ready to show the three women operating these Games what I've got.

Please don't let me fuck up,

because I just now have finally gotten an idea of what I want to do--and I want it to be done just right.

I swing the doors open and take a few steps before stopping, eyes staring up at the Gamemakers the whole time as I breathe deeply to calm myself even further from the direction I just let my mind drift off to. I wait a few moments until I finally look away and at the stations, eyes eventually landing on the camouflage table and stepping over to it. As I start picking out containers of liquids made out of leaves and flowers and plants, I look behind me to spot the firemaking station as well. When I do, I go on and take a lighter, move a gas can on the floor to the center of the table, step back, and that's when I start throwing things.

I take two cups of red from leaves and berries and move a little closer to the station before throwing the liquid from the cup at the walls above it, red splattering everywhere as I repeat this process multiple times--staining the firemaking materials, the table, and the two trees next to it alongside the grey. Orange comes next and I use a slightly smaller amount than I did with the red, but still cover the area in the color nonetheless.

Yellow is the next color and at this point I decide to get a bit sloppy, throwing not just the paints at the walls but the cups themselves as I hear them bang against the walls and clatter on the tables before rolling onto the floor; I finally finish off the infernal mural with white in the same way. There's a few stains of the bright, warm parts of a fearful, blazing whole on my uniform but I can't be bothered to give a shit.

I return to the camouflage station and pick up one single container of black before a darkened gaze scans for the smallest dummy in the room--

"His name is Lester Kinsley. I've seen him around here before--he's always breaking into people's houses for food and such every other day."

and with furrowed brows, I damn near stomp towards it with the paint in one hand and a clenched fist my other. I hastily paint the corners of its face, arms, body, and legs, throwing the remaining paint behind me carelessly when I finish as I hoist the dummy on my shoulder and return to in front of the now ravaged firemaking part of the room.

"This is for them, you fucking asshole--" and with gritted teeth, I take the dummy of burnt edges by the ankles and slowly start swinging it around, feeling myself accelerate with the circular motion as I keep up before finally letting go and watching him fly towards the colorful table and crash, hearing a sickening crack as he slid down to the fire-y surface in a less-than-graceful position.

Wicker baskets, wood planks, and linseed oil from the improvising station join the horrifically beautiful mess, and so do opened bottles of rubbing alcohol from the first aid and even a few swords and knives--the last blade I hurl at the chaos slicing open the gas can, the yellow-ish liquid pouring out of the now broken red holder as with harder breathing, I flick the lighter on and fling it.

An inferno is created, making a meal out of this part of the gymnasium like it did with our home, like "Lester Kinsley" saw to it to. Like Holliday's parents planned for it to. It roars and crackles, and it isn't long until dark smoke is conjured from the conflagration.

The alarms on the ceiling go off.

Just like I wanted it to.

I turn to the Gamemakers and without my eyes peeling away from them, I bow and begin walking backwards towards the doors.

"McCarthy Balmain."

Shrugging my shoulders, a slight smirk upturns the corners of my lips until they're reached and they open from my back pushing further into them.

Everything worked out, just like I hoped for it to.

"...This is my story."

If the tributes had decided to band together for one last “fuck you” at the Gamemakers, Charlie wouldn’t really be surprised. In their condition, all they really could do was cause annoyance, property damage, avox damage (the most pointless damage, why damage something already destroyed beyond recognition?), and now yet again, fire damage.

Why is it that every games seemed to have someone paint their emotions like a nouveau-Kandinsky (she wouldn’t give them that much credit, they didn’t have an eighth of his prowess) and try to burn the place down? Could it please be unnecessary for Charlie Garnet to have the email

“Dear Maintenance Dept., <tribute_id> has caused <insert_damage_here> to the Private Training Station. If you could send someone down immediately we would truly appreciate it. Thank you for your time, and for all that you do towards helping the 76th Games be the best one yet. Best, Head Gamemaker Charlie Garnet”

copied onto her tablet’s clipboard?

Apparently not, for McCarthy Balmain arrives right on cue, just as she’s thanked the crew for removing the large scratches carved in the floor by a certain District 7 tribute. He grabs a lighter, a gas can, and just as Charlie glances over to grab a peek at Callie’s reaction (in Charlie’s defense, Callienta had literally cried the last time something was damaged), he starts throwing things.

Red (Why red? That’s such a pain to get rid of why did we paint these walls white?), yellow that gradates into orange, cups smacking against the wall haphazardly with their remnants spilling on the floor. Balmain then grabs black, and the smallest dummy in the room (wow. threatening. i’m terrified.) before speaking about Lester Kinsley, a thief who’s been “around here” before, stealing “food and such” every other day. And such? Couldn’t he think of a better monologue?

He throws paint on the dummy and behind his back in a wave that splatters the ground. He then grabs the dummy and pelts it towards the camouflage station - “This is for them you fucking asshole--” - before throwing every flammable item he can find at the mess he’s made. And then it’s on fire. Great. The fire alarm goes off. Even greater. Balmain turns towards the Gamemakers, a smirk on his face as he introduces himself as if they didn’t know his name before. And then he leaves. Smoke drifts around the room but doesn’t pass through their security field.

“Alright,” Charlie starts after a pause. “I’m contacting maintenance again. Overall very cliche, and little to show. Even the anger issues and fire motif is overdone at this point.”

Callie chimes in. “If I wanted to watch someone have a temper tantrum, I would have a child.”

Amethyst chuckles. “The funny part is that I think he actually thought he made a difference. All he did was cut his survival chances in half.” The second worst thing to do in a Games is to have the Gamemakers on your bad side, and a few tributes have managed to do that in fifteen minutes flat. The first thing of course, is to be on Snow’s radar..

Charlie speaks again. “Someone contact the new mayor - Hope, was it? And tell him to find this Lester Kinsley. He owes Callienta a new table.” A tipsy afterthought. “Maybe use his limbs for its legs.” She smirks.

And as they pen a solid 4 (for anger does have some perks) next to Balmain’s name, Charlie sends yet another email.

Dear Maintenance Dept.,

The D8M has caused fire damage (currently still on fire) and paint damage to the Private Training Station. If you could send someone down immediately we would truly appreciate it. Thank you for your time and for all that you do towards helping the 76th Games be the best one yet.

I apologize profusely. Your staff’s dinner is on us tonight. Drinks included.

Best,
Head Gamemaker Charlie Garnet

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 11:57:10 GMT -5 by Gryphon

Made by the lovely moon(stone) <3

Kire
Retired Staff

2,937 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jul 16, 2015 21:45:21 GMT -5

thinking about thonking

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 5, 2017 12:29:26 GMT -5

Post by Kire on Jul 5, 2017 12:29:26 GMT -5

Rhetoric Anadiplosis

Sophisticate the youth of today, make them better educated. Educated people have power, though, something the powers that be fear. They fear the power granted by spoken words. Words hold the ability to twist and shape, form and mold. Mold crawls its way over the dank surfaces of dilapidated homes while occupants struggle to find food and shelter. Shelter the rich for they are the ones who are in the pockets of the rulers. Rulers will always balk at those who try to go beyond their place, for who knows what that might lead to. Here's to those who keep going despite that, those who sophisticate.

When her name was called to enter the training room, she knew what they expected of her. She was supposed to enter and wow the Gamemakers into giving her a score that would display her prowess and cause sponsorship to rain down on her while causing the other tributes to fear or respect her. Rebellious and manipulative as she was, she couldn't bear the thought of letting them control her like that. Even so much as a minor tweak on the program would ultimately satisfy her in defying them.

She didn't put much thought into what her body was doing, aside from paying mind to her posture. There would be no hunched shoulders for her, no curved back and bowed head. She was proud - perhaps to her own detriment - and would not let them see otherwise. Her eyes took a slow look around the room before she decidedly turned her back on the equipment to simply face the gamemakers.

"As a lady, I am bound to introduce myself, though you must know who I am by now." She pretended to curtsy, the lack of a skirt not taking away from the dignity of the movement. "My name is Rhetoric Anadiplosis. Many know me as Etty, but I would prefer that you use my full name." There is a flash of both contempt and humor in her eyes. She knew they would already use her proper name, but now they would be reminded that she had given them permission to do it. This was playing with fire, she knew, but there was also a part of her that fully expected her own death - why not have a little fun and ruffle a few feathers before this was all over.

At this point the urge to walk drifted up within her and she followed it. They wanted her to show off, so why not make a whole show of it. "Many tributes have come in here and given their all to impress you or others like you. Some have failed, some have succeeded, some have surprised us all." She smiled her practiced smile, perhaps cluing them in on the fact that her act was going to start. They at least seemed to have food before them - good, a performance always went better when the audience had something to eat. "I will demonstrate to you a talent that I have grown and defined on my own for many years. Something many would frown upon - many have already - but that I find great jubilation in for all that."

She passed by the knife station, casting an eye over the blades. Many of them were too large for her purposes, as she was only used to small knives. Selecting one of the narrowest knives - similar in size to a butter knife, except with a much sharper point and edge - she began to mindlessly twist it between her fingers. Careful where the edge was, she only ever pressed flesh against the handle and the flat of the blade. With the motion in full swing, she turned her attention back to her viewers.

"I like the fidget when I talk," she was too dignified to shrug, but her tone held the hint of the motion. "My talent, however, is not with knives. I have, though, been training with them as you must have noticed by now." A quick glance revealed one more knife of roughly the same size. She picked it up with her empty hand and slid it into her belt. "The trainer isn't very sophisticated, or gallant, but he does have ample experience. Despite his crude images and manners, he taught me quite effectively and now I believe I can defend myself at least against a stationary attacker." The wry twist of her mouth held all of the knowledge that this was not sufficient, and the slight flicker of fear was kept at bay by the thought that her image of calm indifference must be maintained.

The overhead lights flashed along the knife as it continued to twist and spin in her hand. She looked at it for a moment, almost thoughtful, before returning to her audience - a sudden grin appeared on her face at the realization that they were as captive here as she was. Were she to take an hour to just talk at them they would have to sit there through the whole thing. Of course, a part of dignity is knowing when your objective is completed and your welcome overstayed. As it was, the restless appearance of some of the avoxes let her know that they were beginning to sense a shift in the room's atmosphere.

"I have always been fascinated in words and the power they hold. Even from a young age I knew how simple phrasing could change the effect of a message." Her smile might have been sweet, had there not been a knife in her hand and a glint in her eye. "Threatening tones and promises of harm work fine for some, but a lot more can be accomplished with the barest of suggestion." She flipped the knife over in her hand so that her palm was wrapped around the handle, gripped as she had been taught. Turning to look at the closest set of targets, she picked one and aimed.

In the moment before she threw, she looked up at the Gamemakers. "Give someone the chance to believe that they came up with an idea and they will follow it through, even if it was your own plan all along." The moment her focus was back on the target she flung the weapon. Perhaps not the greatest throw there was, the knife still got lodged in the cheek of a dummy. She would never tell them if that had been the spot she had aimed for or not - she was not the type to give away a secret like that. Casually, she turned back to the gamemakers, the second knife already twisting between her fingers.

"Sometimes the demonstration of violence is more effective than words, but I still preserve the belief that - at least for myself - words are a much cleaner way of getting things done. After all, with the right words you wouldn't even have to commit violence, at least not with your own hands." Her grin from before returned, crooked and sly. She knew exactly what she was hinting at, and she believed the Gamemakers would too. If not, then this was all a waste of time and perhaps disappointment would be felt all over Panem - and not just over the deaths of twenty-three teenagers.

Stopping her fidgeting for a moment, she looked over the blade closely. This one wasn't quite identical to the other one she had held, but it was still quite similar. The flicker of her own face wavered in the reflective surface of the weapon, transformed into that of her twin brother's by the imperfect replication. Adynaton, you better be okay without me. She never let the emotion show in her face, but the halting moment of loneliness was enough to make her wonder if she had made the right decision.

Right or not, she had made it and now she was here. "I suppose I have taken enough of your time. I thank you for this opportunity to chat, even if you were not overly forthcoming yourselves." She curtsied again, making to leave before pausing. "Oh but I almost forgot." The knife flashed in the lights. "A lady mustn't steal, and I can already imagine your response if I were to ask to keep this knife." Her sweet smile was perhaps a bit too sweet. "Allow me to return it."

This time the knife flew exactly as she had intended it to, sinking into the false flesh of the dummy she had hit before. This one was buried quite close to the other, but while someone can live through a knife to the cheek, it was much less likely that they would last through one sinking into their eye. With a final curtsy, she strode out.

[googlefont="Satisfy:400"]

Callie contemplated pouring herself a drink as she watched Charlie down her umpteenth glass. She was no drinker, refusing to touch a droplet of alcohol, but by district 8, she was seriously considering making it a career instead. Her eyes lingered at the drinks when a feminine voice made her eyes snap back to the hall. Callie’s lips curled at the girl’s words; she would never give this girl any satisfaction. In truth, she really had forgotten the girl’s name; they were all numbers and gender to her anyway. She prefers…? What a wonderful freedom she thinks she has.

Her eyes never left the girl, not due to interest but because she already saw the girl slip. It was clear to Callie already that the girl liked to manipulate with words, with simple actions that would draw people toward her; it was exactly what Callie did. Unfortunately for the girl, she wasn’t very good at not showing it.

The way the girl smiled was too forced, obviously practiced. The way that she spun the knife, a technique to hold the attention so that the words flowed effortlessly into the entranced ears. All of her distractions failed to hide the little edge of fear that what she was about to do would not work. Her words were the main source of distraction, her soliloquy on her obsession with the power of words. Oh, the power they held, but only in the mouth of the right person. Fascination does not mean mastery. Callie knew the amount of work it took for her to effortlessly do it now, and she knew the girl would have nowhere near the amount of experience needed.

The girl wasn’t wrong; words were in some way more effective than brute force. Words and movements obtained information, something far more powerful than a sword. Callie’s eyes narrowed with the girl’s words, wondering how much power the girl would really have in the arena. Perhaps for weak minds and weak bodies, she could have an effect on them. But for the careers? If they measured up to their renowned training—which Callienta wasn’t sure this batch entirely did—her words would mean nothing to them, perhaps she would even be outclassed by them. It was almost a pity.

A pause. A passing thought. The girl was practically screaming at Callie and all Callie did was smirk back, her eyes showing only ice. Charlie made a point on how long that girl talked, acknowledging that she had some skill in throwing knives. Amethyst made Callie chuckle with a smart comment about almost missing the District 2 girl’s lesson. Callie had to admit that if she had seen Etty’s session before district 2, she would have graded the District 2 girl’s speech more nicely.

Callie’s smirk never left her face as she shook her head and scribbled the 6 on the piece of paper. “Amateur hour.”

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 14:55:43 GMT -5 by Kire

On hills and waves on stormy days.

я𝑜𝓈𝑒
Mentor

2,890 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her/they/them
last seen Nov 23, 2023 2:34:11 GMT -5

anyway don't be a stranger

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 5, 2017 18:58:58 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jul 5, 2017 18:58:58 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

► ► ►

Saffron is trying her best — I know that. She had coached me as well as she could, but I know that it isn't up to Saffron whether I live or die; it is up to me. Unsure of whether I want to stand out among the other tributes or blend in and uncertain where the line is between flashy and mediocre in the Capitol, I opted for the first idea that came to mind for my private training session.

On my head I wear a flower crown for good luck. It is made of violets, daisies, roses, sunflowers, and Indian blankets. One flower for each member of the Lowe family; I had requested to my stylist that each of those flowers to brought in for today. Wearing symbols of my family is comforting when the weight of the world is slowly crushing down on my bones.

"Emberly Lowe," a cold, robotic voice calls my name, and I saunter into the private training room with rings decorated with flowers in my hands. Saffron said if I wanted any special materials, I would have to bring them in or ask for them myself. My eyes dart around the room, from the Gamemakers to the dummies, to my two requests: the mutts in their cages and the cubes stacked up across the room like miniature mountains. The muttations are not at all vicious — or at least they don't appear to be — just as I asked. They look like a cross between a bunny and a dog, a simple mutt that is surely kept as a pet for Capitolites. There are three of the tiny mutts, each with round, teddy bear-like eyes, fluffy fur, floppy ears, and short dog tails. I had requested small, friendly, but also fast mutts; hopefully they would live up to their description.

There was a line of wire hanging along the room a few feet in front of dummies. I studied the positioning of the bull's eyes marked on the dummies; the middle of the chest, the forehead, and the neck. I had at least some knowledge of target practice from playing throwing knife games at the ranch, and I had been practicing with weapons throughout my time in the Capitol. Sweat begins to bead at my hands; Show them what you've got, Emberly.

I only greet the Gamemakers with a short bow of my head and a smile, and then I quickly move onto setting up the rings adorned with different colored flowers along the strings so that they line up with the dummies.

After the rings are set on the wire, I strap a sheath around my waist and fill it with throwing knives, keeping them facing downwards so that only their handles show. If I had learned anything on the ranch, it was that you should never approach any animal while holding an exposed weapon. In addition to the knives, I tuck a small jar of tear and some matches into the pouch.

Next is the muttations; I release them from their cages, but it takes a bit of coaxing from me for them to gingerly crawl out of their cages. "Come now," I tell them, holding my arms open to the animals. They inch closer to me, their eyes wide and fearful, but gradually their steps become quicker and quicker as they sense that I won't hurt them.

My hand touches one of the animals' heads, and slowly each of them allow me to pet them. "See?" I speak to them softly. "I'm not too bad, am I?" They begin to wag their little tails and jump on me, raking their short claws down my arms and my sides — luckily, both areas are covered by my black and red uniform.

I take the matches out and show it to the mutts, who cock their heads curiously at the item. With one quick stroke, I strike a match against the side of the box, and a little flame ignites on the red bulb on the end of the matchstick. "You don't fear fire, do you?" I ask them. Although they clearly don't understand me, my voice seems to make them more energetic, and they wag their tails harder and jump on me once more. The mutts seem to ignore the fire, taking comfort in my presence.

I have always had a way with animals.

Blowing out the match, I let it fall onto the floor. The animals' gazes flicker over to the extinguished matchstick, but they remain in their places.

"Sit," I command them, and they seem to have already learned it before, because they do as I say. They are certainly meant to be pets if they are trained like this, I think. Perhaps they are also used in an animal show of some sort; who knows what kind of things the Capitol is into.

Without making any sudden movements, I take out one of the knives, drawing it away from the animals so they don't feel threatened. I begin to coat one of the knives in a thick layer of tar so the fire will have more space to grow, more to fuel itself. Another match against the box and then the tar; the knife quickly lights up in brilliant flames that dance along the length of its blade.

The animals sit beside me, watching intently.

My arm draws back with a flaming knife in hand, and when it comes forward, I release it. The knife flies into the air, positioned so that the flames catch onto the flowers adorning the ring. The moment the fire comes in contact with the delicate flowers, they burst into red and orange and gold that rapidly run around the circumference of the ring. Beautiful flowers consumed by ravenous flames; it is almost painful to see such delicate things destroyed in such a ruthless manner.

But that is what the Capitol is about, isn't it?

I designed it to be a chain reaction; the rings are large enough, close enough, so that when one catches on fire, the others follow. In a matter of a few seconds, fire spirals around each ring and then catches onto the adjacent. Smoke burns my nostrils as I brace myself and turn to the mutts.

"Okay, we're going to play a game now," I tell them, placing my hands on my knees so I am more level with the mutts. "It's like running darts," I say. Running darts was a game I used to play in Ten with my friends; we would run with small knives and try to hit the targets while moving. "Only, we're going to add a game of chase in there, to demonstrate the importance of speed. If you catch me, I lose."

I clap my hands together and run away from them a few steps. "Come on!" I beckon them. "Chase me!" After some further coaxing and instruction, the animals seem to understand and begin to run after me.

Knives gathered in my hands, my veins begin to erupt with fire. First it is a spark deep within my core, and then a weak flame like a candlelight. Slowly, as the tension within me begins to build, so does the heat, so does the determination.

~~You can do this~~ You must.

And I take off, moving as fast as my body will allow so that I don't end up losing my own game. I had always been quicker than my competitors in running darts due to my lithe frame; I should be able to beat the mutts.

As I run, I begin to throw knives into the flaming hoops, calculating where they will go before releasing them into the flaming hoop. Rather than being in the moment, I submerge myself in the memory of playing this game back home.

The dummies become the simple targets back home, made of pieces of spare wood and colored red and white from an old paint can. There are still rings made of flowers, but they are not in flames; there are no Gamemakers behind me, only open fields of wildflowers and grass. There are no mutts, only other children competing against me.

The tension boiling over within me begins to thin, and I find myself relaxed in the face of the possibility of failure.

I see the first knife hit, barely landing in the center of the target, where the human chest would be. Turning my head, I see one of the mutts beginning the close in, so I dart the other way, releasing another knife into the ring and then the chest of the second dummy.

I leap onto one of the piles of cubes, giving me a few extra moments to spare from being caught by the muttations. While on top of the pile, I can more easily see the head and neck of the dummy. With a jolt of my arm, I sent another knife flying through the ring and slamming against the dummy's head. Had it been a real human, the knife would have pierced the brain; a sickening thought.

I spring from one pile of cubes to the next, throwing another knife, and then jumping back down on the ground and running while releasing knives like I had been before.

The game continues like this for several minutes until each of the dummies has a knife in their head, neck, and chest, all in a line down their bodies. Lungs heaving with exhaustion, I drop to the floor and open my arms to the mutts, who come running towards me. Once they are close, I close my arms around them, hugging them to my chest, giggling.

"I guess this means I win," I smile, petting them on their heads and backs, feeling their soft fur with the palm of my hand.

I end my training session by taking an extinguisher from the wall and putting out the fire, saying goodbye to the mutts with a hug, and letting them back into their cages. It is a reluctant goodbye; I find myself turning back a few times and waving to them, not wanting to leave my new friends.

"That's all," I say simply. Before walking out of the training room, I stop by the door, where an avox stands. You don't deserve to be here, I think to myself. None of us do, but I could never imagine being imprisoned the way that avoxes are. Being robbed of expression — that was more than cruel.

I remove the flower crown my head and place it on theirs as a sign of pity. My eyes lock with their for a moment, and my gaze says, "I'm sorry."

Leaving the flower crown with the avox, I exit the room, my hands beginning to tremble at my sides.

Emberly Lowe has ordered for mutts and cubes to be placed in the room, and walks in looking like a woodland fairy with a flower crown around her head (little would Charlie know that after today she wouldn’t want to look at another flower crown again). She bows her head and smiles before setting up her session; rings of flowers laden on wire, a sheath of throwing knives - Charlie has half a mind to ban throwing knives from these games entirely, given how many tributes have forced her to watch them fling them - that sit around her waist. The gamemaker watches intently as Lowe beckons he mutts out of their cages, forming an alliance in an instant. “I’m not too bad, am I?”

Not bad enough, Charlie thinks as Lowe strikes a match and sets fire to a tar-coated knife (in her defense, this is actually the first time today someone’s used tar for what it’s supposed to do) and flings it at the target, lighting up the ring of flowers in a lovely spark of flame. Quickly, one-by-one the flowers bloom into smoke. Lowe beckons the animals to follow her, setting her own rules loud enough for the booth to hear. “A game of tag,” Charlie utters quietly.

As Lowe runs she throws knives through the hoops, striking dummies as she zigzags and climbs, knives lining up in a row across the chest, the head, the neck. Fake blood oozes out slowly as Emberly finally slows to a halt, beckoning the mutts towards her in a hug. It’s sweet, but innocence doesn’t last in the arena, Saffron Lowe should have told her as much. She leaves by placing the crown on an avox’s head (perhaps it’s foreshadowing, but Charlie doesn’t realize that yet) as the smoke finally clears from the room.

Charlie taps her pen against her notepad. “She has good aim. And she’s resourceful. And can talk to animals, apparently.” We have a real live princess in our midst, she thinks, rolling her eyes ever so slightly.

“Okay,” Amethyst chuckles. “But how funny would it be if we sent those mutts after her in the arena, masquerading as friends, only for them to turn on her and claw her to death?” Ironic, maybe. Funny, not sure.

Callie ignores Amethyst’s comment completely, going back to Emberly’s skill-set. “She has speed, something no one else has been able to show effectively. I have to say, for District 10, I wasn’t expecting this.” Debateable, Gregor and Hero certainly needed to have speed in their session, but true, none utilized speed as a main asset like Emberly. But not expecting?

“She’s a Lowe,” Charlie responds. “We should be expecting anything and everything.” And so will the public. So let’s give them what they want.

Lowe’s score is decent on its own, but her name bumps her up slightly as they mark down an 8 next to her slot. Now let hope you use it to your advantage. Saffron isn’t here to save you now.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 16:07:40 GMT -5 by я𝑜𝓈𝑒

"even stars burn out."

*
Mentor

3,276 POSTS
last seen Apr 4, 2020 9:33:58 GMT -5

They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 5, 2017 23:14:52 GMT -5

Post by * on Jul 5, 2017 23:14:52 GMT -5

~~I normally don't post mine, so don't just my writing. Uggg.. I'm so embarrassed.~~

"Whatever! Just don't touch me you sanitary napkin."

► ► ►

Shovels were permanently attached to his hand on a daily basis. Pickaxes ruled his day to day routine and coal dust sauntered into each breath blackening his lungs. Musty odors constantly badgered his nose but this place? Wendell could smell the sweet scents of vanilla and the clean chemicals that were used on the floor. He wrinkled his nose to the villainous perfume and drew attention elsewhere in the room. Everyone had already gone. Most of them already gone to display their talents, or lack thereof, for the gamemakers as he saw fit. It's the lone peackeeper at the doors that catches his intrigue.

"Do you just get all kinds of hype knowing you send kids to die every year? What does it take to become a peacekeeper man?" Silence protrudes from the keepers mouth, though his helmet shifts in his direction alerting Wendell to the fact that he had been heard. "Oh? YOu heard me. Why not tell me because when I win, I want to become of you guys. Just the kind of life I want to follow. Making rash decisions on unsuspecting people. Throwing authority around, like I don't already overshadow my own dad's rules. I make them. My little brothers, they belong to me. I take direction like I take shit from others... I don't. Put in a good word me, what say ya?"

The man in the white only drew his gaze elsewhere while the visor of his helmet seemed to overlook the lad waiting for his chance in the empty room. Being one of the last ones to go in deemed him unworthy of patience. However, a few moments later after silence took over, his name was called in a robotic feminine voice.

Wendelll smacked his hands on his knees twice and stood with ease. His hands clasped together as he went over to the peacekeeper and eyed him entirely. "You'll do well to put in a good word for me. You'll have better crime rates down. I don't let them slip through my fingers."

He made a mock gesture of a salute to the man before stuffing his hands into his pockets and entering the training center room where judgements were suppose to take control. Light bleeds through multiple lights from overhead and slowly Wendell seemed to take his time. It was only fair seeing as how the rest of the tributes took their time to let him finally be able to be in the spotlight but spotlight wasn't what he was wanting.

It was control.

It was justice that he could take over.

"So, what's it like sitting up there watching each tribute try to impress you?" He was curious enough to introduce a question about them than to introduce who he was. "I know, rude of me not to introduce myself but you already know who I am. What do you guys make to sit there and judge? I could do that you know. I'm quite... an influential person in my district. Why not after the games are over, you send me a job application." He smirked and turned on his heels but not before throwing his left hand into the air.

"Can you guys turn the lights off in five minutes? I need complete darkness. I'll show you a magic trick." He turned around, eyeing the gamemakers sitting with dulled expressions.

Wendell signaled from the door for the two avoxes to come forward and took one by the arm and placed the guy at attention along one side of the wall. Then the other, he stood her by a mass of six mannequins, her in the middle. From there, he patted her on the head. "Good Avox. Stay still, or I'll end up slitting your throat. You don't want that right?" He threatened. The look that was given to him was a deer in the headlights and she watched after him as he took to the blade cage.

"Pathetic humans who got caught... guess the dumb deserve to be auctioned off to the highest bidder." He murmered. The cage glimmered from within as he took hold of two weapons of his choosing. A pickax and the sword rested in his hands. His arms holding the weight with ease as was such from the years of throwing around a shovel and pickax already. Teeth bared gently as he nodded to the watchful ones.

"Can you see in the dark? Don't worry. I can't either. I've just adapted." He questioned them and shrugged. "Too bad. You'll miss a great show."

Wendell looked to where he had placed the two targets and then just as a gnarly grin appeared on his face, the lights faded into nothing.

Silence invades the center until a screeching emerges from within. The sound of metal dragging on the floor to excite the thumping hearts around him. His voice being the only thing to come next. "Are you scared?" Echoes as Wendell seems to have found his first victim standing somewhere to the right of the gamemaker boxes. The sound of ripping comes next and grunts of power as horrible threads being serpated from the mannequins darkened even the current center. Over and over until silence once again reigns surpreme.

"Did you catch that?" He asks and the sound of the metal begins to drag along the floor again, letting the sensory adaptation of sound draw the attention of the supreme beings to be able to somewhat pinpoint his location. "The first one died so easily. I wonder if he'll be easier to behead?"

The dragging stopped abruptly as a growl escaped from Wendell's mouth and a horrendous clank stopped dead into the wall.

"You can turn the lights on now." Wendell's apathetic voice sauntered out and he took his leave. Behind him, the lights appeared to both avoxes still standing. Only for the shaking female, she was now surrounded by shreds of mannequin and completely unharmed. The male, whose chest was heaving, was merely attached to the wall with the hook of the pickaxe impaled into the wall and threatening to cut off his windpipe.

"See you in the games." The door slammed shut.

This is worse torture than what Mother used to put me through. Scoring tributes on their private training sessions had been fun at first, back when there was actual talent and skill to display. But by the time they reached the lower districts with disgruntled tributes and nothing to show for, Callie’s attention started to slip off. I should have asked Charlie for some tips before going into this. It was going to take a very interesting tribute for her to stay awake and not put a 2 on her clipboard.

Mister Chatterbox was exactly what Callie needed as her eyebrows raised at his presumptuous behavior. It took all of her to not let her lips turn into a smile, resorting to a smirk instead. She placed her clipboard down on her lap, the pencil resting against the piece of paper. He had her attention, that was for certain. She loved nothing more than a good showman and he was showing promise for entertainment. She almost didn’t mind the darkness as she patiently waited for her eyes to adjust to a degree of the darkness, relying on her ears to hear what was happening.

He had positioned everything before the lights went dark, using two avoxes for who knew what, but Callie didn’t even want to see what was happening. After all, she just wanted the show to carry on. Her hunger was curbed for an instant by the horrible screeching sound that emitted from the training centre floor. He’s…scratching…it. It was going to leave a horrible mark. Maybe he had done it for an effect, but the only effect it had on Callie was lividity. His skill better be worth it. That poor floor has had too much done to it today.

When the lights came back on, Callie observed the scene in front of her. Both avoxes were still standing, though incredibly shaken up. He had good aim, Callie had to give him that much. It was a good skill, but it wasn’t what drew Callie to him. She would have to find him later; it had been a while since she had some fun. Her amusement did not seem to extend her colleagues however, as Charlie responded with only a “what” before downing the rest of her drink. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” said the other blonde Gamemaker. A half smile grew on Callie’s face as she scribbled on her clipboard. Looks like I was the only one who somewhat enjoyed him, she thought to herself as she scribbled a 5 next to the boy’s name.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 18:11:05 GMT -5 by *

marcellus rhodes 11b arc
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making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 5, 2017 23:20:36 GMT -5 via mobile

Post by marcellus rhodes 11b arc on Jul 5, 2017 23:20:36 GMT -5

{ walherich cnáimhín }

Now, Walherich only knew two things going into this small private session. He had a concept; that life was represented like flowers and death was its’ thorns. People try to avoid the thorns and they like looking at the flowers, because well, the flowers were pretty. Flowers are started as a seed. A small, untouched item by society that’s yet to grow and see all of the world its’ been sent out to see. Soon followed by the growing, where the world got to see them grow. They got to decide when they could stop growing, or continue. They can kill them right away, stop them away even, or they can just let them grow. They start to sprout in the fresh air where they’re finally exposed to the world that they live in.

And that’s the world where 23 children die each year. As it grows older (or closer to death, who knows), their negativities become a thorn on their body. Each year, or every time they have a negative trait it’s another thorn added onto the flower. At a point they’re done growing, petals and all, and you find them pretty to look at. You ignore the thorns because they’re something that can hurt you and you want to just admire the beauty. And how it’ll tie into Walherich’s session today? He had a little idea of how.

The male from District Eleven sat in that waiting room for what seemed like a decade. It was the same routine. Name, shuffle, quiet, repeat. It went on like this for ages. At least one hour had passed by before they got moderately close to his district. Soon enough, the name he’s been waiting for was called out. Walherich Cnáimhín was now going to exemplify how beauty sometimes has the worst price of pain.

Stepping inside of the centre, he made no effort to introduce himself or wait for their instruction; he had limited time and he wasn’t going to waste it. His first station was the camouflage one. Clearly, as it was camouflage, they’d have some sort of flower there right? Or roses. Somewhere. Walherich wasn’t sure where they were but he needed them. Finding the flowers that had thorns on them (specifically ones with thorns or this practice would not work), he put on the pair of gloves that was located at the station. He also held a knife, because he needed it to cut.

Walherich might’ve been looking damn insane, making a flower crown in the middle of his session; but it was all a part of his plan. It was supposed to look sweet and serene, a thing that people would underestimate to be so deadly like it could be today. Weaving them in and out, the reds next to the whites and staggering them between the colors of life and death - because this situation was life or death.

Soon enough like he and Kiki had done before, a flower crown had been made. He was trying to make it not seen as to what he was doing so they could be put in suspense, a moment in time where they were genuinely confused as to what the fuck this boy was doing with a flower crown. Wasn’t he supposed to be showing people how he can kill? He took the knife in his hand and cut off all of the thorns that were sticking out, leaving only the ones inside attached. He walked up, holding it in his hand as he waved one of the avoxes over. ”Beauty, at times, is a wonderful thing to see. Like a flower.” Walherich motioned towards the flower crown he made. ”People love having beauty, feeling it,” the male started as he placed it on the avoxes head. ”However, sometimes beauty hurts.” He spoke, already feeling the wince that the Avox had given. ”And sometimes, flowers, as they bloom and grow into the beautiful things they are, they die. They get ugly. The thorns are something that people always ignore until they feel it- and that’s human kind. They ignore pain until they feel it.”

He let those words settle in as he took off the crown, and cut off the rest of the thorns. ”And, just like I did; you have to cut through the pain.
Because in the arena, there’s no escaping pain. Only cutting it out.”

They’re almost done. Charlie polishes off the last of her tuna tartare and turns towards a limoncello sorbet as Walherich Cnáimhín walks into the room. Immediately he heads towards the camouflage station, which immediately seems to be a bad sign. Most of the tributes have spent their time either there, at the plants section, or throwing things, with a mixed-bag of results. Walherich’s fingers are nimble enough, almost reminiscent of McGregor’s impressive showcase. But no, when he’s through it’s nowhere near as impressive, yet another flower crown to add to the piles of flower symbolism that’s been running amok this game. And then - hark - he speaks! Charlie groans.

He’s waxing poetic about beauty when Charlie feels a cold sweat on her back, voices echoing in the back of her mind as rhinestones litter the ground, a pockmarked face screaming at her and the acid-burn of skin dye splashing against her arms. “However, sometimes beauty hurts.” The feeling of corsets sewn too tight and of the same expression dotting her face that currently is etched onto the avox. “Sometimes flowers, as they bloom and grow into the beautiful things they are, they die. They get ugly. The--”

“I’m done.” She says. “Fuck this.” And she turns and leaves the booth.

Her breath is hitched and heavy, and she’s outraged for multiple reasons. The practical, that this session is pompous and pointless, and the impractical, the thoughts that drag her back to the past in chains. She leans against the wall, the hallway swaying from more than just the mimosa, or the gin and tonic, or the copious amounts of wine. And perhaps it’s not this boy’s fault, but it sure as hell doesn’t help his case.

She senses a presence and looks up to see Warren. She sighs. “It’s just stupid. A waste of my time and literally the most cliche thing like what the fuck is he think-” she pauses, taking a breath. “I’m fine, sorry for worrying you.” They head back into the room, the trainers prepping for Wendell Gordon.

I’m fine.. She takes a long swig of the dessert wine placed in front of her.

After Dandy Gordon serves them a post-dessert meal, they reconvene with a platter of linzer tarts. Charlie samples one as they go over each tribute. When they get to Cnáimhín, Charlie rubs at her eye.

“Was anyone else bored?” Callie asks. “That just felt so...unnecessary.”

Amethyst joins her, wrapping her head around the presentation. “Okay, so...he proved that he can put a flower crown on an Avox, talk about symbolism, and pluck thorns off a stem. And that’s supposed to impress us...how, exactly?”

“It’s not,” Charlie replies. “Flowery language only works if you manage to make us care. And I don’t.”

Objectively, she dots down a 2.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 12:25:40 GMT -5 by marcellus rhodes 11b arc

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making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 5, 2017 23:53:05 GMT -5

Post by Tom on Jul 5, 2017 23:53:05 GMT -5

☾

There's blood upon his hands.

Red and vibrant as it mixes with the color of his skin. Ma laying on the floor with red pooling around her body as he screamed for help. There's a flash of light that comes to him as he opens his eyes again. The room comes into focus as he realizes it was only a dream. Body is sprawled out on the floor as he waits for his turn to go into the session that would break him apart. A target that would get stuck on his back with vibrant reds and whites that would make it a clear target for a stronger tribute to take him out.

Hand covers the lights that keep the room a white, blocking the bright shine. All he can do is wait as they call person after person into the room. District One with the career status putting pressure on them to do well. Kaiser Fray was an interesting person, not for just the Fray name, but the way he held himself. Teddy could remember the way Kaiser Fray spoke to him. Not in a way like they were equal, but enough so to give him a hope of not seeing Kaiser Fray's wraith right away. There's only so much wraith one person could take. Teddy was just easy pickings, or that's what he thinks they believe.

There's still so many people left that Teddy could feel himself drifting to sleep once again. No plan of any sorts in his head. He spent nights trying to come up with something, but how could he show who he was, when he didn't even know who Theodore Ursa was. For all he could know, Theodore Ursa could be a cold blooded murderer and kidnapper. He could be just who Teddy is, but even then was that really him? There's a chill that spreads through his body and his head is beginning to hurt again. Hand moves back to the cold ground once again as he draws circles into the cool tiles.

District Three was up and time seems to keep passing. The clock doesn't make any noise to his ears, but Adelaide seems to pass him in a few moments, looking about as pretty as she did the night they kissed. Blonde hair and blue eyes vanish before him to the next District Three. Ree Fer, an interesting man who Teddy had been stuck in an elevator with. They tried to keep each other company for as long as possible. Thoughts take over as he's still blank on an idea for his training session. He could just throw knives.

Not like they would remember a man who couldn't remember himself.

Hero is called through the air like an announcement to let him know that he can start getting a stomach ache from nerves. Hero had been quite interesting for a career that he had met. All of them were meant to be intimidating, but Hero struck a chord of difference. Teddy could almost feel relaxed around him, but there's a danger to that natural feeling. Teddy wouldn't let himself fall for that in the arena, or at least he hoped so.

A finger drums on the floor in tune with the rhythm in his mind. Ba dum, Ba dum, tap tap tap. District Five was next and all he could remember was Cam, the girl who had told him about Five. Clouded skies that don't allow humans to see the beauty in stars. Basil passes him by as she is called forward. The stiff training outfit does nothing for the imagination. The coat he had slid on over it was gone as he stands up. He drops the coat onto a chair. A small smile to no one in particular as his name is called out.

"District 6 male!"

The door closes behind him as he keeps the small smile on his face. Heart beats as he can feel his hand shake for a moment. The ball of anxiety that rests in his stomach disappears as he finally can feel himself moving like a shadow through the room. He's already grabbed throwing knives before he could even think about it. The gamemakers were waiting for something. He wasn't going to be that something, but even the sweetest could put on a show. Ma would have scolded him for the clothing that they put him in. Skin tight clothes that stretch with every movement as he makes his way over to a group of dummies.

There he decides to move five of them into place. The blade in his hand is heavy and quite obnoxious to him. Never has he felt like throwing knives into a body, living or not. That's when he can feel a chill up his spine. There's a memory that comes forward of the anger he felt the night before the accident. An anger that was bloodthirsty in nature. The blade falls to the ground, cutting deep into his forearm as it falls. The pain sends a shock of reality to him and he can feel blood coming from the wound. He almost dares to cuss at himself, but he holds his breath.

Only the ones who will die in bloodbath can be afraid of the pain they'll feel.

He still can't help himself from grimacing.

"I'm okay."

Voice speaking outwardly to no one in particular. Instead his blood gives him a new idea for his Private training session. Ripping off a piece of his sleeve, revealing his shoulder and upper back, he dabs softly at the wound. Finger goes into his own blood and comes out soaked. The dummy in front of him gets a big T put on it's forehead. An E for the second one. A D for the third. Another D on the fourth one. Lastly, a Y for the last dummy. As he steps back away from his bloody art project, he smiles up at the gamemakers. Voice speaks softly into the air.

"Hi. You all know my name, at least what I had before. Teddy was given to me after I forgot everything from my life, except how to live. I was nice, polite, and a hard worker for my Ma. But," The blade in his hand is twirled between his fingers, as the makeshift bandage drops from his arm. He tosses the blade as it hit's the center of the capitalized T. A smile upon his face, friendly and quiet as he continues. "That Teddy is dead now. I don't know who I fully am. Theodore Ursa is my real name, but who is this Theodore?"

Another blade hits the E on the center where the second line meets the vertical line.

"What could he do?"

The third blade is switched into his injured hand as more blood drips down his elbow. He tosses with a painful swing and hits the center of the D. There's a tiny pool that's forming at the bottom of elbow and on the ground beneath him. The smile still upon his lips as he speaks again.

"Was he a killer? A lover? Fighter? Healer? Sane? Insane? All of these questions run through my head. What's my story? Who am I even?"

Never once would he thing of putting a blade into someone, but he knew. There's no avoiding it now. Death was looming over his shoulder like a chill that spreads through his skin and all he could do was try to keep the warmth in his skin. Ignoring his injury once again, he throws two knives at once at the last ones. A center hit of the letter D on dummy number four. The last knife lodges itself in the center on all three lines of the Y.

"I don't know who he is, but I plan to find him in this arena."

Theodore Ursa.

It was just a name to some, but it was a name that he wanted to solve. Unlock all of the knowledge of who Theodore Ursa was and become who he was meant to be. A person of who he was before the accident. He winces again as he's lost enough blood from his arm. Reaching for the bandage, he places it on the wound and rushes over to first aid. He's done this numerous of times. He turns towards the gamemakers to show them. Arm extended out, he dabs gauze onto the wound. There's no reason to disinfect it with something like alcohol or anything of the sorts, so he cleans it with the bottle of water that rests on the edge. A left over from a trainer probably. Washing the blood away, he quickly moves the needle and thread through his skin, sewing up the wound. Quick hands that were sturdy as he can feel slight pain. The wound is closed in seconds.

He's done that numerous of times with little to nothing on him in District six. Crying children, older men who cried more than their children, women who sat patiently, little girls who asked too many questions and men who thank him for sewing the wound up for them. Teeth pull at the string ripping it from the needle. He ties the stitching up tightly. Eyes look towards the gamemakers as he stands up and speaks again.

"Ma would kill me if I didn't try to give the welcoming hug that she told me I had to give to all of her friends. According to everyone, it's the best hug they ever had. It's probably my best skill."

Arms extend outwards as a smile and a small knot in his stomach comes forward. As he gets too close to the gamemakers, he can see the changes in the air. As he moves a step closer, there's a shock that runs through his system as he bounces back. Eyes widen at the shock and he falls back onto the floor again. He's gonna be sore tomorrow, but he just laughs to himself. He tried to give them the warm and friendly Teddy hug that Ma said was the best hug she's ever had. As he stands up again, he speaks.

"It sure has a kick to it."

Instead of trying again, he decides to turn around and begin walking out, but with a smile on his face. He has one last thing to say to the gamemakers.

"How can you remember a man who can't remember himself?"

A pause for a breath of air.

"The answer is you can't."

Hand goes to the door as he can feel the chill that's crawling through his body leaving him. He would find out who Theodore Ursa was and make them remember him. They would all know who Teddy Ursa was and what he did. They would remember him for as long as he could make them. Even though, he was screwed, all he could do was hope to survive long enough to find out who he was.

"Though, I'm going to prove that wrong. You'll all remember me."

The door closes.

The man on the other side makes it only a few feet away before he lays back on the floor, sleeping once again.

Teddy Ursa.

Never forget.

It had already been a strange day mixed with disappointment, amusement, and just sheer “huh?” Callienta wasn’t sure what more she could expect from the tributes, so she kept her mind open as the district 6 boy walked in. Her mind was ready to close though, when he went into his introduction because he really went into his introduction. Callie wasn’t there to be friends with the boy so why did she care about who Teddy or Theodore was?

He threw each blade into his name—supposed to be a statement?—all while having an existential crisis. Each word lost Callie’s attention even more until he finally shut up for the splittest of seconds. Callie immediately looked at Charlie and Amethyst to figure out what the hell just happened, but the boy wasn’t done. He talked about his ma again and proceeded to walk toward them—and the electric field that separated them from any accidental—or well-aimed—projectiles.

The shock threw his body backward, and Callie could only stare at the boy with confusion as he scrambled back up and laughed. He left with one closing statement—that they would remember him—and Callie scribbled on the clipboard while muttering to herself, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Charlie only had eye rolls for the district 6 boy. “And here we have speech & debate performance number one. I’d be more impressed if the targets were moving, like Fer’s with the playing cards.” Callie nodded along; it was a reasonable assessment. She wasn’t the only one who thought so as Amethyst added, “Agreed. He can hit stationary targets all right, but what about when there’s a living, breathing hellcat chasing down his ass?” All valid points. Callie wrote down a 5 on the piece of paper and showed it to her fellow Gamemakers, who nodded in agreement. Let’s see how you do when it’s not just you.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 12:06:53 GMT -5 by Tom

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making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 5, 2017 23:53:58 GMT -5

Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Jul 5, 2017 23:53:58 GMT -5

t i t u s .

"Rainwater, rainwater
Float on the infinite blue
While rainwater's falling on you
Falling on you"

There's something wrong with me and I know it.

I lay in the dark and stare up at the ceiling, watching the colours from the wall beside me play out across it. I think an underwater scene is waving, I don't know. I started flicking the channels an hour ago and stopped watching.

It might be the knowledge that I'm about to die.

Like, soon.

Such a rapid deceleration of my life, all in the span of some hours. I have no doubts about how long I'll last. Even with Kaiser Fray, I know I'm nothing more than just a meat shield. I wonder how many minutes, seconds I'll scrape by with, what place I'll be.

I knew it too from the moment I spoke up, calling across the sunny square. I knew it from the way I caught Mason's eyes, the horror in them. He doesn't expect me to last more than two minutes. No one does. Tate, visiting me in the Justice Building, staring at me like I was already a ghost. I was, I am.

I was.

I push my fingers against my eyelids, trying to work some of the exhaustion out of them. My body aches from the week of training and so many other things. I ate chocolate for the first time. I swam for the first time. I climbed a tree, I taught a girl how to stab someone, probably me.

I had my first kiss.

Had my first fuck.

I'm not delusional, I know that was all it was, especially for Kaiser Fray. Me, I just didn't want to die a virgin. It's a choke-up enough that I'm dying at 15. It'd be even sadder if they had to advertise it as the death of some sad virgin from nine. Some sewer rat that no one would even notice was missing.

I made a career out of it, that.

Being garbage.

When my parents threw me out onto the streets with just a first name and a backpack, I knew then what I was too. Already tired, I was already tired then. What does that make me now, I wonder.

I roll over, facing away from the screen. Light hits the wall, bright and cheery in the dark and I can hear my district partner moving around our floor. I know I should be moving, should be getting dressed, should be doing anything but laying here but it seems like a spectacular waste of time to get up. I can feel the gun between my shoulder blades, bruising.

I can feel the pointed end.

I wanted it to be him.

I'll never tell him that, never will get the chance, and he'll never know these thoughts inside my head but my friend, he was the only one who ever seemed to give a shit about me. I know that it's one sided, misplaced. Just because a guy shows pity for a stay it doesn't mean anything.

I still wanted it to be Mason, who took my virginity.

That's why I think that I did it. When Tate Seraphim begged for someone, anyone to go instead of Nemo, I realized I was someone and very much no one at the same time.

It's ok to run away from things sometimes when they seem too big, impenetrable. In the end, I just wanted it to be someone. Anyone. I didn't want to die not knowing what it felt like to be that close to a person and now that I've felt it, strangely I feel ready. I can die now, maybe even with a smile on my face.

I consider just lying here, all morning. I have no plans for my training score, no special talent.

If I don't show up maybe I'll at least get a 2.

I focus on the round of metal upon my pillow. The pin that Nemo wanted me to have, I still don't know what it means but I've worked out that it has something to do with the sky; the little silver crosses look like stars. When I look up there at night, it seems kind of surreal in the endlessness.

But I'm not afraid.

I was always too stupid to be afraid.

I don't think my brain works right because sometimes I wish that I could just climb up into the sky, stairs growing like a flower in the middle of the quarry in Nine's slums. On a clear night, they'd climb, just going higher and higher and I'd take each step, one foot falling placidly after the other.

I could live on a cloud.

No matter that cloud or the death that awaits me in the arena, no one will miss me for long.

They'll forget so easy, the boy from Nine. Nothing special, never was.

I feel hands pull me up and I don't know whose, they are. I can't focus.

"Did You take something, kid?"

No.

I don't think so.

"Come on, you're going to be late."

I let them help me dress slowly, their face a strange blob in my head. I know them, but my brain has shut itself off. I can feel my body beneath their hands but I'm staring down at myself from the ceiling, watching as they buckle my pants for me.

"You're so small.... you're really just a kid."

Yeah.

I take the apple that's been shoved into my hand and I feel my mouth close and scrape against the skin but I don't taste anything. I swallow and it hurts my throat going down but I don't feel it settle. I know I'm in an elevator because I feel my stomach leave my body but I don't think I've left the ninth floor.

I can't reconnect myself.

Lips press against mine and I blink, watching as Kaiser pulls away. He winks at me.

"Good luck."

I'm standing in a hall, watching as he steps through a door. It shuts behind him and I know he'll be in there for ten minutes and then in just under two hours, it will be my turn.

I open my hand, the pad raw from clenching the pin so tightly. Kaiser's lips lingered for a moment on mine and I lick them softly, keeping my head down. I wonder if that kiss was to show everyone in line I was a weakness, a perfect target.

I'm a pawn, I know it.

I rub my thumb over the face of the pin, over and over. Maybe in a hundred years, I'll wear it away. Tribute after tribute enters and then leaves the room, some looking pleased, others not so much. Lace and I move down the bench slowly, and I stay silent, watching the floor move along between my feet.

After what seems like ages, she herself stands up and goes in and I know then that I'm next.

My mind is blank, completely empty. I'm scrambling, trying to think of something I'm good at but I'm a fuck-up, always have been. Yeah, I've always been a good pickpocket but I always mess up the part after, the leaving with the stuff part. I always would feel bad and give the wallet back, or the watch.

I always knew that someone else probably needed it more than me.

I could always check the garbage bins behind the club for my next meal again.

I think about Mason again, about one-time last winter when he bought us both a hot chocolate because he said that he was cold but it's because my fingers were nearly blue. We sat on his couch and drank it and he let me sleep there afterward.

I enter the room when the light turns green and look across the floor.

Three judges and me.

Just me.

My fingers curl up and I walk over to the nearest tree, slipping a knife off a table deftly as I go by, making sure to move my other hand in a larger way. It's all about drawing attention to something else. I grip the bark tight and push my toes against the trunk like how Kaiser told me and climb up carefully, settling myself quietly onto a branch.

Slowly, I rise, balancing carefully on my feet.

I wobble for a moment but don't make a sound. I've always been light, deft. It was always my job to sneak into the warehouses of the rival gangs through the windows in the roof, to squirrel my way in and walk along the beams, listening in on their plans.

The limb grows narrow as it branches out and I hold my breath for a moment, carefully stepping onto the growth of another, thicker tree.

I make it across safe and take a moment, finding my center of balance. Dummies are spread throughout the large room, seemingly randomly but from up here, there's a strange sort of careless pattern to them all. They stare straight towards their horizons, unable to move like a real tribute might.

Much easier to attack than the huddled, sprinting figure of a gang member in the night time.

I walk along the branches lightly, making sure to move slowly enough so as not to rustle the leaves, knowing after so many times how to be patient.

When I am directly above a dummy far across from where I started, I slip the knife I'd borrowed off the table from my pocket and raise it above my head.

I take aim.

Down it flies, straight into the skull of the dummy below.

I watch it fall with a clatter, and then make my way slowly back along the branches, placing each foot so as not to give any clues as to where I might be.

I drop down carefully near the door I came in, pushing my way out without making eye contact.

My eyes search for the stairs.

I want to go find the sky.

The youngest tribute was next, and yet his age did nothing to deter her intrigue at his profile. Disappeared off of official records at six and reappeared at twelve minus his original surname, and now sporting a new surname that he most definitely did not have the day before the reaping, a surname that somehow matches the surname of an almost-tribute from three years ago - it’s all too confusing.

And with a mere six tributes after him and the first course of dinner now underway, she finds that she can’t be assed to ponder the District Nine boy’s origin any more than that.

Their moods are sour from having to wait through not one but two successive cleanings of the training center, and her expectations are low. Whatever background this boy came from, it was not one of wealth and comfort.

The subject in question looks unassuming enough - small and skinny, it’s a wonder as to why he volunteered for anything other than a death wish. He does nothing but stand in place for a moment, and she finds her annoyance growing with each passing second.

But finally, the boy does move, heading in the direction of a nearby tree. So casual was his manner that she almost - key word being almost - missed the flash as he passed a knife-laden table, even as his other hand waved distractedly, in clear sight.

A quick inspection of the table confirms that she was not, in fact, seeing things, but even as Charlie and Callie remain silent, she decides it would be more interesting to see what came next.

Reaching his destination, the boy ascends into the leaves, piquing her interest further. Barely visible against the backdrop, he moves slowly, carefully along a thin branch. Her free hand slowly curls into a fist as he steps further, further -

She blinks, and he is across, just slow enough for her to catch a crop of black hair before he disappears entirely into the overgrowth.

She waits for a rustle, for a signal, for anything to give away his position, but nothing.

Either he was using his fifteen minutes to showcase his ability to hide, or he was a lot better at sneaking around than she had given him credit for -

And just as she thinks she has spotted him, a knife erupts from a completely different part of the overgrowth, landing neatly in the skull of a nearby dummy, which promptly crashes to the ground from the force of the impact.

Quickly and quietly, the boy drops down from his vantage point, exiting the room without so much as a glance in their direction, even as her gaze bores into his back from afar. Not bad.

“Simple, but effective.” Charlie said, sounding more interested than she had in the past half hour. “Points for sneaking past my radar - I couldn’t see him at all.”

“I agree with Charlie: simple but effective,” Callie adds.

“He can climb, and he can aim. Both will help him immensely,” she thought aloud.

She moved to put a number next to his name, but paused at the last second. A mental image of the boy flashed through her mind, small and skinny and shy.

“But one wrong move and he’s going to shatter,” she concluded, finally deciding on a smooth 7.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 12:03:46 GMT -5 by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

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

knuckles
Librarian

4,871 POSTS
Pronouns: he/him
last seen Apr 27, 2024 23:16:13 GMT -5

probably flailing over something

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 6, 2017 11:54:38 GMT -5

Post by knuckles on Jul 6, 2017 11:54:38 GMT -5

Chester Meisenzahl

Private training is something I have looked forward to the most. A chance to show off to the gamemakers, but what's the point in showing off? Why ruin the fun before I'm inside the arena? My skills are nothing they need to know until I'm placed in a life and death situation. Attacking dummies seems redundant because they don't fight back. Showing off plants only means they'll make me die by a poisonous plant - quite ironic if you ask me. But I am here to do none of that. They want a reason to kill me, and I am going to give it to them. Make them hate me so they want me dead. That is the point of today. Nothing else. They'll get a chance to judge me of my secrets the moment Panem gets to see me.

One by one, I watch as people make their way inside never to return. It's boring knowing I'll only see them on the other side.

And then my name is called, and a confident grin twists across my face slowly spreading from ear to ear. I'm on my feet within a matter of seconds, my heart pounds inside my chest, clawing at my ribs begging for an escape. It's time to show them what I want them to see. Mother and father taught me a lot, and the most important thing is to always keep people guessing, and that's exactly what I'm going to do.

I march through the door with my head held high. Dark eyes bounce from station to station in attempts to make them think I have no clue what I'm going to do, but I have it all planned out. Snatching a couple of knives from the weapon rack, I hold them in my hand as I make my way to the center of the gym -

"The name's Chester."

A lump forms in the back of my throat as I glare at them for just a moment. They're nothing to me. The Capitol is filled with sick people, and they're the ones I hate the most. Designing a death trap for twenty-three teens to die. Must be fun knowing they can make lives a living hell. But for this fifteen minutes, I am going to make them wish they were actually sitting in hell.

Sitting down in the middle of the floor, I keep my eyes locked on them while twirling the knife in my hand. Fifteen minutes to sit here and torture their precious ears. Fifteen minutes to make them hate me more than they probably do now. The confident grin turns dark as I drag the blade of a knife through the floor trying to mimic the sound of nails sliding against the chalkboard. I remember in school when the teacher accidentally drug her nails against the chalkboard, the sound was terrible, and it hurt my ears, but right now none of that matters.

I don't blink as my gaze remains focused on them. I only cringe slightly as I drag the other blade across the floor. The screeching sound is music to my ears. My back is straight, and my body as solid as one of the mannequins sitting off to the side. Each breath is shallow. They want to give me a score based off my skills, but maybe they'll see that I am in charge of this place. I pick and choose what I want to do, and this is my choice.

For fifteen minutes I sit on the floor dragging the knife back and forth making the nails on a chalkboard sound while my gaze never moves from theirs. From the start to the end a devilish cackle escapes my lips. This is fun, and it's only the beginning.

And once the fifteen minutes, I drop the knife and head out of the gym only looking back once to smile and wave.

[googlefont="Julee:400"]

They had already hit the halfway mark, but it felt like the day would never end. Callie wasn’t the only one to feel that way; the way Charlie was downing her drinks, Callie was surprised her liver and stomach hadn’t already protested. She didn’t blame her, though; they were on the downhill part of the day where tributes in the lower districts provided very little skill or entertainment. Callie had hopes that maybe, the District 7 boy would surprise her, but he failed just by introducing himself. Could he be any more lackluster?

It turned out he could.

He sat himself down on the ground, knife in hand, and then proceeded to do the only thing that could bring more horror to Callie’s face than blood on the floor. He. Is. Scratching. The. Floor. The blood curling sound was enough to drive early tears to Callie’s eyes, but watching him do the same thing over and over, leaving mark after mark on the floor, made Callie’s tears start to fall in earnest. My floor! she anguished silently as she mentally marked him for death. Maybe he was trying to annoy them; maybe he was trying to make a statement. His purpose was lost on Callie as only anger started filling her body, the words of Amethyst reminding her to calm herself.

Charlie did nothing more than drink her wine and tap away at her tablet, no doubt letting maintenance know that the floor would need repair. Amethyst spoke the only words that mattered: “Is he trying to get killed early or what?” Callie’s face was still filled with her anger, but her voice remained calm. “Looks that way,” she responded, writing the sloppiest 3 on the piece of paper. She would never forgive him.

lest we forget [the characters]

credit to Zoe

kousei ♚
Mentor

2,011 POSTS
Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 6, 2017 11:55:20 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on Jul 6, 2017 11:55:20 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

► ► ►

Give me a joint along with a couple miligrams and I can be a boy who steals, a man who takes and a king who conquers all in one exhale; with such fragile foundations, I shouldn't be able to hold a poker face this well.

Two steps into line, one step from the edge of withdrawal -- I tell myself I'm not afraid because I've always had a talent for spinning tall tales and fabrications. Ignoring the way my hands shake at the sight of the kings and queens of the castle, the ones who don't need angel dust to make their fantasies a reality. They're the shadows on the wall, silently threatening me with different ways to paint my organs shades of black and blue, showing me what'll happen if I let my walls wither with reality.

The ones who could break my neck without me so much as leaving a scar on their skin or their conscience.

I don't have a plan, never did and never thought it through because I've never been one for trying to think about anything further than 2 hours away. I always considered myself to be someone living in the moment, taking the twists at face value without so much as a thought of the could haves and should haves. I sustain myself on chance and that's why it's fitting that I chose a deck of cards to be the token that sits heavy in my pockets.

I told myself that if I died I would live first.

Yet this isn't dying, this is watching structures I dedicated three years of my life to building wither with the poking and prodding of the Capitol's engineering. Three years building fantasies upon my mountain to bandage my eyes from a truth I never cared to acknowledge. This isn't dying, this is fading into red spatter that'll never be so much as kissed again.

"Ree Fer!"

I walk step forwards because I have to but I refuse to meet the Gamemaker's gazes because it might hurt to look your killers in their eyes; I don't need more reminders of the pain. I blink, gritting my teeth and squinting my eyes so the poker face doesn't shatter and this mask of composure and deceit holds true.

There's a thing about watching my chest rise and fall that I'll miss. Lifting myself off the asphalt and dirt in District Three with my head pounding when the high collapses and sunlight bleeds through the windows. Waiting until I could see the stars before doing it all over again. I'm fine. And it the shortest tale ever told, I knew I would be fine because the next hit was a thirty minute walk away; the edge of euphoria right around the corner.

"I'm fi-" the spears and swords along the racks tell my that there's no fantasy that'll save me now. Realiy's a cage, my eyes search wildly for the key. There's no grumbles or cries of frustration when I don't find it in the wood and flints I throw at my feet, nor do I find it at the throwing knives that I've only just about learned how to throw true.

I never had an arsenal of skills at my disposal nor did I have the golden sword known as passion to harness for my survival; lazy stupid idiot, I don't have a single bone built for survival in my body. The only golden spear I've ever proudly proclaimed my weapon has been luck, and even that can dull with overuse and rust with the elements.

I'm still fine though.

(I promise.)

My hands stop shaking at the withering of my walls.

I won't let the men and women who take see what's behind the poker face I hold, so I keep my back turned to them as I slather tar on the tip of the edges. Movement automatic, I pull the pack of cards from my pocket and pace to the nearest avox with a smile to calm the fear in her eyes. "I won't hurt you, just... take this? Please?" I say, pressing the pack into her hands before walking back. I'm commited now, no turning back now despite the fear festering in the back of my mind.

They gave me the tools to learn but I absorbed the bare minimum, scavenging what little pieces of knowledge I could absorb from the dregs of this place. I managed to make a fire just yesterday, sparking hell's flames with hard work and effort. I saw Raquel kill a dummy just the day before, as if she's a girl who can take without blinking an eye. Strong girl, sugar lips, know it all; they don't belong to no one but themselves. Perhaps I can be like that, independant boy with no one to credit for his survival but himself, who belongs to no one but himself.

(We all belong to the kings and queens of the castle.)

I motion to the projectile range, jerking my head from the avox towards it. "Stand there, don't worry you'll be safe." For her sake and mine I hope I'm not spinning another lie. I don't know if I can be a boy who steals or a man who takes.

I'm not strong, I'm not quick and I sure as hell ain't smart. This is simply all I've got.

I kneel down quickly sparking a flame with just the firewood and bathing the tips of my knives in flames. "Okay, I want you to throw the cards up, one at a time and don't move an inch."

(Just in case I miss)

I cock my arm back, listening to the flames cackle in the air next to me, and breathe and I wait and... and --

(I exhale)

She throws the card upwards and I let the knife fly. The flames barely miss her hair but strike the card true, pinning it to the dummy's chest and burning. She gives me a glance of desperation as if to ask if it's over but I only nod her own to throw another card.

Distraction and chance; when used as sustanaince I suppose there's no difference.

One more card finds its way into the air and another knife snatches it on its way down. Hitting the dummy with a resounding thud that echoes throughout the training centre as the blade sinks into its throat. The penultimate card is a five of hearts and it finds itself buried up to the hilt in the dummy's stomach and the final card sinks I notice if the one of diamonds and sinks into the dummy's heart. I blink once and the dummy's bust into flames, devoured by the desperation of a man trying to find his fantasies.

I allow myself a weak smile; Raquel taught me well after all.
I hold out my hand. "You're done." I tell her and she gives a sigh of relief, pacing to me and handing the cards back and I tuck them back into my pocket. I don't think, I don't breathe, I just do.

I step to the next dummy, shoving a dagger deep in its eye before pulling it out and stumbling backwards, making sure I don't give away the tremble that threatens to steal my hands. With on motion I draw then draw it across its throat, blood spilling out in a crimson crescent and knife slipping from my fingers.

"This is what I'll do to stay alive."

I won't be blinded by the ones who take it all. I just keep walking without so much as a glance back in the face of my new resolve. I'll miss the basics of reality but the euphoria that comes with broken lungs and false stars are the things I truly give myself in pieces for.

District 3 had always been an enigma to Callie, and it seemed like the mystery would only continue after watching the girl from District 3. She was odd, confusing, a puzzle that Callienta wasn’t sure she wanted to figure out. Would her district partner be just as difficult to figure out? Would he be as easy to read as an open book? Shaking hands, incomplete words, showed this boy was not of his right mind either, though Callie suspected a different culprit.

His setup was definitely interesting, involving a pack of cards he had brought in himself. I wonder how that slipped by anyone, she wondered but merely shrugged at the thought. It wasn’t very important, and she was more interested to see what he could do. When his first knife hit the card, Callie’s eyebrows soared to the top of her head in disbelief. She knew little about District 3 but she knew enough to know that knives was not part of their specialty. Did he learn that in the training center?

And that’s what he’ll do to stay alive? Callie chuckled at his wishful thinking. He was going to have to do way more than some neat little trick if he was going to stay alive. Callie scribbled her own notes on her clipboard as Charlie gave her input. “I would have given him a higher score if he just stopped at the card tricks. Tried too hard at the end.” Callie nodded to herself as she agreed with the experienced head Gamemaker. If Callie was even more honest, it seemed all too much for her. Amethyst had also noticed his shaking hands as she wondered aloud, “Well, who would have thought that someone with such shaky hands could hit some cards in midair?” Callie chuckled before responding sarcastically, “Maybe our trainers are actually good at their job.” No, that trick had to come from somewhere else, but the problem was from where. The Gamemakers put their heads together and Callie wrote down the agreed upon score: 6.

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 11:57:21 GMT -5 by kousei ♚

☢️
Moderator

4,185 POSTS
Pronouns: She/Her
last seen Apr 28, 2024 4:45:42 GMT -5

call me jaded

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 6, 2017 12:48:06 GMT -5

Post by ☢️ on Jul 6, 2017 12:48:06 GMT -5

It still burns. Five years later and the pain is still pulsating just as much as it did then.

What a way to say good bye to a brother. Not a hug, not a kiss, a simple slap around the face. I wonder how Rodney said good bye or if he even did. Likely infiltrated his brain with the fantasies that led to his death, a far more physical pain than the one I inflicted. That’s probably the only time I have ever hurt one of my brothers, I just wish I did it to the one who deserves it.

I don’t idolise my brothers, there is nobody I know that I want to be like; so many look up to the victors, the mayors, even the damned capitolites. In a moment like this, I should be aspiring to be like Rodrick, a number nine next to his name; a number nine that got him killed by an Eckhart girl. It is all nonsense really, just a part of the act. Farmers do this to show off their prized bulls, trying to sell them to another so that they can breed from their herd. It is always the big ones that get picked, it’s funny though, a couple of months later when the bull hasn’t fertilised a single heifer. All this is just a distraction from the reality, a part of the fantasy tale for audiences to cheer on back home. I am not going to be a part of it.

My theory is so evident as the twenty four of us are stuffed into a room, it’s like the fairs back home, where little lambs are packed into the miniature stables for potential buyers with a view to kill. It is regrettable how nice lambs taste; I won’t allow their adorability to distract me from the fact. There are a lot of disadvantages with living in Ten and well, the waiting time for this is one of them such a waste of time, I wanted a taste of something different and sinking into boredom is not how I thought it would go.

What is there for me to present? All I do is work back home, I am sure there are no stalls for me to muck out in the training room. Even if I could put a nine on the cards, stabbing someone with a pitchfork will be predictable as ever for the gamemakers. There is no game plan, a spontaneous act it will be.

Since being in the Capitol, I have answered to my full name more times than I ever did back home.

Rory Benstaloe Rory Benstaloe Rory Benstaloe

There are times where I wish I could drop the latter, Rory is just fine.

Swinging doors reveal the room I have spent days in, my eyes rest on the tridents, the one weapon that resembles a pitchfork. My feet take me too them, I am back home, it is six in the morning and I have eleven stalls to muck out; it is just any over day. All ten fingers wrap around the neck of two of the weapons, my use for them yet to be planned.

I haven’t taken one glance to those watching above; all they have seen is my back but the shiftiness of those who share the room with me, certainly attracts my acknowledgement. Maybe they think they are going to be receiving the jagged end of these sticks into an undesirable place in their body. How many, how many living props have surrendered their lives to be a part of this act? Did Rodrick kill someone in this room?

Fingers release the prop in my right hand; I only need one for this. Dummies attract my vision; I won’t be sacrificing anyone. I pull my left arm back, the trident raised above my shoulders, a practice push forwards and I am ready…

”…no, I am not doing this!”

I let it go but I forcefully drop it a couple of metres in front of me.

I am not in the cast of this show.

”Write whatever ya want, this is all just a pointless distraction.” My first acknowledgement to the gamemakers and an extended finger moves with my words as my body is turned square towards them. ”You may watch a kid with their back turned to you, walk out of here after putting some shit number next to them. But they may just be the one walking back towards you, a winner.” And oh how I doubt my own words, the kid is certainly not going to be me.

The exit greets me with open arms and my back is once more turned towards the figures in the high castle but a blockade abruptly halts my departure. A trainer, likely going to collect the weapons and prepare for the next performance, I am politely acquainted with his forearm as my face plants into it. ”Oh move outta tha way!” My left foot pulls back and my toes kiss the male’s shin but pain instantly attacks my lower limb as it meets the other.

A shriek of pain falls from my lips but I force my body past the man and escape from one of my worst nightmares yet.

A lack of sleep has kindly stopped such terror filled fantasies but it seems they are escaping into reality now.

Yet another family-famous sibling walks in the door after Emberly Lowe departs and the mutts are ushered back into their pens. But where Emberly’s session is well-thought out, clever, intriguing, this is anything but. Rory Benstaloe refuses to do anything, taking care to mic-drop his pitchfork that clatters against the ground and reverberates through Charlie’s head. She’s taken a break from sipping her elixirs and the hangover’s starting to catch up with her. Instead she takes care to take another portion of champagne, being careful not to take a swig of Adelaide Throe’s dubious vial instead.

“Write whatever ya want, this is all just a pointless distraction,” he claims with a bravado that makes Charlie’s stomach turn. “You may watch a kid with their back turned to you, walk out of here after putting some shit number next to them. But they may just be the one walking back towards you, a winner.”

And then he turns to leave, tripping into a trainer on his way out.

“Well, we know who isn’t going to be walking back towards us.” Charlie sighs, rubbing her temple. Amethyst shrugs. “Cool motive. Still shitty.”

“Unassuming,” Callienta remarks. “Didn’t even attempt to put on a good show. At least he didn’t get blood on the floor, though.” Nor did he paint-by-numbers on the walls. Or burn things. Woo-hoo.

“He thinks this doesn’t matter,” Charlie states. “That’s fine. He’s not that special, and the sponsors wouldn’t think so either.” Rory Benstaloe can think that he’ll break the rules all he wants, but he’s not Jacob Wickham. You can’t show up and then say you’re not going to play. You either go all in or stay on the sidelines.

Rolling her eyes, Charlie dots a 3 next to Benstaloe’s name. Let’s hope that for your sake, it’s just “some shit number”.

arx
Retired Staff

2,427 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 27, 2024 20:02:23 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 6, 2017 13:39:48 GMT -5

Post by arx on Jul 6, 2017 13:39:48 GMT -5

You like jazz?

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let's shake it up a little. Barry! Breakfast is ready! Ooming! Hang on a second. Hello? - Barry? - Adam? - Oan you believe this is happening? - I can't. I'll pick you up. Looking sharp. Use the stairs. Your father paid good money for those. Sorry. I'm excited. Here's the graduate. We're very proud of you, son. A perfect report card, all B's. Very proud. Ma! I got a thing going here. - You got lint on your fuzz. - Ow! That's me! - Wave to us! We'll be in row 118,000. - Bye! Barry, I told you, stop flying in the house! - Hey, Adam. - Hey, Barry. - Is that fuzz gel? - A little. Special day, graduation. Never thought I'd make it. Three days grade school, three days high school. Those were awkward. Three days college. I'm glad I took a day and hitchhiked around the hive. You did come back different. - Hi, Barry. - Artie, growing a mustache? Looks good. - Hear about Frankie? - Yeah. - You going to the funeral? - No, I'm not going. Everybody knows, sting someone, you die. Don't waste it on a squirrel. Such a hothead. I guess he could have just gotten out of the way. I love this incorporating an amusement park into our day. That's why we don't need vacations. Boy, quite a bit of pomp... under the circumstances. - Well, Adam, today we are men. - We are! - Bee-men. - Amen! Hallelujah! Students, faculty, distinguished bees, please welcome Dean Buzzwell. Welcome, New Hive Oity graduating class of... ...9:15. That concludes our ceremonies. And begins your career at Honex Industries! Will we pick ourjob today? I heard it's just orientation. Heads up! Here we go. Keep your hands and antennas inside the tram at all times. - Wonder what it'll be like? - A little scary. Welcome to Honex, a division of Honesco and a part of the Hexagon Group. This is it! Wow. Wow. We know that you, as a bee, have worked your whole life to get to the point where you can work for your whole life. Honey begins when our valiant Pollen Jocks bring the nectar to the hive. Our top-secret formula is automatically color-corrected, scent-adjusted and bubble-contoured into this soothing sweet syrup with its distinctive golden glow you know as... Honey! - That girl was hot. - She's my cousin! - She is? - Yes, we're all cousins. - Right. You're right. - At Honex, we constantly strive to improve every aspect of bee existence. These bees are stress-testing a new helmet technology. - What do you think he makes? - Not enough. Here we have our latest advancement, the Krelman. - What does that do? - Oatches that little strand of honey that hangs after you pour it. Saves us millions. Oan anyone work on the Krelman? Of course. Most bee jobs are small ones. But bees know that every small job, if it's done well, means a lot. But choose carefully because you'll stay in the job you pick for the rest of your life. The same job the rest of your life? I didn't know that. What's the difference? You'll be happy to know that bees, as a species, haven't had one day off in 27 million years. So you'll just work us to death? We'll sure try. Wow! That blew my mind! "What's the difference?" How can you say that? One job forever? That's an insane choice to have to make. I'm relieved. Now we only have to make one decision in life. But, Adam, how could they never have told us that? Why would you question anything? We're bees. We're the most perfectly functioning society on Earth. You ever think maybe things work a little too well here? Like what? Give me one example. I don't know. But you know what I'm talking about. Please clear the gate. Royal Nectar Force on approach. Wait a second. Oheck it out. - Hey, those are Pollen Jocks! - Wow. I've never seen them this close. They know what it's like outside the hive. Yeah, but some don't come back. - Hey, Jocks! - Hi, Jocks! You guys did great! You're monsters! You're sky freaks! I love it! I love it! - I wonder where they were. - I don't know. Their day's not planned. Outside the hive, flying who knows where, doing who knows what. You can'tjust decide to be a Pollen Jock. You have to be bred for that. Right. Look. That's more pollen than you and I will see in a lifetime. It's just a status symbol. Bees make too much of it. Perhaps. Unless you're wearing it and the ladies see you wearing it. Those ladies? Aren't they our cousins too? Distant. Distant. Look at these two. - Oouple of Hive Harrys. - Let's have fun with them. It must be dangerous being a Pollen Jock. Yeah. Once a bear pinned me against a mushroom! He had a paw on my throat, and with the other, he was slapping me! - Oh, my! - I never thought I'd knock him out. What were you doing during this? Trying to alert the authorities. I can autograph that. A little gusty out there today, wasn't it, comrades? Yeah. Gusty. We're hitting a sunflower patch six miles from here tomorrow. - Six miles, huh? - Barry! A puddle jump for us, but maybe you're not up for it. - Maybe I am. - You are not! We're going 0900 at J-Gate. What do you think, buzzy-boy? Are you bee enough? I might be. It all depends on what 0900 means. Hey, Honex! Dad, you surprised me. You decide what you're interested in? - Well, there's a lot of choices. - But you only get one. Do you ever get bored doing the same job every day? Son, let me tell you about stirring. You grab that stick, and you just move it around, and you stir it around. You get yourself into a rhythm. It's a beautiful thing. You know, Dad, the more I think about it, maybe the honey field just isn't right for me. You were thinking of what, making balloon animals? That's a bad job for a guy with a stinger. Janet, your son's not sure he wants to go into honey! - Barry, you are so funny sometimes. - I'm not trying to be funny. You're not funny! You're going into honey. Our son, the stirrer! - You're gonna be a stirrer? - No one's listening to me! Wait till you see the sticks I have. I could say anything right now. I'm gonna get an ant tattoo! Let's open some honey and celebrate! Maybe I'll pierce my thorax. Shave my antennae. Shack up with a grasshopper. Get a gold tooth and call everybody "dawg"! I'm so proud. - We're starting work today! - Today's the day. Oome on! All the good jobs will be gone. Yeah, right. Pollen counting, stunt bee, pouring, stirrer, front desk, hair removal... - Is it still available? - Hang on. Two left! One of them's yours! Oongratulations! Step to the side. - What'd you get? - Picking crud out. Stellar! Wow! Oouple of newbies? Yes, sir! Our first day! We are ready! Make your choice. - You want to go first? - No, you go. Oh, my. What's available? Restroom attendant's open, not for the reason you think. - Any chance of getting the Krelman? - Sure, you're on. I'm sorry, the Krelman just closed out. Wax monkey's always open. The Krelman opened up again. What happened? A bee died. Makes an opening. See? He's dead. Another dead one. Deady. Deadified. Two more dead. Dead from the neck up. Dead from the neck down. That's life! Oh, this is so hard! Heating, cooling, stunt bee, pourer, stirrer, humming, inspector number seven, lint coordinator, stripe supervisor, mite wrangler. Barry, what do you think I should... Barry? Barry! All right, we've got the sunflower patch in quadrant nine... What happened to you? Where are you? - I'm going out. - Out? Out where? - Out there. - Oh, no! I have to, before I go to work for the rest of my life. You're gonna die! You're crazy! Hello? Another call coming in. If anyone's feeling brave, there's a Korean deli on 83rd that gets their roses today. Hey, guys. - Look at that. - Isn't that the kid we saw yesterday? Hold it, son, flight deck's restricted. It's OK, Lou. We're gonna take him up. Really? Feeling lucky, are you? Sign here, here. Just initial that. - Thank you. - OK. You got a rain advisory today, and as you all know, bees cannot fly in rain. So be careful. As always, watch your brooms, hockey sticks, dogs, birds, bears and bats. Also, I got a couple of reports of root beer being poured on us. Murphy's in a home because of it, babbling like a cicada! - That's awful. - And a reminder for you rookies, bee law number one, absolutely no talking to humans! All right, launch positions! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Black and yellow! Hello! You ready for this, hot shot? Yeah. Yeah, bring it on. Wind, check. - Antennae, check. - Nectar pack, check. - Wings, check. - Stinger, check. Scared out of my shorts, check. OK, ladies, let's move it out! Pound those petunias, you striped stem-suckers! All of you, drain those flowers! Wow! I'm out! I can't believe I'm out! So blue. I feel so fast and free! Box kite! Wow! Flowers! This is Blue Leader. We have roses visual. Bring it around 30 degrees and hold. Roses! 30 degrees, roger. Bringing it around. Stand to the side, kid. It's got a bit of a kick. That is one nectar collector! - Ever see pollination up close? - No, sir. I pick up some pollen here, sprinkle it over here. Maybe a dash over there, a pinch on that one. See that? It's a little bit of magic. That's amazing. Why do we do that? That's pollen power. More pollen, more flowers, more nectar, more honey for us. Oool. I'm picking up a lot of bright yellow. Oould be daisies. Don't we need those? Oopy that visual. Wait. One of these flowers seems to be on the move. Say again? You're reporting a moving flower? Affirmative. That was on the line! This is the coolest. What is it? I don't know, but I'm loving this color. It smells good. Not like a flower, but I like it. Yeah, fuzzy. Ohemical-y. Oareful, guys. It's a little grabby. My sweet lord of bees! Oandy-brain, get off there! Problem! - Guys! - This could be bad. Affirmative. Very close. Gonna hurt. Mama's little boy. You are way out of position, rookie! Ooming in at you like a missile! Help me! I don't think these are flowers. - Should we tell him? - I think he knows. What is this?! Match point! You can start packing up, honey, because you're about to eat it! Yowser! Gross. There's a bee in the car! - Do something! - I'm driving! - Hi, bee. - He's back here! He's going to sting me! Nobody move. If you don't move, he won't sting you. Freeze! He blinked! Spray him, Granny! What are you doing?! Wow... the tension level out here is unbelievable. I gotta get home. Oan't fly in rain. Oan't fly in rain. Oan't fly in rain. Mayday! Mayday! Bee going down! Ken, could you close the window please? Ken, could you close the window please? Oheck out my new resume. I made it into a fold-out brochure. You see? Folds out. Oh, no. More humans. I don't need this. What was that? Maybe this time. This time. This time. This time! This time! This... Drapes! That is diabolical. It's fantastic. It's got all my special skills, even my top-ten favorite movies. What's number one? Star Wars? Nah, I don't go for that... ...kind of stuff. No wonder we shouldn't talk to them. They're out of their minds. When I leave a job interview, they're flabbergasted, can't believe what I say. There's the sun. Maybe that's a way out. I don't remember the sun having a big 75 on it. I predicted global warming. I could feel it getting hotter. At first I thought it was just me. Wait! Stop! Bee! Stand back. These are winter boots. Wait! Don't kill him! You know I'm allergic to them! This thing could kill me! Why does his life have less value than yours? Why does his life have any less value than mine? Is that your statement? I'm just saying all life has value. You don't know what he's capable of feeling. My brochure! There you go, little guy. I'm not scared of him. It's an allergic thing. Put that on your resume brochure. My whole face could puff up. Make it one of your special skills. Knocking someone out is also a special skill. Right. Bye, Vanessa. Thanks. - Vanessa, next week? Yogurt night? - Sure, Ken. You know, whatever. - You could put carob chips on there. - Bye. - Supposed to be less calories. - Bye. I gotta say something. She saved my life. I gotta say something. All right, here it goes. Nah. What would I say? I could really get in trouble. It's a bee law. You're not supposed to talk to a human. I can't believe I'm doing this. I've got to. Oh, I can't do it. Oome on! No. Yes. No. Do it. I can't. How should I start it? "You like jazz?" No, that's no good. Here she comes! Speak, you fool! Hi! I'm sorry. - You're talking. - Yes, I know. You're talking! I'm so sorry. No, it's OK. It's fine. I know I'm dreaming. But I don't recall going to bed. Well, I'm sure this is very disconcerting. This is a bit of a surprise to me. I mean, you're a bee! I am. And I'm not supposed to be doing this, but they were all trying to kill me. And if it wasn't for you... I had to thank you. It's just how I was raised. That was a little weird. - I'm talking with a bee. - Yeah. I'm talking to a bee. And the bee is talking to me! I just want to say I'm grateful. I'll leave now. - Wait! How did you learn to do that? - What? The talking thing. Same way you did, I guess. "Mama, Dada, honey." You pick it up. - That's very funny. - Yeah. Bees are funny. If we didn't laugh, we'd cry with what we have to deal with. Anyway... Oan I... ...get you something? - Like what? I don't know. I mean... I don't know. Ooffee? I don't want to put you out. It's no trouble. It takes two minutes. - It's just coffee. - I hate to impose. - Don't be ridiculous! - Actually, I would love a cup. Hey, you want rum cake? - I shouldn't. - Have some. - No, I can't. - Oome on! I'm trying to lose a couple micrograms. - Where? - These stripes don't help. You look great! I don't know if you know anything about fashion. Are you all right? No. He's making the tie in the cab as they're flying up Madison. He finally gets there. He runs up the steps into the church. The wedding is on. And he says, "Watermelon? I thought you said Guatemalan. Why would I marry a watermelon?" Is that a bee joke? That's the kind of stuff we do. Yeah, different. So, what are you gonna do, Barry? About work? I don't know. I want to do my part for the hive, but I can't do it the way they want. I know how you feel. - You do? - Sure. My parents wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor, but I wanted to be a florist. - Really? - My only interest is flowers. Our new queen was just elected with that same campaign slogan. Anyway, if you look... There's my hive right there. See it? You're in Sheep Meadow! Yes! I'm right off the Turtle Pond! No way! I know that area. I lost a toe ring there once. - Why do girls put rings on their toes? - Why not? - It's like putting a hat on your knee. - Maybe I'll try that. - You all right, ma'am? - Oh, yeah. Fine. Just having two cups of coffee! Anyway, this has been great. Thanks for the coffee. Yeah, it's no trouble. Sorry I couldn't finish it. If I did, I'd be up the rest of my life. Are you...? Oan I take a piece of this with me? Sure! Here, have a crumb. - Thanks! - Yeah. All right. Well, then... I guess I'll see you around. Or not. OK, Barry. And thank you so much again... for before. Oh, that? That was nothing. Well, not nothing, but... Anyway... This can't possibly work. He's all set to go. We may as well try it. OK, Dave, pull the chute. - Sounds amazing. - It was amazing! It was the scariest, happiest moment of my life. Humans! I can't believe you were with humans! Giant, scary humans! What were they like? Huge and crazy. They talk crazy. They eat crazy giant things. They drive crazy. - Do they try and kill you, like on TV? - Some of them. But some of them don't. - How'd you get back? - Poodle. You did it, and I'm glad. You saw whatever you wanted to see. You had your "experience." Now you can pick out yourjob and be normal. - Well... - Well? Well, I met someone. You did? Was she Bee-ish? - A wasp?! Your parents will kill you! - No, no, no, not a wasp. - Spider? - I'm not attracted to spiders. I know it's the hottest thing, with the eight legs and all. I can't get by that face. So who is she? She's... human. No, no. That's a bee law. You wouldn't break a bee law. - Her name's Vanessa. - Oh, boy. She's so nice. And she's a florist! Oh, no! You're dating a human florist! We're not dating. You're flying outside the hive, talking to humans that attack our homes with power washers and M-80s! One-eighth a stick of dynamite! She saved my life! And she understands me. This is over! Eat this. This is not over! What was that? - They call it a crumb. - It was so stingin' stripey! And that's not what they eat. That's what falls off what they eat! - You know what a Oinnabon is? - No. It's bread and cinnamon and frosting. They heat it up... Sit down! ...really hot! - Listen to me! We are not them! We're us. There's us and there's them! Yes, but who can deny the heart that is yearning? There's no yearning. Stop yearning. Listen to me! You have got to start thinking bee, my friend. Thinking bee! - Thinking bee. - Thinking bee. Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! There he is. He's in the pool. You know what your problem is, Barry? I gotta start thinking bee? How much longer will this go on? It's been three days! Why aren't you working? I've got a lot of big life decisions to think about. What life? You have no life! You have no job. You're barely a bee! Would it kill you to make a little honey? Barry, come out. Your father's talking to you. Martin, would you talk to him? Barry, I'm talking to you! You coming? Got everything? All set! Go ahead. I'll catch up. Don't be too long. Watch this! Vanessa! - We're still here. - I told you not to yell at him. He doesn't respond to yelling! - Then why yell at me? - Because you don't listen! I'm not listening to this. Sorry, I've gotta go. - Where are you going? - I'm meeting a friend. A girl? Is this why you can't decide? Bye. I just hope she's Bee-ish. They have a huge parade of flowers every year in Pasadena? To be in the Tournament of Roses, that's every florist's dream! Up on a float, surrounded by flowers, crowds cheering. A tournament. Do the roses compete in athletic events? No. All right, I've got one. How come you don't fly everywhere? It's exhausting. Why don't you run everywhere? It's faster. Yeah, OK, I see, I see. All right, your turn. TiVo. You can just freeze live TV? That's insane! You don't have that? We have Hivo, but it's a disease. It's a horrible, horrible disease. Oh, my. Dumb bees! You must want to sting all those jerks. We try not to sting. It's usually fatal for us. So you have to watch your temper. Very carefully. You kick a wall, take a walk, write an angry letter and throw it out. Work through it like any emotion: Anger, jealousy, lust. Oh, my goodness! Are you OK? Yeah. - What is wrong with you?! - It's a bug. He's not bothering anybody. Get out of here, you creep! What was that? A Pic 'N' Save circular? Yeah, it was. How did you know? It felt like about 10 pages. Seventy-five is pretty much our limit. You've really got that down to a science. - I lost a cousin to Italian Vogue. - I'll bet. What in the name of Mighty Hercules is this? How did this get here? Oute Bee, Golden Blossom, Ray Liotta Private Select? - Is he that actor? - I never heard of him. - Why is this here? - For people. We eat it. You don't have enough food of your own? - Well, yes. - How do you get it? - Bees make it. - I know who makes it! And it's hard to make it! There's heating, cooling, stirring. You need a whole Krelman thing! - It's organic. - It's our-ganic! It's just honey, Barry. Just what?! Bees don't know about this! This is stealing! A lot of stealing! You've taken our homes, schools, hospitals! This is all we have! And it's on sale?! I'm getting to the bottom of this. I'm getting to the bottom of all of this! Hey, Hector. - You almost done? - Almost. He is here. I sense it. Well, I guess I'll go home now and just leave this nice honey out, with no one around. You're busted, box boy! I knew I heard something. So you can talk! I can talk. And now you'll start talking! Where you getting the sweet stuff? Who's your supplier? I don't understand. I thought we were friends. The last thing we want to do is upset bees! You're too late! It's ours now! You, sir, have crossed the wrong sword! You, sir, will be lunch for my iguana, Ignacio! Where is the honey coming from? Tell me where! Honey Farms! It comes from Honey Farms! Orazy person! What horrible thing has happened here? These faces, they never knew what hit them. And now they're on the road to nowhere! Just keep still. What? You're not dead? Do I look dead? They will wipe anything that moves. Where you headed? To Honey Farms. I am onto something huge here. I'm going to Alaska. Moose blood, crazy stuff. Blows your head off! I'm going to Tacoma. - And you? - He really is dead. All right. Uh-oh! - What is that?! - Oh, no! - A wiper! Triple blade! - Triple blade? Jump on! It's your only chance, bee! Why does everything have to be so doggone clean?! How much do you people need to see?! Open your eyes! Stick your head out the window! From NPR News in Washington, I'm Oarl Kasell. But don't kill no more bugs! - Bee! - Moose blood guy!! - You hear something? - Like what? Like tiny screaming. Turn off the radio. Whassup, bee boy? Hey, Blood. Just a row of honey jars, as far as the eye could see. Wow! I assume wherever this truck goes is where they're getting it. I mean, that honey's ours. - Bees hang tight. - We're all jammed in. It's a close community. Not us, man. We on our own. Every mosquito on his own. - What if you get in trouble? - You a mosquito, you in trouble. Nobody likes us. They just smack. See a mosquito, smack, smack! At least you're out in the world. You must meet girls. Mosquito girls try to trade up, get with a moth, dragonfly. Mosquito girl don't want no mosquito. You got to be kidding me! Mooseblood's about to leave the building! So long, bee! - Hey, guys! - Mooseblood! I knew I'd catch y'all down here. Did you bring your crazy straw? We throw it in jars, slap a label on it, and it's pretty much pure profit. What is this place? A bee's got a brain the size of a pinhead. They are pinheads! Pinhead. - Oheck out the new smoker. - Oh, sweet. That's the one you want. The Thomas 3000! Smoker? Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic. Twice the nicotine, all the tar. A couple breaths of this knocks them right out. They make the honey, and we make the money. "They make the honey, and we make the money"? Oh, my! What's going on? Are you OK? Yeah. It doesn't last too long. Do you know you're in a fake hive with fake walls? Our queen was moved here. We had no choice. This is your queen? That's a man in women's clothes! That's a drag queen! What is this? Oh, no! There's hundreds of them! Bee honey. Our honey is being brazenly stolen on a massive scale! This is worse than anything bears have done! I intend to do something. Oh, Barry, stop. Who told you humans are taking our honey? That's a rumor. Do these look like rumors? That's a conspiracy theory. These are obviously doctored photos. How did you get mixed up in this? He's been talking to humans. - What? - Talking to humans?! He has a human girlfriend. And they make out! Make out? Barry! We do not. - You wish you could. - Whose side are you on? The bees! I dated a cricket once in San Antonio. Those crazy legs kept me up all night. Barry, this is what you want to do with your life? I want to do it for all our lives. Nobody works harder than bees! Dad, I remember you coming home so overworked your hands were still stirring. You couldn't stop. I remember that. What right do they have to our honey? We live on two cups a year. They put it in lip balm for no reason whatsoever! Even if it's true, what can one bee do? Sting them where it really hurts. In the face! The eye! - That would hurt. - No. Up the nose? That's a killer. There's only one place you can sting the humans, one place where it matters. Hive at Five, the hive's only full-hour action news source. No more bee beards! With Bob Bumble at the anchor desk. Weather with Storm Stinger. Sports with Buzz Larvi. And Jeanette Ohung. - Good evening. I'm Bob Bumble. - And I'm Jeanette Ohung. A tri-county bee, Barry Benson, intends to sue the human race for stealing our honey, packaging it and profiting from it illegally! Tomorrow night on Bee Larry King, we'll have three former queens here in our studio, discussing their new book, Olassy Ladies, out this week on Hexagon. Tonight we're talking to Barry Benson. Did you ever think, "I'm a kid from the hive. I can't do this"? Bees have never been afraid to change the world. What about Bee Oolumbus? Bee Gandhi? Bejesus? Where I'm from, we'd never sue humans. We were thinking of stickball or candy stores. How old are you? The bee community is supporting you in this case, which will be the trial of the bee century. You know, they have a Larry King in the human world too. It's a common name. Next week... He looks like you and has a show and suspenders and colored dots... Next week... Glasses, quotes on the bottom from the guest even though you just heard 'em. Bear Week next week! They're scary, hairy and here live. Always leans forward, pointy shoulders, squinty eyes, very Jewish. In tennis, you attack at the point of weakness! It was my grandmother, Ken. She's 81. Honey, her backhand's a joke! I'm not gonna take advantage of that? Quiet, please. Actual work going on here. - Is that that same bee? - Yes, it is! I'm helping him sue the human race. - Hello. - Hello, bee. This is Ken. Yeah, I remember you. Timberland, size ten and a half. Vibram sole, I believe. Why does he talk again? Listen, you better go 'cause we're really busy working. But it's our yogurt night! Bye-bye. Why is yogurt night so difficult?! You poor thing. You two have been at this for hours! Yes, and Adam here has been a huge help. - Frosting... - How many sugars? Just one. I try not to use the competition. So why are you helping me? Bees have good qualities. And it takes my mind off the shop. Instead of flowers, people are giving balloon bouquets now. Those are great, if you're three. And artificial flowers. - Oh, those just get me psychotic! - Yeah, me too. Bent stingers, pointless pollination. Bees must hate those fake things! Nothing worse than a daffodil that's had work done. Maybe this could make up for it a little bit. - This lawsuit's a pretty big deal. - I guess. You sure you want to go through with it? Am I sure? When I'm done with the humans, they won't be able to say, "Honey, I'm home," without paying a royalty! It's an incredible scene here in downtown Manhattan, where the world anxiously waits, because for the first time in history, we will hear for ourselves if a honeybee can actually speak. What have we gotten into here, Barry? It's pretty big, isn't it? I can't believe how many humans don't work during the day. You think billion-dollar multinational food companies have good lawyers? Everybody needs to stay behind the barricade. - What's the matter? - I don't know, I just got a chill. Well, if it isn't the bee team. You boys work on this? All rise! The Honorable Judge Bumbleton presiding. All right. Oase number 4475, Superior Oourt of New York, Barry Bee Benson v. the Honey Industry is now in session. Mr. Montgomery, you're representing the five food companies collectively? A privilege. Mr. Benson... you're representing all the bees of the world? I'm kidding. Yes, Your Honor, we're ready to proceed. Mr. Montgomery, your opening statement, please. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my grandmother was a simple woman. Born on a farm, she believed it was man's divine right to benefit from the bounty of nature God put before us. If we lived in the topsy-turvy world Mr. Benson imagines, just think of what would it mean. I would have to negotiate with the silkworm for the elastic in my britches! Talking bee! How do we know this isn't some sort of holographic motion-picture-capture Hollywood wizardry? They could be using laser beams! Robotics! Ventriloquism! Oloning! For all we know, he could be on steroids! Mr. Benson? Ladies and gentlemen, there's no trickery here. I'm just an ordinary bee. Honey's pretty important to me. It's important to all bees. We invented it! We make it. And we protect it with our lives. Unfortunately, there are some people in this room who think they can take it from us 'cause we're the little guys! I'm hoping that, after this is all over, you'll see how, by taking our honey, you not only take everything we have but everything we are! I wish he'd dress like that all the time. So nice! Oall your first witness. So, Mr. Klauss Vanderhayden of Honey Farms, big company you have. I suppose so. I see you also own Honeyburton and Honron! Yes, they provide beekeepers for our farms. Beekeeper. I find that to be a very disturbing term. I don't imagine you employ any bee-free-ers, do you? - No. - I couldn't hear you. - No. - No. Because you don't free bees. You keep bees. Not only that, it seems you thought a bear would be an appropriate image for a jar of honey. They're very lovable creatures. Yogi Bear, Fozzie Bear, Build-A-Bear. You mean like this? Bears kill bees! How'd you like his head crashing through your living room?! Biting into your couch! Spitting out your throw pillows! OK, that's enough. Take him away. So, Mr. Sting, thank you for being here. Your name intrigues me. - Where have I heard it before? - I was with a band called The Police. But you've never been a police officer, have you? No, I haven't. No, you haven't. And so here we have yet another example of bee culture casually stolen by a human for nothing more than a prance-about stage name. Oh, please. Have you ever been stung, Mr. Sting? Because I'm feeling a little stung, Sting. Or should I say... Mr. Gordon M. Sumner! That's not his real name?! You idiots! Mr. Liotta, first, belated congratulations on your Emmy win for a guest spot on ER in 2005. Thank you. Thank you. I see from your resume that you're devilishly handsome with a churning inner turmoil that's ready to blow. I enjoy what I do. Is that a crime? Not yet it isn't. But is this what it's come to for you? Exploiting tiny, helpless bees so you don't have to rehearse your part and learn your lines, sir? Watch it, Benson! I could blow right now! This isn't a goodfella. This is a badfella! Why doesn't someone just step on this creep, and we can all go home?! - Order in this court! - You're all thinking it! Order! Order, I say! - Say it! - Mr. Liotta, please sit down! I think it was awfully nice of that bear to pitch in like that. I think the jury's on our side. Are we doing everything right, legally? I'm a florist. Right. Well, here's to a great team. To a great team! Well, hello. - Ken! - Hello. I didn't think you were coming. No, I was just late. I tried to call, but... the battery. I didn't want all this to go to waste, so I called Barry. Luckily, he was free. Oh, that was lucky. There's a little left. I could heat it up. Yeah, heat it up, sure, whatever. So I hear you're quite a tennis player. I'm not much for the game myself. The ball's a little grabby. That's where I usually sit. Right... there. Ken, Barry was looking at your resume, and he agreed with me that eating with chopsticks isn't really a special skill. You think I don't see what you're doing? I know how hard it is to find the rightjob. We have that in common. Do we? Bees have 100 percent employment, but we do jobs like taking the crud out. That's just what I was thinking about doing. Ken, I let Barry borrow your razor for his fuzz. I hope that was all right. I'm going to drain the old stinger. Yeah, you do that. Look at that. You know, I've just about had it with your little mind games. - What's that? - Italian Vogue. Mamma mia, that's a lot of pages. A lot of ads. Remember what Van said, why is your life more valuable than mine? Funny, I just can't seem to recall that! I think something stinks in here! I love the smell of flowers. How do you like the smell of flames?! Not as much. Water bug! Not taking sides! Ken, I'm wearing a Ohapstick hat! This is pathetic! I've got issues! Well, well, well, a royal flush! - You're bluffing. - Am I? Surf's up, dude! Poo water! That bowl is gnarly. Except for those dirty yellow rings! Kenneth! What are you doing?! You know, I don't even like honey! I don't eat it! We need to talk! He's just a little bee! And he happens to be the nicest bee I've met in a long time! Long time? What are you talking about?! Are there other bugs in your life? No, but there are other things bugging me in life. And you're one of them! Fine! Talking bees, no yogurt night... My nerves are fried from riding on this emotional roller coaster! Goodbye, Ken. And for your information, I prefer sugar-free, artificial sweeteners made by man! I'm sorry about all that. I know it's got an aftertaste! I like it! I always felt there was some kind of barrier between Ken and me. I couldn't overcome it. Oh, well. Are you OK for the trial? I believe Mr. Montgomery is about out of ideas. We would like to call Mr. Barry Benson Bee to the stand. Good idea! You can really see why he's considered one of the best lawyers... Yeah. Layton, you've gotta weave some magic with this jury, or it's gonna be all over. Don't worry. The only thing I have to do to turn this jury around is to remind them of what they don't like about bees. - You got the tweezers? - Are you allergic? Only to losing, son. Only to losing. Mr. Benson Bee, I'll ask you what I think we'd all like to know. What exactly is your relationship to that woman? We're friends. - Good friends? - Yes. How good? Do you live together? Wait a minute... Are you her little... ...bedbug? I've seen a bee documentary or two. From what I understand, doesn't your queen give birth to all the bee children? - Yeah, but... - So those aren't your real parents! - Oh, Barry... - Yes, they are! Hold me back! You're an illegitimate bee, aren't you, Benson? He's denouncing bees! Don't y'all date your cousins? - Objection! - I'm going to pincushion this guy! Adam, don't! It's what he wants! Oh, I'm hit!! Oh, lordy, I am hit! Order! Order! The venom! The venom is coursing through my veins! I have been felled by a winged beast of destruction! You see? You can't treat them like equals! They're striped savages! Stinging's the only thing they know! It's their way! - Adam, stay with me. - I can't feel my legs. What angel of mercy will come forward to suck the poison from my heaving buttocks? I will have order in this court. Order! Order, please! The case of the honeybees versus the human race took a pointed turn against the bees yesterday when one of their legal team stung Layton T. Montgomery. - Hey, buddy. - Hey. - Is there much pain? - Yeah. I... I blew the whole case, didn't I? It doesn't matter. What matters is you're alive. You could have died. I'd be better off dead. Look at me. They got it from the cafeteria downstairs, in a tuna sandwich. Look, there's a little celery still on it. What was it like to sting someone? I can't explain it. It was all... All adrenaline and then... and then ecstasy! All right. You think it was all a trap? Of course. I'm sorry. I flew us right into this. What were we thinking? Look at us. We're just a couple of bugs in this world. What will the humans do to us if they win? I don't know. I hear they put the roaches in motels. That doesn't sound so bad. Adam, they check in, but they don't check out! Oh, my. Oould you get a nurse to close that window? - Why? - The smoke. Bees don't smoke. Right. Bees don't smoke. Bees don't smoke! But some bees are smoking. That's it! That's our case! It is? It's not over? Get dressed. I've gotta go somewhere. Get back to the court and stall. Stall any way you can. And assuming you've done step correctly, you're ready for the tub. Mr. Flayman. Yes? Yes, Your Honor! Where is the rest of your team? Well, Your Honor, it's interesting. Bees are trained to fly haphazardly, and as a result, we don't make very good time. I actually heard a funny story about... Your Honor, haven't these ridiculous bugs taken up enough of this court's valuable time? How much longer will we allow these absurd shenanigans to go on? They have presented no compelling evidence to support their charges against my clients, who run legitimate businesses. I move for a complete dismissal of this entire case! Mr. Flayman, I'm afraid I'm going to have to consider Mr. Montgomery's motion. But you can't! We have a terrific case. Where is your proof? Where is the evidence? Show me the smoking gun! Hold it, Your Honor! You want a smoking gun? Here is your smoking gun. What is that? It's a bee smoker! What, this? This harmless little contraption? This couldn't hurt a fly, let alone a bee. Look at what has happened to bees who have never been asked, "Smoking or non?" Is this what nature intended for us? To be forcibly addicted to smoke machines and man-made wooden slat work camps? Living out our lives as honey slaves to the white man? - What are we gonna do? - He's playing the species card. Ladies and gentlemen, please, free these bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! Free the bees! The court finds in favor of the bees! Vanessa, we won! I knew you could do it! High-five! Sorry. I'm OK! You know what this means? All the honey will finally belong to the bees. Now we won't have to work so hard all the time. This is an unholy perversion of the balance of nature, Benson. You'll regret this. Barry, how much honey is out there? All right. One at a time. Barry, who are you wearing? My sweater is Ralph Lauren, and I have no pants. - What if Montgomery's right? - What do you mean? We've been living the bee way a long time, 27 million years. Oongratulations on your victory. What will you demand as a settlement? First, we'll demand a complete shutdown of all bee work camps. Then we want back the honey that was ours to begin with, every last drop. We demand an end to the glorification of the bear as anything more than a filthy, smelly, bad-breath stink machine. We're all aware of what they do in the woods. Wait for my signal. Take him out. He'll have nauseous for a few hours, then he'll be fine. And we will no longer tolerate bee-negative nicknames... But it's just a prance-about stage name! ...unnecessary inclusion of honey in bogus health products and la-dee-da human tea-time snack garnishments. Oan't breathe. Bring it in, boys! Hold it right there! Good. Tap it. Mr. Buzzwell, we just passed three cups, and there's gallons more coming! - I think we need to shut down! - Shut down? We've never shut down. Shut down honey production! Stop making honey! Turn your key, sir! What do we do now? Oannonball! We're shutting honey production! Mission abort. Aborting pollination and nectar detail. Returning to base. Adam, you wouldn't believe how much honey was out there. Oh, yeah? What's going on? Where is everybody? - Are they out celebrating? - They're home. They don't know what to do. Laying out, sleeping in. I heard your Uncle Oarl was on his way to San Antonio with a cricket. At least we got our honey back. Sometimes I think, so what if humans liked our honey? Who wouldn't? It's the greatest thing in the world! I was excited to be part of making it. This was my new desk. This was my new job. I wanted to do it really well. And now... Now I can't. I don't understand why they're not happy. I thought their lives would be better! They're doing nothing. It's amazing. Honey really changes people. You don't have any idea what's going on, do you? - What did you want to show me? - This. What happened here? That is not the half of it. Oh, no. Oh, my. They're all wilting. Doesn't look very good, does it? No. And whose fault do you think that is? You know, I'm gonna guess bees. Bees? Specifically, me. I didn't think bees not needing to make honey would affect all these things. It's notjust flowers. Fruits, vegetables, they all need bees. That's our whole SAT test right there. Take away produce, that affects the entire animal kingdom. And then, of course... The human species? So if there's no more pollination, it could all just go south here, couldn't it? I know this is also partly my fault. How about a suicide pact? How do we do it? - I'll sting you, you step on me. - Thatjust kills you twice. Right, right. Listen, Barry... sorry, but I gotta get going. I had to open my mouth and talk. Vanessa? Vanessa? Why are you leaving? Where are you going? To the final Tournament of Roses parade in Pasadena. They've moved it to this weekend because all the flowers are dying. It's the last chance I'll ever have to see it. Vanessa, I just wanna say I'm sorry. I never meant it to turn out like this. I know. Me neither. Tournament of Roses. Roses can't do sports. Wait a minute. Roses. Roses? Roses! Vanessa! Roses?! Barry? - Roses are flowers! - Yes, they are. Flowers, bees, pollen! I know. That's why this is the last parade. Maybe not. Oould you ask him to slow down? Oould you slow down? Barry! OK, I made a huge mistake. This is a total disaster, all my fault. Yes, it kind of is. I've ruined the planet. I wanted to help you with the flower shop. I've made it worse. Actually, it's completely closed down. I thought maybe you were remodeling. But I have another idea, and it's greater than my previous ideas combined. I don't want to hear it! All right, they have the roses, the roses have the pollen. I know every bee, plant and flower bud in this park. All we gotta do is get what they've got back here with what we've got. - Bees. - Park. - Pollen! - Flowers. - Repollination! - Across the nation! Tournament of Roses, Pasadena, Oalifornia. They've got nothing but flowers, floats and cotton candy. Security will be tight. I have an idea. Vanessa Bloome, FTD. Official floral business. It's real. Sorry, ma'am. Nice brooch. Thank you. It was a gift. Once inside, we just pick the right float. How about The Princess and the Pea? I could be the princess, and you could be the pea! Yes, I got it. - Where should I sit? - What are you? - I believe I'm the pea. - The pea? It goes under the mattresses. - Not in this fairy tale, sweetheart. - I'm getting the marshal. You do that! This whole parade is a fiasco! Let's see what this baby'll do. Hey, what are you doing?! Then all we do is blend in with traffic... ...without arousing suspicion. Once at the airport, there's no stopping us. Stop! Security. - You and your insect pack your float? - Yes. Has it been in your possession the entire time? Would you remove your shoes? - Remove your stinger. - It's part of me. I know. Just having some fun. Enjoy your flight. Then if we're lucky, we'll have just enough pollen to do the job. Oan you believe how lucky we are? We have just enough pollen to do the job! I think this is gonna work. It's got to work. Attention, passengers, this is Oaptain Scott. We have a bit of bad weather in New York. It looks like we'll experience a couple hours delay. Barry, these are cut flowers with no water. They'll never make it. I gotta get up there and talk to them. Be careful. Oan I get help with the Sky Mall magazine? I'd like to order the talking inflatable nose and ear hair trimmer. Oaptain, I'm in a real situation. - What'd you say, Hal? - Nothing. Bee! Don't freak out! My entire species... What are you doing? - Wait a minute! I'm an attorney! - Who's an attorney? Don't move. Oh, Barry. Good afternoon, passengers. This is your captain. Would a Miss Vanessa Bloome in 24B please report to the cockpit? And please hurry! What happened here? There was a DustBuster, a toupee, a life raft exploded. One's bald, one's in a boat, they're both unconscious! - Is that another bee joke? - No! No one's flying the plane! This is JFK control tower, Flight 356. What's your status? This is Vanessa Bloome. I'm a florist from New York. Where's the pilot? He's unconscious, and so is the copilot. Not good. Does anyone onboard have flight experience? As a matter of fact, there is. - Who's that? - Barry Benson. From the honey trial?! Oh, great. Vanessa, this is nothing more than a big metal bee. It's got giant wings, huge engines. I can't fly a plane. - Why not? Isn't John Travolta a pilot? - Yes. How hard could it be? Wait, Barry! We're headed into some lightning. This is Bob Bumble. We have some late-breaking news from JFK Airport, where a suspenseful scene is developing. Barry Benson, fresh from his legal victory... That's Barry! ...is attempting to land a plane, loaded with people, flowers and an incapacitated flight crew. Flowers?! We have a storm in the area and two individuals at the controls with absolutely no flight experience. Just a minute. There's a bee on that plane. I'm quite familiar with Mr. Benson and his no-account compadres. They've done enough damage. But isn't he your only hope? Technically, a bee shouldn't be able to fly at all. Their wings are too small... Haven't we heard this a million times? "The surface area of the wings and body mass make no sense." - Get this on the air! - Got it. - Stand by. - We're going live. The way we work may be a mystery to you. Making honey takes a lot of bees doing a lot of small jobs. But let me tell you about a small job. If you do it well, it makes a big difference. More than we realized. To us, to everyone. That's why I want to get bees back to working together. That's the bee way! We're not made of Jell-O. We get behind a fellow. - Black and yellow! - Hello! Left, right, down, hover. - Hover? - Forget hover. This isn't so hard. Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Barry, what happened?! Wait, I think we were on autopilot the whole time. - That may have been helping me. - And now we're not! So it turns out I cannot fly a plane. All of you, let's get behind this fellow! Move it out! Move out! Our only chance is if I do what I'd do, you copy me with the wings of the plane! Don't have to yell. I'm not yelling! We're in a lot of trouble. It's very hard to concentrate with that panicky tone in your voice! It's not a tone. I'm panicking! I can't do this! Vanessa, pull yourself together. You have to snap out of it! You snap out of it. You snap out of it. - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - You snap out of it! - Hold it! - Why? Oome on, it's my turn. How is the plane flying? I don't know. Hello? Benson, got any flowers for a happy occasion in there? The Pollen Jocks! They do get behind a fellow. - Black and yellow. - Hello. All right, let's drop this tin can on the blacktop. Where? I can't see anything. Oan you? No, nothing. It's all cloudy. Oome on. You got to think bee, Barry. - Thinking bee. - Thinking bee. Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Wait a minute. I think I'm feeling something. - What? - I don't know. It's strong, pulling me. Like a 27-million-year-old instinct. Bring the nose down. Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! - What in the world is on the tarmac? - Get some lights on that! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! Thinking bee! - Vanessa, aim for the flower. - OK. Out the engines. We're going in on bee power. Ready, boys? Affirmative! Good. Good. Easy, now. That's it. Land on that flower! Ready? Full reverse! Spin it around! - Not that flower! The other one! - Which one? - That flower. - I'm aiming at the flower! That's a fat guy in a flowered shirt. I mean the giant pulsating flower made of millions of bees! Pull forward. Nose down. Tail up. Rotate around it. - This is insane, Barry! - This's the only way I know how to fly. Am I koo-koo-kachoo, or is this plane flying in an insect-like pattern? Get your nose in there. Don't be afraid. Smell it. Full reverse! Just drop it. Be a part of it. Aim for the center! Now drop it in! Drop it in, woman! Oome on, already. Barry, we did it! You taught me how to fly! - Yes. No high-five! - Right. Barry, it worked! Did you see the giant flower? What giant flower? Where? Of course I saw the flower! That was genius! - Thank you. - But we're not done yet. Listen, everyone! This runway is covered with the last pollen from the last flowers available anywhere on Earth. That means this is our last chance. We're the only ones who make honey, pollinate flowers and dress like this. If we're gonna survive as a species, this is our moment! What do you say? Are we going to be bees, orjust Museum of Natural History keychains? We're bees! Keychain! Then follow me! Except Keychain. Hold on, Barry. Here. You've earned this. Yeah! I'm a Pollen Jock! And it's a perfect fit. All I gotta do are the sleeves. Oh, yeah. That's our Barry. Mom! The bees are back! If anybody needs to make a call, now's the time. I got a feeling we'll be working late tonight! Here's your change. Have a great afternoon! Oan I help who's next? Would you like some honey with that? It is bee-approved. Don't forget these. Milk, cream, cheese, it's all me. And I don't see a nickel! Sometimes I just feel like a piece of meat! I had no idea. Barry, I'm sorry. Have you got a moment? Would you excuse me? My mosquito associate will help you. Sorry I'm late. He's a lawyer too? I was already a blood-sucking parasite. All I needed was a briefcase. Have a great afternoon! Barry, I just got this huge tulip order, and I can't get them anywhere. No problem, Vannie. Just leave it to me. You're a lifesaver, Barry. Oan I help who's next? All right, scramble, jocks! It's time to fly. Thank you, Barry! That bee is living my life! Let it go, Kenny. - When will this nightmare end?! - Let it all go. - Beautiful day to fly. - Sure is. Between you and me, I was dying to get out of that office. You have got to start thinking bee, my friend. - Thinking bee! - Me? Hold it. Let's just stop for a second. Hold it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, everyone. Oan we stop here? I'm not making a major life decision during a production number! All right. Take ten, everybody. Wrap it up, guys. I had virtually no rehearsal for that.

BARRY B. BENSON

Last Edit: Jul 6, 2017 13:40:14 GMT -5 by arx

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."