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Alphonse Delasoie - District 8 (Done)
Jul 3, 2024 21:05:50 GMT -5
Post by D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler] on Jul 3, 2024 21:05:50 GMT -5
[googlefont="Splash"][googlefont="Averia Serif Libre"]
The tiny brick room I call home seems to trap the blasted stuff in, letting it fester in this 5 meter by 4 meter space - sneaking in through the poorly-insulated window that streams dusty light through the aged panes. I had woken up with sweat sticking the threadbare sheet to my bony figure. My red locks a deeper shade, plastered around the spattering of freckles that take up residence all over my face, but one of many places they can be found sprinkled about.
I peel myself free of the soaked sheet, the rusted springs of the cheap cot creaking as I free them of their load. It's a real piece of trash - too short for my lanky limbs, my feet always hanging out in the oblivion at the foot of the bed. If I had any meat on my bones at all I was certain the damned thing would fall to pieces under the weight. It matched all of the other shitty furniture in this place, at least. The gas stove had one working burner, the doors to the cupboards were holding on by the one or two good hinges left, gathering cobwebs in the barren shelves. An old chest of drawers with faded wood polish and tarnished brass knobs sat next to the tiny metal table with its wobbly legs and the mismatched oak chair parked at its side.
The only thing that really functioned in here was the bathroom. Or, more accurately, toilet corner. It was to here I lumber over to now, pulling back the dingy curtain that separated it from the rest of the room. The porcelain toilet and its matching sink were my godsend in this dump. Running water made the rest at least bearable. I splash my face with the cool water, giving it a nice scrub, before checking my reflection in the faded silver of the mirror that had lived there for decades before I was even a thought. Brown eyes checked over my face for any imperfections. Not a zit, not a bug bite lining the sharp features of my face. The same pouty noise, the same thin lips, the same high cheekbones. All buried in freckle.
Why am I bothering with that? In short, I have my eyes on an opportunity that might garner me something better than this shithole I've been stuck in. Even though I hate the stuff, I have golden fingers when it comes to working with fabric. I can sew, stitch, design. Work with wools and cashmeres and silks like an extension of myself. There's talks about some big wig designers that check for this sort of talent among the youth of the district to become their sort of protégés. The job comes with money, but most importantly it gives the recipient a taste of some status, some power. That interests me, enough so that I'm willing to put a bit of effort into trying to look nice. Talent or not, some of these snooty fucks won't consider anyone in dirty or tattered rags.
Don't get any ideas about me pursuing some sort of high dream of being a renowned stylist in the Capitol or making a difference in the world one cross-stitch at a time. Save that for the brainwashed drones that seem to be dead set on maintaining a glass-half-full outlook on their sad lives. I'm sick of all of the destitution I see in the District; everyone working hard to refine their skills and talent to be entirely used up for Capitol use. The fruits of our labour feed the voracious fashion appetites of the Capitol while only the thrown out scraps remain to help us feed ourselves. Something needs to be done about it. I figure I should play my part; nothing's going to get done if I waste away in this sad excuse for an apartment, and an equal amount of nothing will get done if I play the Capitol's game by Capitol rules.
I plan on beating them at it. Rising through their ranks until I have enough momentum to actually do something to tear this shitty system apart one day. So this morning, just like so many others before and so many others to come, I dress carefully in the finest thing and rush downstairs, into the restaurant, and out the door. Snag a quick breakfast from the sad stand of fruits in the market that serves as my shortcut, taking advantage of my favourite five-finger discount. Dash through the front doors of the Academy with only a few minutes to spare.
He's not my dad, in case you were wondering. I'm an orphan, have been for pretty much half of my life. My mother died in childbirth; I was her first and her last. Dad stuck around until I was about 7, found work in a refinery mill that kept a roof over our heads. One day he left for work and never made it there for his shift. Never came back for me either. Vanished without a trace, haven't seen him again since, presumed he kicked the bucket at some point. I got carted off to an orphanage and the place depressed the shit out of me. Lasted about a year or two there before I ran away, back to this dingy corner of the District I'd grown up in. Made do with sticky fingers and forgotten corners to stay alive until Jacquard caught me outside of his restaurant. I never understood what moved the gruff man to sympathy or pity for me among all of the other street children, but he cut me a deal. The man didn't have any children of his own, besides a daughter who died long ago. He gave me a roof over my head and a dinner each evening in exchange for me being an extra set of hands around the restaurant.
When I was about 11 or so he needed a hand patching up an old pair of jeans, and from there my secret talent with a needle and thread was exposed. The restaurant brought in some excess money (See? He really is something else when it comes to food), so he was able to bring together enough to get me a tuition at the Academy and make use of my talent. Not out of any sentiment or anything (after all, it's not like he's spending much of that money on other ways to make my life more cozy), just that he shares the same desires that I do. Sees the same path to making a change that I see. Sees the advantage of youth and time that I have and he lacks.
And I suppose that's what life will be like now, until I graduate or these games get in the way. Just focusing on the long game. Although if someone comes by with some brilliant idea that might cut that time to liberty down a lot, it might be a little hard to refuse.
'Cause I'm really getting sick of this status quo.
Alphonse Delasoie Male, Age 15 District 8 |
ARCHETYPE
The Rebel. The Misfit. The Iconoclast.
When you have nothing to lose,
You have everything to gain.
The Rebel. The Misfit. The Iconoclast.
When you have nothing to lose,
You have everything to gain.
APPEARANCE:
The heat is absolutely stifling.The tiny brick room I call home seems to trap the blasted stuff in, letting it fester in this 5 meter by 4 meter space - sneaking in through the poorly-insulated window that streams dusty light through the aged panes. I had woken up with sweat sticking the threadbare sheet to my bony figure. My red locks a deeper shade, plastered around the spattering of freckles that take up residence all over my face, but one of many places they can be found sprinkled about.
I peel myself free of the soaked sheet, the rusted springs of the cheap cot creaking as I free them of their load. It's a real piece of trash - too short for my lanky limbs, my feet always hanging out in the oblivion at the foot of the bed. If I had any meat on my bones at all I was certain the damned thing would fall to pieces under the weight. It matched all of the other shitty furniture in this place, at least. The gas stove had one working burner, the doors to the cupboards were holding on by the one or two good hinges left, gathering cobwebs in the barren shelves. An old chest of drawers with faded wood polish and tarnished brass knobs sat next to the tiny metal table with its wobbly legs and the mismatched oak chair parked at its side.
The only thing that really functioned in here was the bathroom. Or, more accurately, toilet corner. It was to here I lumber over to now, pulling back the dingy curtain that separated it from the rest of the room. The porcelain toilet and its matching sink were my godsend in this dump. Running water made the rest at least bearable. I splash my face with the cool water, giving it a nice scrub, before checking my reflection in the faded silver of the mirror that had lived there for decades before I was even a thought. Brown eyes checked over my face for any imperfections. Not a zit, not a bug bite lining the sharp features of my face. The same pouty noise, the same thin lips, the same high cheekbones. All buried in freckle.
PERSONALITY:
After a quick sponge bath with water from the sink, I pull out the nicest clothes I own and work my limbs into them one at a time. Not that I really give a shit about having nice clothes; I'm dirt poor dammit, just like countless others in this district. I'd rather spend whatever meager money I manage to scrounge up on more practical things like feeding myself. The problem is that other people do care about things as stupid as fashion. You need to look refined if you want anything good out of life here. The importance of polishing up a good wardrobe only becoming more and more a fact of social life when the Capitol decided we were so worthy to make their damned clothes for them. New work near such exotic and bizarre fashions gave people too many ideas about what dressing nice was supposed to look like. Stupid work horses all too proud to be included in the parade to realize they're just there to pull the chariots. Thanks to these idiots I now have to take care to smooth out the wrinkles of my shirt as best I can, sew up any holes in the one set of nice corduroy pants to be undetectable. Why am I bothering with that? In short, I have my eyes on an opportunity that might garner me something better than this shithole I've been stuck in. Even though I hate the stuff, I have golden fingers when it comes to working with fabric. I can sew, stitch, design. Work with wools and cashmeres and silks like an extension of myself. There's talks about some big wig designers that check for this sort of talent among the youth of the district to become their sort of protégés. The job comes with money, but most importantly it gives the recipient a taste of some status, some power. That interests me, enough so that I'm willing to put a bit of effort into trying to look nice. Talent or not, some of these snooty fucks won't consider anyone in dirty or tattered rags.
Don't get any ideas about me pursuing some sort of high dream of being a renowned stylist in the Capitol or making a difference in the world one cross-stitch at a time. Save that for the brainwashed drones that seem to be dead set on maintaining a glass-half-full outlook on their sad lives. I'm sick of all of the destitution I see in the District; everyone working hard to refine their skills and talent to be entirely used up for Capitol use. The fruits of our labour feed the voracious fashion appetites of the Capitol while only the thrown out scraps remain to help us feed ourselves. Something needs to be done about it. I figure I should play my part; nothing's going to get done if I waste away in this sad excuse for an apartment, and an equal amount of nothing will get done if I play the Capitol's game by Capitol rules.
I plan on beating them at it. Rising through their ranks until I have enough momentum to actually do something to tear this shitty system apart one day. So this morning, just like so many others before and so many others to come, I dress carefully in the finest thing and rush downstairs, into the restaurant, and out the door. Snag a quick breakfast from the sad stand of fruits in the market that serves as my shortcut, taking advantage of my favourite five-finger discount. Dash through the front doors of the Academy with only a few minutes to spare.
HISTORY:
I kind of whipped past the whole restaurant part back there. Sorry, I just couldn't be late if I wanted my grand scheme to work. Hard to rise to the top and overthrow the Capitol if I'm late too many times to class. I live in a one room above Chez Jacquard, run by Jacquard himself. I find the name silly too, Jacquard says it's from a language called French, from an era long forgotten. He claims he learned some of it from his father, who learned from his father, and so on and so on. He likes to throw in the odd French word when he speaks even though nobody besides me has ever really understood him. He told me once that his name came from it too. And mine. That's besides the point, though. He's a stout man in his sixties, big bushy moustache and lots of muscle. An afficionado in the kitchen. He's not my dad, in case you were wondering. I'm an orphan, have been for pretty much half of my life. My mother died in childbirth; I was her first and her last. Dad stuck around until I was about 7, found work in a refinery mill that kept a roof over our heads. One day he left for work and never made it there for his shift. Never came back for me either. Vanished without a trace, haven't seen him again since, presumed he kicked the bucket at some point. I got carted off to an orphanage and the place depressed the shit out of me. Lasted about a year or two there before I ran away, back to this dingy corner of the District I'd grown up in. Made do with sticky fingers and forgotten corners to stay alive until Jacquard caught me outside of his restaurant. I never understood what moved the gruff man to sympathy or pity for me among all of the other street children, but he cut me a deal. The man didn't have any children of his own, besides a daughter who died long ago. He gave me a roof over my head and a dinner each evening in exchange for me being an extra set of hands around the restaurant.
When I was about 11 or so he needed a hand patching up an old pair of jeans, and from there my secret talent with a needle and thread was exposed. The restaurant brought in some excess money (See? He really is something else when it comes to food), so he was able to bring together enough to get me a tuition at the Academy and make use of my talent. Not out of any sentiment or anything (after all, it's not like he's spending much of that money on other ways to make my life more cozy), just that he shares the same desires that I do. Sees the same path to making a change that I see. Sees the advantage of youth and time that I have and he lacks.
And I suppose that's what life will be like now, until I graduate or these games get in the way. Just focusing on the long game. Although if someone comes by with some brilliant idea that might cut that time to liberty down a lot, it might be a little hard to refuse.
'Cause I'm really getting sick of this status quo.
FC: Alec Weeks
