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off the mark - {gunner + xov}
Feb 4, 2024 15:07:41 GMT -5
Post by august vance d7b [Bella] on Feb 4, 2024 15:07:41 GMT -5
X O V t h a o
A few days into training, it was clear that target practice wasn’t Xov’s strong suit. Back home, the movements of daily life had become second nature enough that she felt confident, graceful even, her lithe body gliding through her mother’s gardens, hands concocting medicines with deliberate movements. But from the moment she’d aimed the throwing knives at the target, she’d felt maladroit, useless.
She was made to live wrapped in the soft embrace of the earth, the forests and rolling hills of Twelve. Not for this new world the train had delivered her to, with its looming death and cold metal. Its customs, its movements, its instruments were all alien to her. Hostile.
The career tributes made it look so easy. Eyes locking onto targets, hands perfectly coordinating the arc of the knives and spears. To watch them made her stomach turn. Like they’d been training to kill since they were toddlers—and maybe they had. She could picture them in the arena, her ribcage in place of the wooden target. They wouldn’t hesitate to turn her into a shish kabob.
Meanwhile, Xov couldn’t even hit a dartboard on the third try. And people had noticed.
Humiliation was not something she could ignore. That call for redemption weighed heavy in her gut, fixing her usually placid expression into a scowl. She couldn’t manage to shake the thought. She would learn to hit a target before the arena. And she wanted people to see her do it. But she needed a teacher. The ranged weapons instructor already disliked her for almost slitting his throat on a bad throw.
That tribute from Nine with the short-clipped hair and the hungry look in his eye; he reminded her of people she’d know back home. She wasn’t sure she could trust anyone in this place, except maybe J and Marcellus. But at least he wasn’t one of the wealthy, well-fed killing machines from One or Two. Honestly, she would prefer if they didn’t even notice her—it would only add to her embarrassment. And maybe he would be willing to negotiate.
Her stomach rumbling with discontentment, she had no appetite for lunch. In the cafeteria, she was scribbling something on a paper napkin.
On her way back to the training room, she placed it in front of him on the table. ”Think you might need this,” she muttered. She hoped the people around them would just think she was calling him a messy eater.
Fingers crossed he wouldn’t stand her up.
A few days into training, it was clear that target practice wasn’t Xov’s strong suit. Back home, the movements of daily life had become second nature enough that she felt confident, graceful even, her lithe body gliding through her mother’s gardens, hands concocting medicines with deliberate movements. But from the moment she’d aimed the throwing knives at the target, she’d felt maladroit, useless.
She was made to live wrapped in the soft embrace of the earth, the forests and rolling hills of Twelve. Not for this new world the train had delivered her to, with its looming death and cold metal. Its customs, its movements, its instruments were all alien to her. Hostile.
The career tributes made it look so easy. Eyes locking onto targets, hands perfectly coordinating the arc of the knives and spears. To watch them made her stomach turn. Like they’d been training to kill since they were toddlers—and maybe they had. She could picture them in the arena, her ribcage in place of the wooden target. They wouldn’t hesitate to turn her into a shish kabob.
Meanwhile, Xov couldn’t even hit a dartboard on the third try. And people had noticed.
Humiliation was not something she could ignore. That call for redemption weighed heavy in her gut, fixing her usually placid expression into a scowl. She couldn’t manage to shake the thought. She would learn to hit a target before the arena. And she wanted people to see her do it. But she needed a teacher. The ranged weapons instructor already disliked her for almost slitting his throat on a bad throw.
That tribute from Nine with the short-clipped hair and the hungry look in his eye; he reminded her of people she’d know back home. She wasn’t sure she could trust anyone in this place, except maybe J and Marcellus. But at least he wasn’t one of the wealthy, well-fed killing machines from One or Two. Honestly, she would prefer if they didn’t even notice her—it would only add to her embarrassment. And maybe he would be willing to negotiate.
Her stomach rumbling with discontentment, she had no appetite for lunch. In the cafeteria, she was scribbling something on a paper napkin.
i saw you in target practice. can you give me some pointers? willing to teach you plants. or tie your soul on for you. ill be on the roof.
-xov, district 12.
On her way back to the training room, she placed it in front of him on the table. ”Think you might need this,” she muttered. She hoped the people around them would just think she was calling him a messy eater.
Fingers crossed he wouldn’t stand her up.
