omnipotent ; emerson & jack

omnipotent ; emerson & jack Oct 15, 2023 11:20:20 GMT -5

Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Oct 15, 2023 11:20:20 GMT -5

Emerson is trying and failing to make his skin resemble the texture of a rock when he hears someone join him in the camouflage station. He turns to glance over his shoulder, smiling on impulse before he can stop himself. The stranger in question is an older boy, tall and sculpted and oozing his own special brand of charisma. He doesn't seem full of himself the same way the careers do, more casual and calm, but all it takes is a simple sweep of his eyes for Emerson to come to the conclusion that this is a tribute worth watching. He hesitates for just a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering if the redhead will start talking and prove himself to be an enemy.

But no hateful comments or threats come, only an exchange of polite grins and a lingering silence that is respected. Emerson goes back to his failed painting, frowning down at the blotchy unnatural shades running up and down his forearm. In lieu of his lack of physical skills, he has been trying to lessen the gap by focusing on his abilities to defend and evade, but now he's not so sure if his crappy artwork would be helpful or a hindrance. He glances back to the stranger, engaged in his own practice, and at the very least the guy seems to have a steadier hand than he does. He clears his throat and speaks before he can lose the nerve.

"Hey, I'm Emerson." His hand twitches as if he's about to offer it in greeting, but then he remembers the paint on his skin. Instead, he settles on a grin and wave, showing off his failed experiment in the process. "You can totally say no, but do you think you'd mind helping me out with this? I think I'm in over my head." He laughs lightly to ease the mood, grabbing a nearby washcloth and starting to wipe away the mess so that he can try again with a fresh canvas. "In the tutorial, the trainer made herself look like a field of flowers. I can't even figure out how to make my pinkie finger look like a daisy."

He approaches just a bit closer, keeping his distance until the stranger confirms that he wants to be part of the currently one-sided conversation. The last thing he wants is to annoy anyone, or to make himself into a target. But his father raised him to know that asking for help is okay, even if being vulnerable is difficult. Honestly, Emerson feels as lost as he does lonely. Maybe it's unwise to look for both guidance and friendship from one person, but he's already made it this far. One step closer — he presses ahead.

"Would you say art is one of your hobbies, or do you have another passion?" Which is to say, do you have something you love that you are terrified of losing?

^{{ fox }}

omnipotent ; emerson & jack Oct 19, 2023 17:41:49 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Oct 19, 2023 17:41:49 GMT -5

He'd been thinking about the camouflage station ever since he'd arrived, and how useless it seemed to be. He couldn't recall a single instance in any of the Games he'd witnessed where it came in handy, and for good reason: no one wanted to watch someone sit in one place all day dressed as a bush, when they could just as easily be watching two tributes tear each other apart.

Plus, the way he saw it, it was sort of the whole point to stand out in the Games. For the right reasons, of course, but therein lies his point: he was certain hiding would be met with disappointment from those in charge. Which is probably how every other tribute who passed through felt: Wouldn't it be nice, and isn't it unrealistic?

Still. He'd made a silent vow to at least attempt each station, and at the very least this one never seemed to be quite as crowded as the others. Really, it seemed like the tributes had all sort of designated the place as a cool-out corner: a place to go when the other stations started feeling too intense and too real. He quietly painted on another gray globule of paint, (by paint, he meant clay, water, and little pieces of rock for realism.) He smiled down at the different components, each contained neatly in their own little jars with laminated labels. They loved to talk about how they needed to prepare themselves- "If you think it's hard against a trainer, keep it in mind for the future. The trainers aren't here to kill you."

In fact, they were, and if that logic was what they wanted to bank success on, then were they also expecting the tributes to casually stumble across, oh, a jar full of expensive paint brushes? A whole mess of blackberries already plucked and piled together? It was entirely possible they'd go into the arena to find a frozen wasteland waiting for them, what then? Turn themselves into igloos by sawing out blocks of ice? Please.

He hardly noticed at first that the boy who stood nearby was Emerson Emberstatt. He was rumored to be of some relation to the victor from the same district as him, Mace, as well as a victor from 12, though he couldn't recall with certainty in the moment if it was Heron or Aranica. One of them, he remembered, lost all her limbs and only won her games by not bleeding out before her opponent, the other won at 13 and talked to a pet rock. So, you know, hopefully the crazy they all had wasn't bred into this kid. Maybe it was only because he was here in the Capitol himself to see it, but people seemed to be losing their minds for Emerson, like he was a historical event of some sort. A momentous occasion. Jack had to ignore the pang of jealousy when he thought about it too much, in fact.

"You can totally say no, but do you think you'd mind helping me out with this? I think I'm in over my head."

See? It wasn't like he was any better than the rest of them for his belovedness. He was just a tribute. Tall, younger-looking and lanky. His eyes looked soft and kind, and he spoke with the intention of a poet. And for whatever reason, he seemed to be under the impression that Jack had any clue what he was doing in this station either.

"Would you say art is one of your hobbies, or do you have another passion?"

"Nah, not really," he replied honestly, taking stock of the items necessary to make the boy into his requested field of flowers, "I've always had a huge admiration for it, but I always felt best on a stage performing."

After sorting through them all for a moment, he finally held up a jar labeled White Flower Petals. He twisted the top off into his palm and set to work on Emerson's hand.

"How about you?" The obvious answer: no. At least not if his first attempt was anything to go on. Woof, and Jack thought his looked bad. "They don't teach survivalist bodypainting classes back in District Ten?" He chuckled.

"Oh, I'm Jack by the way. Jack Reeves." He'd offer to shake hands, but, you know.