bang [joshy

Above his mantle sits a portrait of a man, a furrow brow, lean muscles, good posture.

It was a gift from a Capitolite from his mentoring period of the sixty-fourth games. The strokes were beautiful, painted with mastery and finesse, beyond any sort of skill in any of the Districts that was for sure. Perhaps, they just had the time to invest in things like art - but that wasn't up to him to question really. Encased in a frame of golden colour, polished and sharp, suave yet sophisticated. It had no place in the Myler family residence's living room, and yet Peri's mother had a particular liking to it. Toga half ripped from days upon days of bloodshed, the small peaking of bandages slipping out the holes of the clotted bed sheet, covering any sort of wound. There was a stern look in the boys eyes, green as they were, that were unrecognizable, an inextinguishable fire, a determination. Green's spread through the sky, perhaps to compliment the centrepiece's eyes, swirls of the stars and night time - what time had it been? When had it been?

It was all so long ago, wasn't it? Two years. At what point did it all become just a painting?

Oh Little Boy, never. You never forget. Remember Little Boy, remember. A flame stands to the boys left, subdued, clinging on to it's very essence. The devil stands still in a painting that looked as if it took one hundred years to paint. His cold dark soul engrossed in a radiating hate, eyes full of malice and uncontainable hatred. Stained with black, he streaks along the ground, consuming the blood, sipping, sucking the life force out of a lone forest wolf. The wolf's body limp and unmoving; yet whose eyes are as starry as the night, green and shining, recognizable a mile away. Sword clutched in one hand, shining and sharp, the other in an incredibly tight fist, the boy stands above the beast, tip of the sword pointed directly at his indistinguishable neck - this demon is ready to die, it can only feast for so long.

If paintings could talk, the devil would whisper harshly, "Do it, I dare you!" If paintings could move, they would show the boy pierce the devil's neck. If paintings could write, perhaps the story would be a little bit more accurate. A golden name plate sits below the portrait, engraved, "A Moment of Victory." Peri's mother calls it, "Hope." Peri calls it, "Hopeless." A devil, a boy, and a wolf walk into the world separated but grow to love each other and are forever immortalized in the painting that is hung above his fireplace, if only the flames licked a little bit higher, than maybe it would die along with the constant reminder that perhaps he wasn't as good a career as he probably should have been in the end.

The media was always a little bit harsh, that was the first take away lesson from the Capitol. Every little bit of dialogue, every movement was recorded and taken in it's most literal sense. Arena footage was surveyed with the keenest of eyes, and editors for recap montages were specialized in their fields, not missing a moment to paint Peri as if he was a beast, a monstrous victor, a career from District One, but not the boy who owned the gem shop - that boy was so long. There were too many paintings, too many images that were just misrepresentations of his life, and it would be that way until the day that he finally drew his last breath, clutching his opals and swimming up into the stars with his devil, his wolf, and the girl who set her own fate - the favourable company would be more than welcome, but the time was not yet. Perhaps soon, but not quite yet.

For now, his job was mentoring. Every bit of his life was mentoring, ensuring that whoever went into the games was duly prepared for the fact that more than likely their life was about to be sacrificed in the name of a government that didn't care for the others as he did. How silly a concept that a mentor cared. But it was something to sink in, even though Peri brought Opal home - Xanthus still died. There was never a time that he wouldn't lose. Inevitable loss. His life was surrounded in it. The death of all of his friends, the death of his father, the death of his innocence (lost in a drunken one night stand, two nights loaded off his mind.) Constant nagging and pestering from surrounding citizens, either out of fear, admiration, or intimidation. There were always one or two that wanted to take him on in a fist fight, probably too scared to take on Opal or Topaz, but just dumb enough to try and fight the sole male victor of the past ten years. A small tut was all he could do to respond, brutes were set off so easily these days. When strength increased, intelligence seemed to hit the floor, smashed and splattered.

Training centres often invited him in to speak to their current students, it all seemed like such a waste of time. If they were truly destined for the games, he would speak to them eventually anyways - on the train to the Capitol, where they would meet their doom. Why give any further impressions beyond that? The effort seemed like too much, just absolutely pointless in the end. Only two tributes got to go a year, what were really the chances of any of the large training schools getting tributes - and beyond that, what were the chances of a victor actually coming home. Peri himself couldn't even remember the name of his training academy, just that it was located beneath the gem factory on the most-upper corner of the district. Closer to his mother's previous place of employment, easy enough transportation to and from, not that either of them had to work any more.

There was no possible way to tell if the potential lay within a tribute to become a victor. Opal winning caused quite the upset, everyone thought that Xanthus would come home instead, there'd been three District Twelve victors in ten years, clearly the training centres were doing something wrong. And yet, still, with this knowledge, Peri would often wander into the odd gym, just to see the goings on. In some strange fashion, it seemed so funny to him, letting loose a few snickers here and there was enough to keep up a positive energy, keeping a great mentality meant a continuously good lifestyle - or so he was told.

One thing never changed, the devastating smell. There were a solid dozen gyms within walking distance of Peri's home, a good dozen that he was willing to venture into and scout out the "upcoming talent of the Capitol." No one ever really doubted his entrance, he was generally accepted anywhere he happened to venture. The smell was always the same: sweat, blood, and the endless need to impress their parents. Perhaps that never really disappeared, the need to look amazing and flawless in the eyes of those that birthed you. Some experienced it harder than he had, and sure training had been entirely his own choice, but in his day he'd witnessed kids work twice the length, sometimes triple just as their parents watched and cracked hypothetical whips with their deranged eyes. These were the people he tried to avoid at all cost, any time they approached Peri it was as if he were a talent agent, ready to cast their child in the next starring role - a lead in a fight to the death, how depressing.

Perhaps the worst part of it all was the overarching feeling of total and complete oblivion. Really, there were only a select few who could really discuss the Games and their mentality, a few could talk about the effects it had on their familial lives, a few could even say a friend or lover. But overall, no one really knew about the emotional turmoil, the endless torment but the victors themselves and that wasn't something that was willingly divulged, ever. These, kids. These monsters in training knew nothing about what they were really training for. Most kids who are trained grow up to be trainers themselves, rig workers, masonry workers, fishers, careers literally just gave you a job in the work force. No one really had a professional job in killing, their whole concept of living was a joke. Swinging swords like imbeciles, joking about splitting the throats of dummies and laughing when the blood splatter sprayed all over the mats causing the janitors to grown.

'Do you know what I did in my private training session kids?' He mulled over angrily. 'I nearly killed a boy, just because he lost his tongue - and laughed as he cried. Can any of you say you'll do that, huh?' If only they knew what he did to score that eleven, not that they hadn't tried to pay it out of him. (Didn't they know he had all the money he would ever need, how silly a proposition.) They were all so peppy, cheery, a couple seemed to follow him with their eyes, checking to see if he would actually go to any training station and show them some moves. Peri could hear the whispers as he crossed. "Do you think he's as good with the glaive as they say?" "I still can't believe he shut down his ally." "I read somewhere he fucked Arbor Halt. District Twelve, how nasty." "Do you think he's had any surgeries in the Capitol yet? I hear all the good victors get them." It was all mindless, silly. Tossing swords about as they gossiped, play-fighting, mindlessly reading plant identification books on the benches. Smiling, laughing, cheering, blunt swords, dumb.

It was all so dumb. So pointless, the entire system. Who did they think they were, training twelve to eighteen year olds become stone-hard killers? Without feeling too - didn't they know that feelings, general intelligence, those were the skills that were needed in order to become a winner. Not strength. Pure strength played such a small part in comparison to smarts and luck. Maybe all previous victors just didn't feel like shedding the light on this particular brand of bullshit, people who haven't played the games teaching kids how to play them. One can't instruct without experience, and and it was very clear from merely looking around. Sure, the blonde kid in the corner had a proper technical grip on how to hold a sword. But, it would be entertaining to see him maintain technique when a savaged child with a missing arm comes charging after him. The will to live is stronger than the ability to hold a weapon. It's been the demise of so many tributes, one just had to watch the tapes. They painted the picture right there, vividly, on all screens.

The pictures always stood, the portrait, the recaps, the games. It was all a landscape painting of a way to win, a treasure map to the ultimate prize; yet, idiocy is produced like slabs of cow meat in Ten. Often, and daily. The blood soaked the blue mats, the child who had slashed the dummies mouth mouthing off to his friends about how well he'd succeeded in hitting the packs in order to cause such a bloodshed, backing up and pointing wildly. "Hey look, guys, it's seeping everywhere. It's like syrup, isn't it?" If he only knew what blood really looked like, maybe he wouldn't be so casual, backing up - tripping, slipping on his mess. Graceful. Such a wonderful career, taking life seriously, slipping in his own mess and soaking himself in corn starch, water, and red dye, sobbing at his own mess, and his friends off snickering in the corner. Snickers everywhere across the training centre, looking at the little boy who was trying to impress his friends with death.

Laughing. They were laughing at the fact a kid fell in blood. Would that fact be funny in the arena? Finding a body decapitated, seeping and slipping, diving in the blood of another child. What was there to snicker about there? Peri had seen it, so much blood; Kiera's leg bleeding out, as she teared up fighting off the pain, it was never-ending through the bandages no matter how many they tried to apply - just destined to die. No wonder all of these idiots died every year, came to us in a useless state, they just couldn't stop coming around, prepared to be in the working class, maybe realizing that in reality they'll never be in the games. Realizing that their lives are really safe in comparison because they can grip a score better than other idiots surrounding them.

Peri was seething with anger, scouring across the room, everyone had laughed. A kid, blonde and twirling about mats had shook it off and continued about his business. Once upon a time, he was a customer Peri had served over the crystal's counter, had a couple conversations. The worst kind of person in District One, needlessly rich, obnoxiously privileged, a career in training without any real purpose besides flipping around beams. Not everyone is Cricket Antoinette, not everyone can use that to their advantage. He doubted anyone, in fact, had every used a backflip to save their life in the arena, why would they? What a fancy way to dodge an arrow, here have a bowl of soup from a sponsor - no it was ridiculous.

"Oi!" Peri called over, his native scoundrel calling out. The Games had changed his drastically, but there would always be a scrawny street urchin with him, that small innocent gladiator behaviour, the need to self-protect. "Do you really think it's funny he slipped in this shit? I thought they would teach you better around here." He scoffed, shaking his head and squinting dramatically, not wanting the fluorescent lights to wipe across his jaded eyes. Suddenly clutching his gemstones at his necklaces, his collection of tokens. "I guess I give you little wannabes more credit then I thought."

An opal, a wolf token, a collar, an aquamarine, a buried pocket watch. All lined across his neck, these were the accurate portrayals of what really happened in the arena. Maybe only the Capitol knew, the editors feasting over the footage, cutting out any bits of pure pathetic behaviour. More likely, only the other tributes knew what went down in there. All of them were dead, yet there Peri stood, clutching at memories. Sitting on his living room couch, staring at the presentation of his slaying of Wednesdae Drummond, and Wes' slaying of Aria. They were all merely painting. Little bits of representations, little impressions that were entirely dependant on how other people saw them. Completely unaware of what was really happening, what was real, and what was myth.

Little Boy, you are much better than a myth. The tragic hero has yet to die, Little Boy.

Has yet to die, yet.