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gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

s t u b b ◊ r n beauty // nofo Feb 7, 2012 15:30:08 GMT -5

Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Feb 7, 2012 15:30:08 GMT -5

We were spitting venom
at most everyone we know
if the damned gave us a roadmap
then we'd know just where to go —
now let it drop.

Stark Harper —

[/i][/color]

Another reaping had come and passed without the vapid district escort drawing the name "Stark Harper" from the massive pool of eligible names, and as such, she was just as far as she'd always been from carrying out her life plans: get reaped, win (obviously — she was Stark Harper after all) and work her way into the small group of Gamemakers. That was the position of prestige that she was after; she would easily climb the ranks to Head Gamemaker after they hired her, as it was then that they'd see her brilliance in action. Besides, Head Gamemaker was not at all a position that anyone held on to for very long; one Games that didn't go as the president pleased, that didn't make a gain in the ratings, and that was it. Fired. Executed, maybe, if the failure was bad enough.

But luckily, Stark didn't fail. She didn't lose fights and she didn't lose bets, and though she did lose her temper from time to time, she never lost the fights that often got her into. She refused to let herself; after all, failure was for the weak, and she'd never let herself be counted among them — that was a category for the lower districts, for many of her fellow Careers, for this year's crop of tributes. Failure was for the weak, and Stark Harper was convinced that she was anything but.

So wholeheartedly did Stark detest the majority of District One's citizens, it was a miracle that she ever left her house. It was necessary for her to do so, of course, as she'd do anything — grudgingly, perhaps, but she would — to increase her chances of securing the position of tribute for the next Games. Although it wasn't an election, being more notorious would be helpful if it came down to volunteering. When she was twelve, Stark had learned the hard way that there was a hierarchy where stepping up to enter the Games was involved, so she deemed it beneficial to be as close to the top as possible. If that meant practically campaigning for the position, so be it.

The trouble with this, however, was that Stark was by no means likable and had a difficult time convincing herself that she ought to act as such. So, for the most part, her outings consisted of glaring at everyone with intimidation in mind, keeping her combat skills sharp, or prowling through the shadows in an attempt to relive her brief stint in the murderous Murderess Band, even though the group dissolved quite awhile ago. No matter how nervous the others made her, Stark liked the tense company more than any she'd ever kept — perhaps because they had enough similarities to her that she could actually respect them. The respect of Stark Harper was seldom earned and never given away freely.

"Campaigning" for Stark essentially consisted of heading out to the district square, where a jumbotron was set up each year during the Hunger Games for public viewing. One hand curled around the switchblade that she always kept in her right pocket and the other tucked into a fist, Stark forced herself into the crowd, teeth clenched into a snarl behind lips pressed together so firmly it seemed as if they might spontaneously grow together. Being in the midst a throng of people unsettled her, really; it set her on edge and kept her from any hopes of being at ease (not that the Career ever was.) But Stark never saw being so crowd-averse as a fault — instead, the constant supply of paranoid adrenaline was a useful safety mechanism, and she didn't doubt that the day would come where her constant vigilance would save her from some random attack.

The paranoia was justified, of course, considering that several years ago Stark had been jumped by a group of older boys after attempting to volunteer at her first reaping. She'd managed to escape, of course, because even a twelve-year-old Stark Harper was still a Stark Harper who didn't lose — she might not have won, but she didn't lose — because if you're not cheating, you're not trying. But ever since — well, even before the incident, really — Stark made sure to glare daggers at everyone in her vicinity so that maybe she wouldn't have to actually pull one. Not that she'd mind if she did.

She fought her way through the mass of people, trying to ignore the stench of such a large gathering of Career males in particular, until she reached a spot with what seemed like an adequate number of her peers — peers in age only — and then pretended to direct her attention to the screen. In reality, her icy eyes darted from side to side as she tried to focus in on the movement that surrounded her, scanning the crowd for threats until she felt relatively comfortable. When the blonde was able to put herself at enough ease, she genuinely did begin to pay a bit of attention to the screen, even though it was difficult to focus with all the irrelevant gossip loudly whispered by the teens on all sides of her. She didn't care if what's-her-face was cheating on her boyfriend or if so-and-so's dog ran away from home. I could murder you all, she thought bitterly, brow furrowing in vexation. And your little dog, too.

Running a thumb over the release button of her switchblade, halfway tempted, Stark allowed herself to use the Games recap that was playing at the front of the square as an excuse to ignore her surroundings momentarily. Though she knew everything that had happened thus far, it was hard not to be irritated by how badly their district's tributes had messed up already, with day two not yet completed. Although lasting to the competition's second day was an improvement over the previous year, Stark couldn't help but resent how pitifully the pair of Ones were doing, especially since the Quell Twist made the competition that much easier for those trained to fight in the Games. Honestly, the only thing the lower districts really had going for them was strength in numbers — looking at the quartet of guys that had dominated the bloodbath during the 59th made that quite obvious.

Stark knew that this Quell would have been an ideal scenario for her; the only record of her working well in groups was with the Murderess Band, and even then she'd constantly felt the need to keep one eye on her back for fear that they'd turn on her without warning. Her progress reports from preschool said the same thing anyone could deduce just by looking at her: Stark doesn't play well with others. Stark has trouble socializing. Stark tends to pick on the other kids. The only reason why she'd even consider making an alliance was because of the strength in numbers rule; a swarm of those termite lowers had the potential to take her out, anyhow, and it would be nice to have someone to throw at a mutt at in order to ensure her escape. Someone expendable. Maybe two someones. Though it would be hard for Stark to come off as anything but a snake in the grass, which would certainly pose a problem in getting people to align themselves with her.

As if her thoughts had been projected onto the screen in front of the crowd, a snake's coiled figure suddenly lashed out at a hand, drawing Stark's attention back to the the Games that she ought to be in. Of course, more of their district's pathetic work. This time, Stark couldn't help herself from groaning audibly and complaining rather loudly: "Ripred, she can't get anything right, can she?" She punctuated this with a scowl. "Mediocre score in training, goddamn broken leg in the bloodbath, and then she goes and gets her hand bitten by a goddamn snake. Such a disappointment. Not that Moreno is much better, running away from the bloodbath with hardly a scratch on him." She glowered, positively worked up about how awful the tributes were doing when she knew that she herself would be exceeding expectations in their spots. It wasn't right that she was confined to the district when those who were afforded the opportunities she deserved were not doing their positions justice.

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{characters}

certified kindergartener
stranded in "beach" "city"
leader of the crystal gems

Nofo
Career Tribute

[M:-201]

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I'm back.

s t u b b ◊ r n beauty // nofo Mar 17, 2012 9:41:08 GMT -5

Post by Nofo on Mar 17, 2012 9:41:08 GMT -5

It wasn't a very far walk to their tree. He had been there many times before when he wasn’t alone. Twenty paces, right in the middle between their houses. It was the one place Avon and he had shared with not even their horde of younger siblings. It was theirs and would only be theirs as long as they could stake their claim. He climbed the hard rough bark, scraping the palms of his hands as he raised himself onto an upper layer of branches. He could see into her room from that spot. Her room was empty and dark, none of her family ventured into it as they seemed to be afraid of tainting the memory of Avon Lightwood. From their tree, they could see into each other's rooms. He had seen only one person enter her room since Avon had been reaped, and that was Keela. She wasn't gone, but the Lightwoods had a tendency to write off their missing. He had seen the way they pretended Edana had never existed while she was away. He had seen the way Willow found a new husband months after the funeral. Even now, they were replacing her with a new boy. It was their sick and twisted coping mechanism. Alphonse had a coping mechanism of his own, but it seemed a bit more violent.

It was the second day of the 60th Hunger Games, a Quell in all actuality. Avon was a career tribute, a fighter, in a game without alliances. Other careers might have ran around like a chicken with their heads cut off, but Avon was one career who would work better alone. There would be no career pack for Avon Lightwood. She could do everything other tributes couldn't, she was good with her fists and knew how to both give and take a blow to the face. She could kill and she knew how to kill without making much of a mess. Avon would have to fight and it was the thing she was best at besides her green thumb. Alphonse's best friend was now a tribute, and it was her life to lose. Avon was easily capable of winning the Games, but he found himself doubting the odds.

He climbed down from the tree and looked back to the Lightwood house. Through the window, he could see the worn faces of her family huddled around the massive television in their living room. Perhaps he could ask to spend the morning with them watching the recap of events he had already seen and waiting for something of interest. There was the chance of new fights in the Games but the Bloodbath had lived up to its name. He could run into his own house but he didn't really think he wanted to deal with his strung-out mother. The Square seemed like a better place to be at the moment Avon might die than a house full of heart-broken babies and a junkie.

His shoes squeaked across the sidewalk as he carried on along the winding road in his trench coat. Alphonse wasn't sure what was going on, be his resolve shook a little more as the day went on. Twenty-Three tributes would be dead within the next week or so. It was never a nice feeling to know that in less than an hour, his best friend could be in a sealed box on her way back to District One. She had known was she was going into. Careers would have killed for that spot, right there before the arena.

Alphonse coughed a little and let his hands drift into his trench-coat pocket as he made his way through the crowd in the District Square. Looking up at the jumbo-tron, he manages to keep a straight face while it all happens. He see the snake lash out at her arm and lets out a hushed gasp but quickly regains composure. However, it doesn't last very long.

"Ripred, she can't get anything right, can she?" That was the voice of a blonde girl around his age. He stifled a groan, feeling a bit uneasy at the thought of someone attacking Avon when she can't defend herself. He watches her pale face as she spits out her words. "Mediocre score in training, goddamn broken leg in the bloodbath, and then she goes and gets her hand bitten by a goddamn snake. Such a disappointment. Not that Moreno is much better, running away from the bloodbath with hardly a scratch on him." Alphonse forms a fist in his pocket, not seeing her as a girl or even a person. Pretty Blonde was becoming a threat.

Alphonse pushes his way closer to her, walking to her until she's just several feet away. He scratches his nose with a little hesitation. "Do you know her?" His voice sounded a little more rough and uncertain than he'd like. "She's trained every day for the past several years. With me. She's more prepared than most of us here." His words may have been innocent enough, but it's his face that gives him away. He was no longer keeping his emotions masked. His scowl was clear and unnoticeable. It was a sign of aggression.