the girl who cried wolf. Sonja x Charlotte.

charlotte {♔} brownings

District one wasn't as much of a downgrade from the capitol as she originally thought; sure the beds were more comfortable than the dingy ass couch calling her name back home not home, not any more at least and the glass reflecting her childish excitement was impeccable in comparison, but at least the fashion was bearable. Everybody, save for the other galling tributes and mentors where ever they were, wasted in clothes that could embarrass a damned clown, drenching their hair in gels, heat and dyes. Even people watching from the windows of the training centre felt like hot iron against her skin and pissed her off a little more each minute; purposely dressing like a six year old's dress-up doll made no sense no matter what way she looked at the situation. Just why.

Eventually, after seeing a over-sized man chameleoning into the attire of a fucking grapefruit, she drug herself into the actual training section itself and away from the far wall. Fashion never interested Charlotte in the slightest, (the ones making a huge deal of it never fit her style anyways) but making flaunting how much of an imbecile you were were fleas against her nerves. Of course, just by wandering the booths searching for one of interest left the lining of her stomach desolate, poor simpletons fondling with swords longing than their combined intelligence and lower districts flagging their frustration at memorizing plants upon plants tugging at her throat. Despite her short time actually serving time as a career, she could still actually use a weapon, fuck, she could have before training for three years.

Weak grunts cloak the air in nothing less than pathetic desperation, small knives clanging against the floor from poor aim or pure stupidity, judgements filtered through her mind even with her own lacking of aim. Insolent kids nitpicking weapons like play-things, as if they actually know what the fuck they're doing, confidence over shadowed with fear or a lust of reassurance they won't be killed first. Sad. Because it was, the mere sight of a lower district pouring their soul into a glaive when their weapon of choice should be their feet, running away; hell, stepping off their platform early felt like a better choice than clinging to life with harrowing desperation.

Out of the handful of stations available, the combat ones were clustered with the parasites of ignorance, lining up like toying around with a sharp object would get them somewhere worth their time in the arena. Yet, they were more a show than hanging around the survivalist stands where some shithead managed to weave her hair into one of the twig baskets, but the mere sight of bootless work her soul twitch in agony. Some were standing around by the dummies, trying their hand and share of misses and hits, while others were too busy sobbing eternally seemingly. One girl sat smirking, smooth of a knife sliding from her palm while staring cross-eyed into where ever the hell she was imagining; most likely bloodbath fodder, whatever.

Like ghost spite, the point in her hand inched towards its perpendicular second by second, until being grasped again by sickly fingers; metal pricks running across and into skin. A dithered reaction of either shock or pain morphed onto the potato sack she called a face, the ichor beginning to advance past the wound, coating the simpleton's palm like sink water, hisses and ouches springing from the girl's mouth on repeat. Reluctance to assist ate at Charlotte, the proclamation of just walking the feet-lengths over there seemed near too much of a hassle, nevertheless having to stitch her hand back together and actually speaking to the girl. Even so, her feet dragged themselves into the ground towards, hoping that somebody would step forwards first to help the one dumb ass tribute that managed to be injured before even entering the arena, yet Charlotte, between her narrow, furred eyebrows, was the only one paying attention for once.

Doused with disinclination, her fingers coiled around the incised hand, patting the red hues into the strands of her white shirt, looking more and more like a murderer rather a helping hand. "Are you a fucking idiot," the words painting into both their sets of hands, lingering as a statement, not a question.

charlotte {♔} brownings

Well damn honey, you fucked up,

Feeble chuckles spread from her lips at the sight of this girl's hand, robust smile etching across her pale face while red painted and amassed at the bottom of her shirt; Charlotte expected such a stunt from somebody from ten or eleven who probably never considered their lives on threat, but this asshat didn't seem from that far down, probably seven, they had a record for being dumbasses anyways. Canards from her escort were lost somewhere between the lines, but she vaguely picked up on double volunteers from district seven, but was this insolent actually capable of throwing her life away thinking she'd be the one to come back, especially with this cut up hand? Charlotte had her own share of absent-mindedness, (usually during drawn out, boring ass lectures nonetheless) but come on, ending up with a knife in your hand because of it was beyond stupidity.

Helping somebody actually turned out to be not absolute shit, besides all it took was a cotton shirt, a sliced hand and some blood, yet something in the air was off putting, besides the slight taste of iron. The, mostly clean, hand tensed up as shock and withdrew, back into the girl like a scared turtle head, wrinkles and all; the girl ripped off her own sleeve and tied it around with the strength of a third grader wrapping a gift for a sibling. Like a mirror, Charlotte's grin matched the girl's step back motion, turning back to its natural what the hell preset, and reluctance not to run away filed into her throat.

"I am not an idiot!"

Beautiful. Nothing quite says let's make a scene like a cretin's rampage, her face painted like evidence in a crime scene, blood coating both her arm and Charlotte's shirt; perhaps somebody could drag her away out of suspicion of foul play so she won't have to sit and watch the rest of training. "The knife slipped from my hand. An honest mistake," the girl spat out in some form of trying to regain the dignity she dropped on the floor with the knife, face growing to the shade of the slice on her hand. "It's not like I couldn't handle the knife- the knife couldn't handle me."

For a moment the both of them were quiet, Charlotte thinking over the verbal wail while the other sat flustered, until the steadiness of her lung's faltered before a muffled chain of chortles from broke the air between them. "An honest mistake is saying Charlie instead of Charlotte, not fucking up your hand," an honest mistake was trying to help a lost cause.