rubberband girl / andromache & d'arcy

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andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy
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351 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Nov 21, 2024 12:38:27 GMT -5

am i not the loving kind?

rubberband girl / andromache & d'arcy Sept 30, 2024 9:55:53 GMT -5

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Post by andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy on Sept 30, 2024 9:55:53 GMT -5

a n d r o m a c h e s t e w a r t

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I don't think I've ever felt as young as I do in this moment, eyes locked with the tiny blonde twelve year old from Six. There are a lot of young ones this year, a lot of young girls, who, contrary to how I may act, have all presented squarely to me the reality of our situation. Oh, I'll kill them, don't doubt it, if and when it comes down to it, but it won't be without a heavy heart. Why twelve? It's the beginning of adolescence, sure, I see that, but why not start at fifteen? Sixteen, maybe? Gives more time to grow, in all the ways that matter, in all the ways that guarantee good television. Career kids don't even usually bother to volunteer until that age anyways at the very least, if they don't wait for the big one eight. In my academy back in One, we were kept separate, fences hammered in between us, grouped in packs according to age and ability. It's been a long time since I've faced a little girl like her in a match; I was still only small back then too.

I remember being twelve, and my first Reaping Day, and the way I stood with my head held high, a whole head shorter though it may have been. Any of the older kids could have broken me like a twig, I know that now, despite the fact that my mother already had me running drills at all hours of the day, but back then I'd had blind childish confidence, the way I imagine unruly tributes from the lower districts probably do. Death hadn't clicked for me yet.

I feel so young, and yet all at once useless and old when I find myself sitting next to D'Arcy. What do you say to a kid like her? A kid whose life is waning like the tide?

"Hey," is how I start. The greeting hangs pointless above our perches on the bench. "Has anyone shown you around the improvisational weapons station yet?" If I'm going to kill her, the least I can do is show her how to turn branches into a breastplate.

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Last Edit: Sept 30, 2024 9:57:24 GMT -5 by andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy

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D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler]
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Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Nov 21, 2024 1:41:28 GMT -5

The Saint. The Innocent. The Dreamer.

rubberband girl / andromache & d'arcy Sept 30, 2024 12:09:02 GMT -5

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Post by D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler] on Sept 30, 2024 12:09:02 GMT -5

D'Arcy knew what Careers were. She had seen them every year on the screens back home, vicious and brutal and battle-ready. She had never seen one in person; she supposed if there had been any Career victors in her lifetime, she had been far too young to remember them now. She could see how they served to make the Games deadlier; bring about more death while they were still alive, keep the Games from going on too long for the audience to tire of paying attention to the tributes who remained.

While D'Arcy knew she was at a good disadvantage against most of the kids in here given her age, the Careers were the ones that terrified her the most. She tried her best to stay out of their way or make herself invisible in their presence, trying not to make eye contact for fear of seeing which ones might have already fixed her with a mark for slaughter. They were more than just intimidating older kids; they were hunters getting acquainted with their prey.

So when Andromache Stewart, Career tribute from District 1, sat down on the bench across from her, D'Arcy did her best to stare into the plate of half-eaten food in front of her and not make a sound. Frozen like a rabbit in the meadow, hoping that the predators around haven't seen that she's out in the open with no defenses to keep her alive. After a minute of this, D'Arcy hazarded a glance in her direction only to have her eyes lock with the Career herself before she could glance away yet again.

Her heart was aflutter with fear. The Career had noticed her, had seemed to be focused on her. Perhaps D'Arcy had just been marked for death at Andromache's hands. Maybe she had just looked into the last eyes she'll ever end up seeing. Panic was building in her chest. She didn't want to die, she didn't want to be here, she just wanted to go home -

"Hey, has anyone shown you around the improvisational weapons station yet?"

It was the last thing D'Arcy had ever expected to hear come from the mouth of the Career. She let her eyes meet Andromache's once again, this time noticing softness behind the hard look that rested on her face. It didn't make sense; weren't the Careers supposed to be ruthless? Weren't they built and bred to be killers? None of them should've even given her the light of day. And yet here one was, extending an olive branch instead of a death warrant.

Maybe she had misjudged her. Maybe she had misjudged them all. So much of what she had assumed about the Games before arriving here seemed to be backwards, turned around, twisted from the reality. She could add Andromache to the evidence mounting against the narrative of the Hunger Games she had always believed to be truth. Besides, she needed any olive branches she could get.

D'Arcy shook her head shyly. "No, not yet. I'm not very good at making things with my hands." D'Arcy wasn't good at many of the things that seemed to be important now. Not good with a sword or a blunt or a bow and arrow. Not good at setting traps or snares. Not good at turning a pile of nothing into something. She took a breath in and steered herself to ask the next question: "Would you be able to show me a thing or two?"

[WC: 580]

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andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy
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351 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Nov 21, 2024 12:38:27 GMT -5

am i not the loving kind?

rubberband girl / andromache & d'arcy Sept 30, 2024 15:30:14 GMT -5

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Post by andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy on Sept 30, 2024 15:30:14 GMT -5

a n d r o m a c h e s t e w a r t

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How far does the Career reputation stretch? By how much does it precede me and everyone else, year after year, who turns up and fights and dies and wins and lives? It's not really something I considered before I came here. I obviously took it as a given, that if I was Reaped or if I volunteered, all of the tributes from the lower districts would be intimidated by me. I looked forward to it, even dreamed of it once or twice. It isn't like I was fish food for the other girls at my academy back in One, but I hovered around the middle of the pack in many respects. There were always girl who were bigger than me, and better than me at something, whether that be a combat skill or a social one. That latter muscle of mine was severely neglected. Thanks, mother. You pumped all of that time and money into my strength, my poise, and my posture, but you somehow forgot to invest so much as a cent into the skills I've been using the most so far. Andromache Stewart's resting bitch face mask doesn't conceal much underneath it -- except, surprisingly, a soft spot for the little ones. I've never really been around any girls younger than myself before; I find them fascinatingly sweet, even when they spill their drinks on me or happen to be underneath my ladder when my fingers fuck up.

There's a part of myself that's missing, a puzzle piece that was extracted a long, long time ago. There's no chance of recovering it. There's only this: a fumbling, bumbling Career doing charity work outside of her alliance's view.

D'Arcy Mason looks like she thinks I might eat her alive. I still could, she shouldn't delude herself otherwise. Once the blood lust starts rushing through my veins, once a fight finds its swing, I become someone different. Anything I teach her now is an extra challenge for me in the future, to make the fight more fun. It's all strategy, even this. Even this must be strategy.

"You're not? Wow. I thought they had you kids in Six assembling syringes and things as soon as your gross motor skills started kicking in." I shrug my shoulders, flippant with her so she doesn't get the wrong idea about me. I turn away from her, settle into a disappointed silence, and wait for her to make the next move. And she does. That little voice pipes up, brave words leaving her throat. Can I show her a thing or two? "Yeah. I'll show you how to make some things." When I was her age, my mother really honed in on defense. She set me up well in that regard, in more ways than one. I slide off the bench and smirk down at her. "It'll take them two hits to cleave your arm off instead of just one. Finish your food. Meet me over there."

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