Vital Signs} Ambrose Stand-Alone

Life.

Life is all about the moments of impact and how they change our lives forever.The moment of impact which proves potential for change, its effects rippling far beyond what we could have ever imagined. It sends some particles crashing together, forging bonds and making them closer than before; at the same time sending others spinning off into great ventures. Landing them where you've never thought you'd find them. But the the thing about moments like those that makes them so powerful, is that you can't, no matter how hard you try, control how it's gonna affect you. The impact will do what it wants, and all you can do is wait for the next collision. For Ambrose Dempsey, the moment of impact was the death of his daughter Kiera Niamh Dempsey. The girl that was at the same time the third oldest and yet the third youngest of his five children.


“...es its an extraordinary thing that the Capitol scientists have cooked up for today Claudius, though I’m not entirely sure how it works. I’m sure our viewers at home may have some questions as well, Care to explain?” Eying the television screen with a look of growing annoyance etched on his face, Ambrose resigned himself to listening to what the two pompous wigs were talking about. He was not in the best of moods, not after what had happened the previous night. He has excused himself from the room the moment that his daughters bawdy display with the boy from nine had begun. Somewhere in his mind, he had known that his children were entering the phase of their lives that turned curiosity into action. A natural part of growing up, and yet he had more than a little trouble coming to grips with what his daughter was old enough to decided she wanted to do. But did it have to broadcast to the whole of Panem?

“They call it the Morpheus Strain. During the night, This odorless, colorless and tasteless gas was pumped into several sections of the arena. The plan is to utterly splinter the large groups of tributes that continue to roam around.” The taller of the two nodded expectantly before motioning to the other to continue. “When inhaled, the gas begins to attack the brain stem, affecting the tributes REM Sleep and keeping them in that state while stopping the higher brain functions from making sense of it all.” A diagram of the organ appeared on the screen behind him as he said this. “In laymans terms, all the tributes that inhaled this gas during their sleep cycle will have trouble distinguishing the real from the dream state. Effectively keeping them in a functioning sleepwalking like trance.” Claudius chuckled for a moment before finishing his diatribe. “I’ve been told the hallucinations they experience today will be nothing short of disturbing. We can only wait and see how they react.”

But Flickerman had stopped paying attention to his co-host some moments ago, fixing his gaze on a screen that held a dead tribute and three others unsteadily making their way away from the area. “You’ve just missed it!” The video rewound and showed the action again in slow motion, the girl from seven taking a spear to her eye and collapsing. “Hmm. The Morpheus at work my dear Caeser.” Indeed, the screen split to show two groups of four tributes looking at each other half-crazed, uttering gibberish or shouting at people that weren’t there. A few even began to attack themselves. But Ambrose’s attention was of course, drawn to the form of his daughter driving her blade deep into the chest of the boy she had only the previous day given her body to. A small surge of pride caused a half-smile to grace his lips, if only for a moment. The wild look in all of their eyes was disconcerting.

There was a shriek from somewhere in front of where Ambrose sat; his seat of choice being his favorite rickety wooden chair, the alabaster paint peeling off in curly strips. On screen a fountain of blood appeared where his daughters arm had been.

Kiera is fifteen, plucking angrily at a cracked guitar that he had purchased at the nearest pawn shop for a fraction of its original price. She is upset with the trouble she is having in learning this new song. “Ripred Dad! This piece of shit is going to fall apart on me! Why couldn’t you get a better one?! “Language Kiera! We aren’t gutter trash.”“Oh I’m sorry, I meant this piece of CRAP is going to fall apart on me.”Ambrose shakes his head.“An instrument is only as good as the one who wields it. It is a man-made tool for entertainment, and as such, will work differently depending on the hands that use it."Kiera had continued to grumble. Abusing the strings until one of them had snapped, whipping around to leave a laceration on her arm, to which she had uttered a choice expletive.“Language young lady!he tuts again as he reaches for a washcloth. Placing it on her wound, he instructed her to keep the cloth there as he examined the instrument. Deftly taking the broken string off, he shakes his head and retrieves another from a box within his jacket. “Where’d you get those?"she demands.“If you had listened earlier, you would have known I managed to pick them up for half-price.”The guitar re-stringed, he thumbs it experimentally, before strumming a simple tune. “There we are. Now try it again. And be careful! You need the full use of both your arms with which to play this!