contained explosions | {aya/dars} | Hunger Games: The RPG

contained explosions | {aya/dars} Jun 8, 2020 0:15:41 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12a 🥀 [dars] on Jun 8, 2020 0:15:41 GMT -5

Because there was only so much a person could learn about holding a sword, JJ had resigned to people-watching more often than not. Reading them: seeing where they'd been so he'd know where they were headed next. Besides, he was banking on the hope that there would be an axe in the wealth because, like it or not, he was his past as well. He was the person District Seven had made him; perhaps the Capitol had grown to love those little quirks. Every Four being desperate for a trident, every Six making the most of a medkit, every Ten making the best traps and, yes, every Seven being Hell with an axe.

He tried not to think about the possibility of there not being one for him to use, but like he said: there was only so much a guy could learn about how to hold a sword properly. The rest, he figured, was sort of learn on the go. After all, no one in the arena would stop once they bested him, offer him a hand and start again until he got it right. Although, now that he was thinking of it, he was a bit disappointed that it wouldn't be that easy or simple. Nothing ever was.

His district partner was decidedly not mentally stable, which meant she couldn't be trusted. But, also, she liked him, which meant she was okay to keep around for at least a while, which pleased Mackenzie and Jacinta, who had been very set on the two of them pairing up.

"Sevens do best when they work together," Mackenzie had said. JJ thought it had little truth in it. Sure, both of them had won, and both of them had technically allied with their district partners. But Tobias LaChance and Ike Tate were both among the first deaths of their respective games; JJ thought it probably had less to do with them and more to do with Jaci and Mackenzie both getting lucky in a coincidentally short amount of time.

Of the people he'd been watching, there weren't many who impressed him. The boy from One was related to Ridley, but he didn't look the part. By that, JJ meant he was tall and scrawny and seemed much more sociable than his victor relative.

The girl from Five still felt false, in some way. All claws and teeth except he was hardly convinced they were sharp enough to pierce the skin, like a gun with no bullets or a bear in a cage. She had an impressive bark, but he didn't necessarily fear the bite.

One person who he had been studying for quite some time, (with varying degrees of success, as his opinion of the the boy kept constantly changing,) was the boy from Two. Something Johnwayne. Another heir, though admittedly from a more tainted throne. There were times when the boy's face was so devoid of emotion that JJ wondered if he had any, but then his mouth twisted into a snarl and it looked so at home among his other features that it was hard to believe it wasn't his natural face.

He was a gun, and a loaded one. A bear that had just found a way to rip through the bars of its cage. He might not have been able to get a read on the boy, but he knew he never wanted to feel his bite.

"Question," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "Career training. At some point it has to be just, like, a fuck-ton of reviews over and over again, right?"

contained explosions | {aya/dars} Jun 9, 2020 22:03:11 GMT -5

Post by aya on Jun 9, 2020 22:03:11 GMT -5

You don't get to be as prolific a shit-stirrer as William M. Johnwayne without having an instinct for knowing when you're being watched. Good luck getting a pyre up to bonfire size in the middle of the school playground if Principal Slater sees you lurking around the thing's skeleton, or sees you dumping notebooks and binders and history texts out of the Obsidian kid's backpack to wad up for kindling, or sees you dragging the teacher's chair down the hall to add to the fire.

Granted, a bonfire ain't subtle, and it's not like he wasn't apprehended and suspended pretty quickly after it got going. But the point is that Will got it going at all, and if he'd been stupid enough to do anything when Slater was staring, he'd've been apprehended and suspended anyway but without putting a permanent mark on the grass and the student code of conduct. Ain't his fault it didn't say don't do arson before. Not that that would've stopped him, either.

And it might be a given that he's being watched here, considering there's half a dozen Gamemakers and underlings sizing the whole crop of tributes, trying to get whatever data on 'em to see how to kill 'em best. Or worst. Or what-have-you. Not much Will can do about that. But when he senses the tribute eyes on him, he's faced with a choice: flex on or fuck with. He alternates between the two with ease, as though taking a sledgehammer to a dummy's head with enough force to accordion-fold its polyethylene spine, immediately followed by a quick snack of a dandelion bouquet plucked from the plants station, immediately followed by picking the dirt out from under his fingernails with the thinnest stiletto dagger is, in fact, his standard training routine. If he had one.

The key to selling it is stoicism. Even as he drives the dagger through a dummy's foot, pinning it to the earth, he doesn't look anything but bored. It's easy enough to hold, at least until he saunters over to table of ranged weapons near enough to the boy who's been studying him and grabs a hatchet, only for the axe head to drop to the ground. Piece of shit. Will scowls — at the faulty blade on the ground, at the ineffectual stick in his hand, at the boy.

"Question." Whether interpreting this as a decent icebreaker moment or just sensible enough to wait until the Johnwayne doesn't have an adequate weapon clenched in his fist, the boy sees an opening and takes it. Will quirks an eyebrow, steely eyes already rolling at whatever inquiry is bound to follow an announcement like that. "Career training. At some point it has to be just, like, a fuck-ton of reviews over and over again, right?"

Will snorts, rolls his whole head in response. His eyes catch on the table of Gamemakers, deciding it might be worth five minutes of his time to fuck with them, too. "I look like I take direction to you?" His tone walks the line between incredulous and indifferent. Lazily, he scratches behind his ear with the hatchet handle and turns back to the middle-district boy. Where's he from? What's his name? "Daemon, right? D'you stitch wounds too, or is it just quilts and shit?"