They're Not Coming to Take Me Away [gxk]

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aya
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They're Not Coming to Take Me Away [gxk] Jul 6, 2011 18:42:07 GMT -5

Post by aya on Jul 6, 2011 18:42:07 GMT -5

Stark Harper —

Few things had been worse for Stark's ego than her recent stint in the Capitol-organized… well, in the weeks she'd spent musing about it, Stark had decided that "terrorist organization" summed up the so-called "Murderess Band" more accurately than anything else she was able to muster. Though the group of girls had been out of commission for a good number of months — Stark had heard no word from anyone at all regarding the Band — thoughts of their deeds still lingered in her mind, along with the insatiable bloodlust that had been amplified by her stint legally cutting people to bits. Her inclusion in the group at all still caused the pale teen's pride to surge, and, even months later, bits of self-praise for her work still showered Stark on a constant basis.

For this reason, interaction with the general populace of District One interested Stark less and less as she regarded herself as more and more superior, even as time wore on. People had become generally less intriguing to the Career who'd had more actual battle experience than most, to the Career who'd stuck a number of people with her switchblade (among other sharp implements) since the first time she'd sliced through human flesh at the tender age of twelve. Not that she'd been particularly interested in the Hunger Games — or training for them — in years. Talking about a subject that she considered beneath her with people who she knew weren't worth her notice — that is, the rest of her district with limited exceptions — completely bored her.

That was why Stark Harper was currently sitting in the corner of the post-Reaping party, absolutely hating life. Attendance wasn't necessarily compulsory, but to not show up socially disqualified oneself from volunteering or competing in the Games the following year due to "lack of interest." And while Stark really wasn't terribly interested in being a Victor for the fame or glory of it, she still viewed the competition as a springboard for the legitimate career she wanted to pursue: Gamemaking. Despite the help in acquiring infamy that the Murderess Band had provided her, she still doubted the strength of her connections and notoriety as compared to the Capitolites that she would need to compete with. After all, the Capitol was one giant social network, and it was next to impossible to get any sort of worthy position from the outside. She'd need any advantage she could get, and if the Games could provide this leg up — because there was no doubt in her mind that she would win, considering the past several victors had been lowlifes from District 12, with one Career that Stark considered to below her own skill level thrown in for variety's sake.

The worst part was that she knew that she'd have to talk to people eventually, just so that she had some sort of alibi. Just in case someone sensed her legitimate disinterest (although how anyone would ever get that from the glares that she exchanged with others instead of conversation) in the Games and wanted to question her commitment. Even though such accusations were dismissed fairly easily with the proper application of mild violence, Stark ultimately decided it would be easier to go the "socially acceptable" route of finding someone that could vouch for her if questioned. As much as she'd grown accustomed to frequently maiming others during her stint in the M-Band, it almost seemed unreasonable to resort to wounding anyone who questioned her; that would be far too much work. Not to mention the danger of mutilating a Career with too many connections: they were a cliquey bunch, often blindly loyal to one another despite in-fighting. The last thing Stark needed was to make a dozen new enemies in her efforts to prove that she was interested and enthusiastic about the Hunger Games, which she truthfully was not.

Occasionally, she wondered what her life would be like if she'd been raised in District 12, as her father had been before he was transferred to the gem mines. She wouldn't have to deal with the stupid politics of the Career district that claimed her as its own. For one thing, she'd probably already be a Victor, based on the current trend. Maybe she'd already be participating in Games planning — not for these Hunger Games, which were probably worked on when she was twelve, but perhaps for the 63rd or the upcoming special event for the 60th. And she wouldn't be at this stupid party, for another.

With a sigh, she stood up and forced herself into the throng of people who were all circling about as sharks in bloody water (this was an expression she'd picked up during her brief stint in District 4 on M-Band business; Stark herself had never seen a shark, but particularly enjoyed the similarity between the name of the bloodthirsty monster and the aquatic animal — after all, "shark" and "Stark" shared all letters but one.) Snippets of conversation planted themselves in her ears against her will; truthfully she did not care one way or the other if "that Soyala girl's a young one! Only fifteen, huh?" or about "the luck of that Hearst family! Allen's twin was a tribute in the Fifty-Sixth, remember?" although she couldn't resist smirking at the musing that "At least Allen can't do much worse than his brother, eh?" simply because the failures of others amused her.

This wasn't a strictly Career party, either; no, the Reapings were celebrated by the vast majority of the population. Those who envisioned themselves with the fame and glory that came with the house in Victor's Village, those whose reaping eligibility had long expired, and those who simply appreciated the relative safety from having to compete based on the sheer number of those willing to take the place of someone reaped alike enjoyed belonging to District One when the Hunger Games rolled around. After all, theirs was a district of both security and wealth; Stark saw it as a sort of miniature version of the Capitol — sans gaudy fashions — where the citizens had the option of competing in the Games rather than an immediate death sentence upon being selected. Here, there was nothing overly negative about the Hunger Games — except for from the perspectives of the families of those reaped, who generally felt the sting of disgrace when their children failed. But for the most part, Stark was fairly certain that nobody else was bothered.

Huh. Even in the middle of a crowd of people, Stark still preferred her own company to that of those around her. It made sense, of course — after all, it was hard for her to not look down on the people who surrounded her, especially considering her height. But she still needed some people to acknowledge her presence, just in case. If this was the one thing that kept her from the Games, ultimately preventing her from becoming a Gamemaker, Stark knew that she'd detest herself for the rest of her life. She had to do something, as much as it pained her.

The way she saw it, she had two options. One: she could call excessive and unnecessary attention to herself to the point where at least a handful of people would feel the need to bring it up occasionally until someone did something equally ridiculous at the next post-Reaping party. Stark despised the thought of negative attention, and hated being gossiped about. She'd put on an indifferent face, but it did bother her on some level. Two: she could make a few new friends, talk to a few people she wasn't exactly familiar with. Talking to people so far beneath her notice wasn't ideal, but it was preferable to making a scene.

Swallowing her inhibitions, she turned to the person on her immediate left and opened a conversation for some smalltalk, loathing the meaningless drivel she was certain would follow. Raising her voice slightly against the din of both bitter and enthusiastic remarks, Stark added her wry introduction to the mix. "I don't happen to know you, do I? You look familiar. Maybe from my knitting circle?" She paused briefly, hoping that the sarcasm wouldn't be lost, and that her new conversational partner wouldn't take her for a knitter. "I'm Stark," she said, accidentally drawing out the r some, before moving on to her last name: "Harper. You?"

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They're Not Coming to Take Me Away [gxk] Jul 12, 2011 17:02:18 GMT -5

Post by gxk on Jul 12, 2011 17:02:18 GMT -5

"Speak of the wolf and you will see its teeth."

Why the hell had she agreed to come to this place? This wasn't the kind of place that Amira liked to be in under any circumstances. Maybe before when she was still a vicious and feared career, but not now that insanity had taken over. Here was for careers, trainers, and all those who loved the Games, no place for washed up ex careers with a new found fear of violence. Amber eyes watched nervously as everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, talking about tributes, commenting on the arena. The way they spoke was so calm and collected, so detached. These people didn't seem to care about the lives of the tributes as children, only as what they could do in the arena and what kind of show they could put on for viewers at home. Amira cringed. The low lights and relaxed nature of the party did nothing to ease her nerves.

The only reason she'd even been invited to the post-reaping party was because of who her father had been, and the fact that she once was one of the most feared careers in One. The invitation was more of a dare than anything. Daring the crazy girl to come out of hiding and spend a night with the people she used to be close to. And why did she come? Because she didn't want to be seen as a total weakling, even if that's what she was. Amira had hoped by showing up maybe, just maybe she could shut up some of the people who found amusement in harassing her. Maybe she wasn't as sound of mind as she used to be, but she still had that stubborn pride that refused to let her be made a fool of.

For the most party everyone just seemed to ignore the eighteen year old. She wasn't of much use or entertainment to them anyway. So there she sat in the corner, shivering every so slightly, drink in one hand, the other clutching the edge of the table she sat near. Taking a sip of her beverage made Amira's throat burn. She'd never had alcohol before, but it was supposed to help with problems of all sorts, or so she'd been told. Surely one didn't drink this shit just for the taste.

People were already starting to talk about which tributes they would bet on, who would die first, all of it was making Amira uncomfortable. Her face began to pale. But as long as no one spoke directly to her she would be okay. Just had to sit here and keep to herself. Though that was hard to do when she heard her name used in nearby conversations. "Can't believe Amira showed up... What a waste of a career, her father must be cursing her from his grave... And she used to be considered deadly..." Why did everyone always have to bring her father into things? He was dead. D-e-a-d. His opinion of her no longer mattered now that he was six-feet-under. But he still tortured her even after his death. He was in her nightmares and was constantly used against her in conversation. Having such a famous father was always thrown in her face. She was the career trainer's daughter, to most that meant that she must be a great career. And she had been, but that seemed like such a long time ago when really it was only just over a year. Managing another sip of her drink, a frustrated sigh came form the girl. What was the point in anything anymore? She was a nut, she was of no use to anyone as she was now. It was if she lacked a purpose, and desperately needed one.

Frequently Amira thought back to the things she used to do. All the cruel things she used to get enjoyment out of. Turning opponents into human pin cushions had always been a good one. Her knife throwing skills were surpassed by none, even now when she was out of practice her accuracy was still deadly. That skill had been her pride and joy, now it seemed less important somehow... Maiming used to be another favorite pass time of hers. Beating on a fellow career until he or she begged for mercy. She'd smirk and pin them to the wall with her blades. Leaving them to have to explain to their friends later that Amira Shipiro had defeated them with ease and stuck them to the wall for no reason other than the fact that she could. Finally, pleasing her father had once been important to her. Showing him how strong she could be used to be one of her main goals. And look at things now. She was a has-been and her father was dead. Funny how things turned out sometimes. Now she'd been on both side's, the hunter and the hunted. Now she knew what it was like to be the weak one, and she surely didn't like it. But how did one go back to being a killer after the things she'd seen?

Briefly the T.V. screen captured her attention. It was a recap of the reaping, giving all the viewers at home another look at this year's tributes. Soyala Delaire and Allen Hearst would represent District One this year. Neither of them had the look of a victor to Amira, but she didn't want to count them as dead quite yet. Although realistically she knew that Soyala wasn't another Topaz and Allen didn't have the look of a boy who would survive the deaths of twenty-three others. I wonder if both of them will even make it through the bloodbath... District Twelve has been making fools of all of us these past Games, surely it's time for some new victors. Frozen in place, Amira couldn't believe she had just thought such a thing. It was as if she was two people now. The timid insane Amira was on the surface, but deep down she was still a monster. One didn't simply rid themselves of the mentally they'd had for sixteen years of their life, it would always be a part of her. Somewhere in the darkest corner of her mind she would always enjoy the carnage of the Games. It was what she had been raised to do. Her father was a career, his father a victor, naturally it was in her blood.

It amazed her how many people showed up to parties like this. Everywhere she looked there were people out celebrating the beginning of the Games. In District One the Games were an honor more than a death sentence like in the lower Districts. Of course people would come out to enjoy such an event. The residents of the First District hardly needed an excuse to go enjoy themselves, that was something they had in common with the Capitol. Even the families of the District One tributes would be celebrating. Their children would be in the Capitol representing the strength of their District. And if they died it would be seen as more of a failure than a tragedy. Amira snorted, downing the rest of her drink. Her father had been such a cocky bastard he'd only had one kid. He'd insisted that she would be a victor someday. That his little girl's accuracy was so perfect there was no way she could be beat. And now he was dead, and she was eighteen and hadn't been in the Games. A bitter smiled wormed its way onto Amira's face. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction in the fact that her father's plans had failed. How's that old man? Looks like you were wrong. I'm still here and not a career anymore. Who's the failure now?

It had taken awhile but finally Amira was relaxed enough to become bored at this party. With a single fluent motion she'd pulled a tiny knife out and begun twirling it around her fingers. It was a movement she didn't even have to think about anymore. Her fingers knew what to do without any conscience direction from her. A small urge was beginning to build to throw the knife and see if she could pin one women's particularly irritating hat to the wall. It seemed as if career Amira was making a small appearance for the party, and that wasn't the worst thing possible. It sure beat having a nervous break down in front of so many strange faces.

"I don't happen to know you, do I? You look familiar. Maybe from my knitting circle?" The sarcastic voice of the girl who introduced herself as Stark Harper startled Amira. She hadn't expected anyone to talk to her. For a moment she was stuck in a place between terror and excitement. It slowly dawned on her from the look in this girl's eyes that she was no one to take lightly. This one had killed. This one was not the kind of person Amira wanted to appear afraid in front of. Surprised at how easily she slipped into a suit of false arrogance she found her voice, "Ha. Somehow you don't strike me as the knitting type." Amira gave a wolfish grin, "I'm Amira Shipiro. Surely we've seem each other somewhere before." Letting the knife fly Amira watched it stick nicely into the wall just centimeters left of the bartender's head with satisfaction.

aya
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

They're Not Coming to Take Me Away [gxk] Jul 14, 2011 21:39:37 GMT -5

Post by aya on Jul 14, 2011 21:39:37 GMT -5

Stark Harper —

Due to equal parts Career training, M-Band experience, and general paranoia, Stark's eyes automatically trained themselves on any sudden movements, any potentially dangerous quick flashes of steel. So when the girl drew a knife before addressing Stark's introduction, she felt her own fingers find the switchblade that made its home in her right jacket pocket at all times. As always, her security blanket of the exceedingly Career sort put her somewhat at ease, though for Stark to truly relax, she'd have to be unconscious — even in her sleep, she fidgeted. It was still comforting to know that, should the need arise, it would take Stark less than half a second to deal a killing or crippling blow to anyone who was in range to pose a threat.

But the girl didn't seem to be attacking anyone, though she glanced around as if she might; instead, her focus traveled to Stark herself. The tall blonde Career was somewhat relieved to not need to fend off a random attack in the middle of the crowded room where it would be difficult to maneuver, but was equally irritated with the realization that, yes, she would have to talk to people. At least a knife fight would've made enough of a scene that people would remember her presence. Cursing herself one last time for initiating conversation at all — a brawl of some kind would be much easier, wouldn't it? — Stark was suddenly met with the arrogant tones that were typical of Careers (and most others) in her district, suggesting that Stark didn't actually knit.

She raised an eyebrow. "What gave it away?" Stark did, in fact, know how to knit, although she'd very seldom spent any time doing so and certainly did not belong to any particular group of knitters. And she wasn't about to let anyone find out that she even could knit, that was for sure — childish taunts of "grandmother!" and "housewife!" wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but there was no sense in subjecting herself to them if they could be avoided. Besides, she could justify being familiar with the required tools: a well-placed thrust of a knitting needle could easily take out an opponent: a jab to the kneecap could cripple with enough force behind it; a direct line to the eyes could blind or even kill; a needle to the throat would bleed out or suffocate the recipient, etcetera — Stark could (and happily would) make a list several pages long of the uses for the improvised weapons.

The girl introduced herself as Amira Shipiro, a name that felt vaguely familiar to Stark, though she couldn't exactly place it. "Shipiro…" She shrugged. "Ah, well. I wouldn't doubt that we've run into each other before. That always seems to be the case." Her attention snapped back to the knife in the girl's hand, watching it weave in and out of her fingers once more before it was finally sent flying across the room. Stark snorted, not entirely surprised, as the blade buried itself into the wall. It was a very Career thing to do — showing off with weapons, particularly knives — even if they weren't technically allowed in the Districts. In fact, Stark had been to a number of parties that had given way to sparring matches between two Careers, though these were typically belligerently drunk males (admittedly, it was hilarious to watch them attempt to duel when they were too hammered to stand upright for more than fifteen seconds at a time.)

It didn't really bother her, people trying to show off like that, because it always confirmed what she already knew: that they were worse than her, by the very nature of needing to show off to consider themselves to be impressive. Sometimes, of course, they were. To herself, Stark grudgingly admited that this Amira's throw was certainly one of the impressive ones, though she'd never say such a thing out loud. Instead, a look of bemusement plastered on her face, she quipped, "Bet you think you're pretty good at that, huh?" She snickered a bit, not particularly cruelly, ready to issue a challenge simply because she was bored. "Bet you I'm better." Like Stark's eyes in that moment, the words were cold. "I'm better" was generally a fight-provoking utterance among the Careers of District One, who, by their very natures, considered themselves to be the best at everything. It wasn't hard to push the buttons of a stereotypical Career tribute, and most didn't fall far from the norm.

"But we can have a bit of a contest to see, if you'd like," she suggested, staring down at the girl who was a whole head shorter than her. Stark loved being tall for that reason: intimidation, or any attempt at it, was that much easier; looking down on people gave her a whole new angle of superiority. As an afterthought, she muttered darkly, "Beats the hell out of this godawful party, anyhow. As long as you don't mind skipping the obligatory remarks about the tributes? I'm sick to death of hearing about them at this point. I figure most people don't actually care, anyhow." They didn't, not that she could gather. The real Games enthusiasts were the ones who had no hope of being Tributes themselves; the Careers that ate, slept, and breathed training as she once had held little more than envy for the reaped. Like Stark, they all knew they were the best candidates, and they didn't really seem to care about the deaths of most of their peers beyond the disappointing fact that District One would not be the home of that particular year's victor.

Stark shook her head, continuing, a considerable amount of — well, not cheer, per se, but levity returned to her voice: "So what do you say? There's a warehouse not too far from here that's got a target on the side that I'd think would better serve our interests than this noisy place." She laughed at a joke that she made in her head before repeating it out loud. "Though it would be funny to see nothing but air spilling out rather than brains if a rogue idiot —" she gestured at the crowd of Career girls, most of which she considered to be vapid or incessantly thick "— took a knife to the head." So much for not wanting to talk to anyone, she thought with an inward shrug, unable to keep the sarcasm out of even her mental voice. Now you've got a new friend, hmm? Stark would have to see about that; as it turned out, there was still a handful of Careers that didn't care to be taken to unfamiliar warehouses with armed strangers.