Brooke DelMar - Avox [Fin]

Born in a fishing village of District Four, Brooke grew up with a fitness of build and clean-limbed musculature developed in a working-man's lifestyle. Little time was afforded him for the luxury of worrying over cosmetics, and his naturally pale skintone exhibited layers of burn and freckling inflicted by extended sun exposure. Calluses coated his palms, and a fine network of scarring laced the knuckles and forearms where hooks, harpoons, ropes, and numerous other tools of the trade had placed their signature on him. A ruddy mop of hair, framed the pugnacious jaw, and cheeks were allowed to grow scruffy with a youthful beard. Unburdened by social pressures amongst a crowd of seafaring folk, there was no need to trim and tame; his hair grew to curl over the nape of the neck and form shaggy sideburns, nearly melding with the facial hair.

That is the Brooke that was. The boy who lived a simple, healthy life in District Four. The son of a carpenter, working the fishing boats for extra income.

That was nearly six years ago.

That was before the Capitol.

It is not that he has changed so very much in all honesty. The same honest gaze from a pair of keen, blue eyes. A lean, broad-shouldered build carried with a smooth, rolling gait that would maintain perfect balance on storm tossed deck. Despite the best efforts of his owner/employer, there will never be a way to fully eradicate the rough beginnings of the lad. Oh, but they tried.

Numerous skin treatments finally removed the last of his scarred and sun damaged skin, leaving a smooth, porcelain complexion without a freckle in sight. The best laser work ensured that no hint of facial hair will ever again mar the naturally chiseled bone structure his owner takes such pleasure in. After long deliberation and indecision, his hair was allowed to keep it's auburn coloring, although generously laced with glimmering gold highlights to simulate the caress of sunlight. Laborious hours were spent in trying to tame the plebeian curling and cowlicks that the locks stubbornly refused to relinquish. At last, his owner had to give up in despair on her original vision of a flowing red mane, and settle for close-clipped and tidy.

Despite being the eldest born, Brooke never had the confidence of manner or the easy tongued eloquence one typically associates with first children. In fact, he struggled with a speech impediment so severe that understanding half of what he tried to say was a difficult task for most people. Where any other child could repeat a story or a joke to charm their peers, Brooke found that others lost patience when he tried to speak, growing tired of waiting to interpret his words around all the stammering. Because of this, he grew into a very quiet and solitary young man, keeping mostly to himself. His only companion growing up was a younger sister, Saamina. She was his voice, translating his thoughts into words and speaking them for him with an uncanny intuition. In return, he spent hours teaching her to swim, fish, and think about the world in the fanciful, dreamy way that his mind worked.

That is what you would call Brooke, a dreamer. If not for the necessity of pulling his weight to keep food on the table, he would have been content to lay on the beach, watching clouds or waves all day long. His favorite occupation was with pencil and paper, capturing his daydreams in picture where words failed him.

Calm. Deliberate. Brooke's approach to life was as even-keeled as the fishing boats he frequented. It took a great deal to make him angry, as his classmates were wont to find out. Despite the teasing and torment that kids find it difficult to avoid - even when they aren't plagued with slow speech - he rarely grew angry. It became a game for his peers to see how much they could push him before he lost his temper. But that very same calm served him well later in life, when ill events took him away from all that he knew in District Four, and transplanted him to the exotic and confusing confines of the Capitol.

Who knew that the life of one young boy could change so drastically over night. Brooke certainly hadn't known, but there it was. In one day he went from the mundane life of a carpenter and part time fisherman, to and exhibit A in the zoo of freakish and exotic. What they don't tell you at the zoo, is the giraffes and elephants find humans just as unnatural and out of place.

He was in the pub one afternoon, after a hot day's work under a July sun. The bar was doing good business, and a cold beer felt delicious sliding across parched lips and tongue. It was his first of the day, and likely to be his last. Brooke had never been one to drink much alcohol, probably because of the example his father made of what over-indulgence did to an otherwise keenly intelligent intellect. Tark DelMar was no fool, and he maintained a savvy business repair boats and other necessary carpentry tasks for the fishermen. But when he got deep into his mug, good sense abandoned him, and he was known to have a hot word or ten on his tongue concerning the evils of the Capitol and President Snow.

Now, most villagers knew Tark well, it was a small town and everyone had grown up with each other. They knew he was all talk, and mostly only when he'd been at the bar too long unattended. His rantings were paid little heed for the most part. Today, however, there were peacekeepers in town on an inspection of the local garrison. As the level of Tark's glass decreased, and the tone of his voice subsequently increased, one of the commanding officers chose the moment to pause outside the pub door. Out spilled the rank words of dissension, fueled by too much alcohol, and they echoed far too loudly from the four walls. It was not the sort of thing that a stranger would ignore, and when the Peacekeeper burst into the room, demanding the identity of the man spewing slanderous words…it was Brooke who stood up to face him.

The officer likely knew that it hadn't been Brooke, but he didn't care who he made an example of, so long as the example was made. Four men in white uniforms dragged him into the town square, and in punishment for speaking out against the Capitol, they cut his tongue out. Barely conscious, he wasn't even allowed a word with his family before they had him in irons and on a train bound for the city of which so many horrible rumors abounded.

He was put up for auction like a prize stallion…not even that…like a gelding. The woman who took him home was frightful to the eyes of the culture-shocked young man. Her odd, lisping accent and outlandish taste in fashion initially terrified the boy who had never before stepped foot outside his sleepy harbor town. She was Venus, and he would learn that she was a well-admired clothing designer. Her dresses were in the peak of fashion and demand, and with this newfound popularity, she intended to branch out into men's wear as well. Ever on the lookout for a new model, her roving eye caught onto Brooke, with his chiseled features and brilliant hair. He was so new and fresh looking.

Unfortunately for her, it turned out that he was a poor canvas to paint on, having no talent for the fierce walk and flamboyant poses she tried to tutor him in. Eventually her hopes for him as a model disappeared, instead he proved of far more worth as an assistant. With an eye for symmetry and skill with drawing and colors, Venus found a valuable design student under her wing. So, it worked out for her in the end. As for Brooke…of course he desperately missed the family that probably thought he was dead, and the wave rocked shores of his home…but it wasn't the end of his life. Brooke DelMar was very much alive, well-treated, and with a fascinating new application for his favored pastime. True, he was locked into a world of silence, unable to speak his thoughts to anyone. But really, it was not so different from before, his tongue had always been a traitor to him.