Tavina Broach // D6 // [FIN]

Tavina Broach // D6 // [FIN] Aug 13, 2014 19:52:03 GMT -5

Quote

Post by matt colekay d9a [arx] on Aug 13, 2014 19:52:03 GMT -5

i try to find a way
out of this maze
it's got me crazed
i'm in a daze

Question: Will I be caught by the Peacekeepers?

Research:
-I have escaped once before; however, I received help from someone who is no longer living, making this possibility more illogical if I am caught again.

-The Peacekeepers are an elite band of authority aided by weaponry and years of training that has granted them superior physical strength, tactical wit, and social persuasion. I do not possess the capability to use a firearm of any sort nor do I have the physical strength or tactical skills needed to defend myself. I do, however, possess some knowledge of chemicals which may aid in a possible escape such as: CHCl3 (Chloroform), C17H27NO3 (PAVA), C4H10O (Diethyl ether), and other chemical agents that cause burns.

-It has been nearly 4 years since my last capture. I have aged since then, making me potentially harder to recognize.

-I must attend the Reaping. This fact brings about many complications.
-I must come face to face with many Peacekeepers who may or may not recognize me by appearance, voice, or name.
-I am surrounded by all of District 6, which brings about 2 points.
-More people to recognize who I am or seek me out.
-More faces and bodies to hide amongst - becoming just another face
-I am essentially protected by individuals who value my services which includes each of member of the Beauvallet drug operation.¹

-I have been given a street/code name to help hide my identity if information about me must be given out to clients or potential clients. Street/code name: Thorn.

-My laboratory is well hidden from accidental run ins and is disguised under a very reputable family name. Name: Beauvallet

-With the rising popularity of the Beauvallet drug ring, there has become what has been described as a "need" by the Lieutenants of the operation for more brute force. This brute force has been much more active as of late, and have been creating very big names for themselves. As a rule, I must assume that whispers of illegal activity (murder, drug dealing/selling, torture, and the possession of generally prohibited weapons) have reached the ears of the authority that seeks me out.

-Peacekeepers are experts in torture. This gives them the ability to induce enough pain to gain important information. So, for example, say one of my superiors was arrested. Arrested individual may be subject to torture. What level of torture they could endure before they gave away information is unknown and variable among my superiors, but it is possible for them to give away names of those they work with.
-Note: It can be assumed that, "Who is your supplier?" or "Who do you work for?" are common questions asked by Peacekeepers.
-(Note: I could be considered a supplier if they do not wish to give away the names of their own superiors.)

-I do not wish to terminate my career as the producer of illegal substances at this moment in time nor does it look like I will in the near future. Time and the passing of time makes it more and more likely that I will be captured by those who wish to persecute me.
-Note: I will not be persecuted based on a crime I did not commit alone; I will, however, submit to persecution, if caught, to the production of illegal substances. I will not let myself be caught based on a false accusation alone.
-Note: I also quite enjoy my job as long as do not allow myself to see the larger picture.

-I am rather strong willed when it comes to avoiding being caught. I am driven by many outside forces, the top two being: my parents' well-being and my own well-being. When it comes to something worth fighting for (such as my life and/or my parent's lives) it has been shown that individuals are a bit harder to put down.

-I was called a "Baby Killer" because of what I was accused of 4 years ago. No one takes to kindly to someone they call "Baby Killer."
-It should be noted that all material and witness accounts put against me in this case were falsified and used as blackmail in order to persuade me to produce drugs for the ring in which I am currently employed.

-Quoting the Head Peacekeeper of District 6 at a school presentation: "Criminals will get what's coming to 'em. It may take weeks, months, years - but eventually, what comes 'round, goes 'round. They can run, but they can't hide."

***Most above statements and research are subject to varying degrees of variability.***

Hypothesis: If I continue to produce drugs that are being used specifically, and under my knowledge, for illicit behavior, I will be persecuted. Also, if persecution ensues for my current crimes, the old accusations against me will be brought forth and also be a part of my persecution.

Experiment: N/A

Analysis: N/A

Conclusion: N/A

I've been told to spend my time on more productive things, namely more illegal activities. The experiment has been discontinued.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

The tick of the clock and the humming of the air conditioning are the only noises that can be heard. Peaceful. But lonely. It's not like I get the privilege of assistants or employees or even just colleagues like my superiors do. And never have I ever received any sort of special treatment. You'd think that the girl behind the whole mess - yes, that is me! - would've earned a bit more respect after four years in the business, but as the empty lab shows, that is just not true.

There isn't much for me to do at the moment except to sort through some old paperwork and scrapped experiments, seeing as the latest demands and quotas from the high-ups have been met, packaged, and stacked at the door, ready for shipment. I grab a folder from one of my neatly organized file cabinets and toss it atop the now empty lab table, pushing myself up and twisting over to my stomach, pen behind my ear, kicking my feet back and forth. I open the file, finding some of my old notes inside.

¹Osgarus Beauvallet - Code name: The Owl - Age:18 - Status: Owner and superior to all who are part of the Beauvallet drug ring. (Observations: He is scary as hell and I have personally never seen anyone fuck with him. Business like, yet most orders of actual business are handed down to Amity Rainecourt. I worked under his father for a year, though I never met him.)
Amity Rainecourt - Code name: Arrow - Age:18 - Status: Second in Command (Observations: Also scary as hell and seems to enjoy her position. I see her more often than I do Mr. Beauvallet, but even still not very often. She probably has better things to do than deal with me.)
Ingran Ansgot - Code name: Crossbones - Age:17 - Status: Amity's bitch (Observations: To me personally, he is the scariest of all. His code name arose from killing people like me just because Amity snapped her fingers and said, "Sic 'em!" Plus I see him much more often than most anyone - seriously, the guy wants something. You can see it in his eyes.)
Gatrix Cavelier - Code name: The Shark - Age:18 - Status: Leader of the Hitmen (Observations: Okay I think is just safe to assume now that everyone is scary as hell and don't fuck with them or they will hurt you in some way, shape, or form. No backstory; she's just bad as far as I know.)
Mercius Verva - Code name: The Fox - Age:17 - Status: Gatrix's bitch - (Observa------

I hear a rustling and I flinch into life, jumping up, wielding my pen and pointing it in the direction of the door, only to realize that a few papers had fallen to the floor. I let out a sigh of relief and laugh. “Ripred, I am such a winner.” I say, bending to pick up the papers, only to gasp in surprise when I find my thermometer lying on the floor. “Hey!” I exclaim, my lips twitching into a smile.

I set the papers back on the table and pick up Red off the floor. “Red, I thought I put you away. Not jumping out of drawers now are we?” I ask, wagging my finger at the thermometer. I rinse him off and put him back in the drawer labeled, "Thermometers." I shake my head with a smile. Red is such a rascal. I swear he is the only thermometer that misbehaves. I grab the papers that fell on the floor, glancing at each of them as I climb back on the table, looking to sort them back into the folder.

But one catches my eye, and I don't just shove it the other papers. I read.

Dear Mom,

Remember how you would braid my hair into eight parts? You would call me an octopus and I would tell you all about how the octopus's ink is actually black because it contains lots of melanin, and that it isn't poisonous but contains chemicals that can harm smaller organisms. You would braid my hair like that once a week and each time I would tell you all about the octopus melanin and each time you would just sit and smile and nod. Remember you listened, even though you knew exactly what I was going to say?

I was hoping, just this one last time, you would listen. Just one last time. That's all I ask and then you can ignore me if you really want to. But I really hope you would keep listening, even after I am finished. You are my Mom after all.

I didn't do what they said I did.

The last time I saw you, you said, "I can't stand to look at you anymore!" And that selfish part of me hopes that you were just angry, confused, and upset, but I know that a part of you was forever broken by what I was accused of. I was just 14, Mom, but I understood why this accusation, out of all things hurt you so much.

You dreamed of a big family, but after lots and lots of tries, all you could get was me. I was the miracle child, the only one you were ever going to get, and you cherished not only me, but every other child you met.

Mom, I didn't make a drug to induced an abortion. How could I? How could I do something like that when I knew about all you had been through? I was framed. I was framed and blackmailed by some very bad and dangerous people and I'm sorry that I was forced to give into their demands. I can't say what I do now, but I can say it is much better than killing an unborn child.

I'm sorry I had to leave. I hope you can understand it was for the best, and I hope that you can forgive me for all the trouble I caused. I see now I should've been a better daughter. I'm sorry you couldn't have a better one because you deserved one if not a thousand daughters better than me.

If you ever see me again, I hope you know that I am going to ask for my hair braided into 8 parts, no matter how old I am, and I am going to tell you all about that octopus again.

With all my love,
Tavina

I swallow hard and purse my lip, shoving the unsent letter back into the folder and shoving the folder back into the file cabinet. I run my hand through my thick, wavy hair, the dark brown fronds feeling too greasy for my taste.

It was never like this for me before. I used to have a life that I was proud to call mine. Sure it lacked adventure and general flare, but it was mine. I had learned to cope with the natural boring-ness of my life - get up, go to school, get good grades, play at being a scientist (you know, the kind that found antidotes and synthesized vaccines - the good kind), and come home to very loving parents and an apartment that was just the right size for all of us to live in happy, cozy comfort.

I had a safe life. Depending on how you look at it, where I am now could be considered a blessing and not a tragedy. Me? Sometimes I am still unsure.

I remember when I used to where nicer clothes, and not the tattered rags or lab coats (I will admit the lab coats are pretty bad ass) that I wear most days now. I try to look like a professional when my superiors come in to check up on the place, me, or the drugs, but often their visits are unexpected, and I am caught with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, and I always reek of either sweat or some sort of cooking drug, if not both. I used to worry about my appearance. Now I only worry about quotas and deadlines.

“But,” I say, to myself, kicking the door of the file cabinet shut. “I can dooo ... this!”

And rather than bounding on top of one of the lab tables like I had intended, I end up tripping over a lab stool and planting my face into the edge of the table instead.

“Or maybe I can't do that ...” I moan, touching the bottom of my chin to see if I managed blood this time. My fingers come away clean. Of course, because I'm not even bad ass enough for blood. I pull myself off of the floor and onto the top of a lab stool, rubbing my chin and holding back the bit of tears that well in my eyes. I glance around to find my lab equipment looking back. “What are you idiots laughing at anyway? Let's see you try that!” Silence.

“Ha, yeah, that's right you lack legs and arms and brains and mouths so you can't answer or jump on tables!” I twist so that my knees fall under the table and look down into a spoon, my head oddly shaped in the reflection. “I really need some friends.” I nod at oddly shaped me, opening my mouth and sticking out my tongue to distort my reflection even more. “You know, normal friends that aren't in charge of me or killing people.” I chuckle and pick up the spoon, tossing it in the sink. “Or spoons.”

I've been hiding out for this long, running from past accusations, wishing to go back home, yet even with the dumb bitch who blackmailed me long dead (And let me just say, Ha! Deserved everything she got.) still sitting here making science happen to my hearts content. I could just ... walk out, right? Go back home to my friends and family and school and life?

But I won't. Never will. I've found I don't even really want to. As long as I can sit here and ignore the outside world, as long as I can keep hiding from those who seek me out, and as long as I just focus on the science and ignore the whole "my co-workers are either planning to kill me or are killing someone else for no particular reason right now" thing, I can do this for the rest of my life. And I can have fun doing it.

Just stick to science. I've done it for this long, I can manage it the rest of my life, right?

the tragic flaw
is what makes it raw
so let it fall; i'll get through it
even if I have to crawl

Tavina Broach ҉

district 6 - eighteen - the producer