Melanite Knox, District Six (Complete)

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Sometimes, there is nothing left in you but fight or flight. All the thoughts, emotions, the confusing things that you thought were truly you, they all fade into the background and what's left is instinct. The question isn't about morals, it's not about feelings, and it doesn't even hit the complexity of priorities, really. Fight. Or flight. Period. When you think about it, that base urge has its own sort of elegance, a simplicity that neither thought nor emotion can grant you. And when the enemy happens to have a gun - well, the options are cut in half. Whittled down to one. Flight is the only thing left to you. That, or to scream, if you've really given up. But hope springs eternal, doesn't it?

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It was a bright morning, I remember that - or maybe the memories are so cloaked by a haze of terror and adrenaline that it just seems that way in retrospect. The world was narrowed down to me and the unpaved path. Gravel flew from beneath my urgent feet. There was a stitch in my side. And the Peacekeeper probably still had me in his sights, just waiting for me to give a moment's pause in order to shoot.

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The path that ended in this sad little situation was long, sort of twisted. I suppose the direct error is more interesting than the long version - I let the Peacekeepers discover what my family had been doing. It's really the error that most people make, the one that gets them thrown into god-knows-what oubliette the Capitol has prepped and waiting. Oubliette - from French, it means "forgetting place." And forgetting is exactly what they wanted me to do. My variation on this sadly common error involved one of the most dangerous things in the world - information.



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The particular information, as you might be wondering, came in the form of history. Artefacts, from the original rebellion and the Dark Days, unearthed by myself and my family. We didn't want trouble, we weren't looking for the buried facts in order to incite a rebellion or some damn thing. I, for one, am certainly not suicidal. However, the woods outside Six have a considerable amount of history in them, especially if you know where to look. And I knew where to look, thanks to a set of papers and journals handed down in my family since the rebellion itself. They'd been carefully preserved, but no one had acted on their hints and clues, their tantalising truth, until my father. He had passed the secrets along to me when I became old enough, since he needed some extra hands.

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But back to the matter at hand. I pulled the hood of my black jacket down, hoping to hide my face. As ever, anonymity was my first and only line of defense against the law. I continued my mad dash, trying to block out my rising panic, mute the hysteria and find focus - to concentrate on my one shot at saftety. The fence. If I could make it to that divider between Six and the wilds, then I could possibly hide until nightfall. After all, the Peacekeepers only knew that I'd been in possession of a single diary from the rebellion - they didn't know how deep my treason ran.

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Without so much as glancing back, without so much as listening to see if the power was on, I took a leap of faith. I usually hate such things - leaps of faith, taking huge, unfounded chances - but when a wild shot's all you have, you take it. Thank the gods it wasn't electrified. Anyways, I clung to the fence in desperation, scrabbled over it, and launched myself into the air, hurtling out of civilization and into the wilds. Out of the law and into chaos. I could feel the shock waves from the bullets that hit the ground near my feet, too close, so close. The gunfire recedes, finally, but it leaves ghosts of itself in my ears. But I can hear the birds singing again.

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Appearance? Brown hair. Grey eyes. Five feet, four inches tall. 135 pounds. I don't know. Whenever someone describes themselves, they always come off as either vain or depressed, and I don't know where I rate on that scale. I'd say that I'm average looking. I'm neither wimpy nor strong - I can lift a fair amount, compared to others my age. I guess the real physical strength I have is more in my hands - they're trained and steady, used to the work of a medic. My achilles heel is running, since without a serious adrenaline rush, I lack endurance. I can sprint. I don't like to, however. What I absolutely can't do is distance, since I have a little breathing issue, provoked by the District's pollution issues.

Facially, I have my father's looks - actually, he's given me practically everything from my nose to my name. My face is sort of square shaped, with a less distinct chin. I have a large nose, to be perfectly honest - it's wider and longer than most, and takes up more of my face than is average. I much prefer my eyes: large ovals about the colour of granite, they're a proportionate distance apart. They're the only feature my mother left me.

Overall, others seem to consider me an unremarkable physical specimen, which suits me just fine. I'm not on any sports teams or anything. When I was younger, I was teased a bit - just some immature stuff about my weight. I can't say it didn't sting, though.

Personality. Hmm. Personality wise, I like to consider myself serious and hardworking. Not that I don't appreciate a good joke, I just like to focus on the task at hand. Maybe a bit too much so. People seem to take me as intense or even rude. I am definitely not a people person, let's just leave it at that. Maybe it's partly my sarcasm, which not everyone gets. But screw that, right? I'm okay with solitude. Helps me concentrate. I'll put a lot of efffort into schoolwork or research or digging. Hey, knowledge is power.

I'd have to say that honest and knowlege are a couple of my priorities. I get very testy with goverment propaganda, people who are dishonest or hyprocritical, so basically I get pissed off a lot. I suppose it can't be helped, and I try to shut up or stonewall. Anonymity is my first defense. My main passion is my historical hobby slash treason sessions - but even though it wasn't my choice, I've got to say that I don't mind my assigned job as a medic. My medic training has been going well - it's nice to have a constant challenge, a new puzzle every day. To confess, I don't really see a patient so much as I see an injury - it's like a rubic's cube or something. Maybe that's callous, but I don't tend to lose patients unless they were pretty much screwed anyways.

My reactions to conflict tend to be defensive - to try and diffuse the situation or backpedal rather than to fight. When it comes to fight or flight, I tend to go with flight in physical or personal conflicts. On the bright side, I don't hold grudges. It's completely pointless. I really use my head, rather than my heart, to make choices. It's the only way I know how to do things. Where would I be if I ran around feeling guilty about my deceptions? How could I keep doing my job if I got attached to patients?

My history. [/color] I'm Melanite Knox, Mel to my friends. I was born, oddly enough, on the ides of March. That's got to be some sort of bad sign. And this is coming from someone who normally doesn't believe in that superstition crap. Today, I'm sixteen, and training to be a medic. As far as school goes, I can't complain; I've heard of worse jobs. I only hopes I doesn't have to work in the Capitol, aka the centre of all lies. Not that I run around blurting that opnion out to just anybody. My family is quite stable: my father, as a geologist, travels between Districts seeking more resources for the country to use. Mom's an administrator, originally from District Five. It's odd to have marriages between Districts, and highly discouraged. But they met when Dad was in Five, and the rest is history. My paternal grandfather also lives with us, the old guy. He can't take care of himself anymore, so my parents and I pitch in to take care of the ancient grouch.

Well, that's the summary, anyways. There's some complications.

My family has been guarding and harbouring artefacts, books, information and objects from the past, and more specifically the past the Capitol would rather we forget. There is a story of how the world arranged itself in the current configuration. Everything begins, in a defined and unique way, and the Capitol began as it continues: bloodily. The artefacts we guard with our lives tell the story of the Dark Days, of the men and women just like us, who rebelled, who fought, who suffered. They deserve their spot in history. The truth deserves to be aired, the tales of the disasters that broke down the three countries that covered North America historically, the episodes that led us to today. It is a dark truth that Capitol hides, destroys, and ignores, glossing it over with rereadings of the Treaty of Treason and the selected episodes that describe the rebels as villians. This is all designed and spoon-fed to the people of Panem, all their lives. Because knowledge is power, and the Capitol doesn't want power in the hands of the people.

It started with my grandfather, a rebellion survivor, who tried to save as much of the truth as possible. His collection grew as my father hunted around for artefacts, oh so quietly, while on business in different Districts. Today, I follows willingly in their footsteps.

The truth is dangerous, but I'm willing to run that risk.