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wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 14, 2021 19:20:55 GMT -5

(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

barely breathing [semper] Aug 4, 2013 1:47:03 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Aug 4, 2013 1:47:03 GMT -5

(I awake to a loud banging that resounds through the house, leaving echoes of pained silence before there is a rush of bootsteps.) I roll over slowly, listening to the rustle of papers and breaking of glass from below me. My heartbeat quickens for a moment as my mind races to deduce who could be in the house. A lot of people: could be a gang of Moreno supporters. Heavy thudding: most of the Moreno supporters I knew, and even the Street Rats, didn’t have enough weight to make that kind of noise. A barked order: ding ding ding. My blood runs cold, joints snapping me to attention on my bed. (Peacekeepers?) My eyes immediately dart to Ty’s bed, but the sheets are rumpled and empty. He’d probably snuck out during the night. It’s lucky he isn’t here. They can’t catch him if he’s not here. Tyrannus will be able to make it away. He can run and use that weak spot in the fence Kae showed me just before he left. Emergencies only. Ty is bound to know about it with how much he travels out in the district. I pray that he knows about it. (I beg whatever gods might be merciful that he runs until he can never be found.)

The footfalls grow closer and closer until they stop outside of my door. My legs feel like jelly and I stand, scrambling towards the window only to see that they’re watching that way too. Three of them are running through our yard, eyes trained on the windows. I duck back again quickly, chest heaving as I’m trapped within my room. (I’m the perfect reflection of Tyrannus. They would never know. They could take me as him and never know it.) The door rattles, already splintered wood creaking as it is laid into again and again. The pounding circles in my head, matching with my thumping heart and sending me soaring into a frenzy of adrenaline. This must be what it is like to be a tribute without an alliance. Alone. Frightened. Trapped. In this moment, I understand more about the fear of the Games than I ever have before. The other tributes are dangerous, but it is the fear that cripples the lone in the end. I’m a sitting duck. Three more slams and the door bursts open, a white-clad Peacekeeper crashing through. Two others follow him, their eyes scanning the room slowly. Their leader’s are locked with my own. His eyes are cold, without a single spark of life in them. I shiver despite my instincts screaming not to show my fear.

"Tarquin Aemilius Rex?"

Air catches in my throat, my lungs caving in in an instant caused by seven syllables. (But that’s my name, not Tyrannus’s.) My mouth falls open silently, dry lips quivering and brow furrowing slowly. I can feel the sleep in my eyes clearing with every second, but that makes the situation no more transparent for my mind. He said my name. Me. Not Tyrannus. The curiosity in my nature is roiling with unasked questions, but the sheer terror in me is overpowering my very ability to speak. Mother is screeching downstairs and I can hear some of the girls shout in surprise, but my own vocal cords have been knotted off and rendered absolutely useless. The only noise that breaks free is a small, hitched squeak when his booted foot drops closer.

"You’ve been accused of conspiring to rebel against the Capitol, and thus your nation. What have you to say?"

Treason. (In the black and white of it, I’m being accused of treason.) How does one defend himself against a government too paranoid to listen to the truth? How does one defend himself when he doesn’t trust or believe in the government and, should it be overthrown, he would rejoice? How does one defend himself when those eyes have already decided on the verdict? This is no arrest or seizure. This is judge, jury, and executioner in the flesh. Another boot-thump closer sends me reeling, my head shaking desperately in an attempt to convey my innocence. I push myself back quickly, eyes darting between the three men who have me backed against the wall. I’m fit for battle, but they’re the elites. My experience with danger doesn’t even begin to hold a candle to their’s and I know it by the dead look in their eyes when faced with a frightened teenage boy, one who can’t even speak. The man to my left lunges forward, gloved hands encasing one of my arms and yanking. I stumble, limbs trying to organize themselves as I find myself hurtling towards the ground. With my left arm, I lash out at my attacker, catching him in the ear with my fist. The hiss of pain and the tightening around my arm is satisfying, but not rewarding. In the next instant, there is a knee connecting with my nose and a quick fist against my stomach. My lungs suck air greedily despite the new, uneven pressure of my caved-in ribs. My mouth is open and panting as tears cloud my vision and fall, a throbbing ache spreading from the center of my face. I don’t even dare to try and breathe through my nose. There’s not enough air when the injuries to my nose and solar plexus combine. I feel like every shred of oxygen available has been ripped from within me.

My eyesight has gone bleary and I hardly register when another pair of hands latches onto my other arm. I only realize that I’m being moved when the tops of my feet drag along the splintering wood. A hiss fizzles out of my lips, but I can’t manage to pull myself up. The pressure in my chest makes the idea of standing hurt even more. A faint grunt sounds before me, our movement halting. I open my eyes slowly, just barely peaking through the slits I’ve made. A rush of panic surged through my when the superior steps out of the way and I’m thrown haphazardly down the stairs. My ribs shift inward farther, lungs screaming at the sudden addition of sharp pain. Despite my best efforts to cradle myself safely from the fall, my shoulder throbs in agony upon landing and my limbs are either strained in the wrong direction or splayed out. I can see the outlines of figures, the stark white of the Peacekeepers standing in front of the darker tones of my family. I open my eyes just a little wider, trying to take them in at least once, but all I can make out is the shock and confusion present in all of their eyes. Tiger especially looks baffled, but that’s not uncommon for him. His eyes are narrowed at me in suspicion, just like the Peacekeeper’s next to him are narrowed at the lamp Tiger holds. Mother is gaping and Willow rolls her eyes once and (he isn’t here.) This is it, and he’s already gone. At least, for once, he won’t have to see me broken and bloodied.

A pressure on my outstretched hand brings me back to my body, mind wrapping itself in the cotton candy webs of sheer agony. It sticks to me without remorse. The boot on my hand presses down until I can feel a pop as my thumb jumps from place. I bite down hard on my lip to keep in the cry of distress, blood filling my mouth as I break soft skin. In another instant, I’m pulled upright and dragged forward again. We go until we are out the door, and then we keep on going for a long, long time.

~~~~~

Fear has coiled around my mind and dread within the pit of my stomach by the time I’m led down, down, down. It’s grey and dark and rough against the soles of my feet. I want to cry out, but all I can hear are the broken whispers and moans of those in a state worse than my own. A sickness rises within me, seizing in my throat as they push me into a small shower and tell me to be quick about it. (Be quick about removing your sorrow and defiance and grime with your dislocated shoulder and thumb and broken ribs and nose and bruised everything. Be quick about learning your place.) I was as hurriedly and as completely as I can, but even as I dress in a pair of clothes thrown in my face, I can feel the blood caked on the skin of my face. I can feel my ribs sink deep into flesh with jagged ends. I can feel myself shattering. The shirt is flimsy and threadbare, stained brown in places from blood lost. The pants are black and loose, practically falling off of my hips with every sorry excuse of a step I take. I’m shoved forward and I stumble, crashing down to the concrete floor with a dry sob of anguish.

Just like at home, I’m hauled to my feel and dragged along. The skin of my feel rips open even as I try to level myself, stumbling along with the grip that sears marks into my upper arms. Another flight of stairs and I find myself being forced into a cell at the end. The bars creak as they’re slammed shut, rattling as I fall against them. The Peacekeeper who escorted me frowns before reaching through and grabbing me by the scruff of my neck. I whimper, reaching back to try and claw his fingers off, but there’s no use in fighting the law. (What a law it is.) With one last growl, he pulls be forward to crash against the bars between us. My head cracks against the metal once before I fall out of his grasp and collide with the floor. Even as the footsteps fade into the distance, I don’t move. I feel as if I have been split open upon the floor, my body gone boneless as I am finally left. There is a slight shift from one of the metal shelves protruding from the wall, my eyes rolling to look in its direction. There’s a blurry mass upon it, fiddling with a ball in its hands and looking at me lazily. I don’t bother reacting to him, instead choosing to force myself to sit up. With some effort, I’m able to scoot myself towards the wall and lean back against it. My hands close around the bars of my cage, skin prickling with anger and apprehension and weary disbelief. With a spark of will and defiance, my mouth drops open and I howl brokenly into the darkness before me. I have been caged like an animal. (I may as well act like one.)

semper
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last seen Jan 1, 2014 0:57:11 GMT -5

barely breathing [semper] Aug 5, 2013 9:01:23 GMT -5

Post by semper on Aug 5, 2013 9:01:23 GMT -5

bear Keeni

Destruction of Capitol property and assault.

When I had thrown my little “tantrum” over Pyrian and Gypsy I guess I’d hit more than just the big screen in the district square. Not that I care at all – whoever was hit should’ve been watching and paying attention to what was going on around them. It’s their own damn fault they got struck down and it’s the Capitol’s own damn fault that they provoked me into doing that stupid, petty little thing of throwing stones at the screen. I could’ve done worse, I really could have, so they should think themselves lucky I didn’t pull out my knife and start chasing people with the intent of killing and harvesting their flesh.

But everything I did was futile. No matter what I do I’ll never get my siblings back, I’ll never get to yell at them for setting the ugly ass drapes on fire, and I’ll never get to know what all their little hand gestures – their “language” – meant. We, the Keenis, are a broken family to begin with, but the loss of two of us really ripped the carpet right out from under us. All we ever did before was argue but now we’re just quiet, and whenever someone pisses someone else off it just gets really nasty. Needless to say it really took a toll on us all to lose them and I’ll be damned if I lose another one.

On top of all that, though, are Teddy and Vicky. That little chubby infant has grown on me substantially and honestly he gives me a strange giddy feeling every time I’m with him. I’ve never smiled this much before, even with Lane. I think Vicky’s noticed it too because she’s become less of that stingy eat-your-damn-salad-Bear person and more relaxed. I guess she’s also taken note of how I’m sticking around her little seamstress shop and taking more voluntary care of Teddy (but she makes me leave my knife on the kitchen table whenever I even so much as think of going near him). She’s been smiling more, too – or maybe not with happiness but with sympathy. I’ve been holding tight to Teddy ever since my siblings’ names were called, keeping at bay the thought of having to send him off to the games. I don’t want to lose him or Vicky to anything.

It probably came as no surprise to Vicky when the Peacekeepers tried to take me away again; right there, in the district square, in front of everyone. To the Keepers it’s just a public disturbance but to everyone else it’s a display of how the games take a toll on you (now, granted, I would love to throw stones at the big screens just for the hell of it but that’s not the point). I bet you right now she’s cradling Teddy, letting him suckle or whatever, and telling him how much of a blundering idiot his daddy is and how she hopes he won’t turn out the same way as me. Funny thing cause I’d told her earlier I didn’t want Teddy to turn out like me either.

But not only have I left them behind but there’s also a very young and very fucking stupid young group of runts that make up Stained Transactions now. Things used to be so much simpler and better the first go around with Shiep and Ethan (who the games also claimed) and all them, but these kids don’t know anything. Sure, some of them have had a “hard” life, but when it comes down to it they don’t know shit about being in the group and what it means to be bound by brotherhood. I bet you none of them even know I’m trapped here in this hellhole – that’ll get them quite the scolding when I return home. For now, though, I wait.

Nothing has changed at all since the last time I was here: everything’s just as bleary and dreary, bloody stains on the walls, scrapes and tally marks, smears of feces on either the floor or the wall, everything nasty and everything gross. There’s the familiar wails and cries of either the new arrivals or those being “interrogated” but they’re hard to differentiate. Every scream sounds the same in this place.

The bunk is hardly long enough to accommodate my height so I’m forced to pull my knees up so my feet are flat on the edge. I’ve already taken the pleasure of ripping up part of the bed sheet and tying it into a little ball to amuse myself by tossing it up in the air and catching it. Sometimes you’ll go days without hearing new arrivals being dragged while they dig their heels in at a futile attempt at being stubborn and I’ve gone a few days with having the cell to myself – quite a pleasantry, really – until I hear the squeaky door at the end of the hall open and multiple thuds of boots and the heel scraping.

Like everyone else I stop what I’m doing and turn my head to look out of the bars that line my cell, a frown coming to my face as I see them stop in front of my door. They open the door and shove the new inmate in, slamming the door behind him. The new guy stands there before the Keeper reached through and grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him back hard against the bars. A shitty move, no doubt, but enough to cause me to chuckle. Honestly the best entertainment I’ve had in days. The guy falls forward flat on his face and I snort. New guy, how unfortunate; he should be glad that the Keepers gave him the regular welcome treatment and didn’t decide to give him anything “special.” Oh well – the thrill of a new arrival has worn off and I return my attention to the fabric ball, toying around with it until I hear what sounds like a howl. A howl? My attention snaps back to the new guy and he’s sitting up against the wall, hands on the bars, howling like a damn dog.

”Hey, runt!” I snap harshly and loudly, trying to overpower the volume of his howl. ”You’d best shut the fuck up before I come over there and break your jaw.”

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Last Edit: Aug 5, 2013 9:04:15 GMT -5 by semper

i hear the mountains calling me home

wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 14, 2021 19:20:55 GMT -5

(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

barely breathing [semper] Aug 5, 2013 18:09:00 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Aug 5, 2013 18:09:00 GMT -5

My head feels as if it’s caving in little by little, fragments of my skull lodging within the processing center of my entire being. I’m short circuiting inside myself, mind frantically pulsing to try and piece itself back together after the onslaught of abuse and torture its meat suit has gone through. My body is nothing more than the physical conduit of my mind, so what use is it if it is falling to tiny little bits of waste upon the floor of a cell that looks like it was the backdrop of a bloodbath held inside an asylum? It’s worthless if it cannot function. Right now, it’s running on autopilot. All it does is howl brokenly into the inky darkness before it, worn hands squeezing bars as if they could shatter them and set the animal free. (That’s a joke though if I ever did hear one, that I would be released at all.)

What chance do I have of survival in a place like this? I have trained all my life to kill or be killed, to logic my way out of darkness, to savage my way out of strife. This is no place for a battle. This is where you are brought when you have already lost. My Games were a silly little district brawl that came to bear no fruit for my own cause. The main players were scattered to the winds. There was nothing left to be done so I packed my bags and went home to be ignored by the one thing I was fighting for. Tyrannus went on clueless of my struggle, thoughtless to my troubles. He’d never know all I’d done just to become visible again because I’d failed that fight spectacularly. If anything, I curled the invisibility tighter around myself like a second skin and withdrawn into my own world. (He could drink and fight and party all he wanted and see if I cared because I didn’t. Still don’t.) There’s a heaviness to being alone that I never knew. Here especially, I am on my own. Even if he wanted to, Ty could not save me here. This is where I have been brought to repent for all I’ve done and all I never did.

My chance of survival in a place like this is low. Ty was always the survivor. He could deal with the beatings and pain and sneers. I never had the armor plating he did, especially not within our own home. Momma could strike me down faster than lightning and more heavily than a truck. Living in a home where you’re expected to be the best and to someday enter into an arena and knock out any and all competition doesn’t exactly count as a healthy environment. We’re nothing like the Morenos or the Dempseys or the Shores, but the Rexes are no less brutal in their upbringing. Despite the training, I’m not prepared for this. I wasn’t prepared to have my chest caved in or my nose broken or my shoulder dislocated or my thumb popped out or my head smashed. I wasn’t prepared to be ripped away from the only thing that does ground me, despite how long it has already been gone. (Despite all I have done recently to say otherwise, I am not ready to die.) I especially don’t want to waste away here in this hovel of a cell smeared with blood and waste.

Even if I make it back home, it won’t be the same. One cannot simply walk out of a place like this whole. They tear a piece out of you, keep it as collateral in case you fuck up again. Caging me was just step one. If they truly suspect me of plotting against the government, they won’t just hole me up for a few weeks, slap my wrist, and set me free. I’m an enemy of the state at the moment, locked up so they have me where they want me. (They’ll want to know everything I did, everyone I talked to, every plot I made against their precious Capitol.) There is no mercy for treason in our time. I’ll be given no length of rope with which to hang myself. They’ll bleed me dry before I’m given a chance to take my life into my own hands. Instead, they’ll seize it and do with it what they please. I’ll be their new chew toy for however long they want me to be.

Just as my throat is opening to release another anguished howl, I hear a sharp voice snapping from the bed behind me. “Hey runt! You’d best shut the fuck up before I come over there and break your jaw,” it seethes. My throat closes quickly, all semblance of noise shutting off as I lean against the bars. For a moment, my fingers tighten. The anger that usually stays so calm flares up and I can feel the blood rushing through my every wound. It throbs painfully as I shove it back down, letting it tear me up inside instead of releasing it outwards. Nothing has ever been accomplished by letting my anger explode. It’s always caused problems in my life. In here, it could be the lead to my death. Instead, I shudder in a breath through my crunched nose. With effort, I blink and turn myself to face the bed, trying not to scream from the amount of pressure I can feel against my ribs and the strain in my misplaced shoulder. The boy up on the metal bed is glaring down at me. Even with all of my attempts to calm myself, I feel Tyrannus’s brand of sarcasm slipping past my lips. He never could take people looking at him wrong. I have that much in common with my mirrored reflection.

“Oh yeah? I think it’d compliment my busted nose pretty well, asshole.”

Last Edit: Aug 5, 2013 20:38:49 GMT -5 by wimdy

semper
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barely breathing [semper] Aug 6, 2013 14:25:04 GMT -5

Post by semper on Aug 6, 2013 14:25:04 GMT -5

bear Keeni

I know he heard me cause he’s stopped that awful howling noise. Of all the people I’ve been locked up with I can honestly say that none of them have ever howled – a.) cause it’s fucking stupid and b.) it just makes you a target cause the people in here like to make people scream and c.) it’s fucking stupid – so I can already tell that this is going to be a long containment. My last cellmate actually had half of a brain and knew there was no use trying to escape. Hell, even I know you can't get out of here so I don't ever try. But this guy, this scrawny ass kid, he's already quite the whiner. He probably got everything on a silver platter at home and so just this little bit of discomfort is enough to get a few tears in his eyes. Welcome to the real world and life behind that silver platter, punk.

Little Runt looks like he’s just shaking or something and he turns to face me. There’s blood all over that pretty little face of his but it stirs no sympathy in me. Everyone, including me, is subjected to the abuse upon arrival; it’s just that some of us, also including me, decide to fight back and the Keepers don’t really like that. Little Runt looks just about like he didn’t even put up a fight. That’ll have to change quick if he’s expecting to get out of here with all his limbs and junk and ass intact. Some ~~fun~~ awful things have taken place behind these concrete walls and rusted bars and I learned all about that the first time I was here. Hell, honestly, I don’t even remember what I was first locked up for – something else petty, I guess. Of all the things I could be arrested for it’s always been the pathetic stuff. Although I guess I could consider myself lucky to not have been caught for anything that requires me to be “interrogated” so that they can try to break me. Every so often you can hear the screams of those being ~~tortured~~ interrogated and, honestly, it scared the hell out of me when I first got here. Now it’s just a routine sound and sometimes I’ll make bets with other people on how long I think the poor sod’ll last before passing out.

I roll the fabric ball in my hands while Little Runt makes his retort. It makes me snort and I look back at his nose and all the dried blood that’s smeared around it, imagining his jaw hanging down awkwardly from being splintered and broke. ”Yeah, I think it really would. Thank you for your semi-artistic input.” I toss the ball up a time or two and catch it. ”Good thing your nose is all busted cause your bunk’s by the shit bucket. Hope you don’t mind.” I figure I don’t need to point him in the direction of the crappy little toilet in the corner of our cell. There’ve been times where it’s leaked even though it’s not clogged and little streams of nasty water run down to the aisle between the two rows of cells. Keepers don’t care about stuff like that and I guess it’s part of their tactic to get people to stay out of trouble so they’ll stay out of the detention center. A foul play, no doubt about that.

I start tossing the ball up again. ”Since we’re stuck together for Ripred only knows how long I figure an introduction is in need. Name’s Bear. From District Six. Locked up for 'destruction of Capitol property and assault.'" I do an awful job at mimicking the marbly Capitol accent with squeaky pitches and odd vowels. "That’s all you need to know about me right now but if you feel compelled for more just ask. What about you, Little Runt? You got a name or do I need to give you one?”

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Last Edit: Aug 6, 2013 14:28:52 GMT -5 by semper

i hear the mountains calling me home

wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 14, 2021 19:20:55 GMT -5

(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

barely breathing [semper] Aug 6, 2013 18:00:12 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Aug 6, 2013 18:00:12 GMT -5

I can hear the sarcasm thick in his voice when he responds, eyes narrowing in the crappy lighting of the cellblock to glare at him what little I can. Even twitching my eyes makes my nose scream in pain and my head spin. My breathing becomes more shallow as I try to make it through the wave of sickening nausea that spins within me. The world is glassy through my eyes and I can hardly focus on the blank grey of the wall, not to mention the very real, very physical being sitting up above me and across the room. I push myself back slowly, lining up against the wall more fully before shimmying my way up the wall. A small moan of pain slips past my lips before I can bite down on them to stop it, but my delayed reaction only causes another stab of pain. Blood trickles into my mouth slowly and I wince at the metallic tang, shutting my eyes tight as I force myself all the way up the wall. The pain in my lungs blossoms into fullness when I’m finally upright. My hands press against the wall behind me, trying to grab at anything to keep me upright for just another moment.

With possibly as little grace as is possible to have, I stumble sideways from the wall and shuffle slowly towards the metal shelf opposite of my partner. The metal feels frigid against my skin when my hands slid across it. There are tally marks scratched into the wall right beside it. I shiver at the implication of so many lines, turning away from it to pull myself up onto the shelf. My face scrunches up in pain as I shift against the unforgiving metal. My eyes flash up to the other boy and I can’t help the strangled laugh that escapes my bloody lips. “Yeah, I’m a fucking artist. Artists live in squalor, don’t you know? I’m used to the shit,” I hiss, blood dripping down my chin. I raise my hand to wipe at it, glaring at the red that comes away all over my hand.

I watch him toss the ball with weary eyes, head tipped back against the hard concrete. “Since we’re stuck together for Ripred only knows how long I figure an introduction is in need. Name’s Bear. From District Six. Locked up for 'destruction of Capitol property and assault.' That’s all you need to know about me right now but if you feel compelled for more just ask. What about you, Little Runt? You got a name or do I need to give you one?” Again, my eyes narrow at the person across from me, Bear. He looks far too comfortable here for this to be his first time. There’s a laziness in the way he moves, a comfort without true relaxation. He’s aware, more aware than I am in my given state. I’m less than knowledgeable of everything around me, my senses dulled down so much from my beating that I simply don’t have it in me to observe.

“I’m Tarquin. District One. I’m here for…” My voice trails off into a breathy whimper for just a moment, anger washing through my bones as the Peacekeeper’s words come surging back into my consciousness. (Conspiring to rebel.) Utter bullshit. If I was conspiring to rebel against the Capitol, then Kaelen Dempsey wasn’t a fucking mastermind criminal. I can feel my nails digging into the skin of my palms, ripping open even more skin. “Conspiring to rebel. That’s what I’m accused of, what got me here.” My eyes drift up to meet his, tension running quickly through my body and seizing my every muscle. I’m solid apprehension. Every fiber of my being feels wrong at the mere mention of my crime. (I had a hand in staging a blood-feud in my district, not planning to bring down the government.)

semper
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barely breathing [semper] Aug 7, 2013 10:00:12 GMT -5

Post by semper on Aug 7, 2013 10:00:12 GMT -5

bear Keeni

It’s almost pitiful how he tries to get up – no, I take that back. Not almost, it is pitiful. He climbs up that wall like some freak upside down spider, splaying his hands and shimmying up, pissin’ and moanin’, then waddles over to his bunk like some gimpy duck. Maybe he’s just milking whatever injuries he’s got or maybe it’s something in the torso. I remember when Vicky stabbed me in the side with my own knife and that left me nearly immobilized for a week or two. Every move I tried to make, be it stand up or reach for the fork on the table, made my whole side light up like it was on fire. I bet you that that’s what happened to Little Runt; well, maybe not a stab cause I don’t see any blood on his side, but something involving a rib. That’ll fix itself sooner or later.

Tarquin, what a fucking weird name. I snort. ”That’s a terrible name.” It makes me think of that sequin material I’ve seen Vicky sew onto some ladies’ dresses, all shiny and glittery and feels weird under the skin. Sequin Boy here definitely is not shining and glittering but I will give him a credit or two for the shiner on his eye I bet he’ll have in the morning. And he’s from One so I’m caged with a fucking Career. All those spoiled little rotten runts – what the hell even compelled him to commit a crime? I don’t care if he’s “an artist used to the squalor” (whatever the fuck a squalor is) because One, Two, and Four – namely One, though – is fucking rich. I don’t think there’s a single poor person within that gemstone-lined fence they probably have instead of the rusted barbed wire that circles Six.

Little Runt Sequin pauses, trailing off his sentence and looking like something’s getting his knickers in a twist. Even from where I’m laying I can hear him breathe through that gnarly nose of his; I see him tighten his fists and it really looks like he’s trying to hold something back. Maybe he too was arrested for some pathetic reason like I was or he’s embarrassed about his crime. Then he states his charges: conspiring to rebel.

My interest almost instantly peaks and I look at him with, dare I say, a bewildered look on my face. This little pipsqueak in front of me was trying to rebel in One? Honestly I would’ve believed it more if he’d said he was from a lower district but still, conspiring to rebel? Usually those who are rebels are treated more harsh—ohh. His side and nose and soon-to-be shiner. It all makes sense now. He’s in for quite the terrible stay here and woe is me because I am going to have to deal with all the aftermath of his treatment.

I prop myself up on my elbow as a gesture that I’m keenly interested now. ”Conspiring to rebel?” I just can’t see this little guy trying to plot the downfall of the Capitol since One is basically the Capitol’s lap bitch. ”What, did the restaurant not cook your seafood right so you refused to tip them?” Not waiting for his answer I roll my eyes rather dramatically and shake my head. People like Little Runt don’t know poor, they don’t know what it’s like to scrape by or to be hungry or to live in a cramped and leaky and creaky house because you’ve got nowhere else to go. But no, if the Keepers have treated him this bad already it’s gotta be more than just freezer burnt crawfish. ”Accused of just conspiring? Did you actually do it or did you wussy out since they got you for just conspiring?”

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Last Edit: Aug 7, 2013 10:01:34 GMT -5 by semper

i hear the mountains calling me home

wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
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(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

barely breathing [semper] Aug 8, 2013 14:37:13 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Aug 8, 2013 14:37:13 GMT -5

Every breath sends a lance of agony spearing through my side and through my veins. I can feel every sharp jab of pain travel all the way down to my toes and back again all in one single inhalation. If it were just a fracture, it would be fine. It’s obvious that these ribs are out of place now though, pushed inwards by my tumble down the stairs. A tentative hands reaches up to press gingerly against my side, feeling the cave-in where there should be a sturdy bone cage. With my good arm, I raise my shirt a little to take a peek at the damage. My entire left side is a mottled purple and blue nearing black. Even in this dim lighting, I can see the patchwork damage scrawled across my fragile skin. There are small abrasions scattered about from where the stairs dug in especially hard, but there’s nothing to be done about those. (Or my ribs, for that matter, seeing as I will almost definitely not be getting anything close to resembling proper medical treatment in here.) I bite back another hiss as I prod the wound once more, testing the movement of my ribs. With a shuddered sigh, I lower my shirt again. There’s not use in worrying myself silly over something that cannot be helped.

The blood in my mouth feels too thick and just its presence is making me realize my hunger. (I was taken from my home days ago and I wasn’t fed during the journey. ) Ripred knows the next time I’ll even see proper food. It makes my stomach roll painfully just thinking about it. I gather what strength I can and spit over the side of the bed, trying to keep myself controlled for just as long as possible. That’s the only way I can see myself surviving, even just the slightest bit, in a place like this. I have to stay in control of myself. The moment I let them take full control of me is the moment I truly break. (I’m already breaking and I can’t afford to crack any farther.) I wince as I pull myself into a slightly different position, lifting my legs up onto the metal bed to keep myself as drawn as possible.

I almost laugh outright at his comment on my name, pain flaring through my nose as the snort I wind up giving instead. It makes my eyes water with the searing flash of it. I still manage a wry smirk, my lips twitching upwards just a bit. “Yeah, well, you can blame my parents for that one. You’d get a kick out of all of my siblings’ names if you think mine’s bad,” I respond, smiling stupidly for a moment at just the thought of my siblings. The positive thought drops as quickly as it came, sinking instead to the last glimpse of their faces that I got. (It’s all shock and accusation and disbelief. None of it was sorrow.) A bitter taste is left in my mouth at the mere thought of that. Not a single one of them was upset. I suppose that solidifies just how much they care.

Bear looks almost interested at my admission of my charge. He raises up a bit to watch me more closely, eyes scanning over my face in something akin to disbelief.“What, did the restaurant not cook your seafood right so you refused to tip them?” This time, I do laugh outright. My eyes roll in a gesture that’s strikingly similar to Willow’s choice farewell, eyelashes fluttering unevenly when I turn my head to focus on the bars again.

“Like our restaurants are worth the tipping anyway. The only ones I’ve been to are absolute dives,” I drawl, eyes flitting back to Bear’s face. That disbelief is still there, but it’s something more. I can see it now, just a glimpse, but the thought is there in his head. (But you’re from District One…) Like that makes everything magically perfect. Sure, we have some places that are nicer. No doubt we’re a little bit better off than most of the other districts, but just because we have more wealth does not mean we have less poverty or depravity. If anything, we have more. There’s a class gap instead of a common poorness like there would be in the lower districts. There’s anger and betrayal and (privilege.) It’s brutal in a way that’s underhanded and crafty rather than outright.

“I didn’t stage any fucking coups or rebellions, ” I rumble, voice coming out gravely at the mere thought of the failed operations. Everything went to hell when Kae took off. There was no hope for anything after that. “It was a gang war, plain and simple, except for the part where it was the Morenos versus the street rats. It just… all kind of went to hell.”

semper
Retired Staff

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barely breathing [semper] Aug 8, 2013 16:52:00 GMT -5

Post by semper on Aug 8, 2013 16:52:00 GMT -5

bear Keeni

I can imagine that this kid’s got a weird family: Sequin Boy, then there’s probably a Ruffles, maybe a Thimble, and then the parents, Needle and Eye. The perfect Sewing Family in One. Or maybe they’re like a quilt with all its weird patches and terribly clashing designs. Perhaps his parents were just as lazy and uncaring as my mother was when she brought me into the world with a swig of beer to dull the pain down. I mean really, what kind of a name is Bear? It’s just one letter off of beer so that could be why, or maybe I looked like some hairless bear cub to her. I don’t mind my name cause I think it fits me, but the difference between my name and Sequin Boy’s is startling to me at least. Tarquin. What, is that some material? Some rock? An “ancient family name?”

The kid laughs at my remark but it doesn’t affect the expression on my face. I do think Sequin Boy’s spoiled and I don’t care what “squalor” he’s used to because he’s a Career and we hate those kinds of people. Unfortunately for him that status won’t protect him any in this place. Once behind bars, everyone is the same – we’re all treated like scum, the lowest of the low, no matter what crime lands you here. I’ve seen Avoxes go walking while a murderer limps by with a knee bent backwards and stuck in place. We’re all the same here, Career status or not.

Little Runt basically explains that he’s a shitty rebel. A petty gang war, probably just over turf, between some family and another group, and it all went to hell. ”Well obviously it went to hell cause otherwise you wouldn’t be locked up with me.” What doesn’t settle with me is that I come to realize that Little Runt was – or still is, I don’t know – involved with a gang. One like my own, possibly, but I honestly can’t see him shooting himself up with any nasty drug. ”Yeah, those names don’t mean a thing to me. I don’t know what a Moreno or street piss is where you come from.”

I set the ball down and push myself up into a sitting position. Luckily I’m big enough and the bunk is short enough width-wise so that I can pretty much just sit on it like you do a chair and have my feet flat on the ground. I cross my arms over my chest, leaning back against the hard cement wall. ”C’mon, you gotta give me more information than just that. You make it sound like it all fizzled and was just a bunch of empty threats and bluffs thrown back and forth.” I give him a questioning look, indicating for him to drop a few more details. I don’t expect it to be much more than just an argument over turf boundaries – what would two gangs in One have to fight over other than drugs? They build luxury items up there so maybe it’s a fight over customers and their factories are considered “gangs.” With all that wealth I don’t imagine that any of those people are in a gang for the reason that my guys are: we’re all just a bunch of misfits – some tossed out on the street, some lonely, some forgotten, some addicts, some criminals – in search of a place where we won’t be judged and where we can know that there’s others like us and where we can at least have one friend. But these kids (they’re really no more than just kids) don’t have the hang of it yet. I don’t think they ever really will, to be frank. They’re not street smart at all.

I look at Little Runt and that’s all I see: just a kid. Just a wee little runt mixed up in all this shit. Was that me when I was younger? I don’t remember exactly what compelled me to start becoming this scowling, grumpy, over-sized cannibal, or what made me want to kill off my first “girlfriend” in order to harvest her flesh, or to follow Shiep blindly into Stained Transactions. Little Runt might have been led blindly into it too. He might not be able to pinpoint exactly where things started going downhill.

Am I sympathizing with him?

No, I’m making assumptions. Sympathizing with him is fucking ridiculous. There’s nothing Little Runt can do to make me feel any kind of compassion for him, gang member or not. I tilt my chin up slightly, looking at him from a different angle, giving myself the appearance of scrutinizing him. No I don’t have sympathy for you and your busted nose and black ribs ~~no matter how pretty your torso was when you lifted your shirt~~. Part of me wants to go kick him in those tender ribs of his just to remind myself that I’m in charge here but I resist, tightening my arms across my chest. ”What all happened? Whose side were you on? What’s the Morenos and street pisses?”