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d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel
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call me jaded

Public Training Sessions Oct 22, 2018 9:39:49 GMT -5

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Post by d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel on Oct 22, 2018 9:39:49 GMT -5

What am I supposed to do?

A display of talents, except I have nothing to deliver. I could stand here in silence, all their eyes on me, maybe I will turn invisible. Some power will emulate, I will bow and be quickly out of here. Nope. Nothing is happening as I fumble with my pocket trousers, one glance at the apparatus and still I have no idea.

Notes of my strength have been commented by the trainers, I haven’t used it. All I have done in that training room is watch the others and mess around with tar. Theodore has encouraged me to do this and that. All I am good for is pushing bodies around the hospital and smuggling contraband across the street. Maybe I could walk out of here with my pockets filled. How many points will I earn as a thief?

Resting my hands on the improvised weapons table, I just swing off the edge for a moment. There is a timer…shit!

One swift punch at a dummy and I could be out of here. All this grading nonsense, all my grades at the school were terrible and look at me…oh yeah. Swimming in the lava of life, with my skin charred and the rope to pull me up is just inches from reach. Theodore and Star’s lectures on the importance of sponsorship are replayed in my mind, maybe the sponsors could send me a longer rope to get out of here.

These are the parts that never enter my mind when I stepped onto that stage. Only what can come after it all. Of course, the possibility of death was only highlighted once in that town square. Driven by the rage towards an old friend, now his advice is replayed in my head over all those years of hate. Even after the so called making amend I deserve the opportunity to throw a fist at that face, just as I have been practicing in the training room. Will they let him in here if I request it? I doubt it.

So, they want a display, a show of my talents and skills.

I will give them something to remember.

I move around the room, guided by my left hand that runs across the collection of weapons. Every surface is filled with them, I am over-whelmed by the choice of a prop in this little performance that I am stringing together in my head by the second.

So many swords, the only blade that I have ever carried is a small customised kitchen knife and a needle mounted onto a spoon that I stole from the hospital. I take what I can, they protected me from the ghouls of the night shift.

”Ah!” My hand tugs at the handle of a broadsword , I juggle with it in my hand, as if knowing what the hell I am doing with it. I guess this one will do. Dragging it along the ground, it trails a streaking noise behind my movements as I arrive back at the improvised weapon station.

Although… A detour to the first aid station, another idea springs into my head and it plasters a grin onto my face. They’ll wonder what I am to do and oh boy I hope a surprise earns extra points…

One flick of my foot and the box of bandages lands into the centre of the room. A few of the rolls escape from the box mid-flight. I have one new skill to display and that is how to set alight flame. I skip pass the whole filling of the jar nonsense and head to the already filled jars of tars as time is ticking on.

A dip of the blade and a flick of a flint, how simple it is. Sparks ignite the tar and the flame travels to the tip of the sword. Impressive but it is just the spotlight for my display.

Really a lot is going to be lost if I screw this up, I mean a lot! There is no backing out from the idea now and the thought of relieving myself has really triggered the feeling of wanting to go. I make my way back to the scene where the box of bandages lay, careful of the inferno that is blazing in my left hand. That box will be too much.

A slow bend of my knees and with a straight back, I flick out just one roll of bandages from the box and kick it about six foot away from the box and I stand directly behind. I am facing square to the audience above and let the display unzip itself…

I drop the burning blade over the bandages, allowing the sparks to dance off the metal and onto the weak material on the ground. Quickly it catches the flames and they slowly begin to swallow up the roll.

My free hand makes its way to my trousers while the hand carrying the broadsword raises above my head and so I just let it happen…

I am really urinating in front of these guys…my ripred and it is a lot too, there is going to be a whole puddle.

Well it is a display they wanted and here I am with a flaming sword, pissing on a fiery roll of bandages. My piss takes away the fire as the bandages begin to smoke. I pull my fly up. Flicking the sword towards the box as I walk out, the blade sticks itself into it, the flames consuming the whole lot.

”Good luck cleaning that mess up, going to need a lot of piss to take that fire out now.”

I bet Teddy didn’t do anything as absurd as that…

v e p a r .

"The future can't
be real, I
barely know how
long a moment is"

Unpredictable things, children are. I've never had a fondness for them myself, there's something to be said about what it does to one's psyche to kill twenty three of them before you hit thirty. And here I am, again, sat in the same box with unfamiliar company watching monkeys dance for my benefit. Excitement and boredom becoming monotonous by my third glass. "Halfway through with this one." I drawl, picking up a grape from the plate settled beside us and resting it between parted lips. "Thank Ripred."

Parson Cham, district six male. A strong jaw on that one, though I've never found myself particularly inclined to bet on tributes hailing from the district of science and law. But it's not often that I find a tribute carrying himself with kind of confidence, every move deliberate as he clutches a broadsword between clenched fingers and I find myself leaning forward. Interest piqued as he creates some abstraction with bandages.

Not typical.

Unpredictable children were. Slathering tar across his blade and fantasies of explosions burst forth in front of my eyes, breath baited in spite of myself as he set his blade on fire. Yes? Perhaps Parson was promising after all, perhaps I'd be inclined to place my bet upon the sixth district this-

"What is he doing!?" A mixture of horror and disgust temper any fantasies previously held. The boy's hands find his fly and I've suddenly the urge to empty my stomach of the food which I just so carefully consumed. "No! Nonono what is he doing?!" I find my voice shriller with every syllable, breaking as I avert my eyes. "No! Absolutely not! No!"

"He's just pissed on our floor." Words I regret even having to fabricate.

Unpredictable things, children are. And I've decided I fucking hate the lot.

A hasty 5 was scribbled next to Cham's name.

t a b l e b y e l e

sbeeg
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last seen Nov 1, 2023 5:54:37 GMT -5

Public Training Sessions Oct 23, 2018 19:57:22 GMT -5

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Post by sbeeg on Oct 23, 2018 19:57:22 GMT -5

Lorenzo went first, the pale boy vanished into the training gym to do... whatever it was that he did. He was a pleasant person, I couldn't help but feel that his sunny disposition would soon fizzle out.

We were supposed to show Mr. Kincade, and the recently assigned Mr. Azrael, our skills as a tribute. I'd spent the entire week in the training facilities but felt no more prepared for the unknown facing me.

The entire Capitol felt cold and sterile. There was no grass on the tenth floor, no cow sticking its nose into your face as you slept under the stars. I felt cut off from the earth, from myself.

Impress. What did that even mean? Show off the rudimentary dodge rolls I had learned over the week? Stab a few dummies to show off how good I could send a knife through a stationary target? It all seemed silly, and not at all helpful but what choice did I have? Kahinta was waiting back home, Ma and Pa were waiting. If I got a good score my mentors could convince some Capitolites with deep pockets to bet on me. If I didn't, I was just another District Ten Female who failed to make an impression.

The doors swung open, an avox blinked at me. It was time.

It was odd to be in the gym alone. I had come accustomed to the grunts and curses of other tributes struggling to gain as much knowledge as they could before the gong sounded. Brown eyes swept over the room, gazing at all the different stations and weapons. I glance up at the Gamemakers. Kinkade and Azrael. They seemed bigger in real life, more vibrant than their pictures on the televisions mounted on the District Ten floor of the Training Center.

Maybe I could just stand here for the entirety of my time. Do nothing, that's certainly what feel like doing. I raise a thumb to my lips, mindlessly chewing on the cuticle and see the yellow fabric wrapped around my wrist.

Kahinta.

If I ever want to see her again I need to be a different Temple.

I take a deep breath, and walk towards a collection of dummies beside a knife station. They're thick, Capitol built contraptions with entirely unnecessary details. They have joints, and can support their own weight. They're made of a hard plastic, but have a gummy coating to mimic flesh. I had seen a tribute slice one open, spilling red blood all over a mat. I had gasped, thinking that I had witnessed a murder. A trainer had laughed at me.

"They're built to resemble humans as much as possible," the trainer explained. "They have blood, organs, even muscle tissue. It's like striking a real person- you can even break their bones."

I pick out a mannequin sculpted to resemble a young man, but didn't resemble any young boys I knew. He had light colored skin and blonde hair, blue glass eyes staring out at nothing. I lift him up across my shoulders, carrying the full weight of a healthy eighteen year old boy across the training center.

For a moment, I was back at home, a young calf wrapped over my shoulders as I carried it to the barn for Pa to inspect. Marching through tall grass with seventy five pounds resting across my back. I'd set them down in the hay and rest as Pa looked at their hooves and their mouths, inspected their skin for disease.

"This one is fine, Temple." Then I'd carry the calf back outside and pluck up another one. Over and over everyday through the spring.

I set the dummy down in the center of the room, setting it down on its knees.

I look up at the two men, bigger than life, watching yet another tribute.

"I'm Temple Jones from District Ten."

The coldness of the Capitol melts away into the warm sun of district Ten. I'm standing in a mound of dead leaves, the trees reaching into the sky with bare, skeletal fingers. Pa's hands are on mine, guiding them around the dog's head. The hound had been sick for months, its muscles wasting away, and it's sad cries keeping him up at night. The Peacekeepers didn't allow anyone to have a gun, and you were put on a list for owning anything sharper than a butter knife. Pa was insistent on keeping off the Peacekeepers' radar and refused to own anything that would make us a target. However, when our animals were sick there was only one way to deal with them.

I'd never seen it done before. I was sixteen, just last year, and he had called me outside early in the morning. We'd walked to the farthest corner of the fields. I carried Bear all the way out, but it wasn't much of a chore. Once the strongest dog in Pa's pack, she had weakened with age. Now blind and unable to support her own weight for more than a few steps, Pa said it was time.

I sat her down on a pile of leaves, and followed his instructions. One hand under her chin, the other holding the top of her head.

"Wrap your arm under her jaw, Temple. Hounds have stronger muscles than us, even Bear, you'll need all the strength you can get." I adjusted, my bicep under her jaw, wrapping my arm around her head. She didn't move, she didn't whine, she simple sat in my arms.

I mimic the hold on the dummy, an arm wrapped under its chin, my fingers brushing its synthetic eyelashes. The yellow fabric from Kahinta's dress tied around my wrist rests on top of his head, nestling in blonde hair.

"Remember pull up and then twist."

I close my eyes, and let out a long breath. My hands are strong and still, my mind cleared but for a single task.

"Now, Temple."

Bear sighs in my arms.

CRACK.

The training center is too bright when I open my eyes. The dummy's head hangs at an angle too obtuse for a human neck. It's plastic, synthetic bones stick out of the flesh.

My hands shake, but my face holds firm as I look up at the men judging me.

"Thank you for your time."

I step out into the hallway and feel tears sting my eyes.

Ma wouldn't approve of this.

Always told you not to love me
Now look what you made me do
I got poison in my pocket,
told you I was bad news

Glamour is restless.

It's nearing the end of the day. Despite his many requests, they are still forced to observe the tributes from Careers to the dregs, year after year. Why should he care at all about the tributes from Districts Five and above? Sometimes they surprise him, yes, but surely that surprise would be more welcome in the earlier part of the day, before he's nursing a hangover by downing ever more champagne.

He fills his flute, takes his seat, and watches Temple Jones carefully organize her time. She's quiet - a good trait for the arena, but not his favorite among tributes he must somehow showcase - and she's careful. This is clearly not the first time she's broken a neck. And it's not really the skill with which she does it that impresses him.

After she leaves, the Gamemakers perch is quiet. He turns slowly to Vepar, setting his flute aside to steeple his fingers. "She cried on the way out. But she still did it. Shall we make it an 8 then?"

My demeanor made you wait,
but the consequences stayed
I killed everything we were
Baby, murder was a case

song: 27 hours

Deleted

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last seen Nov 22, 2024 17:04:43 GMT -5

Public Training Sessions Oct 23, 2018 21:32:43 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Oct 23, 2018 21:32:43 GMT -5

There in the madness

Us against the world

And every heartbeat felt like

This is what we deserve

---------------------------------------------------

All right, so here’s how I see it:

1) Unlike the rest of these turkeys I actually raised my hand to go into a carousel of death, so I don’t really have anything to complain about

2) I actually think I’m going to miss having a soft serve ice cream machine in my life – I really hope that if there’s an afterlife, it comes with soft serve iced cream

3) It took someone else for me to see that yes, life is pointless, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t just do things for the sake of doing them

It’s a hell of a lesson to learn while you’re waiting to have to kill twenty-three other people. Then again, I always thought that I was going to wind up living my life playing music in a dingy little basement. Life comes at you pretty fast, I guess.

Anyway, one of the last things that we have to do is prove to the gamemakers that we have some sort of talent, or tenacity, so that the other tributes and capitolites know how to judge us. Which is pretty typical because there’s no way of forming a subjective basis for someone without a little group think going on. So they make us wait in a room in our uniforms, calling us one by one, until we have to stand in front of them to curtsey or whatever other bullshit and then ran a few laps or something. And the thing is, I think I already proved how dangerous I was just by stepping forward, haven’t I?

Not that I’ve spent a whole lot of time with the rest of these kids. I couldn’t tell you what Parson’s favorite color was, or any other family bonding crap we were supposed to do as district partners. Do people do that as district partners? I always see people becoming best friends in the games and it feels like maybe most of that is a chemical reaction to the fact that you’ll be dead very soon, and it really sucks to die alone. It’s probably for the best that I don’t ever listen to people telling me about themselves.

Man. I’m really going to miss that soft serve ice cream machine.

So what do I do when it’s my turn to prove my worth? Well, besides telling the tributes waiting behind me to smell me later, I march right into the training center like I own the goddamn place. Now – most people would be trying to impress the gamemakers, and that’s entirely noble. Except being noble is for suckers when you do it exclusively for your own personal gain. Yes – see, even at this point trying to get a high score is really more for validation and protection than anything altruistic. I say this because life doesn’t really have a purpose, so anything done doesn’t have value insomuch as it relates to yourself, or to other people.

So that’s where my idea came together. Well – mostly with the help of Shy. The kid has heart but at this point there are twenty-three folks that I’d put money on if I were allowed to win over him. Knife in the stomach, arrow to the eye, stabbed in the heart – you name it, I could see it happening. Pair that with the fact that life has no real meaning, and you get my genius idea that, as someone that’s going to do my utmost to make sure he doesn’t wind up dead,

I’m going to completely flunk my score.

“Ladies and gentleman, a toast.” I unzip my jacket to retrieve the fifth of vodka I’d procured and smuggled into the training center. “To me.” I swallow down the majority of the liquid, and feel the burn against my throat. I toss the empty glass a ways so that it shatters across the pavement. “I’m shit at toasts.”

“Oh yeah, and maybe a light,” I say, digging into my trousers and procuring another pilfered set of items, a lighter and a cigarette. I flick the flame alive and take a deep drag. “You guys have the best cigarettes in the world.”

You see – it was pretty easy to be seen a target (for all I knew I already was one). But even easier if the gamemakers decided my lack of preparation merited a lower score. Probably was going to make it harder for Teddy to secure any sort of sponsorship, but fuck all that noise. This wasn’t really about me, anyway. It was about making sure the target got moved away from Shy, and planted squarely on my back. I could handle death – life was pointless, right? And I had thought about just making it a living hell for everyone else, being a real cold bitch, you know? But then I realized that, well, things probably could be made at least a little bit easier for him if I tried.

My brother Ether would be so proud.

“Now here’s me, holding a knife so you can see that I know how to hold a weapon to defend myself.” It’s about as boring as it sounds, really. Me, holding a little dagger in my hands and giving my best smolder. “In conclusion, thanks for coming to my training session.”

At this point my face is flushed and the room is a lot warmer, and I’m hoping that I can get some kind of burger and fries to eat. I give a smile and wobble toward the doors. Another district six champion in the works, naturally.

tag: GMs! words: 925 notes: :PTS

credit noname @ caution

v e p a r .

"The future can't
be real, I
barely know how
long a moment is"

I 've got red hand print on my cheek from resting idle fingers upon it. Staying up all night encased in work had been the worst idea I've had in a while - I'd forgotten just how grating tributes can be. Angry things, sad things, frantic things, delusional things. I can't tell the difference anymore - I only know they've all no idea what awaits them come doomsday. I know they don't stand a damn chance.

And not one has realized it. Not yet. There's no excitement left to feel, anticipation ran dry as the District Six female entered the room.

Hopefully she'll at least be entertaining.

“Ladies and gentleman, a toast.” She's downing a fifth of vodka and I'm wondering why I even bother hoping anymore. Perhaps I'm too sober, perhaps that's what's grating on my nerves as I watch Quest light a cigarette and brandish a knife.

And that was it.

There was something absolutely spectacular about how unremarkable that had been. And I found salvation in how quickly it all was over.

"I'd have suggested at least a three had she been willing to share." I snark, scribbling a one next to Quest's name.

t a b l e b y e l e

ryan
Advertiser

2,989 POSTS

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last seen Nov 22, 2024 15:47:32 GMT -5

over the moon, where all the wild things are

Public Training Sessions Oct 24, 2018 0:00:59 GMT -5

Quote

Post by ryan on Oct 24, 2018 0:00:59 GMT -5

She took a deep breath before she walked into the place that will brand her with a number for life.

She is a four, a girl who has trained her whole life to do nothing but go into the games. She has watched many games to know how she needed to approach this. She spent years with her father, who she hated more than anything. She worked with him, because his obsession was always greater than what Annie had wanted.

She wanted nothing but to be a regular girl.

But that did not exist in this reality. Not since her mother had passed away when she was fourteen.

She was nothing more than a child when it happened, but it sent waves through her life that shook it apart at the seams. Tidal waves came crashing through it as her mother had laid on her death bed. Annie sat there at her side and prayed that she wouldn’t succumb to the death that was encroaching her, but sadly nothing worked.

Her mothers last words were simple.

Live.

Annie was walking through the halls of the training center, trying to figure out what she was going to do for her private training session.

Her mind was a haze when it came to ideas, but that was because today was the anniversary of her mothers death, a day that she had burned into her memory.

She realized that this was more than just showing them what she could do. This was more about showing them what made her tick. What made Annie different from the tributes that she was going to go up against.

She didn’t know how or what the other careers were doing, but Annie knew that she needed to do something that would set her apart from the rest of the pack.

Annie just had to figure out what that was going to be.

She walked into the room where she saw a large glass box with two people inside. She simply looked up and nodded at them.

”Anatalia Morrisen. District 4.”

Her voice sounded strong as it echoed through the room. She looked around the room to see what was at her disposal. To her surprise, the capitol did not leave anything out of the room that they were in.

She pursed her lips as she saw large pieces of flat wood laying around. She moved to the simulation machine that was in the middle of the hall. A tool that she used here and there while she worked on a couple things in the training center.

She had to think quick about what she was going to do, and after a moment of thought, with the boards of wood laying there in place, she figured out what was going to make her stand out from the rest.

Words echoed in her head. Live. played over and over again in her mother’s soft voice. That’s when she knew what she had to do.

Her mother loved to surf, especially at night when the water was always kinder and more forgiving. There were many days where she would take Annie with her to watch. At first, she would demonstrate what she would be doing, and then Annie eventually would join in. It was memory that Annie always thought about when she was in the water. It was second nature to her, and something that made her feel like she was still human. Like she wasn’t a trained killer that wouldn’t stop until her victim was massacred.

Like she was a regular girl.

She looked through the list and took a deep breath. Terrain: Ocean. Time of Day: Night. Moon: Full. Water Intensity: High. Difficulty: Career.

She turned around and grabbed a set of throwing knives, strapping a sleeve of them around her chest and then hitting the button to start the sim.

The room changed from cold and desolate to a vibrant beach setting that felt real. The chill from the wind slapped against Annie’s face and she couldn’t help but take a whiff of the sweet salty air.

She grabbed the surfboard that was conveniently located in the sand and pulled in close to her. It was night time but she could tell that she already wasn’t alone in the simulation. The sounds in the distance told her that she needed to get into the water.

So she began to swim out making sure to look back for enemies as she went.

The water was bumpy, which made it easier for Annie to stand up on the board and ride along the waves like she would ride a bicycle on a hill.

She took a deep breath, thinking about her mother and how much she wished she could have been here right now.

And then a big wave came out of nowhere and Annie began to traverse it. She focused her body, remaining statuesque until she realized that there was an enemy coming towards her from the other side. In the barrel of the wave, she pulled out a knife and threw it at the enemy, watching it sail right through its chest.

Bullseye.

Annie came back down from the wave, judging that she was at least 100 feet away from shore. She was still standing on the board when she saw a projectile flying her way. She side stepped the projectile on the board gracefully and threw another knife, this time hitting the enemy in the eye.

She smiled at that one.

She turned her back for a moment before realizing that two more enemies had joined her in the water. Another wave was coming, and Annie wasn’t going to back down from a fight.

So as she was caught by the wave, she balanced herself as both enemies closed in on her from both sides.

She simply jumped from her board onto one of the enemies boards and pulled out a knife. She stabbed it into its chest and held it up to block the weapon from the other enemy. She threw the enemy in the water and then pulled out another knife before a wipe out happened from both of them.

However, Annie did not waste any time. She was already well versed in aquatic combat, swimming up to the enemy and jumping on top of it. She held his head underwater until she felt a shoulder come up towards her stomach.

She let out a small oof and took the knife that was in hand and stabbed it through its skull.

Annie was starting to get a little angry.

Annie swam back to a board that was in the water and got back on. She noticed that there were three enemies already wading into the water, as well as a wave behind her.

She simply smiled. She did choose the career difficulty after all.

She got on the board as she was caught on the wave. She balanced herself on the front of the board as the wave carried her near shore.

The enemies threw various blades at her but she simply danced on the surfboard around them. Just like her mom did all those years ago.

She felt like a ballerina on the board, twisting and then throwing a knife into one of the simulated enemies. She wasted no time, stepping softly to the back to avoid another thrown object and then crouching down to throw yet another knife.

She felt like she was doing the waltz on the board, and she simply smiled. Her mother would have been proud of her. She simply side stepped the last thrown object and waited for the wave to bring her back to the shore.

Before she knew it, she was there, and she grabbed the surf board from under her and jumped from the wave. She landed right on top of the enemy and used the board to blunt the enemy to death.

She could feel the rage building inside of her, something that she tried to hide. However, the thought of her father crept into her mind as she collided with the last enemy, and she couldn’t help but feel anguish towards it.

After all, they ruined something beautiful to her, just like her father had done to her.

She looked up at the game makers as the simulation ended. She took off the sash of throwing knives and simply placed them back on the table.

She left it all there for them to see, now it was up to them to see what they thought of her.

Was she worthy?

She would have to find out.

”Thank you.” Annie said leaving the room quickly.

Feeling even more vulnerable then before.

Always told you not to love me
Now look what you made me do
I got poison in my pocket,
told you I was bad news

Glamour sat up a little straighter when the District Four tributes were in the room. This is just how it started last time, the beginning of the end. He showed too much preference to the District Fours, tipped his had a little too openly. But how could he resist the opportunity to observe Leon at work, molding a new generation? He'd not so much as uttered a word to either District Four tribute heretofore. If he showed them a little more interest during their Private Sessions, well. He was only human.

Of course he had no fucking idea what to make of Wander Sibley. Glamour was still replaying the last sessions when Anatalia entered the simulation, expertly rode the waves (a worthy skill in this arena) and made her first kill.

He almost thanked her for making his life easier. She had an interesting way of improvising, and she made her kills as quickly as she could. Really he could find no fault in her session. As soon as she departed, Glamour leaned his champagne flute towards Vepar. "Sometimes the quiet ones are the deadliest. We're agreed on an 8 then, hmm?"

My demeanor made you wait,
but the consequences stayed
I killed everything we were
Baby, murder was a case

song: 27 hours

Sleepy Fluttershy
District Mayor

970 POSTS

last seen Mar 30, 2022 16:20:24 GMT -5

«Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm». (Winston Churchill)

Public Training Sessions Oct 24, 2018 10:50:31 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Sleepy Fluttershy on Oct 24, 2018 10:50:31 GMT -5

Oct 20, 2018 15:31:42 GMT -5 Sleepy Fluttershy said:

Carmen Stirling.

She enters the room with a feeling that nothing she does now is going to change whatever happens next. She is going to be who knows where, doing who knows what to survive. This score is just an empty number. Just a number meant to make her feel like she has already won or lost even before she takes her first look at the Cornucopia.

This is fake. Just like those corrupt weird looking guys over there who only care about their well being. Carmy smiles and picks up her knife. It is an evil smile, a smirk shot right at those who have their minds set on ruining her life for good. They won’t be afraid. But even a minor role in their nightmares will give her the satisfaction she needs.

Mark my words, someday there is going to be a person strong enough to bring down your little circus.

Another grin full of hate, a dramatic swing of her thin arm - and the first knife hits the dummy in front of her right in the heart. She is playing with the second one when one of her black locks gets into her face, tickling the child’s right nostril…

“Ahchoo!!!”

“Way to look intimidating”, - she mutters to herself, cutting the dummy’s arm off with a single strike. Its figure is still and motionless in the dim light of the training center. It is white. And… dead?

But it’s never been alive in the first place.

She feels the tension in her arm when she elbows the dummy in the face and stabs it in the back. One, two, three times…

Not human. Not human.

How could she ever do that to a human? She couldn’t. Never ever could she do that to Beardy or Goldilocks or… anyone.

But for now, just fooling them is enough. They can’t see a shaking heart, can’t spot a bleeding soul and tears in her throat. If they felt it, they wouldn’t be here, savoring the possibility of twenty-four children’s deaths.

If there is one thing Carmen Stirling is sure of - it is that heartless can be fooled.

Stab. Stab. Stab. A punch in the face. Broken equipment. Cold eyes. Black curls flying around. Silence.

“If ya don’t give me a ten, I’ll be coming for yer throats. Nice seeing ya.”

Hands in pockets, head raised proudly, ten… eleven… twelve confident steps and she is out of the training center. Running to the elevator. To her room. To throw her shaky hands around… just anybody and find solace in that sobbing embrace.

Oct 23, 2018 16:28:37 GMT -5 [nyte] said:

v e p a r .

"The future can't
be real, I
barely know how
long a moment is"

I pity the ones with fight in them. Angry words, empty threats - they know they've nothing left but their own spite. Perhaps I admire those that thing they stand a chance, ones that cling to the hope that they will be returning home. Carmen is not a career - she's a girl from District Eleven and while many victors have hailed from her home there was not one that reigned victorious without fighting like hell.

And Carmen was fighting like hell. Not a career and yet the whole of her being was flung into using weapons that were previously nothing more than shiny toys upon a big screen. She destroyed she conquered and wasn't it practical to assume that Districts who've trained their lambs for slaughter possessed the upper hand?

I've learned there is much that comes with being the underdog. I've learned to trust my gut.

“If ya don’t give me a ten, I’ll be coming for yer throats. Nice seeing ya.”

And my laughter does nothing to lift my spirits, regarding Glamour with a raised brow. "Perhaps we've got something to fear, as hard as that one's going to fight."

More than I expected from a crop district, certainly.

"A seven for Stirling then."

t a b l e b y e l e

(graphics by Kaplan)

☆GABRIELLE☆

uwu
Capitol Resident

1,005 POSTS

Pronouns: You
last seen Nov 16, 2024 16:02:38 GMT -5

Public Training Sessions Oct 24, 2018 17:16:50 GMT -5

Quote

Post by uwu on Oct 24, 2018 17:16:50 GMT -5

Actions
Thoughts
"My Speech"
"Your Speech"
Other

My alarm blares on the desk across the room as I lay on my bed. I feel oddly rested for today, especially considering how late I stayed up last night... something's going to happen later today, isn't it? If anyone can here my alarm clock right now probably hates me right now. I'm sorry. I continue laying in bed, debating whether or not it's worth it to get out of bed. Deep down, I know I should, and that I'll do fine at the PTS today. I can just blend myself into the background. Easy as that. But on the other hand, I'd have to do it in front of the gamemakers. What if I mess up? What if I get a bad score? Since when did I care about getting a good score? They don't matter anyways. Those with the highest don't ever win anyways, i don't think. Stop stressing over it. You'll do fine. Just pretend it's like going to training back in 2. Pretend like you're just hiding from your instructors. You got this.

My feet greet the cool ground with a light thump as I roll out of bed. I head off to my chair and change into the clothes I had laid on it the night before. As soon as I put on my shoes, I realize I don't want to leave. Leaving here means I have to go outside... with PEOPLE. My heart gradually picks up as I begin thinking more and more about what I have to do today and I quickly hide in my closet in a ball. I don't want to do this. I don't want to. I just want to go home and enjoy spending time with my family. Tears slide silently from my face as I rock back and forth on the ground. Someone please get me out of here.

Someone knocks at the door as to answer my prayers. I rush out of my closet, wiping the snot and tears off my face, to open the door. Standing on the other side to kill my joy is my escort. They tell me that it's time to leave and my heart sinks back into my chest. Of course. Should have saw that coming. I'm so tempted to run back into my room and go back to sleep, but I know that someone will just pick me up and drag me to the training center anyways. I reluctantly follow my escort all the way to the training center where I see the rest of the tributes waiting outside.

After a little bit, someone walks out and explains what's going on, and what's going to happen. When the order of tributes got explained, my face lit up. Ah bet, I get to get it over with and leave. That's wonderful! I don't have to stay here longer than necessary! The person who explained everything walks back into the training center and the first tribute walks in. I got this. I hope. Just need to show them my camouflage.

I try to think of all the different ways I could disappear. I should blend into the wall and just try to walk out without them noticing. Ha! Genius! I should do that! I gotta do that! Soon after someone calls out my name. I get up and walk into the training center feeling more confident than usual. Until I look at the gamemakers. My confidence dwindles back down again. I have to impress those two. I can't believe that they're going to be controlling the arena in which I die in. Frick.

I look at the ground as I make my way to the camo station. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I get to leave. But impress them. Why do I need to impress people I hate? Because they can kill you. I guess, but they're for murdering innocent children for stupid President Snow. I glance back at the wall to see what paints I need and glance back up at the gamemakers to see what angle they're at once I arrive at the table. Just focus on yourself. Do well for yourself then.

Nodding to give myself reassurance, I pull off my shirt and start mixing and matching paints onto my skin. After a little bit, I finally get the right color of the wall down. After that's done, the real fun and games begin. I go on a painting frenzy. My hands make my brushes fly all over my body, coloring in every last piece of skin to the design of the wall. Once I finish with the front, I get to the back. I've always had a little struggle getting my back just right, but I always manage. It feels a lot longer to paint on my back, which I expected, but I start to feel rushed. Maybe I should have stuck with the front... no. I gotta go all out. After my back, I move onto my face and neck.[/quote][/font] Can't forget the most important part. I've always loved doing my face. I enjoy watching it change colors.

I feel good about my paint job. I examine myself in the mirror one final time before running to the back of the training center. I stand tall against it, knowing I blending myself into the wall perfectly. I look down to make sure I do, and am proud of what I accomplished. My entire upper half fits right into the wall. I bet the stupid gamemakers can't see me now. I slowly inch my way back to the entrance of the gym. I arrive at the door after who knows how long, but I run out with a grin on my face. I'm finally done! Wait. Where's my shirt?

Embarrassment rises into my face as I realize I forgot my shirt inside the training center. Now I'm standing in front of well over half of the tributes shirtless. This can't be happening! I want to leave! I hear the next tribute getting called in. Oh no... now I'm stuck shirtless... At least I have my pants on. I guess it isn't too bad... but I still don't have a shirt on... I quickly mosey my way out of the hallway and into the elevator. At least this is all over. Now I can just curl into a ball in my room for as long as I want and hopefully not be bothered until tomorrow.

v e p a r .

"The future can't
be real, I
barely know how
long a moment is"

All hail careers. Pride and joy of the Capitol, perfectly cultivated killing machines and they always made the Games interesting. Fearsome creatures which everyone in the arena was meant to compete. It is to their benefit that they started leagues above the rest. In both the eyes of their opponents and those of the Capitol.

Unfortunately for Shy Aubergine, it seemed, it meant they had much further to fall. He's a little thing, a mere child and I've always hated them. The ones with round faces and bright eyes - they're the ones that tend to haunt fevered nightmares locked behind gold plated doors and I suppose it's lucky I don't have to see this one for long.

"Oh no, wherever could he be." I'd have felt rude mocking the child had he been able to hear me. He was amusing, for sure, and it was without a doubt he'd make the arena more interesting. But alas any old tribute who took the camo station could do the same.

It almost hurts penning a two next to his name.

t a b l e b y e l e

[/quote]

[ahref="http://hungergamesrpg.com/thread/60901/character"]l

[/a]

Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]
Retired Staff

6,346 POSTS
Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Nov 17, 2023 15:15:56 GMT -5

cozy, queer af

Public Training Sessions Oct 24, 2018 20:14:22 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] on Oct 24, 2018 20:14:22 GMT -5

.I don’t know a lot about courage, but I know I could use some more of it right about now.

Raxar always has courage. Maybe it’s because he’s got a stronger heart than I do, but I try sometimes to emulate that confidence he wears. I try to stand tall, to let my thoughts ascend and fly up, up, up, high into the sky where nothing can reach me.

Untouchable, if only for a little while.

I try to summon that courage as the list begins.

Sweat gathers in my palms and my heart rate picks up. I don’t have to wait long for my name to be called. Unlike the Reaping, I process it at the appropriate time. I recognize the words Eve Renner and try to grasp that

this is me

.this is me,

this is me. I am the one who must prove that I am more than I am. Today, I must make them believe that I’m something better than I seem.

It was already difficult to succeed in my endeavours before the Games swallowed me up, and now I’m being scored based on all of the things that I cannot begin to change about myself.

Examined.

.Visible.

Vulnerable.

I don’t want to be seen or heard. .I would like nothing more than to melt into this very floor.

As I step through the doorway, .it is without a plan.

Inching towards the Gamemakers’ table, I bite my lip to keep it from quivering.

.I’m small and too afraid to meet their eyes.

As the inevitable situation reaches out to greet me, I know I’m fooling myself, .holding on to fake bravery.

That’s all I can do as I walk into that vast room and realize I don’t have much of a skill to share.

I don’t know anything.

.I don’t know anything.

I don’t know anything.

Something whispers in the back of my head: that’s not true - you know how to heal and how to help and how to care for others, but the thought dies when I sense the great malice hovering in the air.

Kindness will win me nothing but a nice coffin.

The air hangs heavy with that dark feeling, and I try to stave it off, to keep their watchful eyes from tearing too deep into my skin. Shuffling forward, I try to stand resolute in the face of the evil that wants to see me fall.

(I’m fooling myself, thinking I can be more than I am.)

I’m lying.

.I’m lying.

I’m lying.

My clammy hands ball into fists, and I can feel my own fingernails tear into the skin of my palm.

“I’m Eve,” I say, more for my benefit than their own.

They know who I am.

I know-

I know--

I know--- that I’m Eve, and they can hardly see me over their grand table.

.I know that I know how to be kind.

.I know that I can feel their eyes clawing over my skin.

I know that there’s something pulling at my chest, something heavy, .something that burns.

I don’t know what to do with that feeling.

I don’t know what to do at all except bite away at the inside of my cheek.

.Not knowing what to do is a beautiful thing, because I find myself doing the one thing I never would.

I do not walk.

I do not shuffle.

.I do not turn and flee.

I run towards a dummy and my fists are angry from the way I’ve scraped the skin, my mouth sore from that terrible anxious habit of biting down too deep, trying to hold my sanity together with the pressure of my own teeth.

.I give up on pretending anything at all.

I decide, in the end, that courage isn’t about ascending away from things that threaten me.

Not flying,

up,

up,

up.

.I must descend to meet my fear.

Head held low.

Hands clammy.

.Heart racing.

There’s a dummy without a face sitting in front of me, and I think that’s a good thing.

I’m glad it doesn’t have a face.

This is a faceless feeling, after all.

I descend upon it with something that isn’t quite fury, crushing my fists against its neck,

its jaw,

its chest.

The place where the warmth should be.

I pound my fists against the ribs that aren’t real,

not well,

not skilled,

not even violent,

.And my breath catches in my throat.

The air fills my lungs with a purpose, heaving like I’m alive and not dead, not dying, not fated for terrible things.

With an exhale, I crash into the dummy’s torso with my bloodied fists,

railing against it:

One time.

Two..

Three...

Four….

Five…..

……

…….

……..

………

……….

………..

……………………………………………………….

On and on and on,

Until my teeth have bitten into the tip of my tongue and I spit, spit into the faceless feeling, spit blood and saliva as the red from my knuckles drips down my fingertips.

And I keep going.

With bloodied fists and without tears,

with something akin to grief,

or wrath

.or the worst kind of doubt,

.or heartache for myself.

But not as I am.

.My heart drops in my chest with a sudden nostalgia for the self I could have been.

.For the things that could be.

What would I have had? I wonder, abandoning the pain in my fists,

heaving a hearty kick at the faceless thing,

which is now without much of a ribcage.

Images and inescapable feelings flash through my brain as I jump and stomp on the dummy’s throat.

.Potential is an evil word when you don’t have any.

.(Will my family be alright

when I am gone?)

I fight not because I have something to prove,

but because I have .nothing. to prove,

no great strength,

no secret skill,

.no certainty.

Now that I think about it, this isn’t even fighting.

It’s just moving forward,

dragging my feet across the floor, another kick, another, baring my soul as I feel bruises forming on my feet.

And the dummy is without a face, without a ribcage, now without a head, white plastic turned red.

The faceless thing rolls away from its mangled body.

The feeling persists.

Broken, shredded, .hopeless.

I do not cease.

How many minutes has it been?

How long before they pull me away from this self-destruction?

The dummy in pieces on the floor,

the faceless mirror,

the ceaseless ache of not knowing how this will end.

It will end-

It will end—

.Badly.

I do not relent.

.I feel the fear burn beside something else

I keep going

.I keep going

Until my limbs go weak

.Until my body can’t contain the feeling

Until the room—

The room goes dark.

Always told you not to love me
Now look what you made me do
I got poison in my pocket,
told you I was bad news

Glamour always has high hopes for the Career districts, even beyond the sunny optimism he always bestows upon the District Four tributes. So, Private Training Session days always begin well - at least in theory. Stacked to showcase the best, brightest and best trained tributes, Glamour usually doesn't think twice about the early sessions.

Except for that pesky District Two Male. He can feel the heady cloud of champagne starting to dissipate as Eve Renner declares her name. It takes her a moment to build the proper amount of rage and then she is... not elegant. Not skilled.

She is feral.

"What are they doing in District Two?" He mutters to Vepar as Eve spits all over the mangled dummy. Ew.

After the room darkens and Eve is dragged away, Glamour gnaws on the rim of his champagne flute. "Surely Julian Bryze hasn't lost his touch entirely? And Gamemaker Antoinette really must know what we want to see. A ploy? That would be... something. In any case, it's hardly worth more than a 7."

My demeanor made you wait,
but the consequences stayed
I killed everything we were
Baby, murder was a case

song: 27 hours

warehouse

WT
Retired Staff

2,134 POSTS
Pronouns: they
last seen Sept 10, 2021 1:50:54 GMT -5

time, gender, furbies, and other things that don't exist

Public Training Sessions Oct 25, 2018 20:58:37 GMT -5

Quote

Post by WT on Oct 25, 2018 20:58:37 GMT -5

At least if Wander dies next week, ve'll never hear the words District Four Male: Wander Sibley again.

That kind of thing shouldn't rattle ver. Gamemakers and announcers and reporters sneaking past security to snatch moments with the tributes—none of those people matter in Wander's life any more than the baker at the market telling Wander and Madalitso buy something or move on, boys, or the eighth-grade teacher shaking her head and muttering with affectionate exasperation about how all the girls are tomboys lately. Past making sure ve doesn't offend them enough to become a mutt target, Wander has no reason to care about the Gamemakers' opinions of ver at all. Those people back home at least saw Wander as a person, though—the wrong person, but it was only ever a mistake, not another facet of vis status as an interchangeable toy.

There's too much else to worry about to wallow in frustration now. As ve stands, Wander tries to channel vis past instead: vis own good cheer, vis parents' and Linares' calm born of experience, Teresa's stubborn poise. Feet light, back straight, head high.

Teresa would laugh to hear that—all Wander's complaints about her uptightness, and here ve is imitating her. Maybe she wouldn't; maybe she understands how much ve admires her work ethic, understands that ve only worries she doesn't take enough time for herself. Ve hopes so.

Wander gives Anatalia a smile and a tiny wave, sets back vis shoulders, and walks forward as brightly as ve can.

"I'm not male, so everyone's clear," ve says as soon as the doors are closed. (Feet light, back straight, head high, ve reminds verself. This is just another version of the same old conversation.) "I keep telling people, but news spreads kinda slow around here, somehow."

Ve's too busy scanning the room to watch for a reaction. Most of the options laid out are useless to ver: swords, paints, a shooting range, human dummies, things ve has no idea how to use. The branches by the firemaking tools are tempting, because Wander was sort of proud of learning to weave fibers into ropes the other days—but no, ve still takes forever dissecting plants even with the improvised weapons stationmaster right there explaining the process. And putting a net together—even if Wander can do it in vis sleep, knot after triangle after knot after square—is the kind of thing the Games broadcasters use as a break to show old clips of their favorite dead tributes.

"Anyway." Wander tucks a knife under vis arm and grabs a ready-made net instead, then starts pacing between the mutt dummies, even steps rustling against the tarp beneath the area. "A lot of people think tuna are, you know—" ve hold up vis hands, a little awkwardly with the net, about a foot apart—"because they only see what ends up on a plate." A horse with the back half of a fish: almost ideal, but too big. A four-legged fish: too small. "They're big though, five feet easy. Eight or nine sometimes." A giant spider: no. A web-footed canine with too many teeth and a grasping, unsettlingly primate-like hand at the end of its tail: maybe.

Wander settles in front of that one. Over the permanent snarl its eyes are glassy, but when Wander drives the knife into its shoulder with a soft grunt of effort it leaks fake blood and resists falling with the weight of a real animal. Perfect. "So you have to have people between the ocean and the plate."

Ve nets the creature and yanks. Its side hits the ground with a dull thud, posed limbs thrown unnaturally askew, and Wander throws the net back to roll it the rest of the way over with a heavy kick.

Aquatic or not, the dummy doesn't have gills, but it's got an obvious enough anus. Wander cuts around that, grimacing once at the first scrape of metal over an unexpected bone; when ve finishes the rectum still resists an experimental tug, so ve pushes it down and saws upward through the abdomen. Sure enough, once exposed, the tissues holding the thing's organs in place present themselves. Shearing, then pulling, then shearing again, ve drags everything onto the tarp in one steady, mostly continuous pile, pausing only to struggle over the thin sheet of muscle between the rib cage and the intestines.

As Wander works the fronted nonchalance drains away, replaced by the more genuine ease of practice. An animal is an animal, in the end; the tuna spend hours if not days on ice, so even the cold blood and waxy skin are familiar. The only thing that still unnerves ver is the smell. Sooner or later, no matter how hard the crew races it, death reeks, but for all the details not spared in making this monster of a doll realistic—the lovingly textured fur, the striated muscles—it smells like nothing, not even the gentle briny scent of fish fresh out of the icebox.

No one in the Capitol drowns overboard in a storm. No one—at least, Wander corrects verself with the briefest guilty flick of vis eyes toward the avoxes guarding the elevator doors, no one treated like they have a life to lose—gets ground in the machinery at a processing plant. No wonder Capitolites want death, if not safely distant on a screen, as clean as they can make it; they're a hair's breadth from pretending it doesn't exist. Half the people in this city probably never even realize that their food comes from somewhere.

Wander stands, hands tacky with fake blood and speckled with bits of viscera that ve knows from experience would be futile to wipe on vis clothes, and faces the Gamemakers for the first time.

"Everything bigger than us is still just meat," ve says. "Us, too."

Always told you not to love me
Now look what you made me do
I got poison in my pocket,
told you I was bad news

The moment they're done with District Three, Glamour feels his heart beat start to race. He drinks. He fidgets. Of course he's going to like the tributes Leon has overseen. But will he love them? Will they impress him? Will they know to crown themselves before they die?

Glamour is obtrusively quiet as Wander Sibley enters. The first two statements out of the tribute's mouth make Glamour wonder if he's already passed out and dreaming. He can't make sense of either. Not male? News travels slowly? Wander is still speaking but Glamour's mind is a vortex of champagne bubbles and what the fuck?

He doesn't even know how to mentally narrate the session for himself. Wander nets... themself? Surely not 'itself'? Frustrated, Glamour misses much of the explanation about fishing big game and only tunes back in when Wander begins to clean the muttation, beginning at the business end. There's clarity to the tribute's movements, precision and knowledge. All of which Glamour appreciates, and to boot, Wander's actually speaking!

Which is a goddamn miracle, given the past sessions.

To top it off, Wander emerges from the work covered in guck. Had it been another tribute, given the uniforms Vepar had just signed off on, it would have filmed beautifully.

Wander's well out of the room by the time Glamour speaks. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with... that," he says, waving a hand to indicate Wander and the entire session. District Four, his heart thuds, even as question upon question pile up in his head. "I guess as long as Wander Sibley narrates what, uhm, not-he does, then maybe we can make something of this tribute after all. Although I don't relish the idea of explaining all this to the President. Would you be a dear...?"

One look at Vepar and it's clear he would not be a dear. Glamour's twisted smile soured as he marked a heavy 10 next to Wander Sibley, District Four Male.

My demeanor made you wait,
but the consequences stayed
I killed everything we were
Baby, murder was a case

song: 27 hours

'the way we lived' in stylized text, with 'character directory' as a subtitle underneath

banner by Dars! <3

shrimp
Retired Staff

1,953 POSTS
Pronouns: he/his
last seen Oct 19, 2020 18:16:41 GMT -5

Public Training Sessions Oct 25, 2018 21:15:14 GMT -5

Quote

Post by shrimp on Oct 25, 2018 21:15:14 GMT -5

“This” her father says, chewing on a fruit jerky, “is a knife.”

Curiosity in her veins, 11-year old Bette picks up the lipstick case, turning it over in her palm. She can imagine this in the hands of a debutante, a housewife filling her makeup bag. It’s beautiful, the galvanized tin hammered with what looks like fish scales. She opens the top, twisting to reveal a thin blade, the serrated edge etched with the sea. For another ten seconds she twists back and forth, watching the knife rise and fall, change with the tides. Then, with careful fingers she pulls, popping out the weapon entirely. Her father looks on as she pokes at the mechanisms, fixes what she’s broken in about fifteen minutes. He smiles.

“Little one, will you help me?”

---

Her entrance isn’t humble, but it isn’t arrogant - it’s unbothered. She collects as she goes, with careful consideration of the tools at hand, the poise of a woman picking out the right pear for dinner: a piece of flint, a pipe, black powder, scraps of metal, wood, cloth, a small cuckoo clock from the potpourri section of a mini cornucopia. Something else too, slipped into her pocket with such grace that she’s sure the Gamemakers haven’t noticed.

With a soft yawn and the swagger of someone who’s just arrived at their job, she pulls up a stool and starts getting to work deconstructing the clock, pulling out gears and springs. Pliers help her hold metal that she bangs into shape - quick and precise. She tests the grip, fixes as she goes, occasionally looks up for a time check. Bare bones turn into four key facets:

Hammer: the owl sculpture, taken from the clock. In its beak, the flint. The Mainspring attached, flimsier than she would like but - time check - good enough for now. The Frizzen, measured twice, secured on top of the Pan, laden with powder.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize what Bette Sublino is making. Nor does it take one to realize that she’s making it in fifteen minutes. But still she continues, nimble fingers weaving together a weapon as the time ticks by - ten then seven then four. If she’s panicking it’s certainly not showing. Her movements are steady, the cadence of an artisan.

---

The first time she makes one, it doesn’t go well. Her father simply shakes his head, jerky already long gone. So she tries again as the clock strikes three, peeling the facade off a laquered wardrobe and dusting the metal with silver.

Again, no.

She tries a third time and a fourth, and seven tries later she’s gotten closer but still no cigar. It’s been months by now, stuck on one mockup. “It’s beautiful,” her father remarks. “But its organs are twisted. You focus too much on the outside, the symptoms - not on the cure.”

“Attack it at the root, then everything else will follow.”

---

When she finally wields it in her hand it’s ugly. But its roots are deep and its intent is clear.

With three minutes on the clock she walks to the target range, examining the dummies with a sharp gaze. She points out the weapon with one arm, calling out her target in the middle of the pack. And then, as if she knows they’re all waiting for her to make the move, she feints left. An ally receives her gift as she brandishes a string, tying the trigger to its index finger with a serene tenderness. She walks ten feet away, the leash following.

Bette breathes in, looks at the time. She smiles, and yanks.

---

Amma walks in on them when Bette is thirteen, three rifles made out of clockwork sprawled across the workshop table - and had she not placed down the tea tray with the impact of a thunderstorm, Bette would have wondered if she'd noticed at all. Amma’s face is stone for days; a week later, she motions for Bette to follow her.

"He’ll teach her how to build the stars, but he’ll let her fumble with the rest.” she mutters as the tandem bicycle starts its steep incline. But she says nothing more as they climb, not one utterance as Bette struggles to pedal. Eventually, they come to the hilltop - the sunset only just starting to paint the sky gold. Bette pants, head pounding, but there's no water here - just the cold grip of a revolver shoved into her hand. Eyes wide, Bette looks up to see her mother, silhouetted by the sun.

"You want to build a gun, my love?" Her voice is slick with the echoes of the past.

"Then you had better know how to use it."

---

BANG.

The flintlock fires in more ways than one: flint sparking against the frizzen and lighting the gunpowder, the bullet ricocheting towards its target and landing square in the chest. But on the other side, the collected scraps of a 15-minute weapon implode in the dummy’s hands with a squelch, leaving stumps that remind her of the fault lines running up The Antiquary’s walls. The smoke curls in waves.

Then Bette pulls out the flare gun from her pocket and POW: the smoke clears and a second bullet is in the target, right through its forehead. Blink and there’s almost no time to register her kicking the handless ally in the back, sending it skittering to the floor before stepping on top of the body.

Bette looks straight at the GM booth, the flare gun in her left hand, twirling once, twice, around her index finger. She raises her eyebrows, and then, her eyes not leaving their faces, she stomps hard on her ally’s head. Fake teeth scatter like a game of marbles on a warm summer’s day.

A moment passes, the blood sinking into the tile. And then she leaves as if work has ended for the day, placing the flare gun askew on the workshop table. There’s no worries in her mind as she exits, no wishing she had more time. She took what was given and did what she could: one test, two guns.

But really, switch those numbers - it all boils down to two birds and one stone.

Always told you not to love me
Now look what you made me do
I got poison in my pocket,
told you I was bad news

It's early, his flute is still chilled, and Glamour Kinkade is ready to be entertained. Bette Subino sweeps into the room, confident and relaxed. Glamour nudges one of the junior gamemakers at his side. "Note the easy gait. This is going to be a good one."

Of course, it's hard for someone as busy as Glamour to sit still and watch a craftsman at work. After a few minutes, he stands and gathers a plate of food. When that's finished, he paces, chatting with whoever he happens across - junior gamemakers, muttation designers, even an avox for a moment (just to hear his own melodious voice) before he retakes his seat. Time is ticking and Bette has dissected several obscure things.

She lifts the roughly made gun.

Glamour grins.

A sort of duel ensues, controlled and animated by the District One tribute. There's smoke and bullets and even a surprise finale. Truly he could not have maneuvered it better himself. He lifts his hands to clap when Bette turns to them, obliterating the head of a dummy beneath her feet.

Glamour drums on the wing of his armchair, fingers mere millimeters away from the panic button which will lock down the Gamemakers' nest. This is another duel, one that he's quite certain he didn't agree to.

She exits to muffled applause from the onlookers. Glamour lets out the breath he was holding. "I feel like I just stepped off a rollercoaster! What a delightful way to start the day." He lifts his fine pen, trying to steady the adrenaline coursing through his veins enough to write 10 next to Bette Subino's name.

My demeanor made you wait,
but the consequences stayed
I killed everything we were
Baby, murder was a case

song: 27 hours

Arrows
Retired Staff

3,236 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen May 23, 2023 16:50:31 GMT -5

your resident blonde bisexual boy

Public Training Sessions Oct 25, 2018 23:52:42 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Arrows on Oct 25, 2018 23:52:42 GMT -5

<><><><><><><>

There's an alteration, a quiver, which quirks my mentor's somber stare. I simply assure him I already know what is to come beneath the analytical gaze of the Game Makers. Now is not the time to allow the fires of fear to eradicate the calm composure of my creating. For years forged beneath the dark dominion of my making, I have been preparing for this presentation. In the wild when wolves are hunting down a herd, they want to ensure that there are victims among the group strong enough to be desirable for their devastation. In this forest of white walls and towers of technology, the hunt is no different. A desire for the discovery of those with strength that will provide a show, provide Snow with interest, is of upmost importance to the Game Makers.

As the sun settles, the day of work turns to quiet. There is a heavy sense of importance hanging on the precipice of the coming trial. Faces framed with focus sit in silence before the metal markings of the entrance to beginning of the end. Maybe that's why stress strangles the minds of many tributes as they start their steps towards the first of many stages to come. Tonight's examination of capability acts as the first true shift towards the start of extermination. From this moment on time flies into a flurry of fluttering seconds.

The scores determining your worthiness to survive are released in the morning.

The interviews to display whatever personality you choose to portray in the eyes of the Capitol follow that night.

Then with the rise of the next dawn you rise atop a metal plate into a world of wickedness sewn together by the shadows of sin.

The sun is beginning to rise and soon we can no longer find safety in the seclusion of our dreams. Life is harsh and filled with horrors, one way or another we must awaken from this land of in-between to face it. Luckily, this lesson is one I already spend every second living by. In a world where the figure who is supposed to raise you with love betrays you with hatred and pain, there is no room for doubting the nature of existence. All is evil, might as well embrace it's darkest depths.

Larceny Theft.

My eyes angle towards the hall welcoming me with opening doors. As my steps slip silently closer towards the space before me, I catch a final glance towards the remaining tributes. I feel nothing, no wishes of well being or desires for their destruction. Only emptiness, and its presence brings a small smirk to my face as I accept the spotlight of the first of the many stages I will soon stand upon privy to the nation's viewing.

Slightly positioned above me the Game Makers sit among their land of luxuries, like Gods and Goddesses overseeing the world from Olympus. Atticus instructed me to play polite to them, to respect their position placed above me by a single man. I will not do so. Manners are not the regulations that a Theft lives by. Why forge a fake image now?

"You already know who I am and I already know who you are."

I say without a spark of pitch alteration or emotion sewn into my voice.

"I'm going to cut to the chase, Hide and Seek. Three trainers, no lights. I have five minutes to get close enough to hit them with this."

I reveal a small stamp of an L I had spent the past day working on making out of wood.

"I will dip it in paint as I go. Game Makers, "

I say now fully addressing the Rules of my new existence,

"to see I recommend wearing night vision goggles. And, if I don't get all the trainers in the five minutes give me a One for wasting your time."

With a nod I grab a small container of paint and watch as the three trainers emerge from their various stations.

"As always in a good game of Hide and Seek, you have about a minute to hide," I take in a slow breath as my eyes shut and I sense the world become blanketed in darkness, "30..."

Although numbers tumble from my mouth I feel my ears inching higher, honing in tighter to every subtle sound. A Game Maker moves their drink. A peace keeper coughs. All irrelevant. I scan deeper as the numbers reduce. The soft churn of the air vents. No. The sound of an obstacle course rope slightly shifting from the air conditioning, only, the vent flow doesn't hit the ropes. Perfect.

My eyes open, and a breath of embrace engorges my lunges. Shrouded in the shadows of darkness I feel most at ease. A smile splits my lips and my steps move without sound, a skill sewn into my brain from years of slinking around creaking boards and avoiding the smallest producers of sound in a house of sleeping owners. After all, the slightest of stumbles and an entire attempt of thievery turns into a runaway from the Peace Keepers, a chase from floggings or death.

Entering the sound prone realm of the obstacle course my steps grow stiller, softer, as my eyes trace the shadows' shapes and my ears listens to the normal song of silence. A shape moved mildly and a breath, short and shallow, is detected. The stamp slips into my hand as my body levels lower and lower into a crawl across the floor. The best kind of theft is one where they don't even know it's happened. A forced movement of rope for diversion and below eye sight I just slightly press the stamp into the shoe of the trainer. I move on with quick dart behind a nearby corner.

One down two to go. I think, about three and a half minutes remaining. I need to pick up pace.

I find myself moving along the edge of center when an abnormal sound intrigues my attention. Swift, yet staying true to the silence of my small body's steps, I enter an area of mannequins for sword practice. The sound in question comes from very stealthy steps as well, weaving through the field of decoys.

A moving target, smart.

However, I cannot allow myself to be outplayed. Focusing on his path I determine his pattern. He's moving left weaving horizontally row by row. Carefully I move just ahead of him, clinging to the base of one of the mannequins, another moment my short size and the dark work to help conceal me as just a piece of the mannequin. I don't even need to approach him. He stalks quietly right past allowing my to slyly secure a stamp mark to his shoe as well.

Coming into the final two minutes of my time I know I need to find the final trainer as well as provide a different placement of my mark than shoes. I need to prove I am more than just a small shadow. I am simply a shadow capable of many meanings of danger.

As I search for the final trainer among the dwindling seconds, I admit my discovery of her is almost entirely luckily. Again along the wall I nearly run into her as she seems to be utilizing the same method. Thankfully, she doesn't realize it yet. But I know my time is short since her eyes are certainly adjusted to the darkness by this point. My mind is searching for options, but only one seems plausible in this much of an open area. Shock and Speed.

Taking off with sprinting steps towards the trainer I release I high pitch and sudden scream. For a second, even for a professional, her flight or fight instincts of sudden shock kick in and in her moment of mental calculation I dive past her, stamping her stomach while I do. A fresh smile stains my face with success, but a new idea inspires me as the lights begin to turn back on.

As everyone's eyes adjust I take quick notice of where one of the peace keepers guarding the Game Makers is standing. I send the stamp swiftly towards him, giving his mask a nice L is red paint on its face's center. A surprise attack yes, but in the games it is more than wise to use such methods for survival.

I give a nod to the audience on my way, including the three stamped trainers. Might as well use a bit of Atticus' advice, with some sarcasm of course.

"Enjoy the rest of your night."

<><><><><><><>

v e p a r .

"The future can't
be real, I
barely know how
long a moment is"

District Three shared blood. With similar names, with similar faces and my stomach drops at the thought of it. Blood has always been something of a soft spot for me, I've shared everything with my brother and there's no part of me which would believe I could kill him had I ever been unfortunate enough to find myself in that position. And certainly I've lost all ability to pity the children turned to tributes, but I certainly don't envy them.

I think I like Larceny. There isn't much to see, not right away, and I close my eyes the minute the tribute requests lights out, losing myself to the fantasy he wishes to create. I don't need my eyes to see. Sounds are sacred within this darkness - even the lack thereof is telling. You needn't be stronger than your opponents, there's no way in hell that this child even matches the build of trainers - men as refined and skilled as my twin - he only needs to be smarter. Faster.

Better.

When he screams I flinch.

It's over soon after.

"Bravo!" I laugh, applauding for a child who cannot hear it when lights turn back on. "I sense great things for that one."

Have a great rest of your night.

"And you enjoy the time you have left, Theft."

An eight for him, then.

t a b l e b y e l e

Last Edit: Oct 26, 2018 10:30:53 GMT -5 by Arrows

Graphic by the Breathtakingly Talented Stare

Tom
Moderator

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

OowoO

Public Training Sessions Oct 26, 2018 19:14:05 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Tom on Oct 26, 2018 19:14:05 GMT -5

Alone.

Alone after everyone's gone in to do their tricks. A performance by kings, queens, jacks, aces, and numbers. All of this to get the highest number that they can get for proof of their strength. Dancing humans with cards up their sleeves waiting for the moment to change into the entertainment the capitolites want. Instead of silence like the others, he sits in a chair, shuffling his cards in quick successions. Face passing by without a single notice to them. Would they be a queen, jack, king, ace? He didn't care enough to try and tell. Putting people in categories of their strength wasn't his job. That was for the jokers up in the viewing seats to decide.

Jokers like death himself. Deciding which of them live or die within a moment's notice. Flipping the joker card in his hand repeatedly like death himself might appear in front of Carter Laws to give him some more answers. The surprise in his pocket weighing less and less as he shuffles the jokers back into his deck. Hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds glaring back at him like Mitchell Laws own from the past. His words flashing back to his mind once more with a metaphorical slap that makes his stomach hurt even more from anxious nerves.

"One day, I won’t be here. When that day comes Carter, you’ll become stronger. Stronger than I’ve ever seen you. I’ll always be with you though."

Stronger. That's what everyone wanted to be. Stronger than they were the day before, but all he felt was weaker and weaker when the days came and gone. Mitchell was with him, but all he could do was feel the nerves eating his stomach alive again. Drawings of nature and animals already coating his skin from a childhood nervous tick of his. The face of a yeti on the back of his hand to remind him of his brother's demise. No tears come, but he can feel the sorrow wash over him as he looks to the door of the training center. Hoping that he can impress them enough like Mitchell had did to at least keep him longer than his brother.

With every heart comes a spade, every diamond has a club, and with every joker comes death. Death drives human nature into violence or living. Carter was born to live. Running away from fist fights as a young boy. Running until he couldn't run away. Weaker than the bullies who wanted to pound their fists into the smaller kids. Pound and pound and pound until red becomes the only color you live by. That's why his father showed him the power of cards. The power that each card carried, waiting to be awakened by someone focused enough to awaken it. Instead of running, he learned to manipulate. Eyes are the most important sense to the human body. Always the focus of them as it lets people perceive reality. Without eyes, things get easier to do.

Carter learned to never run, but instead live. Live to change the pattern of his own life with just a deck of cards. Enough practice to trick someone into focusing on something else. People called it magic and have even taken it far enough to call Carter Laws a witch, despite the chuckle he used to give them, yet here he is. Trembling in fear on a chair outside of the place where Hell Mo had gone in. Fear lets them all live, but he's not running away this time. Born to live, his brother would see him get stronger. Stronger than he's ever been before. No longer a number among the masses of other numbers. Carter was an ace capable of being more than just a lowly number.

"Carter Laws."

The trainer who calls him for death like before. Hearing his name was just a reminder of death and fate playing a game of poker over if he'll die or not. Feet take over his mind as he moves forward with his deck of cards and the surprise in his collar, secured from falling out. Alone and in front of the jokers themselves, he can feel the beat of his heart going. No smile on his face because content and unreadable is what he wants before he starts his session. The game that Carter Laws has played for years before. Never the enthusiastic, especially when death looms over his shoulder waiting for him to secure that blood to end his life. Stopping in the center, he looks over the flashy gamemakers with clothes that resemble something out of dreams that he has had.

Without looking up again, Carter pulls the deck of cards Mitchell gave him out. Swishing of cards as he shuffles them quickly. The deck goes from one hand to the other and back again, until he smiles and pulls out a joker of black color, just like death himself or the eyeliner that Glamour Kinkade wears. The card of the evening would be this joker that resides comfortable in his hand. Shuffling the deck once more, he puts it back in the box it belongs to and sets it on the table in a corner. Once he's back in the center of the training room, he clears his throat and shows the gamemakers the card in his hand. Words come from his throat steadily.

"This will be the card of the evening. The joker."

Fingers tighten on it as he shows the room the card, hoping everyone's seen it. Eyes glance around the room, until he notices three trainers that had been there just days before. Strength, target practice, and blades trainers are over in the corner next to the supply of weapons. A smile pulls at his cheeks as he moves closer to them and carries the card in his hand, where it's still in sight. He stops right in front of the three as he looks back to the gamemakers and speaks once more.

"We're gonna play a game. A deadly one."

Index finger pointing out the three trainers, who all are extremely talented in their field of training. A smile on his face as he looks to them and not at the gamemakers anymore. They're all bigger and probably stronger than him in many different ways. Definitely not smarter than Carter is, or maybe that's his own head telling him that. Either way, he speaks out to everyone in the room still as he focuses on the trainers.

"We'll be playing keep away. Now, the way this game is played is the opponents have to take this joker card away from me. You three, get to use your specialty with intent to hurt me. Get the card and I give in. The gamemakers will give me a low score. If I win, they'll decide what I deserve. Anything is allowed."

A smile pulls on his cheeks as he stretches his arms, letting the bones crack in succession. Ready or not, he was ready for this game of live or die. Nerves still crawl through his stomach, but he holds the joker in his hand carefully to not fold it. Every heart has a spade in this room. As he watches the trainers grab an axe, a sword, and a belt of knives, he moves back to the center of the room and patiently tells them that the game starts. The game that will determine his strength and if he's truly stronger than Mitchell will ever have seen. Physical strength wasn't everything, but he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"Let the game begin!"

A knife in the air is the first thing that comes at him. Remembering back to the times when rocks were hurled at him by bullies, Carter instinctively ducks from the knife, pulling the card into his sleeve and out of sight. The knife misses completely, but the blades trainer is already swiping low for him, which he can see for the most part. Carter rolls backwards out of the swipe, feeling the card move through his sleeve inside his shirt now. A smirk on his face as he can hear the blades trainer grumble about Carter getting away. The bullies had grumbled about it the first time that he tricked them with a simple card.

The strength trainer was absurdly strong, slow to start, but the fact was he was already in a full swing when Carter jumped, dodging the axe's blade. The card in his other hand now, he lands and sweeps the trainer off his feet, remembering that Jack had once told him the bigger a bully is the harder they'll fall. Self defense helped with this feat as he watches the card glimmer in his palm, until the blades trainer reaches for it while he's distracted with the return back to a normal stance. Closer and closer the guy gets, Carter can feel his card about to be grabbed by the man before Carter laughs.

Teasing the trainer as he throws the card up and swipes it with his other hand and into his sleeve once more on the opposite side of the blades trainer. Hand coming forward in a shove as he pushes the weight of the blades trainer backwards over the fallen strength trainer's body. A muffled thump sounds as Carter pulls out the card in his other hand, glittering red and safely in his control. Hopping quickly over the two trainers on the ground before they get up, he moves across the room to a new wall, empty of other people and where he can take his time, until a knife cuts into the card in his hand. Putting it against the wall, stuck to the knife and most likely, unable to come out, until after the session.

"Got it!"

Carter shakes his head at the foolish man as he lets out a chuckle. Never play with the hearts of a seasoned magician who has played this game multiple times as a kid. Mitchell had kept the card away for a long time from Carter when they used to play, but right now Carter looks up and frowns at the guy before speaking.

"Awwww, I was just starting to have fun."

Silent as he lets the diamonds contain their clubs and the faces watching over with disappointment.

"Or maybe you should look again, Target guy."

Out of his sleeve comes another card and as he flips it around, it's the real joker. A laugh follows as he explains the situation out loud for everyone. His weight going to the front of his feet and back to the balls of them as he thinks of Mitchell's toying with him. His father's own smile after finding out that Carter was so close, but still failed to have gotten it. The ace of Carter Laws trying to prove he wasn't a lowly number like the rest of District Twelve. A girl who spoke to the dead flashing in his eyes as he remembers her telling him Mitchell can't wait to see him. Death's glint somewhere far off and out of his view. The smirk still attached to his lips.

"I still have the joker. That card was a decoy that I took out without any of you noticing when I put the deck down. What you caught was a lowly two of clubs."

Then, the three trainers all charged after that, frustrated in their first attempt at catching the card. Moments spent toying with them as he dodges blows with somewhat ease and avoiding their grabby hands that threaten to take his card. Moments extend, and he feels like he could do this for hours, but it's only been minutes. They don't get the card as Carter moves away from this wall to the center of the floor. Sweeping them all onto the ground as he throws the card up in the air and catching it once more. Self defense training was really helping, especially against the three with weapons.

Good thing, he was always a listener and practiced until he got things just right.

Their final charge was happening. They had gotten up and said something that he couldn't hear. Then the charge happened. Like cornered wild beasts, they lashed out as hard as they could. The axe, the sword, and a knife all coming at him at once in order. Dodging sideways out of the axe's arch, he jumps over the sword there and lands solidly on his two feet. Nothing flashy, just a safe movement and jump, when the knife comes flying at the card once more. Too focused on not getting injured, he snaps his finger to distract them and in that quick moment, he replaces the card with a regular piece of paper that he had brought with him in his sleeve. A silence follows as he charges the three himself.

The axe swings and Carter moves out of the way, pushing his hand hard into Strength's head. The sword is next as he ducks under the blow, kicking the guy hard in a place where no man should be kicked. Poor guy, but he didn't have time for that as he moves towards the Target guy, dodging a knife here and there as reaches him. The guy drops the knives and blocks his blow perfectly, making Carter panic for a moment, until he shoves his elbow the other way into the guy’s gut. A thud hits the ground before he bows and says out loud to everyone.

"That's the end of my game. Now for the grand finale! A gift for you!"

Silently, he faces away from the gamemakers and trainers that slowly get up off the floor, mumbling things. Every heart came with a spade, every diamond had a club, and with every joker comes death. The mystery item is torn from the inside of his collar where he had securely put it for safekeeping. Applying it to his lips, he holds his breath. The yeti still stares at him with dark eyes as he can remember Mitchell gurgling his last words. Legacies were made that day. Carter would have none, but Glamour Kinkade would. Glamour Kinkade would have a legacy built upon their blood just like he has all this time. A moment is all it takes for him to decide on his decision.

Lips touch the joker in a kiss as he pulls away gently and turns back to the gamemakers with the card in his left hand and the tube of lipstick in his right. A smirk on his face as he speaks to the gamemakers.

"Sorry about your lipstick, Mr. Kinkade. You should watch it better."

Finger pull back as he throws the card up to the gamemakers hoping they see the indigo markings of Glamour's famous colored lips. A smile on Carter's face as he reaches for his cards and makes his way out of the training center. Nerves in his stomach still pulling tightly and as he leaves, he leaves them with one last word.

"If you want it back, you know where to find me!"

Red is more of your color.

Indigo was more of his color.

As soon as the doors close behind Carter Laws, like others before. He pukes into the trash can right there. The nerves finally leaving him and all that waits is the fight for the death. He wouldn't run. He wouldn't be a coward like Jack was. The jokers mean death. Glamour had that power in his hands. That's what his kiss of death had meant.

Joker had marked him for death, but he wouldn't be going out without a fight.

"I am strong."

He wouldn't ever forget it.

Will add the response once I get one ^^

Made by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

L△LIA
RP Tutor

3,574 POSTS

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

BOOM SH△KALAKA

Public Training Sessions Oct 29, 2018 18:41:33 GMT -5

Quote

Post by L△LIA on Oct 29, 2018 18:41:33 GMT -5

( d e n a l i v i c t o i r e l y o n s )

young blood
heaven need a
s i n n e r
you can't raise hell
with a saint

There are many voices that say: Tell me, my deer girl, how do you feel? Parents. Teachers. Psychiatrists. Escorts. Stylists. Complete strangers on the street.

Maybe there is a part of Denali that wants to be like her dead brother, torn apart and bleeding out upon the sands of an unfathomably stunning lagoon, corpse smiling at the sky. There have been times when everything felt too much, when the remnants of Zion’s soul being scattered to the winds forced her to wonder if he wasn’t better off than her. She could slit her wrists in the bathtub and watch her blood cloud the water like illustrations of fire escape routes or she could noose herself with a bed sheet looped through the rafters in the attic and allow the bell of her body to swing, swing, swing free. Maybe —

— but only in those blurry days she can’t really remember and doesn’t try to bring back, before the months spent finger painting in an institution where a deadly calm ate her grief alive to make more room for the love of her surviving family. Everything was going to be okay again and the truth of that was so scary and somehow more tragic than the slaughter that broke her to begin with, but she accepted it. Denali was finished with sorrow, until it declared that it wasn’t done with her. Everything was going to be okay again and then Seville’s name was pulled from that glass bowl and suddenly the Lyons daughters were a chorus of flayed angels screaming into the sun. Hell no. Holding her sisters back from the fire, Denali looked into the eyes of her fathers — distraught on earth, nowhere to be seen in heaven, reigning petty over the souls of the damned reaching up from the earth below to snatch at her ankles — and she gritted her teeth and seethed, “Hell, no.”

Still they ask: Denali, my sweet sparrow, how do you feel?

All she can do is furrow her brow as she stares up at the gamemakers because it doesn’t matter who asks. No one wants to know. The answers to such questions make no difference and so some days she speaks the truth and others she lies and today she simply stares because she hasn’t made up her mind yet. This is stupid. There are no choices. She’s here because it’s not as if allowing her twelve year old sister to volunteer was an option. She’s in this room because she’s meant to demonstrate fighting skills she was never taught because the only blades she has ever known are kitchen knives and her own teeth. And she is frozen in this spot because she cannot wrap her mind around the difference between lying by tossing a couple of daggers into a target and calling it a day or if she should tell the truth and —

You can be honest with me, little dragonfly, how does all of this make you feel?

Pushing up her sleeves, frustration flushes Denali’s face until she is a mottled mess of red splotches and dense swaths of freckles, but the shameless scars of self-harm that cover her skin are still visible. Scratches and teeth marks flash electric white as color is redirected and her skin is a rioting sunset, is a gory sky of lost constellations, is an old road lined with flickering neon signs advertising many things that no longer exist. NO VACANCY. She flinches against the lightning strike of her own decisiveness, lips curling back as instinct bares her teeth and she lurches forward. She is here to give a preview of what she might be capable of in the arena and Denali Lyons did not volunteer to die. It doesn’t matter that she has never held a sword or taken up a shield because she has certainly fought, even if only against herself. This much is obvious.

There is no hesitation, no joy, no guilt, no pride, no mercy as she sinks her teeth into the throat of a practice dummy. Biting down with the full weight of her resignation, there’s a loud C R A C K as blood and bits of false cartilage gush and splinter across her tongue. It tastes bitter. All of it oozes down her throat, both inside and out, until her ears ring and she thinks of bath water. Ripping the mouthful of flesh free with a sharp jerk of her head, she tears its throat clear out.

My feral Lyon, how do you feel?

Denali feels like the bloody larynx she spits onto the floor, presented as an offering to a gathering of hungry cubs disinterested in what she had to endure for her kill. There is a dull splatter as it skids as if trying to run in fear, like it should have to begin with. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, but the mess just smears. These sessions are meant to demonstrate what a person is willing to do in order to go home, but the girl from Five doesn’t know what she wouldn’t do to finish this bullshit once and for all. What would she do?

Anything.

And how does that make you feel?

Doesn’t matter.

( Raise Hell by Dorothy )

v e p a r .

"The future can't
be real, I
barely know how
long a moment is"

For years and years I've been assured that I'm less than sane. Out of the corner of my vision exist nightmares which disappear the moment they catch my eye and it is within my insanity that I've always felt at home. My genius is born within abnormality. Blood keeps spilling from imaginary wounds and I gaze at the girl with her teeth bared in my direction. White fangs have never seemed so sinister.

Numb minds look across audacity without interest. Crazy, they brand genius as such and I've stared at gums stained pale pink for far too long now. She's intimidating - it will do her well in the arena. I've seen children once before, desperate and dying. Ready to lay their dignity down in font of my feet in hopeless desperation that I will feel much of anything for them.

Perhaps I would have, eight years ago. Perhaps I was a different man. Call me a monster but I am merely intrigued. Teeth sunk into a dummy's throat and I wonder how it tastes.

I like this one, I like her a lot. There is a peculiar sort of certainty which ended with blood and bone upon the floor. Not many could bear what she had done - not even knowing that the pain had been nothing more than that of teeth tearing into silicone skin.

She was strong. Strength is good.

"Guts on this one." It's not difficult to sense my coworkers disgust as I speak, smile playing at every syllable. "And on the floor I suppose."

An eight for Denali. I'd insist upon no less.

t a b l e b y e l e

Last Edit: Nov 3, 2018 8:34:13 GMT -5 by L△LIA

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

napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
Retired Staff

3,108 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 19, 2024 3:17:51 GMT -5

Public Training Sessions Nov 3, 2018 2:15:39 GMT -5

Quote

Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Nov 3, 2018 2:15:39 GMT -5

“i don’t want to be alone, parson. i am sick of it—the isolation, the solitude. our creator made me and you and others for company. this buzz under my chest,” fingers reach out erratically at his and guide the palm to where my heartbeat lies, scared and polysyllabic but beating, nevertheless. “is my body telling me to connect, not let myself be alone anymore.”

eyes flash at his face; he ought to consider me a drunkard. “am i a drunkard, aren’t i?” voice descends, its usual effervescence a ghost now. “you probably don’t understand what i’m trying to say—it’s fine, i don’t too. some things are too dense for the small words to carry.”

the emptied bottle inside my feeble grasp slips out and fragmentizes, to a shower of tinted glass. i don’t pay much attention to the cracking noise it makes because i hear it often, inside me, resonant – crack, crack, crack.

“when we go inside the arena, i’ll carry you along, if you promise to do the same for me.” there’s always a price to pay; nothing comes for free. if i am going to be his makeshift armor, he better be mine too.

“i don’t know what fiasco i am going to do for tomorrow’s one-on-one parade. what can an emotionally-ruined, cigarette boy be except that? gosh, i wished i had a smoke. straight-up burn my insides out – but i wouldn’t be able to, because i’m a coward in denial. craving death but can’t handle the post agonies of it, is the mentality of someone who’s weak at heart.”

slowly, i move closer to the warmth he radiates, hoping what they impart in schools are correct: heat migrates towards the cold.

the glass shards crinkle beneath our bodies, a glistening reminder of my weakness. the bright amalgamation of stars above films our most vulnerable forms for no one.

without the usual bustling from trainers and other tributes, the training center's quietness loudens the pandemonium that is my heart. the fidgetiness these fingers have displayed over the course of long days has come to a violent extreme. thumbnails toy with my shirt’s hem, finger-bones rattling beneath skin.

it's time like these which make me an alcoholic; the nerves can be drowned out by a flood of bitter elixir. one gulp, and i could go back to the gypsyish persona i feel comfortable in.

(but, we aren't here for comfort.)

i want the liquid courage, i don't need it to appeal to the gold-bathed monarchy. ever since footsteps echoed in, their gazes never faltered – vigilante, predatory, going virtually at my pulsating jugular. at a corner of the eyes, they sit, a divine judgment in session.

i imagine glamour's outstretched arm, readied to bestow the spark of life from his gloved finger into my own. he looks better than the technicolor image inside a broken silver screen.

fortunately, my talents reach optimum when there's an audience at bay, demanding a show. but, the isolation is there again, a suffocative air, and cotton falls on my eyes – blinding white. focus, i scream, with teeth clenched.

last night clings heavily onto me: he stench of alcohol in each breath, the empty space around my frame that parson filled. i remember each word despite the booze—about weakness, about breaking. and, it ignited an idea that i’ve thoroughly rehearsed in the cold light of morning.

the stage directions are clear; there’s no confusion to bring forth a debacle. exploiting this strange clarity, feet drag themselves

to the hand-to-hand combat station.

i maybe weak at heart, but this small frame is metal and steel condensed to calcium and bones.

(if they ask for a battle,
i’ll give a blood-strewn war.)

the plan begins with my garment. slow, sensual movements begin at hands – which voyage down the shirt, woven with sheer, black fabric, worn specifically for this ordeal. fingers draw the hem up, softly, as frame aids in its removal, rolling like a serpent would to shed skin.

and, what is unearthed, is an oiled frame, coruscating and breaking off soft ripples of movement.

i move to a rhythm i hum, a dance that blurs between sultriness and elegance. then, the station’s simulation wakes up and fake dummies arise from metallic sheaths, as formidable as the long shadows they cast upon me.

thoughts fall into retrograde—memories surge up, as a maelstrom which devours me whole.

suddenly, i am ten, with adolescent blood on my fists, mine and others’. the orphanage is loud, with war-cries and cheers. the elders don’t give a fuck, as small boys brawl. i left that scene with a crooked nose, but you should’ve seen the other boy.

suddenly, i am fifteen, chased by some outlaws who, after running tirelessly through alleys, i decided to face. one had a pocketknife but i clocked him straight in the face, knuckles breaking as they collide with his jaw. it was like a slow car crash, watching the chrome be splattered on the cold ground.

suddenly, i am seventeen, with endless, outstretched hands around me in a bar. one dared to touch me and immediately recoiled, because its owner got struck.

and those memories dance inside my two fists. i strike, a riptide of a movement, at the nearest target. crack, its plastic neck sounds. thump, it falls. one by one, they mimic the first one, knocked over like a pack of dominos. standing, breathless, amid this, is me, with my wings exhibited brilliantly.

blood tickles from livid knuckles, but it’s not something can’t band-aid and heal. i make a bow before taking leave, abandoning the carnage there.

v e p a r .

"The future can't
be real, I
barely know how
long a moment is"

I wold have told you I'd seen it all, until Angel de Costa walked into my training center. Tributes were tributes were tributes and it was within my own pride that I was certain I could tell you I knew them well. They were predictable creatures - perhaps something less than human, perhaps simply framed that way - but desperation was never beautiful and so boredom has long since overcome idle minds by the time Angel arrived. Pretty name, certainly, but just another tribute.

Just another goddamn tribute.

Are we monsters if they are men? The thought had never before occurred to me until the boy's vulnerability was on display. Peaking through the hems of raised shirts and the urge to avert my eyes was not strong enough to let me look away. Raw emotion, shameless in the way that his fists kissed dummy's jaws, eyes, necks.

crack. crack. crack.

I hate that I know the image is true to life. That bones shattering along with dreams sound as vile as plastic and paper but I stare at him with stars in my eyes.

"Ten." Simple and sudden were my words.

I write it down without a second thought.

t a b l e b y e l e

Last Edit: Nov 3, 2018 4:12:00 GMT -5 by [nyte]: trash typo in my response - nyte

堕落天使

aya
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

Public Training Sessions Jan 19, 2019 9:15:21 GMT -5

Quote

Post by aya on Jan 19, 2019 9:15:21 GMT -5

She gathers the supplies she's been shaping and sanding for the last week. The time constraints of the private training session had forced Lex to work in advance, stashing her components across the training center. It's for the best. Woodworking takes time, dammit, and to non-craftsman — she casts a sidelong glance at Glamour Kinkade (but does not finish that thought, in case the Capitol really did develop that mind-reading technology her pops used to mutter about after a few whiskies) — it's about as thrilling as watching a handful of bedazzled Gamemakers pencil in their notes about who should live and who should die. But crafting is her talent. Despite all of her scraps with her friends and neighbors, she can't box or grapple like the careers can. She can wield an awl, a hand drill, a saw better than any of 'em, but on its own a hammer can't compete with a sword, a spear, a flail.

She drags a table to the front of the room and dumps her pile of wooden components on top. Per her request, the training staff rigs five training dummies up on pulleys behind her. She'd experimented with the battle holograms several days ago, but their half-contact just didn't feel right. They didn't have the same satisfying weight beneath her fists or at her back.

She pulls a stool up to the table, cracks her knuckles, and sits before her supplies. She has: a smooth oaken oval, contoured to her back, ten small dowels protruding from one surface, two long channels grooved into the x-axis; a pair of flat half-moons, each with a handful of large holes and a dozen eyelets; several small pinewood wheels on their axles; ten ebony stakes; a handful of long leather straps and cords.

The wood is of the finest quality available to her, cut and carved with the unmatched precision of her two callused hands. The leather is fine.

In Lex's deft hands, the pieces fit together snugly. They are a perfect puzzle just the way Lex cut them — some assembly required. She fits the stakes on the pegs, laces the half-moons together, and rigs up the roller mechanism with ease. She straps the whole contraption to her back: leather straps criss-cross from shoulder to hip, two braided cords wind down each of her arms like twinhead hydra. She binds them together across the palms of her hands.

She looks more like a turtle or an over-burdened schoolkid than the ladybug she modeled her design after. But the dotted dome was never intended as a statement of fashion. Lex has another means of recouping her style points in mind.

Ever-so-slightly, Lex flexes. Good wood, good wood. Everything is in working order.

From her table of tools, she picks her favorites: a hammer in her dominant hand, a ripsaw in her right. She struts into the circle of prepared mannequins, takes a deep breath. Before she can signal that she's ready, the first dummy swings down.

On the double-pendulum pulley, its path is true chaos. It darts towards her and away and behind her and towards her —

Lex pivots, smashes, strikes: the dummy flies free from its restraints, hammer claw prying rib from sternum like a nail from a plank. The second dummy swings towards her before the first hits the ground in a burst of cherry. She swings, southpaw saw strike, leaving the dummy half-hewn through the middle.

The third dummy meets a faster fate: she's buried her mallet in its frontal lobe. Both the hammer and the dummy are lost to gravity.

The final pair of are loosed simultaneously, one to her front and one behind. This is the moment. She braces her saw with both hands and lunges forward, striking overhand and ducking in cover. The straps pull, the internal rollers of her shell tugging with the tension. The dummy before her is shorn down its axis, cloven in two.

And with a thud, the dummy behind impales itself on the ten long spikes now protruding from the armor on her back.

Lex releases the breath she didn't realize she was holding, rightens, and relaxes. Her enemy drops harmlessly at her feet as the stakes retract into the outer shell. Red oozes out from the dozen new holes the dummy has driven into itself with its own force.

She shrugs.

The best defense is a good offense, after all.

Always told you not to love me
Now look what you made me do
I got poison in my pocket,
told you I was bad news

By the time Lex Lionel enters the room, Glamour is well and truly in his cups. The slight haze of an hangover threatens. Pacing. It's all about pacing. He fills a fresh glass - chilled, of course - just as Lex shoots him a sidelong glance.

He drinks a little more quickly under her gaze.

Then, to his relief, he sets about her task. She drags a table to center stage. Now here is a girl with purpose, with vision. For a time he's so caught in trying to predict what she's doing that he forgets about the silence. But when he notices, it irks him.

The dummies' deaths are spectacular. Unusual, ready to be filmed. He smiles gleefully at her as she shrugs and exits.

"A great performance. But tell me, Vepar, did we somehow reap entirely mute tributes? Where are my little storytellers?"

He grumbles a bit more, finally marking in a 9 for the girl from District Seven.

My demeanor made you wait,
but the consequences stayed
I killed everything we were
Baby, murder was a case

song: 27 hours