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Kire
Retired Staff

2,937 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jul 16, 2015 21:45:21 GMT -5

thinking about thonking

Public Training Sessions Jun 14, 2016 22:37:39 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Kire on Jun 14, 2016 22:37:39 GMT -5

Ross Wolfe

a court is in session, a verdict is in
no 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

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

Last Edit: Jun 16, 2016 0:25:44 GMT -5 by Kire

On hills and waves on stormy days.

Python
Retired Staff

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Pronouns: She/Her
last seen Oct 27, 2024 23:26:22 GMT -5

Public Training Sessions Jun 15, 2016 1:51:27 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Python on Jun 15, 2016 1:51:27 GMT -5

MACHAON AMADOR

His heart was surfacing from his throat. For what was essentially a glorified school talent show, he felt anxious enough to skip his second serving of breakfast and avoid nausea. His nerves were already glued together in clumps, leaving him feeling numb whilst the rest of his body bathed in a vat of adrenaline. Everything about this was stupid. He knew better than to assume a training score was the key to his victory. From what he recalled during the very little time he spent researching last year’s Games, Ezero scored higher than the actual winner, who scored a fucking one. The lowest damn score – proving that he was basically useless – yet he was the one with the crown and a life. It begged the question: did this bullshit actually matter?

His brain said no, but his gut argued yes. Whether or not a decent score could earn him the sponsor that would save his life, the thought of standing in front of the Gamemakers unnerved him. They were practically self-proclaimed Gods upon a pedestal; they had full power over everything that could possibly end his life. Sure, maybe a number didn’t matter in the long run but an impression did. As much as he wanted to sit and brood and flunk this like a school test, he didn’t have it in him to evade conformity. So naturally, he spent a lot of time overthinking what he could possibly to do make an impression. His skill set was clear: healing. It wasn’t an exciting skill to show somebody no matter how important it was. Most tributes learned the basics anyway.

A computer voice spoke his name, and he walked through grey automatic doors with only knowledge as his armor. He didn’t have trapping experience, he had no reason to fight back in Eight, and he had only recently learned the proper way to hold a knife. The situation desperately called for creativity, but that had never been his strong suit. He had to dig into his memories like he was a graverobber at a cemetery. What was there to uncover? They were subtle details from the days the medical center were short on supplies, or the evenings when we had to spend overtime grinding plants with a mortar and pestle. Plants were not particularly exciting, but he figured the knowledge would come in handy later.

He paused in front of the Gamemakers to scan their faces and quickly decided it was a bad idea. Rarely did he ever feel like a pathetic mouse, but their gazes were piercing glass shards and he knew they would step on him if they had to. Announcing himself was redundant, so he rushed toward the healing supplies and grabbed an empty syringe. ”This isn’t about antivenom or anything,” he said, shattering an awkward silence. The echo made him cringe. He had a vial in his hand a second later, and used the syringe to draw the liquid out. ”It’s about air bubbles.”

He sounded like an idiot. Nothing about this was the least bit enthralling but he was in too deep to retreat now. He approached one of the anatomically identical dummies – the ones with blood vessels he could actively locate within a second’s time – and stuck the needle into its brachial artery. ”Inject one of these into a blood vessel and you’re looking at a heart attack or a stroke.” He stared at the dummy, well aware that nothing was going to happen. Their hearts weren’t real and therefore did not circulate blood. It didn’t live, and therefore it couldn’t die. Not the way he wanted it to. ”Not exciting, but it gets the job done.”

The capitol was all about drama and extravagance, so this was not enough. He supposed if he received a low score he wouldn’t be too embarrassed, but he was not about to leave with only the air bubble trick in his wake. Removing an axe from the weapons rack, he sighed and tried not to think about the gazes bearing down on him. Maybe he was so boring they didn’t give a shit anymore. That was fine, he thought. Eight was nothing special, and he was known as that “brooding asshole” by his fellow tributes. By now, it was probably his destiny to die horribly.

In one fell swoop he brought the axe down and split the skull of his target dummy. Blood and brains trickled from splintered bone after it toppled over, and he grimaced at the sight. He was no stranger to fluids and death but true gore was found in the other medical centers, where lives in jeopardy could be saved. Where he worked, life consistently faded and Death counted souls like sheep. The dummy in front of him was nothing and nobody, but it was still an ugly sight. Perhaps a glimpse into the future.

He raised his arms and swung the axe down again, aiming for the shoulder. The sharpened edge bit into muscle and bone but it wasn’t clean. Human bones were durable, and one crunch was not enough to sever it. He was forced to continue his violent endeavor until the arm separated from its shoulder completely. Performing such a heinous act on a corpse would prove more mentally scarring than this false crime against a mannequin, but he was hoping he wouldn’t have to disrespect a corpse for survival. He simply wanted to show the Gamemakers that he could do this if necessary. He had no intention of following the infamous legacy of skinning tributes and using their bones for armor.

The other tools he needed were across the room: a knife, a hammer, and a sharply-carved rock. With all three at his belt, he knelt beside the severed arm and pressed the blade against flesh. He sliced until he felt the unmistakable resistance of bone then carved a ribbon down the center, using all of his strength and amateur technique to peel everything away from the humerus. Once he sawed through the tendons and ligaments he wrenched out the long bone. It was coated in blood. He wiped as much of it off as he could with the hem of his shirt, paying no attention to the odd smell or how it felt nothing like real human blood. Somehow that didn’t comfort him, because as much as he could handle blood he couldn’t vouch that blood spilled during murder would not make him queasy.

He began to crush the ends of the bone with the hammer, creating fragments and somewhat jagged edges. He was ungraceful in his movements but he didn’t care if he looked pretty. It was not execution that mattered, but the ultimate outcome. When he was finished, he sharpened one end with his rock. It was more labor-including than he had assumed. As he grinded and grinded, he thought about how boring this might actually be to them. What if it didn’t matter at all? He considered this creative, but perhaps it was just another circus act. For a panic-stricken moment, he felt stupid. Then he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to care, so he shoved those thoughts aside.

It was sloppy, but he knew it would work. A hand-made bone weapon, sharp enough to pierce through skin. However, only a test run would prove him right. ”I could crush a few plants and lace the tip with poison, but I’d rather not waste anymore time.” He shrugged and used his right arm to skewer a nearby dummy’s neck, adding a fresh coat of blood to his makeshift weapon. It worked, thank Ripred. That was all he cared about at this point.

”Cool.”

He set the bone down and walked away quietly.

table by zoë

AMBROSIA FAE

hard like a rock, cold like a stone
white like a diamond, black like coal
cut like a jewel, yeah i repair
myself when you're not there

Shifting uncomfortably in her modern cup chair, Ambrosia adjusted her skirt before resting back into place. It'd been without the essence of multiple crystalline wine glasses, filled just below from spilling over the brim thoughtfully, of the tinged fruity substance which kept her sane throughout these both interesting, and dreaded hours.

Minutes form before the second of the District Eight duo steps through the training center doors, a loud click as they close and Ambrosia barely even gets a second to read the boy. Let alone take a crack at his name. However considerate, she looks to the papers stacked upon her clipboard and notepad, taking a gaze for seconds, and his comments become background noise before her attention returns. ("Macaroon (^TM Avalon) Amador?"), perhaps she was wrong, but she hasn't a necessary reason to remember it yet.

He demonstrates knowledge on basic anatomy, the effects and consequences of air bubbles being permitted entry through veins and arteries, forming an air embolism. "Does he expect to stab someone with a syringe while they're running?", Kyle remarks, though Ambrosia takes another sip of her White Merlot in return. She is intrigued, or at least the medical side of her, however the use of needles always made her cringe.

The boy from Eight continues on, making it clear he wasn't finished without being destined to show what he was capable of. It was to Ambrosia's impression he was making out to be skinning humans alive for their bones, like previous tributes Celia Mortuus, and Beretta Corléon. Particularly, she thought it to be out of his style - but fashioning the dummies underlying plastic, meant to mimic a humans bone beneath flesh, into a sharpened weapon. There were side comments from Hazel, embellished with a quirky smirk, such as, "Does he expect a fellow tribute to just sit there and let him hack away at them, firstly?" Ambrosia hadn't known what these kids expected or thought, and surely neither do the tributes themselves.

The training session ends within a more reasonable time frame, unlike several others before it. She'd been impressed by his knowledge, and improv demonstrated. Although, not much skill was shown, and it was the only factor that could've been added. She scrawled down a ? with her pointed pencil for now, hours later she erases and finally jots down a 7.

solitaire
something you consider rare
i don't wanna be compared
with that cheap shimmer and glitter

GAMEMAKER

Last Edit: Jun 15, 2016 22:06:10 GMT -5 by Avalon

chelsey
District Mayor

[M:-650]

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last seen Jul 2, 2016 17:22:46 GMT -5

queen of inactivity

Public Training Sessions Jun 15, 2016 17:18:41 GMT -5

Quote

Post by chelsey on Jun 15, 2016 17:18:41 GMT -5

cedric
lane

I am not throwing away my shot

If looks could really kill, then maybe Cedric Lane actually had a chance at winning this thing.

He has half the heart to wish he was competing in a beauty pageant rather than the Hunger Games, but, even then, there’s still that fucking Justice Fray with his stupid dimpled smile and sparkling eyes and chiseled jaw and there was no chance of even trying to beat that. Sure, maybe Cedric was once popular with the female population of Twelve back home, but this is a whole different ball park. The type of men you fall in love with here don’t usually have mining dust underneath their fingernails or a back curved with a permanent hunch. The type of men you fall in love with here shine and dazzle and can throw a fucking knife properly.

As soon as the leather handle of the dagger departs from Cedric’s sweaty palms, he knows it’s a miss. The gamemakers know it’s a miss. The whole wide world that’s betting on his death knows it’s a miss.

It clatters, unceremoniously, onto the ground, a good five feet to the left of the dummy he was aiming for. The sound echoes and ricochets off of the cold, metallic walls.

He’s shaking so badly that he has to look at the ground beneath his feet to make sure that an actual earthquake isn’t causing it. Wasn’t there an earthquake or some other natural disaster here, before? He thinks to himself as he silently picks up another, useless dagger. He turns towards the unscathed dummy. Or maybe, I’m the only natural disaster that’s ever happened to this place.

It started off okay. They called his name after they called out the twenty-three other names. He walked in calmly and casually, keeping his tremors to a minimum. Maybe the gamemakers couldn’t even tell that he was this close to shitting his pants by the time he announced “Cedric Lane, District Twelve” to them. He even gave them a little bow - his torso flopping over with both hands gestured wildly to his sides, as if he was trying to say “Yeah, I’m playing your game. And, yeah, I don’t really give a shit.” Because, what was Cedric Lane, really, if not a liar?

He was a bad shot. The dagger feels too heavy in his hands, the leather grip too slippery, the blade too reflective of a scared face he doesn’t want to recognize as his. He knows it’s a long shot to win this thing, and he can’t even make it half-way.

The dagger falls to the floor and the dummy laughs at him. Taunts him. Tells him, “Better luck next time, dick!” Cedric picks up another dagger and cracks his neck on both sides, rolls his shoulders a bit, convinces himself that even liars and bad shots and dicks get second chances.

He aims and he misses. He picks up another one, and aims, and misses. He picks up another one, and aims, and misses. He picks up another one, and aims, and misses. He picks up another one, and aims, and -

It was a sad sight, if there ever was one. An aggravated and manic little boy throwing darts at a target that would stubbornly not be hit. Huffs of anger and frustration jettisoned along with every cursed knife. Like a beauty pageant contestant walking the stage with a smile that screamed, “I’m worth something! I’m worth something! I’m worth -”

Finally, a blade lodges itself into the heart of the no-longer-laughing dummy. “There!” Cedric shouts, triumphantly and foolishly, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. His breathing slows down as his nervous system adjusts to the victory. Then, his head catches up to the rest of the world, and he finds that he can’t look up into the eyes of any of the gamemakers. The dummy shakes a little at the force of his hit, then stills and stays silent - a fortress among the grave of littered daggers surrounding it.

I’m worth something.

What was Cedric Lane, really, if not a liar?

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

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last seen Nov 22, 2024 8:18:53 GMT -5

Public Training Sessions Jun 17, 2016 13:29:01 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2016 13:29:01 GMT -5

H E A T H C L I F F

The training session was a combination of charisma, uniqueness, talent, and nerve.

Heathcliff had fretted over what to prepare. District two tributes were always renowned for their strength and prowess. That was the overall purpose, to prove just what they had suspected about the boy as a career. And yet—he was small, dreamy eyed, and barely appeared interested in his lessons in the training center. The dullness of it all had become particularly tedious toward the end, and Heathcliff was reminded that his mother would have never tolerated such daydreaming. How could dancing have been so much more rigorous than training for the day that he would have to murder the other boys and girls in cold blood. And what of the question of why he was there at all?

To win? No, that was boring. Heathcliff wasn’t stupid enough to desire fame or glory. He certainly wasn’t avenging anyone. And yet, as he stripped out of his clothes in the waiting room, was growing ever more confident in what he was going to show the waiting game makers.

Death was nothing more than an elegant dance. The drama of the games had always been a delicate dance of sorts to Heathcliff. There were the ones who entered friends, or lovers, or any manner of relations (had he heard Justice mutter something about fuckbois?)—and this was the rise of the curtain. The bloodbath the initial dance with cannons orchestrating their background. And the tears, the cries to the stars about life, hope—it was a wonder the capitol loved the games so. The moral hang ups some of the others had about killing fellow competitors were truly darling. There was nothing ethically ambiguous about wanting to survive when they had no choice but to get rid of anyone in their way. Just as long as they didn’t eat the corpses, or burn them, mutilate them—that would’ve been in poor taste. Art was not obscene.

When Heathcliff entered wearing nothing but his dancing compression shorts, he thought to himself that capitolites truly liked air conditioning. His nipples would be on full display, and he wondered then how much of a distraction his almost nude body would be but then—he snapped back to the present, and bowed before them. “Travers, District two.” He set to work at the camouflage station with a smile, gingerly taking coal and ash, and streaking his eyes. High drama. He aimed to contour his face, finding raspberries, birch, and alder to crush together for a foundation. Heathcliff rouged his cheeks and circled his lips. For good measure, he placed two firm hand prints atop his naked chest.

He faced a single training dummy. Bare feet cold against the arena floor, he stamped one foot forward, then another, and leapt into his dance. Here he darted around the dummy, graceful, nimble, and strong. His mother would have been screaming at him to keep his feet together, to not go wide and to keep his form. They would see that he was a boy from district two, but one that brought truth to each and every life he stole. He took off into a run and, hands sprung and body tumbling, landing square at the table of knives. He grabbed one gingerly, and swung his hand backwards, sending the dagger just wide of his opponent, grazing the thing’s shoulder. He moved slowly then, grabbing a second knife and angling the blade for dramatic effect. This was launched, thumping quickly into its stomach. Heathcliff cocked his head to the side and grabbed a final knife.

Heathcliff pumped his arms and legs and took off into a run. Of all that he wanted to prove, the boy from two would display the showmanship of Heathcliff Travers. He broke into a tumble not ten feet from the dummy. Stopping just a few feet from his target, he lay flat across the cold floor, hunched like a cat ready to pounce atop its prey. Here, he pressed forward, the tight muscles on his back showing, and he heaved, swinging his legs up and around him, until his body was motionless in a handstand. In a single movement, he brought his legs forward to grasp the knife between his feet. Whipping his body forward, he brought his legs down and the knife through the dummy’s chest. He kicked back, knocking the thing over, all the while tumbling back into position.

He stood in his spot, his sweat streaked face awash of black, orange, and red. With another bow he was finished.

Made by Frankel

pogue
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Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

Public Training Sessions Jun 17, 2016 17:57:36 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pogue on Jun 17, 2016 17:57:36 GMT -5

( a c h i l l e s )

"Again."

Styx's voice cuts the air like a knife through flesh, scattering and bouncing against the metal walls of the training room, pressing against the doors before settling down on her shoulders, cracking the bones under the pressure she'd taken in. She lays broken, buried, consumed beneath the plan of a goddess. Wordlessly, she stirs, breathing ice into her lungs. It flitters around in her chest before decomposing into arsenic, tearing through her lungs and cracking against her ribcage. It snaps bones beneath its fingertips, frying every nerve as she drags herself up from the floor, feeling the scattered shards of broken glass prick beneath her fingers.

Her rib. It's broken.

"Styx, my rib. It's-"

"Stop."

Her words fall short, mouth bleeding silence, spilling onto the floor beneath her. Styx's footsteps ring heavy against the metal floors, pounding on the insides of her skull, worse than any broken rib, any broken being. Her opponent steps back, dragging his sword along the metal, sparks dancing around it. In his place stands Styx, fire crawling against her flesh, dripping to the floor and melting the metal around her. She's wrapped in a tight dress, black with tints of orange, blinding her as they reflect the light, setting the body of a goddess on fire, except she rises from the ashes like a phoenix from flames, a beauty in the streaks of sunlight that spill through the window.

Achilles Muto collapses halfway through dragging herself to her feet, gargling saliva in her mouth before spitting it to the floor, watching as the saliva mixes with the blood coming from her split lip, stains gathered on the metal in front of her. She can't bring herself to meet the gaze of her maker, can't bring her hands together to offer prayers, can't sacrifice everything she has already given. Instead, she locks eyes with the obsidian black ankle bracelet wrapped around Styx's right ankle, feeling every bit of light reflect and dance against her skin.

She see's the shadows of a hand, murky and lifeless, shooting towards her. And then she feels Styx's hand beneath her chin, pulling her head up to meet her gaze. Her eyes burn with all the energy of a dying sun at sunset, staring through her, ripping her form into the black hole orbs that rest on her face. It feels like

A burning.

A wanting.

"Your rib..it's broken, isn't it?"

Her form is fire but her words are ice, flying through the air and resting on her spine, chilling her to the bone. She shivers in her touch, opening her mouth but saying nothing. She doesn't have to answer, and it's halfway through life and death when she realizes that Styx wasn't looking for one. Her fingertips tighten on her jaw, and she can feel her skin tingle and crack beneath the pressure. Styx leans forward until they are at eye level, fire and ice and everything combined.

"Where is that flame that I saw that night, Achilles? The night you nearly killed a boy?"

She blinks and the room becomes the same room she sat in all those months ago, feeling the shadows consume her, drag her down into the abyss they came from, soaking her skin until she is no more. That was the night that Styx saved her. That was the night she had decided to be feared, that was the night that she had taken fire into her fingertips, felt it burn in her palms. That was the night she came alive.

"It is still here. I-"

"Then show it, Achilles. You clasp a broken rib as if it is your world. And yet, you will be far more broken in the near future, my dear."

Styx's fingertips leave her chin and it's as if it is a test that she has already failed. Drop your chin, and you die. Meet her gaze, and burn. Her body cracks like ice but in the end she chooses the latter, feeling the flames dance beneath her veins, explode inside her head like dynamite, coating her like wildfire. Her words flow like spoken poetry, smooth as ice and hot as the embers of pain that erupt from her body. She bites her lip, feeling the blood squirm in between her teeth.

She gathers the glass pieces that lay scattered beneath her, piecing herself together bit by bit before pulling herself to her feet. Styx watches, face like stone, eyes like obsidian. She counts the seconds before her prodigy stands tall, and then she speaks, hushed whispers shot straight into the mind of Achilles Muto.

"If you need to, pretend he is the boys you fought off so many months ago. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Achilles."

In the end, she left him with a broken rib and a shattered ego.

---

She crafts plans in the shadows she sleeps with, finding herself pacing around the darkened halls of the District Two tribute quarters, pressing her fingertips to her chin, half in thought, half in anticipation, all in imitation of everything she has learned from Styx. Styx compared it to a game of chess, moving pieces against an unknown force, always staying three steps ahead of your opponent.

For her, she has always considered it more to be the threading of a needle in a haystack. It is about precision, it is about finding the right moment to strike, seeing through all other distractions.

Which is why, at half past noon, she finds herself watching Venus Azrael work with the people she is set to kill, their blurred reflections darting across steel as they clash. In her mind, the gears of a fighter turn, every counter and block that the tribute he's fighting misses she performs in her own head, imagining his sword falling to the metal floors, shattering like glass.

Enough.

"Venus Azrael... It was a pleasure watching your Games unfold."

She trails a single finger against the weapons table as she walks towards him, stopping before raising her finger to her eyes, admiring the dust specks that scatter across her skin before flicking them off. Her body molds to ice, driving stakes through the hearts of her victims, chilling the bones of the people she uses. Venus Azrael is no different. Flattery never fails.

"Thank you."

His eyes are busy putting weapons away to their correct order. They do not even gather a glance to the girl who has made her domain his station. She grits her teeth and sets her jaw, before dropping the entire thing and smiling.

"I have a few questions for you, Mr. Azrael. Would you like to walk with me?"

That is when he turns, that is when she locks eyes with him. She likes to imagine that she burns like the hottest fire, but is as cold as the winter chill.

But perhaps she is that of sharpened obsidian, dark and absent of all color and life, but still just as dangerous.

"Questions about what?"

She replies with silence, making her way past him before waving her hand for him to follow. She hears his footsteps before his heartbeat, feels the blood rush through her veins as they make their way to the holographic training station. The figures dance in strobe lights, attacking their victims before shattering at the first hit.

They shatter like glass. Perhaps she is just like them. She turns to the Gamemaker beside her.

"Well, I guess they pertain to this station."

She pauses before nodding to the station before them, continuing again.

"Though, your knowledge and influence as a former Gamemaker may come in handy as well."

She watches his eyes glimpse the station, the shattering bodies of the holograms reflecting in the oceans of his eyes, drowning in his irises.

"Alright, I'm listening."

She leans back and crosses her arms, threading wire with needle, moving her chess pieces accordingly. Again, she motions her hand towards the station, as if he doesn't see it already.

"This hologram projection station..how much do you know about it?"

His answer comes as if it is rehearsed. Bored, lazy, lacking any common interest or objective. She cools the fires that boil up in her blood.

"Enough to teach any tribute how to use it."

That is when she chuckles, a grin spreading across her lips.

"Well Mr. Azrael, I already know how to use it."

She glances at him before pressing her palm against the glass. In her mind she sees it shatter. In reality, it feels like ice.

"I guess, what I'm meaning to ask you, is how much farther can these holograms go?"

She watches his interest spread across his face like a paper mask, hastily done. She narrows her eyes as he narrows his.

"Depends on what you have in mind."

She nods, slowly removing her palm from the glass, watching as her handprint fades into obscurity.

"I'll get straight to the point, then."

She breathes in, out, feeling the ice gather on her lips, mixing with the venom that pools at the edge of her tongue. Breathe out.

"I want to fight a hyper realistic hologram projection of Flemeth, the iconic mutt from the 66th. Can it do that?"

His fingertips find his chin and she watches as he ponders, considering every mechanism he was built to know, every code that he has memorized. He scratches his head and the way he breathes make this feel like an eternity. The needle is threaded, but in the back of her mind she is seeing her plan cracking and falling into the abyss.

"...It might. I'd have to check. Is this for your private training session?"

She smiles, breathing a sigh of relief into the air.

"Bingo."

Pause.

"Even as a career, I don't have the authority to access this technology. At least, not without influence on my side."

She turns her obsidian brown eyes onto him, staring into his soul, awaiting an answer she already knows she has.

"I probably shouldn't, but I enjoy a good private training session. I'll take a look at the programming for you."

She smiles, turning her attention to the station as the holograms reform.

"Thank you, Mr. Azrael."

---

"Again."

She speaks in the broken tongues of a failed prophecy, feeling the images dance against her skin, hearing the shadows hiss and screech at the light as it erupts from the screen in front of them. She has been here for exactly two hours, watching the same clip over and over again. The machine recognizes her voice, rewinding the entire clip before starting it from the beginning. She had received a note at her door this morning, hastily scribbled in ink as red as roses.

"It is all set. Good luck."

On screen sits Eye Saw, immortalized in time, dirty and scarred from the sixty sixth arena. She watches as his legs beat against the ashen earth, as his hands tighten on his sword, sees the reflections of dead tributes in the blood that has dried on its steel.

He sprints towards the most menacing thing she has seen since Styx.

Flemeth the Blood Dragon roars in defiance, shaking its scales and swinging its tail towards the tributes. It is armored head to toe, cloaked in the flames it spews, scratching the earth with its claws, opening an abyss.

But he continues running towards it. She remembers watching this as a child, thinking that he was going to be toasted at any second.

But then he jumps and plunges his sword into the mutt, ripping scale from flesh, the dragon's cries reverberating against the walls of the room she sits in. She leans forward, just as she has done for every other showing of the clip, watching every carve he makes, every blood spatter and every painful cry from the mutt he's killing. The clip offers minimal information in terms of weak points, instead choosing to focus on the blood and gore and sheer amazing feat of the situation. She does not blame it.

She rises, making her decision. She would go for the neck, tomorrow.

---

She sits, listening to the clock tick down the seconds of each session. Her body is rigid, composed, picked up scattered pieces of a shattered glass mirror. She casts a glance down the line of tributes. To Lucy, to Percy, to Petra, and then to the others. Some are shaking, some are silent. She watches a drop of sweat drip down the forehead of Atlas White, observes the hands of Stevie Masinova fidget in his lap. Her eyes travel to Machaon Amador, repeating his name over and over in her head in an attempt to pronounce it. She had watched the form of Justice Fray make his way into the training room nearly ten minutes ago.

Meaning, her time is coming soon.

Five minutes passes, then ten. She knows why it is taking so long, why each second brings another added ton of pressure onto her shoulders. In her mind, she imagines avox and trainers carting equipment in, setting up sensors on every weapon, making sure the technology is perfect.

Finally, the heavens speak her name.

"Achilles Muto, District two. You may enter."

She rises, cracking her neck and listening to the sounds slam against the walls of the waiting room. She sways her hips when she walks past the tributes, offering a small wink to Percy and a nod to Lucy and Petra.

The training room feels cold as ice, yet she sees the embers that the others have left behind. In one hand she forms fire and in the other ice. When she clasps them together to pray to a God that she knows is not real she feels the power come alive at her fingertips. Her eyes scan the room, settling on a small control panel as well as a rack of weapons, sleek and coated in black. She guesses they are the sensors.

Her eyes trail up and she spots the Gamemakers watching down from above, feeling their stares pierce her flesh and crack her bones. And yet, they have nothing on the fiery gaze of Styx.

She stops, dead center, trailing shadows behind her.

"Achilles Muto. District Two."

She closes her eyes and breathes. In, out, before grabbing the vest that hangs from the control panel and sliding it on. It blinks once, before showing an entire display of health and status, as if she is an actual tribute. She imagines the Gamemakers can see it, too. She takes a glance towards their hiding place before making her way towards the weapons rack.

They all hang suspended in glass panels, reflecting and blurring the light they reflect. She has already picked out her choice of weapons, but her eyes rest on a weapon tucked into the corner. Upon closer examination she sees it's a javelin, collapsed inwards on itself. There's a button in the center, and when she presses it the entire weapon shoots out, spring loaded and perfectly balanced in her hands. She presses it again and it collapses.

Perfect. She slings it over her back before grabbing a gladiator sword and shield and making her way to the control panel.

Her fingers hover over the screen, before pressing down on the controls.

-Hyper-realistic

-Multi-terrain

-Begin.

-Please stand on the blinking platform.

She makes her way to the target and steps into the blinking circle, watching as it turns red.

She blinks and suddenly the entire room becomes the night clubs she used to claim as her own. The lights dim, and suddenly there are orange lines that dance and travel through the air, bouncing off the walls and scattering across her flesh. She lightens up her guard for a moment, flashing back to the shag carpets and the creaky mattresses and the way the drinks felt smooth down her throat.

That is when it begins.

It is formed from the fires it spews, printed from thin air, intersecting lines giving way to life and form and shape and fear. Every scale is precise, printed to perfection, brought to life from the past. If it weren't for the orange tint and the way she could just barely see through the beast, she would have believed it real. She watches as it prints the claws, the tail, the body, and as it reaches the neck.

That's when she notices the added armor around the neck. Venus Azrael must have programmed a bonus into the coding.

Bastard.

The lights dance and bounce with every scale they print, and when it finally finishes the lights scatter across the room, gliding along the walls before encircling the entire training room, printing up an entire landscape, complete with ashen rocks and barriers to take cover behind. It's a flaming wonderland, drawn directly from the 66th Arena.

She takes one last glance at the dragon before her, the way it towers and huffs as life is breathed into its eyes.

Well, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

It roars and rears its head back. She snaps into focus and sprints towards the nearest rock formation, diving and somersaulting into place just as the dragon shoots flames across the place she was standing, dragging the line of flames to where she hides. The flames disintegrate into air just after they reach her, but she can feel their heat all the same.

The flames stop and she takes a breath, hardly having the time to register her thoughts before she sees its claw descending down from above, falling from the sky.

She bites her tongue as she clammers forwards, just clearing the area before it's enormous claw shatters the barrier she was hiding behind, sending disintegrating rocks into the air around her. That's when its head comes down to meet her gaze. She locks eyes with the beast.

Even as a hologram, its glare rivals that of Styx.

It lunges towards her, opening its mouth and revealing fangs. She raises her shield to her body and digs her heel into the floor behind her. but not even that is enough to block to full force of the hit. Though the shield absorbs most of the attack she still stumbles backwards, grunting into the air before regaining her footing and slashing out at the dragon's snout with her sword.

It roars and recoils slightly and she smirks, hoisting her sword and shield and preparing for its next attack. When it lunges again with its claws she is ready, pressing her shield into its snout and equaling the attack. Then, she shoves her sword vertically into its jaws before bashing its head away with her shield. It screams and roars as it tries to close its mouth, swiping at her with its claw. She ducks beneath it, taking the chance to sprint after the path of the claw, hurdling over it as it sweeps again towards her.

She hadn't thought enough ahead to realize that with the jamming of her sword into its jaw it had also taken her weapon. She turns her head to watch as the dragon dislodges the sword, tossing it all the way across the room.

Fuck.

The dragon's tail connects with her chest in the instant that she turned to watch her weapon be thrown from the beast's mouth.

She feels something crack inside her body.

And then she goes flying.

Her body hits the ground hard, tumbling and rolling in a heap of shattered glass and obsidian bones. She tightens her grip on her shield, feeling the metal clash against the floor as she slows to a halt. She tastes iron in her mouth, watches as red splatters the metal floor beneath her. Each breath is labored, pained, heavy.

Fuck, my ribs.

She doesn't have time to gather herself like she did years ago with Styx, but she can still feel the fingertips against her chin. She blinks and sees the boy on top of her, feels him laying unwanted kisses against her neck, hand tracing the boundaries of a kingdom he thinks he owns down her chest. She feels glass in her hands-

She blinks again and it is a shield. She pulls herself to her feet, wincing at every breath she forces. Flemeth the Blood Dragon is across the room, adjusting itself for another charge towards her. Her sword is about fifty feet to her right, reflecting the bouncing lines that cross above it. She doesn't have time to sprint towards it, the dragon is already charging towards her.

She has about five good seconds.

Her hand grips the collapsed javelin on her back and presses the button. It springs to life in her hands, and she raises her left thumb up as she heaves the weapon into position.

Take aim.

Three.

Two.

She meets its gaze just as it goes to lunge.

She throws.

It buries itself into the eyeball of the dragon and the beast recoils in pain, screeching and roaring, its cries bouncing off the walls. She takes her seconds of safety into account and grabs the shield she'd let go of before sprinting towards her sword, crying out in pain from her ribs.

Her javelin throw may have been painful, but it was certainly not enough to kill. Even so, it had been enough to disorient the beast, and as her fingers grasp around the sword she turns one last time to see Flemeth lock eyes on her. It knows not to charge again, and its too far away to reach her with its flames.

She knows whats coming.

One glance at her chest and she sees a failing tribute status. She can't take another hit like that.

Its tail sweeps across the room and she makes her decision.

She charges it head on, raising her shield to her head and putting her entire body and momentum forward just as the tail connects with her. She screams, bloody and raw with pain and fury. But she does not go flying, no, the tail recoils and she takes her chance, putting all of her strength into slicing towards it.

The dragon screams as its tail disintegrates into orange ashes, falling to the floor before disappearing.

She keeps on sprinting, making her way behind the behemoth. Her javelin had completely taken out its left eye, forcing it to turn to the right if it wanted to face her at all. Instead, she makes her way directly behind it, charging towards it as the beast tries to gather itself.

It reverses its steps, walking backwards towards her. That is its first and only mistake.

She ducks underneath the spikes that hang from its tail, making her way towards the fleshy underbelly. When she finally reaches it she wastes no time in jamming her sword straight into its stomach, feeling the resistance of rotting bones and flaming flesh.

And then, she keeps on sprinting, letting out a war cry as she makes her way towards the front end of the beast, listening to the screeches of the mutt.

Her sword stops right when she reaches the neck of the beast.

But it is only for a second.

With a final yell she rips the sword directly out of the beast, breathing heavy and blood dripping from her mouth before she casts her gaze to the Gamemakers above.

Flemeth's head falls directly next to her, its stomach completely ripped open. It shatters into a million flaming rose petals, scattering into the air before disintegrating.

She puts every bit of venom into her eyes, into her voice.

"The bigger they are, the more they bleed."

She drops her weapons and exits the room, leaving the shadows she brought in behind.

coding : elegant

AMBROSIA FAE

hard like a rock, cold like a stone
white like a diamond, black like coal
cut like a jewel, yeah i repair
myself when you're not there

She knew her by name. ("Achilles Muto.") It was the only reaping she'd spent pressing rewind- play- rewind- fast forward- play- rewind- play over and over and over again. The girl captured Ambrosia's attention, and perhaps it wasn't difficult to do so while being a career, she'd always been moved, intrigued, by them. Though, there's usually a career within a bunch who stand out unlike the rest of the pool. If it weren't Renée, then it was definitely Achilles. Although, so far three have already proven to be of great successors to those of the past.

The girl from District Two walks with confidence, or at least well masked by what Ambrosia could tell, and by her little performance at the Reaping - it was all she could think of her. ("I said, fucking STOP!") The words etched into her mind, echoing loud, she couldn't understand why, but she was fixated. It gave her a reason to remember her name, unlike others. Perhaps she would cooperate in giving a good show this year.

As the training session went on, it was clear the girl knew what she was doing. From forming an articulate, well performed piece, to demonstrating knowledge and research of previous mutts, and the history of games in general, as well as mastery in weaponry. However, Ambrosia expected this from a higher up district, but she maintained fascination. It was in the light of the situation that the girl seemed to pose a potential injury on herself while executing, and that is what set a tick off within the others.

The discussion began and took place over the course of several indecisive minutes. Ambrosia rocked her glass of White Merlot between her fingertips, a feeling of itch growing as this went on. Unwilling to lower her number, she waited impatiently for Hazel to break the tension. When she did, Kyle finally compromised, "...Fine. She can have it.", followed by a considerate, gentle hand placed on his wrist and a raised eyebrow belonging both to Hazel. In return, Ambrosia took sips of her wine with a smug smile across the brim of the glass.

Printed in a sharpie marker a 9 took the place of a blank line. Second highest thus far, though she accepts they've only just begun. ("Don't let us down with this one. Put on a show.")

solitaire
something you consider rare
i don't wanna be compared
with that cheap shimmer and glitter

GAMEMAKER

Knuckles
Librarian

4,984 POSTS
Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 22, 2024 1:19:28 GMT -5

probably flailing over something

Public Training Sessions Jun 18, 2016 6:38:03 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Knuckles on Jun 18, 2016 6:38:03 GMT -5

W E A V E R

His toes patted the ground through the soles of his shoes as he sat on the bench watching one after another head into the gym never to return. This was the moment for the tributes to shine, and Weaver was looking forward to it. He had spent a lot of his time training away from all the tributes because his he never wanted to make an enemy, but at the same time he didn't want to make any friends. It was a shame that a Truus was entering the games. In the games Crusader as in, Weaver found himself watching the screen every single day, and he saw the tiny girl following him around, and he watched as Crusader discarded Esme's body over the chasm when her life had ended.

It was a painful moment, and Weaver wondered if Bailey held it against him. Only the memories drew him towards her because both lost someone precious those games. A young girl from district ten, and a young male from eleven. Crusader wasn't as young as Esme, but everyone reaped for the games was far too young to die.

A sigh fell from his lips as he looked around wishing time would go faster because he wanted to go back to the district eleven floor and devour a helping of amazing food. But coming from a lower district meant he was close to the bottom of the totem pole. Weaver was glad he wasn't from twelve. Patients was a virtue Weaver Rhodes didn't have, but at the same time, he was slowly gaining it. Training had taught him a lot, and now it was time to prove how much he learned.

Few remained, and he knew he was next. He closed his eyes as the robotic voice called his name. He exhaled.

Weaver was on his feet within seconds. His hands shook at his side. His eyes were wide. Pupils dilated. Every hair stood on end as he marched forward through the door. He watched quietly as it closed behind him.

This is it, Weaver. It's time to shine.

One step after another he waltzed through the training center. His eyes bounced from the different stations wondering what he could possibly do. As he reached the center, an Idea formed in the back of his mind, and a slight grin twisted across his face. His mind remained focused, and he never looked towards the gamemakers as he went over to the weights. Different sized weights rested in front of him, and he lifted them all from the ground with ease wondering how anyone could possibly hurt anyone with one of them, but soon he found the much larger weights.

Weaver reached down grabbing the one hundred pound weight, and he lifted it into the air with ease. Every muscle in his left arm tightened as he carried it to the middle of the gym setting it down before heading back over and grabbing a smaller weight of fifty pounds.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he set it down next to the other weight, and he went to work placing the sword rack in front of him about twenty feet away. And he grabbed the shelf holding the knives, and he placed it beside the rack holding the swords.

His eyes narrowed as he lifted the 50 pound weight into the air adjusting his grip before counting the paces between himself and the weapons. He took a step back using the other weight as a marker, and he move back further, and then he ran forward swinging the weight sending it flying forward smashing into the rack holding the knives. The corners of his lips twisted into a grin as the weapons clattered against the floor, and the ball rolled to a stop. And he lifted the one hundred pound weight. His muscles strained slightly, and he moved closer until he was standing about ten feet from the rack holding the different swords. Weaver snarled as he backed up a few steps, and he ran forward swinging his arm to his side and finally at his line, he released the ball into the air.

It was almost in slow motion, but the ball reached the swords, and they crashed against the ground scattering along with several knives.

The eighteen year old marched towards the weights, and he picked them both up before going on an angry rampage. He turned towards the fire starting station eyeing the jars of tar setting in a beautiful row - it was time to mess things up. It was time to show that he wasn't fooling around. His mind was numb, and every emotion cleared his face as he stood in front of the jars of tar with one weight in his hand. He lifted the 50 pounds above his head, and brought it down with such a force that the table gave way beneath it. He swung the weight side to side smashing every single one of the jars of tar.

Black tar spread across the floor, and Weaver knew it was only beginning, yet his time in front of the gamemakers was slowly coming to an end. He ran forward as fast as he could trying to hide the hobble of his unsteady knee because he didn't want to look weak. He lined more weapon racks up, and he grabbed the weights allowing himself to feel free. All the years of tossing bags filled with fruits over his shoulder after the kids harvested them was slowly paying off.

His left hand wrapped around the one hundred pound ball, and he moved back. One step after another until he was standing far enough away. Weaver ran forward, and released with a grunt. His eyes were wide, and he roared as adrenaline started pouring through his veins. He was on fire, and he wasn't about to quit. He lifted the smaller ball into the air, and took off through the room knocking medical supplies off tables. Jars crashed against the ground as he turned to look at the camouflage station. He eyed the different berries, and the different items used to hide oneself in the midst of the arena, and the grin twisted across his face once more.

The weight dropped from his hand, and he turned to find the one hundred pound weight stationary. His mind raced as he ran towards it. Time was running out, and the gym wasn't completely demolished, but at least he had a good start. A show. Something to prove that he was tired of the Capitol. He was tired of the games. Weaver was tired of President Snow forcing him to bow against his will. Once the weight was in hand, he lunged and threw it forward, then sprinted after it, and repeated the same until he was back in front of the colors used to hide. Weaver lifted the weight into the air, and smashed it down against the table.

Berries rolled across the floor, and he made sure to stomp them as he moved around dropping the weight beside him. Juices squirted under his feet. Weaver felt alive. Blood boiled inside his body. His eyes were wide. His breathing picked up as he ran forward knocking the rest of the weapons over before stopping in front of the gamemakers once more. He turned his gaze towards them for the first time since he arrived. He spat on the floor before walking out, and he never looked back.

Made by Frankel

h a z e l

dazzle me, dazzle me
dazzle me with gold
you'll never be what you wanna be with
all that money, that money

If Weaver Rhodes was not going to bother putting effort into giving them a proper demonstration of his abilities, then Hazel was not going to bother mentally assigning him any numbers.

Respect was never something she'd had since the beginning. It was something she'd had to earn, slowly and painstakingly, because she was different and because she muttered odd phrases to herself and because her equations never made sense. She'd built herself up, made something of herself, purely through the effort she put forth. Weaver Rhodes clearly didn't care about that, and she hardly blamed him. He was a tribute from Eleven, a doomed district, and would either kill or be killed in the coming weeks. As he flew into a fit of destruction, Hazel felt Ambrosia bristle beside her while Kyle's jaw went tense. She didn't feel anger, though, or even vague offence. Leaning back calmly in her chair, she folded her arms over her chest and waited until he was done.

Weaver Rhodes could act like a child. Weaver Rhodes could disrespect her and her Games. Weaver Rhodes could do whatever he chose because it was obvious he didn't give a damn about the Gamemakers. But as he left, practically oozing the smug satisfaction of a toddler that had just thrown a particularly good tantrum, Hazel had no doubt that he'd forgotten something very important.

She didn't give a damn about him, either.

And she would make sure he realized it.

Before Kyle or Ambrosia could say anything, Hazel smiled. "Well. I suppose blind rage has it's place."

And then she carelessly scribbled a 3 by his name.

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

lest we forget [the characters]

credit to Zoe

gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕
Advertiser

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Pronouns: She/Her
last seen Nov 17, 2024 17:24:44 GMT -5

basically miss america

Public Training Sessions Jun 18, 2016 8:43:15 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕ on Jun 18, 2016 8:43:15 GMT -5

lucy.

How do you know if you've lost yourself?

They say it can happen, but I'm not really sure. Are you losing yourself? Or are you just finding another path? I'm not sure, all I know is that I've been numb. From the moment those words crossed my lips, and I watched silent tears stream down my sisters face, I have not felt a thing. It's better this way. When I think of them, I feel nothing. When what I'm about to do crosses my mind, nothing. Sometimes my mind travels to what they'll think of me, how disgusted they'll be, but then I realize it doesn't matter. I won't be back. I have lost nothing, because I can no longer feel anything.

It's better this way.

I am still numb as I sit there waiting. Waiting for the moment they decide my fate, but really the moment that I decided it as well. How far am I willing to go? How numb am I really? I don't think I have lost myself, but simply found my way. Found my way out of the hell they call District Six and found a way to escape, even if it's only for a short time. The numbness is spreading. I can't feel my legs anymore. I'm pretty sure when they call me I won't be able to move. Or I'll try to get up and simply fall over, unable. My world has already come crashing in around me, so why it would it matter. My name is called and my breath immediately catches in my chest, and I'm not sure I remember how to breathe. Can't breathe. Legs won't work. Maybe it would be better if I just sat here, I probably can't do much better. But then I remember what I'm here to do, and I let myself feel once more.

I wish I would have stayed numb.

My feet drag and my hands shake so hard that I'm sure everyone else could see. Somehow my lungs fill with air and I'm able to walk into the room without passing out. They stare down at me with judging eyes, and I've just barely entered the room. The nerves hit me like a brick wall and I can feel my hands threatening to shake again, my legs giving out beneath me, but I do not fall. I stay strong. It takes me a minute before I realize I'm just standing there. I simply smile at them and then immediately get to work. I take three dummies, and place each of them in a small circle in the center. All it takes is six more, and place them in a larger circle surrounding the others, spacing them evenly apart. I make my way over to the camouflage station and find a table. In one fluid motion I knock off all the supplies that are on there and quickly replace them with a sword, two knives, three spears, and an axe. I roll the table back over to my arrangement of dummies and stand in the middle. My eyes find each of the Gamemakers and I smile. "Um... Hi. My name is Lucy. District Six," It's not often I'm at a loss for words, but for some reason I'm struggling. I awkwardly clear my throat and continue. "They teach us a lot back in the District, like a lot a lot, but they never taught us how to kill. I never would have guessed how intricate it would be," The words feel fake on my tongue, but I let them spill from my mouth. It's getting easier.

I'm becoming numb again.

"I never knew there were so many ways to kill someone," I say brightly as I trail my hands delicately over the weapons that I oh so carefully placed on the table. "For example, you can sever someone's head," I wrap my fingers around the hilt of the sword, and shakily remove it from its place. I face the first dummy in the center, lift the sword, and swing. The head of the dummy rolls on the floor, and the fake blood flows out. The sword slips from my fingers and crashes to the ground.

It takes everything in me not to break down and cry.

If this is what a dummy does to me, how will I ever survive in the arena. I close my eyes shut tight and somehow find the strength to continue. "It's very effective. Quick and to the point. You can also slit their throat," I grab a knife from the table, twisting it in my hands, examining its beauty. I turn to the next dummy, and in one swift motion my blade is across its neck. Blood splashes out staining my clothes and the floor. I look back to the Gamemakers, trying my hardest to keep my hands from shaking. "It's not as quick, but just as effective," I say with a slight shrug. My eyes fall on the last dummy in the center and I make my move. I take the knife already in my hand and slice each of its upper thighs at an angle, just to make the bleeding last longer. Blood pours and I feel as if I may be sick. "And if you really want them to suffer you can cut their femoral arteries, they'll bleed out in minutes," My eyes flash down to the mess I've already made. This seems to be the path I've chosen.

I wonder if it's too late to turn back.

"Close combat isn't the only way either," I twirl the knife between my fingers, contemplating what I'm going to do next. "It's easier to attack your targets from a distance," Easier for most at least. It's hard for me to stay hidden in any environment with my pale blonde hair, unless I get lucky and this year the arena is one big wheat field. I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself, and let the knife fly. It miraculously hits the dummy in the ear. I send up a silent prayer to whomever, since they managed to help me not make a fool of myself. "The ear is always effective," I say as the blood trickles down the dummy's side. I grab my last knife from the table and look at it curiously. "I also learned that the eye is a great place to go for the kill as well," With shaking hand I release the knife and watch as it soars through the air. It hits its target and I can breathe again, kinda. It feels as if I'm drowning, drowning in the blood of the dummies, of those I might kill.

Each time I inhale, my heart and lungs grow heavier.

My hand finds its way to a spear and I grip it tightly between my fingers. "The spear is a great weapon as well, it has so many different possibilities," All I want to do is close my eyes and throw blindly, but I know how stupid that would be. I release the spear and watch as it heads towards its target, wobbling slightly. Not the best form, but it works. It hits slightly to the left of where I was aiming, but a spear that near your heart is sure to kill. Without a seconds hesitation I grab another spear, it flies through the air and pierces the dummy straight through the neck. I smile a little, I didn't realize how good I had been getting. "The heart, such a classic spot. And right through the neck, you take any chance they have at surviving away,"

I delicately pick the last spear up from the table, my hands barely shaking for once. "And if you really want to prolong their death," I pause briefly and throw my spear, aiming on the dummy's left side, hitting right in the middle of it. "You can puncture their lung, they'd be dead within five minutes," My hand falls on my final weapon, and axe. I pick it up and examine it closely. "The axe is so underappreciated, it can do so much damage," I say almost to myself. I release the axe and watch as it tumbles through the air and splits the dummy's skull, right in half. I look down, and I'm mesmerized by all the blood that covers the training center floor. My heart skips a beat and all of the sudden I'm nervous again. "You see, they teach us some things much at home," I get onto my knees moving around, trailing my hands through the blood in precise patterns. " But I've learned," I pause again. Smearing the blood around and adding delicate little details. "That you can take something like death," I force myself up again and move to the back of the room. A small smile spreads across my lips as I stare at my masterpiece. "And make it into something beautiful," An intricate flower lays before me, a peony to be exact. One that reminds me of home, one that I'd always see in the fields where I'd go to get away. I was never very good at painting, I've always preferred drawing, but I've somehow managed to capture each detail almost precisely. I look up at the Gamemakers, smile and wave one of my blood covered hands at them before practically skipping out.

I'm barely out the door before my hands begin to shake and my legs threaten to collapse again. My breathing becomes heavy and I'm almost certain that my lungs have stopped working. Everywhere you look there is blood. My clothes and my arms are covered. I am stained. The stench of the blood overwhelms me, and I feel as if I'm going to pass out. I'm not sure if it's real or if I'm just imagining it. I knew that when I left the arena I would not leave untouched. I knew that I would not know which way to turn.

I just didn't know I would lose myself this early.

❝ moon dust in your hair, stars in your eyes ❞

L△LIA
RP Tutor

3,574 POSTS

last seen Jun 24, 2019 15:25:10 GMT -5

BOOM SH△KALAKA

Public Training Sessions Jun 18, 2016 17:56:38 GMT -5

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Post by L△LIA on Jun 18, 2016 17:56:38 GMT -5

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[attr="class","ScoutTitle"]you can call me monster
i'm creeping in your heart, babe

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Fear is the strongest piece of her. Scout is desperate with the desire to live, to breathe, to run away free from all of this and go home. There are others here who are eager and proud to fight their way out of their own desperation, but she's not like them. Her heart doesn't know how to be that horrible. The thought of blood speckling her skin makes her want to scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and —

The boy who volunteered to accompany her to hell checks her face over to make sure she looks ready enough before taking his turn and leaving her waiting in line on her own. There are no lingering tears in the smoldering ash of her eyes, the spark nearly extinguished by the flood she awakens to each morning. Other days she is wildfire veiled in skin. Today the only evidence is when she smiles back at the reassuring grin he leaves her with, the weight of his hand upon her shoulder helping to keep her grounded even after he's gone. She didn't know Roger when they were in District Four, but he cares something for her and this is how Scout knows she is still herself, if only a little. This is a girl who is used to being loved. The need to be cared for is stitched into the corners of her mouth despite her ability to seem unconcerned with others. Subtlety wins the awe of the world and she knows that she doesn't need to work for the curiosity of anyone she encounters. She is Scout Krigel. Her cousin is a king and she is...

Terrified.

When she walks through the door she doesn't wear the terror on her face, instead she straps it to her bones for safekeeping. It is deep and far too strong to deny within herself, but that can be her secret. Put enough skin between a lie and a truth and no one will ever see past it. This is something she learned from Leon, whether he meant for her to or not. She can't fully wrap the innocence of her mind around the idea, but she gets close enough and lifts her face to catch the light as if it is the sun and she is the embodiment of warmth beneath it. The air itself brightens around her and the grin Roger gave her grows radiant upon her own lips.

More than ever her youth is her best weapon. The Capitol envies her for it and every untamed curl of her hair declares itself wild, her eyelashes flutter as if she has wings, and she hums a meandering song while inspecting a table full of weapons, pausing to giggle as she picks up a chained morning star covered in eight inch spikes. The weapon seems as if it weighs at least half as much as her skinny body, but she still swings it around above her head like a child discovering a new toy before letting it soar away across the room with her disinterest. Her easy laughter chimes, nose crinkling with amusement as she bypasses several incredibly heavy swords for a rusty old machete. Holding it up decisively, she knows perfectly well how she glitters in comparison. This is not an accident. Seeming effortless is a carefully honed skill... and one of the few she truly possesses.

Her brother taught her how to grip a blade, how to hold it offensively or defensively, and even how to brandish it around a bit. Pretending is fine enough, but there is a difference between a knife slicing through the air and a knife slicing through a body. This isn't even the real deal and yet her pulse turns ferocious and scattered, roaring as it tries to devour itself in the confusion. She doesn't want to turn to face the practice dummy and everything it represents because that isn't pretend. It is a stand-in. It is her stand-in. She wants to scream and scream and scream and scream and —

She does. The second she whirls around, blade held out as if she has actual intent and not just the disguise of a confident smile, her eyes lock onto the dummy... and the tiny speck of a furry little spider sitting on its neck. Heartbeat bellowing with instantaneous panic over the creature, she wails out a scream that contorts her whole face and swings her weapon as if she is actually at war. It's gonna kill me, oh fucking fuck, I'm gonna die! I'm too young to die! The machete hacks a vicious path into the dummy's neck, fake blood spewing out from a severed artery, but the spider skitters up and away to the safety of an unsullied cheek. Tugging her weapon free, Scout draws it back and winds up before bitch slapping the dummy across the face with the broad side of her machete and enough force that it topples over and crashes to the ground. "I'm not gonna die! You're gonna die you goober-toothed hell monster! Stupid satan fucker ahhhh!"

Still shrieking with violent panic, she hurls herself onto the dummy, straddling its waist and raising her machete high over her head. The spider scurries back and forth across its chest and Scout plunges her blade down in an attempt to stab it, over and over and over again. It darts left and right and tries to leap away, weighted down with fake, sticky blood. Ten times, twenty times, enough times to lose count... Scout misses her target, but hits everything else. Plastic skin is flayed into unrecognizability and finally the spider is lost in the wounds, drowned in the slaughter that was intended for it. It is only now that Scout realizes the big picture — bigger than her, bigger than a spider. Falling still, the weaponization of her own meek fear sinks in.

Standing, she leaves the rusted machete jutting up from the dummy's decimated heart. There is enough blood dripping down her face to hide the stray tear that sneaks down her cheek. She knows she has no choice but to confront her fear. If she wants to live then she should confront it exactly like this, but when she smiles a goodbye to the gamemakers... her teeth are as flawless and free of blood as the intentions of her heart. It doesn't know how to be horrible, but just as that won't be enough to save her, apparently it also won't be enough to save anyone else.

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( C H A R A C T E R S )

я𝑜𝓈𝑒
Mentor

2,890 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her/they/them
last seen Nov 23, 2023 2:34:11 GMT -5

anyway don't be a stranger

Public Training Sessions Jun 21, 2016 16:03:49 GMT -5

Quote

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jun 21, 2016 16:03:49 GMT -5

send your dreams where nobody hides.

give your tears
to the tide
no time, no time
there's no end

She is fire when she walks into the room. Her heartbeat roars furiously in her ears and she swears she can feel flames slowly unfolding in her veins. She is unsure if it is fear or adrenaline that has begun to tear through her- perhaps both.

Percy is sure that she looks ridiculous in contrast to the other tributes the Gamemakers have seen by now- poised, perfect Renee and Justice, lethal Achilles, daunting Roger, swift Lucrezia, brilliant Machaon. They are all easily fit to survive the Arena. But Percy is not Achilles or Roger or Machaon. She is a tiny little girl with a bird-like frame, bright eyes as round and as large as saucers, and pigtails on either side of her head.

She breathes- in out in out. Her lungs are aflame, scorched, scratched, by the cold air rushing in from the vent and the staccato rhythm of her breath. I am not afraid, she has carved the words into her head, but they are utterly hollow. She was torn apart, ripped by every seam, emptied out, and then recoded, reconstructed, to be fearless.

Calypso is perfect-

then why is there a flaw in her code?

Her quiet, small footsteps hardly make an echo throughout the room and she steps steps steps toward the Gamemakers, the three of them perched upon their thrones. She inhales deeply, slowly, forces the rhythm of her breath to steady, but she cannot suppress the tremors that roll through her entire body, from her very core to her fingertips.

With these trembling hands, Percy Delacroix has held pistols, cocked and pressed against a brother's skull. She would be rigid with the furious burn of white hot adrenaline- it split every vein, broke every thought in two, and yet it brought her to life- as she placed her tiny hand in their hair, yanking it by the roots, and dug the barrel into their head. But she'd keep her finger just below the trigger: she has never had intentions to send a bullet bursting through their brain. It was not the gun itself, but the fear she ignited within her enemies, that was the greatest weapon.

(VIII. Kill only if you must.)

Percy did not need bullets to be powerful.

And she does not need them now.

She stops dead in her tracks, balls her hands into fists, and inhales, exhales, letting everything but the fire pour out of her. Fear falls, crumbles, to her control (or is it suppression?). Everything spins and then comes to an utter halt, complete stillness- for a moment, Percy wonders if she has been trapped in slow motion, but then she realizes that it is just that the trembling has stopped. And in this moment, she becomes more than a little girl but less than fearless.

Percy turns to the Gamemakers, her gaze sweeping across each of them. "Hello," she greets them, her voice small, gentle, childish- almost angelic, even. "I don't think I have to introduce myself, so I'll just get right to it." Formalities are no concern- it's not like she cares what the Gamemakers think of her. She is a pile of dry bones regardless.

Three Avoxes stand in a line by the elevated platform where the Gamemakers sit. One of them is younger, a girl who cannot be much older than Percy. But the other two are older, perhaps seventeen to twenty years old. She turns heel, sashaying toward the three Avoxes, with a curious light flickering in her eyes and a slight, cherubic smile curling up the side of her lip.

Percy points to the tallest Avox, who is dark, brooding, with eyes full of defiance and fire. Jagged scars rip down his steely, cold face, twisted in irritation. Her smile broadens; perfect. "You," she commands. "Come here."

Instead of obliging, the Avox crosses his arms and raises a sharp eyebrow at Percy. He cannot speak, but she can almost hear his sharp, resounding "no." But she just giggles and leans forward, taking the Avox's hand in her hers. "That wasn't a question," she tells the Avox. With one swift yank, she pulls the Avox closer to her, just a few inches away from her face. She leans into their ear, her grip tightening around their wrist.

"I'm sorry I have to do this to you," she whispers, making sure that her words are inaudible to the Gamemakers.

And she is sorry.

The Avox's composure slips for a moment as he staggers back in surprise, his eyes wide and concerned- Percy can tell by the way his gaze flickers to her to the weapons to the door and back again, that he has already begun to jump to conclusions. She will hold the gun against their head, but she will keep her finger resting just beneath the trigger: Percy has never had the intention of pulling it.

As she does not now.

She directs the Avox to stand in front of one of the dummies in the row against the wall by pointing her finger. "There," she tells him. "Stand with your arms level to your shoulders and your legs a few inches out from your hips." And he does, will a reluctant grunt and an eye roll. His defiance only summons another giggle from within Percy's chest- she likes his spirit, but it will cost him.

She crosses over to the weapons and grabs several daggers in her tiny hands, her pigtails bouncing as she walks. Taking swift, agile strides, she moves several feet away from the targets and sets down the daggers in a pile by her feet. She leaves only one in her hand.

"Are you scared yet?" she asks him.

Mistakenly, he shakes his head.

"You will be," Percy replies gravely, and twirls one of the knives into the air. She catches it in her hand split seconds later, and in a single deft movement, sends it flying at the target. The dagger sinks into the board with a light thud, but it seems like a roar of thunder by the way the Avox shudders. It hits just next to the Avox's neck, nearly grazing the skin. But Percy is skillful in her work and cautious not to harm him.

She turns to face the Gamemakers. "Fear," she says, "is more powerful than any blade, any gun. Fear is control. When you hold a knife in your hand, you make yourself a threat. But when you have fear as an ally, you make yourself powerful."

Calypso once said something similar during Percy's training, but the words she speaks are her own. She becomes as weightless as a father, as free as air, when the words pour out of her. It gives her a rush, to stare in the face of death and be able to speak such bold things.

If her father was here, he would have rebuked her, spat poison, and slapped her across the face until her vision was split and spinning with stars.

Good thing he's dead.

Percy turns back to the Avox and picks up four more knives from the ground. Flames have ignited, risen within her- they have grown into a wildfire, a creature that knows no boundaries, knows only relentlessness and chaos. Its heat rolls through her in swift waves, each rush of fury a new thrill.

Before thrusting another knife at the target, she raises an eyebrow at the Avox, almost curiously.

(Are you scared yet?)

One- it lands barely above his head; he draws in a sharp breath.

Two- the knife thuds against the board, nearly slashing his right flank; he curls his hands into fists until his knuckles turn chalk white.

Three- it sinks into space beneath his left arm, hardly missing the skin; his eyes tell her that if he could speak, he'd beg her to stop.

Four- it hits just beneath his crotch; he cries out, a hollow, pitiful howl.

By the time she is finished, Percy does not have to ask the question, "Are you scared yet?" She can see her answer as clearly as if it was written on the Avox's face in stark black ink. It lies in the whites of his eyes, tinged pink from suppressed tears, and in their depths, too. It is carved into his face, his quivering lip, the furrow of his brows. It is written all over his entire body, in the trembles from his head to his toes, from his core to the tips of fingers. She has shaken him to his very bones.

Sorrow threatens to overtake her, to snuff out the flames, but she pushes it down with an iron fist.

Instead of apologizing, as she would like, she says to the Avox, "You're scared now. But are you terrified?" Her voice softens from its former harshness- she sounds like a child once more.

(You will be, and I'm so sorry.)

"Come here," she orders him, letting the ice creep back into her tone. When she speaks, she mimics the way Calypso sounds when she has her enemy cornered with the barrel of her pistol pressed between their eyes- cracking the air in two with steel, chilling bone with ice, but still keeping her voice unsettlingly soft as velvet. Percy is not as masterful as Calypso in this, but she is only the apprentice, after all.

The Avox follows Percy's commands, a tremor in each step he takes.

A flicker.

That is what Percy's figure looks like when she drops down to grab a knife and then leaps back to her feet again, just a flash of darkness. One second, two, she is holding the knife to the Avox's throat with one hand and gripping his arm with the other.

Her eyes find the Gamemakers once more and gently presses two fingers against the Avox's pulse in his neck. Its beat is wild, thudding like a hammer against his veins, against his flesh every second or so- thumpthumpthumpthumpthump "Now you're terrified," she says, leaving her fingers on his pulse for a few moments longer.

She removes the dagger from the Avox boy's neck along with her finger before giving another command. "Get up, and give me a piggyback ride over to the camouflage station." Without hesitation, the Avox does as he is told. He moves in front of Percy and catches her legs in his arms, holding them against his hips. She fastens her arms over his shoulders to get a better grip as he walks to the camouflage station. Percy can feel the rigidness in his body, and it does not go away, even when he puts her down once they reach the station.

She had been experimenting with making paint for the past few days in the Training Center, and by now, she thinks she has created the perfect solution. In about a minute, she mixes red berries and various ingredients in one of the bowls, and then turns back to the Avox. "And now we ride back," she tells him, taking the bowl of paint in her hand.

With haste, he gives her another piggyback ride back to the Gamemakers and the targets.

"This is power; this is fear," Percy says once the Avox sets her back on the ground. "He's at my mercy, my command. Fear will make him do whatever I want."

But there is a deep pang in her stomach for the wreckage she leaves- she has not felt it before during interrogations or heists or battles, but this boy is no criminal, no crook with blood-stained hands. Before moving on, she leans into the boy's ear once more.

"Forgive me," she tells him quietly so only the two of them can hear. But this time, she is not giving an order. "You can go back now," Percy goes on, her words more audible this time. And he does- he nearly bolts away from her and back into line with his friends.

She doesn't summon anyone else. Instead, Percy stands before another target board and dips her finger in the paint mixture she made.

"And one more thing," she says, turning her head to the Gamemakers.

She giggles as she begins to paint phallic shapes all across the board- one on the heart of the figure, one on the crotch, and one on the neck. "Artwork," she laughs. Percy then removes three knives from the target beside the new one she has just painted penises all over, and backs several feet away.

A smile- she has let the ice and the steel go, returned to the fire and the warmth.

She throws the three daggers into the air, juggling them around and around in a circle. It is a trick that Calypso taught her long ago, one that she perfected over time. Percy braces herself, and then-

One,

two,

three-

she throws the knives at the penises painted on the target, each of them hitting only seconds apart.

Percy turns to the Gamemakers, holds an invisible skirt in the air, and bends her knees in a courtesy. She exits without another word.

there is no goodbye
disappear with the night
no time, no time
no time, no time

. . .

{ "wait" by m83. }

score: 9

"even stars burn out."

Tom
Moderator

5,218 POSTS
Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Nov 19, 2024 9:23:58 GMT -5

OowoO

Public Training Sessions Jun 22, 2016 14:52:00 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Tom on Jun 22, 2016 14:52:00 GMT -5

M I N O S

The taste of the cigarette was still stuck upon his breath. Ashes that gave the addict life, during his stay in the capitol. The night before haunting his already broken eyes. Secrets were made to stay hidden underneath the layers of lies that people shove into their head. Lies that cover the real person underneath all of it all. The cigarette that had already been burnt out, like the happiness that was once in his heart, crashed to the ground, spreading ashes across the area. A typical smirk twisting onto the face of Minos Vallanso. A foot comes down crushing the once lit ashes into nothing more than a smear on the floor. No resemblance of the item’s form before. Nothing more than a useless smear that will eventually be wiped up and never remembered again. Minos Vallanso was the smear, the world was the foot.

The nightmare was always lingering just within arm’s reach. A moment that was burned through his skull like branding a cow marking it as their own, except in this instant, it was the devil marking him with the curse of the damned. The scream of the woman that he knew as his mother echoing throughout his ears, pulling tears to the brink of bursting out from his broken eyes. Footsteps ring through the halls, peacekeepers coming to drag him to be show before the people who determined what his fate in the arena would be. Would he fall prey to the darkness that shrouded them all? Would he prosper in the darkness? All of these questions filed into his brain, filling it to the brink of overloading it with worries that he didn’t need.

Peacekeepers grabs his arms, trying to take him to the training center, where he will be put before the fate’s web to see what horrible web it’s woven for him. Arms grab him and he pushes them away, his voice calm, yet with a hint of frustration, ”I can walk on my own, thank you very much.” The mask that he’s put on still hiding his true intentions for the real Minos Vallanso. A mask woven by his own lanky fingers to keep them all from putting a target on his back. Targets were for bloodbath, the passive survived. It’s how predators stalked their prey. Right under their nose, until the striking of claws and teeth rip the prey apart, past the point of recognition. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what Mino’s was. Always waiting for the perfect moment to jump out for his own survival.

The peacekeepers pushed him into some sort of area where tributes sat waiting. All eyes staring at each other, sizing each other up, waiting for their own moment to strike. All of them were predators in their own way. Minos was a predator in his home, but in the Hunger Games, no one was safe, everyone was a predator and a prey. There was always one person who could cut a person down within an instant. Minos started out believing that he was a predator, but now that was terribly wrong, he was predator to some and prey to others. Names were being called one by one into the private room to be watched like they were some sort of circus act. The people from the districts before were called and herded into the room like animals preparing for a slaughter.

His name reaches over a speaker, ”Minos Vallanso.”

The floor was his now, not anyone else’s. Gamemakers sit upon their shelf, watching over, paying some attention to what he was doing. Trainers and avoxes stand around, waiting for him to move, to show off his skills, to prove his worth to them all. A voice comes through to him, his mother’s screams, ”You’re not worthy to be in this family! Leave my sight Minos!” Blood begins searing through his body, a slight anger at the mistake that he made, after drinking and accepting his fate to the drugs. Anger, it’s all Minos has ever known since a young age. Anger and addiction, the two factors that pushed him forward in life. Hands twist tightly, into fists, the mask could disappear for only a few minutes. His whisper so quiet, ”You’re worthy, Minos. You’re worthy.”

His body comes back to life, moving quickly to the one weapon that he’s used once before. It’s small blade and small handle, cold to the touch, feels perfect in his hand again. The eyes that matched his own looking in terror. The smell of death lurking at his noses, teasing his senses with a gentle stroke. The dead body on the ground, all features similar to his own. His mother’s screams shattering his body, tears streaming down his face, but not now. Minos was worthy, an animal who could survive any situation he was put into. The typical smirk moves back to it’s place, before he moves to an avox. A friendly smile on his face, and kind words filling the air, a male who’s obviously done something terrible, the guy wasn’t exactly big, he was skinny and lanky, and pretty tall.

Minos walked calmly to the avox, knife in his palm, words flowing from his mouth, ”I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” It was a lie, a lie that was calmed with a friendly smile. It felt like the world was revolving around him, as soon as he reached the avox, his leg moved gracefully, sweeping the taller guy to the ground. Knife in hand, Mino plunged downward, but stopped only millimeters away. The look in his eyes made Minos smile an evil smile. A glint of enjoyment from the dark broken eyes, Minos was enjoying the moment of terror that filled the avox. Minos’ voice was calm, and frightening, a secret unveiled by the look of terror in the eyes of an avox that could die, ”My brother gave me the same look, and you know he’s dead now. I killed him while my mother watched in terror. I enjoyed every moment of it. You’re not worthy of death, avox. Your punishment is still ongoing.” The words that spilled out of his mouth felt like a weight off of his chest. Minos pushed himself up, letting the avox flee from the frightening situation he had been in.

Eyes still stare quietly at him. The mask was gone and Minos wasn’t done. The knife in his hand still hadn’t been used to it’s full capacity, but it was enough for him to satisfy himself. Enough for him to get an average score. Targets got killed, Minos wasn’t a target, and he was a survivor. A smirk upon his face, a friendly demeanor coming back to his face. The mask was back on, waiting for the right moment to attack his prey. Minos drops the knife, letting it stab into the ground. His eyes focus on the exit and his hand waves to the gamemakers. Minos was a survivor and he’d prove that he was, even if it meant, getting rid of the mask entirely. Minos Vallanso was smear, but a smear who wanted nothing more, than to stay a smear, and not vanish entirely. A survivor.

Made by Frankel