{ i don't believe in anything } // thundy

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aya
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

{ i don't believe in anything } // thundy May 23, 2013 18:52:23 GMT -5

Post by aya on May 23, 2013 18:52:23 GMT -5

Oh Mr. Pitiful,
Who let you down?
You still don't believe,
And your grievances show.

Arbor Halt—

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Another Games had come and gone, and Arbor was already dreading the next ones. He had good reason to, of course — the 64th Hunger Games would mark the tenth anniversary of his victory. The Capitolites, not ones to pass up a good party, were quite naturally putting together some sort of soiree in his honor, despite the fact that he was nowhere near the most popular victor in the past decade. Arbor had attended several of such parties in the past — for the alcohol, primarily — and had found it a dreadfully boring affair, filled with the stuffy denizens of Panem's ruling city that Arbor had zero interest in socializing with.

Ever since his suicide attempt — or, as Gingerbread Krumms, the ever-delightful District 12 Escort, liked to put it "that thing with the morphling" — he'd been encouraged to make more of an effort to get out of his liquor-lacquered shell. Thus far, his version of 'effort' consisted of replacing the dingy bars he normally frequented with the more upscale ones, and not simply getting up and staggering away whenever one of the other patrons approached him. He had not yet reached to step of willfully engaging in conversation with them, of course. It was a process, but all in all he felt as if his attitude and behavior were improving.

With the closing of the 63rd Hunger Games, it was almost time for Arbor's train ride back to District 12, where he spent much of the year in relative isolation. For the victor, who scarcely felt as if he belonged much of anywhere, it was no great shame; his nephews would probably visit him a few odd times during the year, his moonshine supplier would be paid handsomely to ensure that his empty house was well-stocked. He would check up on Aranica and Kieran — or vice versa — from time to time. For the most part, however, Arbor Halt would spend the year alone.

That was something he preferred about the Capitol: it was much easier to fool himself into believing that, because he was surrounded by people at all hours of the day, he wasn't entirely by himself. On the same floor as his bedroom, there were stylists, the ridiculous Miss Krumms, and even the tributes (for a time being) — not to mention the other victors. The training center was always abuzz with activity, even during Arbor's waking hours, which rarely fell into the realm of what most people considered acceptable.

On that evening, Arbor had left the training center at a reasonable time. He didn't intend to be out late; after all, he'd put off packing until the morning and couldn't very well stuff several handles of vodka into his luggage he'd be taking back to Twelve with him if he had a screaming hangover. There was an upscale pub relatively close to the center that Arbor decided to pay a visit to, passing over the dive he used to frequent. He took a seat in front of the bartender, ordered his whiskey neat, and began drumming his fingers on the countertop, taking the place in. The venue was certainly much better lit than most that Arbor visited, and appeared to serve food in addition to drink. He considered ordering a corned beef sandwich, and was about to flag someone down to order it when a familiar face caught his eye. Not three meters away sat one of the 63rd Games' chief architects: Warren Whip. Arbor did not have much desire to talk to the fellow that was partially responsible for so many deaths, but as he was committed to pulling himself out of his funk — which meant interacting with people — the victor from Twelve decided to pay him a visit. Tumbler of whiskey in hand, he stood up and moved to the unoccupied stool on the square-jawed Gamemaker's left.

"Good evening, Warren." Any other Gamemaker (besides, perhaps, Glamour Kinkade, because how does one address a past fling?) and the victor would have at least tried do be formal — Miss Bentley, for example, or Miss Copperview — but Arbor could not bring himself to add any sort of honorific to the name of someone who shared Arbor's age, but none of the hardships that had gone into that number. All the same, he offered out a hand for the Gamemaker to shake. "I'd congratulate you on a Games well done — or whatever everyone's been telling you — but smalltalk is bullshit. And for what it's worth, I haven't stopped despising the very notion of the Games for long enough to examine them objectively."

ooc - sorry, it's been awhile since I've written anything[/blockquote][/size]

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Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]
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cozy, queer af

{ i don't believe in anything } // thundy May 26, 2013 4:56:29 GMT -5

Post by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] on May 26, 2013 4:56:29 GMT -5

I was right.

That little list of predicted death order is still in my pocket. 24, 23, 22 … and all the way down to 1. I haven’t taken it out in public, partly because I’m bound to lose it somehow and partly because I don’t want anyone to see it.

And partly because it’s not perfect.

I should be glad that I have the training scores. The numbers speak for themselves:

1. Cricket Antoinette – 12
2. River Destin – 10
3. Gypsy Keeni – 9
4. Pyrian Keeni – 8
5. Owen Rook – 9

And then everything is jumbled after that point. It makes me realize how random the Games can be – and the tributes too, I suppose. I mean, I know how random the Games can be. Killing isn't difficult, and sometimes death takes even the skilled, the strong, the clever. Those instantaneous decisions make all the difference, and nobody can predict them. I'm angry about the things I could not control, the things that I got wrong. I expected Sampson to go far, and Elodie to die early, and Noah to die of stupidity on day one, and so many other little differences that nag at the back of my brain.

Still, I was right about a few things – Cricket won, and that seems like a victory. The only problem is, I haven’t slept in like, two days, and everyone keeps coming up to me and giving me congratulations, as if I’ve done something special. I literally just sat back and threw some fire and snakes at a bunch of hormonal teenagers while the others were in charge of the rest. I won’t be at all surprised if they refuse to ask me back, at least as Head Gamemaker. They want someone who values a show.

Only the congratulations don’t last forever, and I’m left with a piece of my life missing. My mind is constantly shifting from moments of elation to moments of sheer boredom, realizing how exciting it was, then that it’s gone, and then that I have nothing.

So here I am, I guess. My eyes are tired from replaying the Games at every angle, only nothing ever changes and there’s nothing to be seen that I haven’t already obsessed over. The 63rd Games are over, I’m tired, and there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to sleep ever again. My whole body is jittery, and my mind has reached that stage of oddly attentive exhaustion that only fosters babbles of sarcasm and complete nonsense. I swear I’ll die like this, sleep deprived and sarcastic to the very end, with no actual threat to my life anywhere to be seen other than fact that I can’t chill the fuck out.

Eating ice cream helps some, and a random girl next to me at the bar offered to buy me some fries a few minutes ago because, and I quote, “You look like you need some fries.” I don’t really know why she didn’t suggest alcohol instead, but fries sounded kind of good either way. So basically I’ve resorted to dipping the fries into this giant bowl of chocolate ice cream and making pictures, and just as I think I might be getting a little calm after all, someone sits directly to my left. I continue on with the potato ice cream creation, neither discrete nor embarrassed, until the new arrival speaks up just as I'm picking up a clump of soggy, chocolatey fries and about to take a bite.

”Good evening, Warren,” the voice says, and I turn my head, still casually clutching the food about three inches away from my face. Sitting next to me is none other than Arbor Halt, victor of the 54th Games. Wrinkling my nose, I drop the fries back into the bowl with a plop, and my mind goes blank. The victor offers me a hand to shake, so I turn slightly and a little too late – like, mid-hand shake – my mind registers that my fingers are covered in ice cream and gritty salt. And I should probably feel bad, but I’m comforted with the fact that I don’t really give a fuck what Arbor Halt thinks of me, or what anyone thinks of me for that matter, so I sit and listen with god-only-knows what kind of expression on my face as the victor finishes his sentence.

“I'd congratulate you on a Games well done — or whatever everyone's been telling you — but smalltalk is bullshit. And for what it's worth, I haven't stopped despising the very notion of the Games for long enough to examine them objectively."

Well, I’m not about to apologize for the salty ice cream, but I still pick up a napkin and wipe my hands clean.

From what I know, Arbor has always been a bit of a mess since he got out of the Games. And he’s an anomaly, too – he couldn’t see, and should have never won by most normal standards. People were shocked by the result of the 54th – even that he survived day one – but their interest seemed to wane a little as other victors claimed their crowns and Arbor apparently became a self-destructive alcoholic. And, frankly, I haven’t been paying much attention.

”Arbor,” I say, staring blankly at him with hands clasped in front of my face, annoyance bubbling up at the mention of the Games. ”You don’t seem very drunk. What’s the occasion?”

ooc: things took a turn for the worst and became kind of weird after 1 AM

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Last Edit: May 26, 2013 5:00:33 GMT -5 by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]

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aya
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

{ i don't believe in anything } // thundy Jun 10, 2013 10:23:26 GMT -5

Post by aya on Jun 10, 2013 10:23:26 GMT -5

I was supposed to do great things
I’d know the rule’s law
But I wasn’t raised to shoot for fame
I had the safety on

Arbor Halt—

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As the patron saint of the weak and weary, Arbor could quite plainly see that Warren Whip had seen better days. Though he still looked quite smug and pleased with himself, it was apparent that the head gamemaker had not spent his recent nights sleeping. Based on context, the victor surmised that this was a more positive sort of exhaustion than he usually faced, one that stemmed from too much success in too few hours, one from working and partying and being congratulated. This, as opposed to the exhaustion from having too little to do but think and drink and allow a decade worth of ghosts to revisit.

Despite what his awkward lead-in suggested, Arbor hadn't introduced himself to attack the man — the boy, really. It occurred to him that every time he met a new person, he greeted them with a self-important partially-relevant ramble, which certainly didn't encourage others to get to know him any better. That was a minor personality trait so deeply ingrained, however, that it wasn't worth his time to work on fixing. Not when there were so many thing more blatantly and drastically wrong with him. His effort was much better spent on correcting his rampant alcoholism, or his complete and total lack of desire to interact with anybody. A bit of condescension was minor in comparison, and, honestly should be expected from someone who'd held the knife in as many deaths as Arbor had — and who'd saved as many as he'd done.

After all, as a mentor, he'd brought home more tributes than anyone else in the recent decade. Sure, Julian just got his first victor these Games, as Topaz had the Games before, but victors from One and from Two — well, they were expected. He wouldn't begrudge his friends the distinction of being a successful mentor, but there was no comparison between bringing home someone who'd spent their entire life preparing for their victory and someone who'd spent their entire life half-starving and covered in dirt. You only needed to look at the usual standings for the Career district tributes versus the ones for Twelve; in recent years, Arbor's young charges had died the first or second day more often than not, whereas the tributes from One and Two made it to the finale — or damn near — practically every time.

His attention turned to the sticky, grimy handshake that Warren returned, and Arbor did his best not to scowl in disgust at the semi-congealed dessert that had found its way onto his palm. An intense dislike of having anything on his hands — from dirt to gloves — was an artifact of his pre-vision life, and instantly, a claustrophobic panic began welling up deep inside him. None-too-discreetly, he wiped the mess onto his pant leg, eliminating his own discomfort while making the mess one more responsibility for the poor stylist that had been trying to keep him looking presentable for the past decade.

"You don’t seem very drunk. What’s the occasion?" The non-sequitur caught Arbor entirely off guard, and a hearty chuckle found its way out of his throat. He swirled the drink in his hand, the ice cubes clinking gently against the glass. "Oh, I'm working on it, I assure you," he shot back, grinning. "But I figured I'd take it easy — it's my last night in the Capitol for the year, and I'd like to remember it when I wake up in the morning." He eyed the Gamemaker with more scrutiny than was probably considered polite, but he figured that Warren Whip was too out of it to notice or care.

"You don't seem very alert, and those —" he raised his eyebrows at the half-melted ice cream and the plate of soggy-looking fries "— are not going to help. You'd be having a bit more fun with some tequila in you." He made eye contact with the barkeep, who started looking Arbor's way with the mention of liquor. "Unless you're one of those boring sober types, of course, in which case — based on the state of you — I'd recommend you go home and sleep for a week." He raised his eyebrows at Warren expectantly, fully prepared to watch the Gamemaker conk out then and there, with his face in a bowl of ice cream.

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{characters}

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