Public Training Sessions
Jun 14, 2016 22:37:39 GMT -5
Post by Kire on Jun 14, 2016 22:37:39 GMT -5
Ross Wolfe
a court is in session, a verdict is inno appeal on the docket today
just my own sin
Does, Says, Thinks
You had met a number of people in your time here. The first of them had been the girl who accompanied you here from District three. She, unlike you, hadn't placed herself onto this path but she was still taking things as stoically as you were - or nearly. You were not concerned with what was going to come as you already knew. Twenty-three people would die in the next two-and-a-half weeks, one of them could be you - as odds went you were most likely going to die, but that was true for everyone; a one-in-twenty-four shot is not a very large one.
You had also met the girls from One, Seven, and Eight in the first couple days. Each of them had had their own spin on the circumstance. Of them, unsurprisingly, the only one that was confident was the girl from One. Career districts, whether the kids trained or not, always produced the most self-assured of everyone. In addition, she was a volunteer like yourself. The two of you had obtained some odd looks from those who had simply accepted their fate, but among the group of the self-sacrificing you all had the barest bond of kinship. Each of you had, for a reason of your own, traded your life for that of another. There is something more binding in that than having your name drawn, something that makes you look strong in the eyes of those who don't understand - or perhaps foolish.
The others you met all fit under categories, all following the pattern you had witnessed time and time again in the Games. There are always the confident - the ones who never know the end can come until it's over, the terrified - the ones who never really stop shaking, the cautious - those who never trust and who double check each of their plans, and the reckless - the ones who throw themselves in with no mind for their health. Sometimes the lines between the categories blurred, but in the end each person can be plotted on the grid that the four points created. Where were you located? You might like to think you were near the center - balanced and stable - but you know that you lean rather heavily towards caution. While you were not gripped by fear, you also weren't deluding yourself. You know how quickly things can change. After all, with two words you had sent yourself here rather than moving on to live a comfortable, repetitive, boring life.
The line before you is a short one, seeing as you were from District three. With those from District one going first - the girl was walking into the room just now - you only had to wait for a handful of people to go before your turn arrived. Waiting was a thing you had always been good at. You had waited years to find your father and punish him for what he did, waiting mere hours was nothing to you. Now you sat like stone, solid and unmoving, as shifting occurred all around you. Like a boulder in a stream, you diverted the ripples around your stiff form to leave a patch of stillness behind. The peacekeeper keeping watch on the lot of you completely ignored you until you felt a sharp tap on your knee. "Move over." Nearly as curt as you with his words, he indicated that you were to slide down the bench in the direction of the door. Begrudgingly, you obeyed. If you were meant to wait, the least they could do was not interrupt the quiet you were embodying.
Each time you got comfortable in your inaction you were urged to move once more. Eventually, you were in the space right next to the door. Soon they would call your name and shove you through the door to make some sort of performance in front of the Gamemakers. This song and dance had always been hidden from the camera before and now that you were experiencing it for yourself, seeing the behind the scenes that you had never thought you would have, you were in a constant state of adjustment.
You know what people think of you. They see you as a mountain, or some work of stone, immobile and daunting. What they never see is the rushing current beneath the surface. A mountain you may be, but inside you harbored a core of molten rock. A dormant volcano disguised as a simple peak, intimidating in its own right but not displaying the real danger beneath the pointed exterior. Your mind is not as slow as someone might think, with your lack of speech or reaction to any number of things, and in the few moments you have been known to act you have caught them by surprise. This would be no different.
Diligently you had trained with blade and spear, bow and axe, for the past three days. What you picked up in terms of talent was hidden behind your observations of others. You knew what you could manage - drilling could be done in the privacy of your room - it was the strengths of others that you needed to discern. Now, you were set to be in private with only the eyes of the judges on high watching you. This would be a moment to show something of your skill. Even so, ability with weapons was not an uncommon thing around here. To show the molten soul that dwells below your granite skin is the real goal. You have to let them know what you really are, the same way you had shown your father what he really was. Only you are not nothing, no, you are the son of a wonderful woman and a lone wolf among twenty-three sheep. You had to pull the wool from over the Gamemakers eyes.
Your name was called, barked almost, as the peacekeeper ushers you through the door. Purposeful, but without hurry, you enter the room. You are never truly casual, but it is a stance you have learned to adopt: back straight but neck slightly bent, almost leaning backwards as though sitting instead of walking. If you had had pockets your hands would be in them.
You search the room in a matter of second, eyes scanning for tools that would be helpful. Instead of objects, your eye catches on a man standing out of the way. Abruptly, you gesture for him to come over to you, two fingers jerked toward your chest in a sharp command. For a moment you see the indignation rise in his eyes and the quick flicker of his eyes casting to the Gamemakers for a sign of whether to acquiesce or not, then the setting of his shoulders as he realizes what the answer will be. As unforgiving as you, he stalks forward. "What." It's not a question, but a challenge. He waits for you to tell him something, to speak to him.
The face of your father's, the expression of a man who cared only for himself and never spared a thought for anyone who he might harm, lays over the visage of the trainer before you. Before anyone knows, your fist connects with the man's face. The surprise crosses his face as his head snaps to the side. By the time he's turned back, though, he looks nothing short of pissed off. Meanwhile, you feel nothing but frosty calm. The roiling center of lava that fills you stills for the first time in ages. Inside of you, hell is freezing over.
The man still isn't prepared for the speed you have, and so you strike at him again before he can shift to the offence. You are not trainer and tribute, you are two males in a fight over territory. Snarling, hackles up, you bare your canines at the man. He does the same, blocking your swing with his wrist as he gives you a wolf's grin. You know that, while you hadn't struck the spot you were aiming for, he would show a mark for that hit.
Retaliating, finally kicking into gear, the man brings his knee up to strike at you in the groin. You see the attack, shifting sideways to avoid the dirty hit, but aren't able to get fully clear before his knee connects. You know that you will also show signs of this fight, but the icy clarity that has temporarily soothed the turbulent magma core you hide is addicting and nothing but defeat would cause you to cease.
This time your fist strikes true and a crack rings out. There's a perilous moment where you think perhaps you had broken your hand, but then the blood that oozes through your fingers shows you otherwise. Instead of a broken finger for you, the man had a broken nose. The crimson is a mark of the future to come, but you meet it with the same detached acknowledgement that you had greeted everything with so far.
You couldn't hold onto the detached air as knuckles crashed into your eye. This man was more than your father could ever hope to be. Your father hadn't had the strength or the courage to fight back, instead he had simply lain where you knocked him as you hit him again and again. Each precision strike you had performed working flawlessly as your disgusting excuse for a sire struggled weakly to push you away. Now, before you, was a man willing to hit back. The grin on your face was as cold as frozen rock that had formed in your soul. Only one of you would be walking away from this fight.
Clearly the man thought it would be him, for he struck once more at your leg. This time he kicked, taking advantage of your reeling from the blow to your eye. A quick, sharp pain lanced up your left knee as the hard sole of his shoe struck hard. This wouldn't stop you, though, and he knew it. Things needed to get more drastic now; little bruises were not going to end this fight.
He had started the fight off dirty, and so you decided to follow his lead - just this one time you promised yourself, you would be a follower just once - and deal an unfair blow. The crunch that crackled through the otherwise silent room rose from the floor this time, trailing from the spot where you had driven your heel into the top of his foot. A small noise escaped his lips, then a puff of air. You weren't the type to impress easily, and yet there was a second of recognition within you at his attempts to keep a grip on himself. A broken foot was much more painful than a handful of bruises and a broken nose.
Angry, the trainer went to return the blow. You were ready for him, though, and moved mostly out of the way. With his foot broken and your quick movement, he only managed to land on the side of your foot where you knew it would be sore for a few days. Mercilessly, you brought your knee up. He, as you had, saw the blow coming and moved mostly out of the way. You felt the impact in your knee, but knew that the injury was minimal.
Before you could lower your leg, he slammed the side of his fist down on your knee. Another bruise was added to the collection you would certainly be sporting, but like the previous contusions this had little impact. His hand would be sore, too, for knees were not the softest of spots on the human body.
The wild, angry swing that came toward you was dodged with cool indifference. For a moment you had felt the heat of your molten core beginning to melt though, about to break and cause the masked volcano to erupt, then you saw the look on the man's face. Your father had worn that look when you had first struck him. Frustration over the surprise written clearly over his features. The ice encrusted your heart again and you continued on your calculated rampage.
The trainer saw your next blow coming and once again intended to block you. However, you landed the strike with enough force that you were satisfied with the hit. When the man struck your knee again, you decided that you had had enough of this trading of paltry blows. When he went to hit you again, you rocked back before driving your shoulder into his torso. He tipped over backward, nearly catching himself until you leaned once more into the push. The thud as he hit the floor made his teeth clack. You looked down at him, embodying the icy mountain that you were so often seen to be. "Enough."
You can hear the growl he makes, see the furious look on his face, and nearly feel the way his jaw creaks as his teeth clench. From the start, you had known it would end up here. After all, only one of you would walk away from this fight. That person had always been you.
You catch the man's good foot as he tries to kick at you. Wordless, you set it down so his leg was stretched out and stomp hard on the man's shin. For the last time, a crack rises up like disturbed dust, coating the area in the dust of a man's pain. You are finished here. Once more you have beaten the shadow of the man that will haunt you until you die. Perhaps that's why you sent yourself along this road. One way or another, you would shake the specter that haunts you - even if that means making a few more to replace it.
You don't say anything more as you leave.
h a z e l
dazzle me, dazzle me
dazzle me with gold
you'll never be what you want to be with
all that money, that money
dazzle me, dazzle me
dazzle me with gold
you'll never be what you want to be with
all that money, that money
Rage was not an uncommon thing among the tributes. As she watched them from her perch during their time training, she played a game with herself by trying to assign a number to each tribute based on the amount of anger they harbored. While Ambrosia kept her sharp eye on movements and Kyle monitored with what seemed to be indifferent, Hazel converted every clenched jaw and tense muscle into an equation. Some were easy to spot - calm, cool, confident, they scored low on the list - maybe in the twenties. Others had a deadly mix of anger and fear. Forties, occasionally fifties. One, however, had stood out to her.
Ross Wolfe. 84.
As she watched him fight the trainer, though, she felt a sinking feeling of disappointment. Ambrosia leaned forward, crossing her wrists and frowning. "Hand to hand? Not impressed." Hazel didn't comment. She was more concerned about the bruises blooming on his skin. Ambrosia seemed to agree, because a moment after he left she stated, "Not a wise decision. Injuring himself could put him at a disadvantage."
Judging by the almost invisible wrinkle between Kyle's eyebrows, he was also unimpressed by the injuries. Hazel glanced over to where the District Three tribute had left, tilting her head. 84. Something had given him the strength to fight, even with his injuries. If she cared about him, she would have wondered what it was. Instead, she tapped her nails against her knee and tried to estimate how quickly his injuries would heal. "He's able to channel and control his anger." Sighing, she gave a little shrug. "Too bad he hurt himself in the process."
Glancing down at her clipboard, she penned in a new number for Mr. Ross Wolfe. 7.
not in it for the money, just in it for the thrill
living in the moment, paying for the kill
golden grill of sadness, mid-life wasted youth
always ends up like this, always gonna lose
living in the moment, paying for the kill
golden grill of sadness, mid-life wasted youth
always ends up like this, always gonna lose