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L△LIA
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BOOM SH△KALAKA

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 12, 2020 19:35:40 GMT -5

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Post by L△LIA on Jun 12, 2020 19:35:40 GMT -5

nikolai konstantine.

"I'd give you two a chance to run away —" In the utter darkness of the training center his voice is filled with commanding gravitas, as if he has done this all a million times before. These are the words of someone without fear, of someone who is unwilling to be cruelly stripped of their home or the people they care the most about in this world, of someone who would murder anyone threatening to take hope away. Even them. "— but both of you have already struck." Here, with the Gamemakers searching the lightless room for a glimpse of him, these words ring with truth for a child stolen from his family and brought here as a prisoner to pay off the infinite debt of people who lived and died before he was ever born. Perhaps they remember his face from the Reaping footage. Perhaps they don't. It doesn't matter. "The dark doesn't seem to agree with you, little one. It's brought you to a killer with sight and aimed your weapon at her only friend." The red light of the laser pointers duct taped to the sword in his hand flick on with the memory of a beautiful buzz of destruction. No apologies. No regret. No life to be spared.

These are the words of someone far braver and more fearsome than Nikolai Konstantine.

"Nuh. Nuh. Nuh. NUHHH ^nuhhhhhh nuhnuhnuh ^nuhhhhhh nuh nuhnuhnuh ^nuhhhhhh nuh nuh-nuh-nuh _nuhhhhh!" With a downward slash of the blazing sword, he sings out a few thunderous bars of the iconic music that scored the Eighty-Second Games, when Red Stone struck awe and fear into his fifteen-year-old heart, wielding her lightsaber at a young girl who made the mistake of attacking Red's district partner. He lost count of the number of times he watched the re-runs, unable to look away from the red light slicing the pitch black screen in two. It stayed with him: in his drifting thoughts; in his dreams; in the knots he tied his tongue into trying to put into words exactly how he felt watching such a formidable woman fight heart and soul for her right to exist, all the while protecting her soft-tempered friend.

Such light! From yonder weapon breaks —

O! For the stars do collapse so that she may shine more brightly in the cosmic void of... uhhh... the space station of my thoughts! Where my thoughts DO station around her, um... darkness? No, I —

For Red is not blood and blood is not Red when I hath been blinded by that which doth turn a television screen into the true weapon plunged into my eyeballs —

She is not the east! For the Capitol is west! And I am but one of the couch-sundered masses! We are many, but she is few! Because to be singular is also to be few and she —

"NUHHH ^nuhhhhhh nuhnuhnuh ^nuhhhhhh nuh," he continues, cleaving the air into pieces with the light-up practice sword, the dark hopefully masking the part where he stumbles over his own feet. Grunting as he accidentally elbows a practice dummy with the audacity to come at him unprovoked out of absolutely NOWHERE, he triumphantly brings his weapon down on its tumbled form. "Nuhnuhnuh ^nuhhhhhh nuh nuh-nuh-nuh _nuhhhhh!"

Heaving for breath, the only reason he isn't already completely tired out is because he has obviously been practicing all of this for the past three years. This is not a fair-weather fanboy. Oh, no. "Zzzztt! Zzzztt!" He provides all of the key sound effects as he kicks a rack of he-has-no-idea-what over. "Shing! Shing! Shing! Zzztt! Pew! Pew!" When he trips over something else in the darkness, he covers with a somersault that surely could not look anything other than Totally Badass. He really wishes they could have seen that. "Zzzztt!" The light of the sword carves an undeniably deadly path of destruction throughout the room, stopped only by the need to occasionally pause and karate chop at a particularly vicious looking shadow.

As the sword thuds into something soft and dense, a pitched cry of pain splits the air before keening into a hush. There is no mockery in his voice as he replicates the agony of the young girl who died in this scene. "I'm sorry," he tells her ghost, all these years later, "you don't deserve this." For a fleeting moment his antics pause as he resists the urge to punctuate it all with another round of sound effects. Instead he thinks about how he felt that first time he watched this girl die, her outline faint and yet so stubborn in the darkness. The sincerity in Red's voice had been brutal: You don't deserve this. He feels a pang, even now.

"My name is Industria Sparks." Switching roles, there's a hiss of pain in his voice that he doesn't have to feign for her. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing tightly against the high collar of the training uniform he wears. "Whoever kills me," breathing in through his nose, he exhales with clenched teeth as his eyes burn, "please don't forget that." The moment passes as he shoves a table over and dozens of items clatter to the ground as he begins spinning in unseeable circles. "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to stop fighting either," he declares, holding the red-lit sword up as a gun. "Pew-pew! Pew-pew-pew-pew-pew!" The light jolts from the imaginary recoil of Dusty's laser blaster, her finger holding tightly on the trigger as she so boldly refused to surrender — spinning, spinning, spinning. In his head there is a crescendo of violins, both persistent and tragic. "Pew! Pew! Pew!"

Cries and grunts of pain echo around the room, ricocheting off the walls. "Zzzztt!" The red glow of his 'lightsaber' slashes frantically, as if attempting to block and deflect the chaotic blasts he fired off. Even in this moment Red was more than herself, more than a gladiator. "Zzzztt! Zzzztt! Zzzztt!" There's a dull thud as he kicks something with minimal success before following up with a sucker punch. "Aha!" He cheers himself on lamely for a moment, breaking character. "Take that!" There's another punch... and another! Then he remembers he has a sword and smacks his lifeless opponent with the flat of the blade instead of the edge — like he totally meant to do — a heavy THUNK finally toppling it. "Pew-pew! Zzzztt! Zzzztt! Ahhhhh!"

"Don't ever stop fighting, little one," he declares, voice strong even as the glowing sword flails around haphazardly in the darkness, "no matter what, never stop fighting." Because sometimes — most of the time — that's all you can do. Humming the music once more, the sound rises as he does his best to cover the way his feet slip on the unseen mess scattered below. "NUHHH ^nuhhhhhh nuhnuhnuh ^nuhhhhhh nuh!" Spin! Kick! Bam! Pow! Fwah-fwah-fwah! Slip! Trip! Don't worry! Nobody saw because it's dark! Zzzztt! Pew-pew! "Nuhnuhnuh ^nuhhhhhh nuh nuh-nuh-nuh _nuhhhhh!"

The death blow is dealt in slow motion, a thin line of Red cleaving the darkness in two.

"You're a fighter, little one." Niko hopes he's half as brave as Industria Sparks when he dies. "You really are."

Obviously so much of this is iconic and quoted — all credit to Cameo and Kap and their amazingness.

______________________

But lover, you’re the one to blame, all that you’re doing
Can you hear the violence?
Megaphone to my chest

Nikolai Konstantine is a mess, but an entertaining one.

Nilima welcomes the lightheartedness of it all as he tumbles and swings through the Training Center with a great deal of clumsiness. He’s got two laser pointers duct taped to a sword -- perhaps as a nod to the.. 81st? 82nd?

In truth, Nilima hasn’t been the best about paying attention when her colleagues are in charge of the Games. Oh, sure, she’ll do her job and make the whole thing look fantastic in the background, if that’s where they delegate her, but she much prefers when she’s able to snag a leading role. That’s when her creativity can really shine.

It becomes fairly clear as the training session rolls on that the boy from Eight is reenacting a scene from a previous Games. It’s an interesting and dramatic one, and Nilima appreciates his flare for drama. She can always relate to a little drama.

Unfortunately, he seems to fall short in… well, finesse. He stumbles more often than not, and even in the darkness she can see that clearly.

When he exits the room, her heart feels more full for having been entertained, even if she thinks Nikolai Konstantine will not live for long.

She writes a 3 next to his name. Though it could have gone lower, he gets points for making her smile.

lyrics from The Louvre by Lorde

Last Edit: Jun 12, 2020 19:38:33 GMT -5 by L△LIA

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

tick 12a / calla
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just a litle creacher

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 12, 2020 21:50:00 GMT -5

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Post by tick 12a / calla on Jun 12, 2020 21:50:00 GMT -5

The idea hit me late last night and I had laid awake for hours thinking about it.

Would I? Could I?

Should I.

What would I do, I had asked myself, what would I give up in order to get the one thing I wanted.

The answer was everything.

Because this would be a culmination of every time I'd been scorned, this would be a public display. It would be every time I'd been tossed aside and told no, no, Emmett, you'll never be one of them. And I think if Mom ever found out, or if Silk ever found out, Emerson even, I'd be fucked. They wouldn't see this as an act of strength or independence, this little display that I had planned, they wouldn't seen it as a showing of the lengths I would go to, just to belong.

They'd see it as rebellion from the family, a cub gone wild, and my one shot for a foothold would be gone.

I had stewed over this all week - Opal and Terra's words, and these sixteen years of not being good enough. They saw through me like water and picked me out as an outcast as soon as we met eyes. And because of that, a toxic idea had begun working its way into my ribcage.

Maybe I'm just being played.

Maybe if I go home after all this, my family will keep acting nice for a while, but then they'll point daggers at my turned back, talk about me like they all still talk about Ridley.

She had scored an eleven in her games, and I remember the cold fury that had taken over Mom when the numbers were released. I remember the stony silence that had taken over the house and the academy and how it had almost suffocated us.

I had thought that maybe she'd aim for a low score, to try and fly under the radar and take the arena by surprise, but I guess she was like me. I guess she had something to prove.

I had talked to the trainers this morning, flashed my name and my career status and asked them if the gossip about the new robotics was true. Most of them were tight-lipped, but I was relentless until I found one that could get me what I wanted.

"You can make a program," he had said, "set how many you want, when and where you want them." He puffed his chest out and I grinned, "Still prototypes, but they're quite sophisticated."

"Can you alter how they fight? Make them like people?" And he nodded. "Then this is how I want it," I said, telling him everything, and his eyebrows had gone up, he looked at me a little funny and he whistled.

I told him I'd put in a good word with Ridley, maybe get him some kind of promotion.

He was more than eager to help after that.

I don't have to wait long for my session. In fact, I barely have to wait at all. I'm from One, I'm a career, I'm a Le Roux.

I get to go first.

Every step I take into the room makes my plan feel more solidified. It feels a little like a deathwish, something certain and irreversible.

"Emmett Le Roux." I tell them.

Le Roux.

There's something about the name itself that feels irreversible.

Because no matter what Icarus said, or what Opal said or what Terra said, that's what I am. My name is all I have, and I think I would do anything to have the sun on my face, to feel the rush of gold in my veins, to be a lion, truly, and not just a puppet that they played pretend with.

I don't want to be this bruise of a boy, the career that had cried when his mother hugged him goodbye and then threw up on the train.

I want to be a legacy. I want to be something loved. I want to be something wanted and cherished and something deserving.

But they still don't see that, not really, even though their sugared words say otherwise, even after trying for all this time, even after volunteering.

Black sheep, I hear instead, outcast, disappointment.

But maybe not for longer. Not if I have anything to say about it.

When I walk into the room, everything is how I asked for it. There's a line of six dummies across the wall, silent and waiting, with a touchscreen beside them flashing the word START. They each have a different name painstakingly written onto the torsos, gold lettering flashing -

Silk Le Roux
Harper Le Roux
Emerson Le Roux
Tatton Le Roux
Aurora Le Roux
Cathy Le Roux

Because I know all of their fighting styles, at least enough to tell the trainers how to individually program them. I grew up these machines, trained with them, envied them my whole life.

I walk to the weapons rack and take a sword, test the weight first and then switch it out for a slightly heavier one. These things are metal, not flesh, and I know already that I'll need more momentum to cut through their bodies. I wrap a forearm sheath around my arm too, load up three throwing knives that glint under the fluorescents and take a deep breath.

I swipe a finger across the touchscreen and start the simulation, moving to the centre of the room while the machines warm up.

Silk is first, beautiful Silk, proud and strong and always perfect. Always Mom’s favourite. I know her fighting style like the back of my hand, because she was the matriarch, and that meant she was the model. I would watch her train for hours and try to copy her when she wasn't looking, but the thing about her style was that it was always changing, or, just evolving maybe. That's why I had chosen a sword in the beginning, when I was a child and just starting to understand what ferociousness meant, because I thought it would make me more like her. She adapted to whatever was thrown at her, and there's an odd feeling of uncertainty in my gut as I watch the machine with her name move forward, a sword clutched in one metallic fist and the other clenched tight.

The thing waits, just like Silk does, waiting for her opponent to strike first, and I take half a second to marvel at how well these were made.

But I'm working with a time limit, so I know I have to eventually give it what it wants. I feint left and go right, not expecting it to know the oldest trick in the book. But of course it does, because it's not just a machine. This is Silk Le Roux. My sister. It catches my blade with it's own and suddenly we're locked together. It bears its weight down, the strength of the metal adding an advantage and I can already feel the tension in my arms, the need to disengage, to back the fuck up and get my bearings.

I barely move out of the way in time, watching its sword swipe through the air and feel the sting of it scrape against my cheek. My breath catches a little, heart beating faster as I keep my eyes on it, and I try to ignore the way I can feel a line of blood well up against my skin.

The machine waits again, paces in front of me, ready to parry and counter and then beat me to a pulp and I try to think of all the times I had watched my sister fight. I try to remember what she was missing, her weakness, and come up embarrassingly short.

I have to somehow immobilize it first, because Silk was always so reactionary, an expert at returning blows, that I don't know if I'll be able to get a hit in otherwise.

And I still have five more of these to get through.

My fingers dance along the knives on my forearm and I decided to risk wasting one. I switch my sword hand and loosen a handle, track the machine's pacing and carefully aim. It thunks into the dummy's shoulder joint, a soft spot full of wiring where the two body parts connect and the arm holding the sword jolts, goes rigid, before falling lax against its side. I rush forward before it can do anything else, taking the opportunity when it can't counter to dig my sword into its chest with two hands and drag it all the way down to its stomach.

The contents explode and I sort of gasp at the sudden gore. Red bursts from its artificial wound and spills onto my feet and my hands, flicking up into my face and getting in my hair.

Because I didn't think they would bleed. And that makes it all just a little more uncomfortably real. Maybe I didn't think the technology would be there yet, or that it would've been deemed unnecessary. But I think of the drama of it all, of all the Capitol artistry, and think of course.

Of course they would.

I wipe the blood from my face and grip my sword tighter. Everything is timed, and I curse myself for being so cocky in the planning, for giving myself such a short amount of time with Silk, for maybe underestimating the machines, because the robot labelled Harper boots up before I can even catch my breath.

Harper was always the charmer, graceful and lithe, and everyone loved him for it. His machine holds a thin sword, almost rapier-like, and it flourishes it in a way that makes my chest feel hollow. Harper never fought dirty, not like me, he was always pristine and flashy and liked to put on a show first. The trainers did a good job of making the dummy embody that, and I watch it as it beeps a few times, circling around me and the colourful heap of Silk's machine.

]It's no surprise when the thing takes too long, basks too much even without saying anything. It strikes forward too clean, too standard, by the book, and I duck out of the way, swinging behind it and jabbing my blade into the back of its neck.

I had used that move on him once, the real Harper, and he had bitched about how low it was for the rest of the week.

]He was just pissed off that I had finally beat him.

But it does the trick. The machine falls forward, twitching and sparking, and I kick it over with my foot.

I know Emie is next but I know I still have time, so I look down at the metal body on the floor and think of every time it was apparent that Harper was the favourite son. I think about lost praise and stolen glory and every fucking thing that ever made me feel small and insignificant. I bash the hilt of my blade into its left eye socket and watch the glass shatter, and then I bash it into the right, and then into each again three more times, again and again and again.

But then there's a sudden clattering sound by my ear, and I recoil, move on instinct and scramble out of the way. Because Emerson's machine is suddenly right there, programmed to get close just like she does. Both of its arms end in points, resembling her knives, and I try to put some distance between us, grab and flick my second knife toward it without really thinking about it, aiming for the head. Reeling from the way it had snuck up on me, I miss, by an inch maybe, and the blade embeds itself into the side of the things face. It's eye flickers, machine barely phased, and it keeps charging.

I take another rushed step back, grab a second knife and throw it too, watching it land in the machine's forehead but it still doesn't stop. It crosses the room fast, too fast, and I give up on the plan I had to take it down from afar, improvise instead.

I wait for it to get as close as I dare, using its momentum to dodge out of the way and I thrust my leg out, wincing when it collides into my shin and tumbles down onto the ground. I move fast, as fast as I can, and hold the dummy so gently, pin the blades connected to its fists down with my boots and cradle it’s head in my arms like I used to cradle Emie’s during thunderstorms. I watch it struggle for a moment, blink back something rotten, before snapping its neck in one fell movement and laying it softly on the floor.

Some kind of numbness creeps over me from seeing the red of my handprints over her name.

Tatton and Aurora were always a package deal, and so by the time I've stood up again, both of their machines have started up together. My brother, with his cigarettes and his clumsy words and his bright eyes. And my sister, so loud and so unapologetic, a thunderstorm like our mother, no matter how many times she tried to deny it. Tatton's machine holds a flail, big enough to drag behind itself, and when it comes forward to swing first, heavy and slow, I sidestep easily and watch it crash into the floor with enough strength to crack a tile.

He'd always chosen weapons that were too big for him, more aesthetic than practical, even after Mom gave him shit for it. But that was never enough to deter her love for him.

The machine gathers itself for another swing, a sideswipe now after having learnt its lesson, and I let it guide its weight through the air, seeing Aurora's machine getting closer through the corner of my eye. I use the intake of breath that it takes for Tatton's to raise its flail and for Aurora's to raise its axe and slip out from the middle of them, let them crash into each other.

The axe triumphs, splitting clean through the other machine's skull and I flinch at the force. I haven't seen Aurora fight much, she had always preferred to skip training and then deal with the consequences later, so I didn't have a lot for the trainers to program into the bot. I guess they just decided to wing it and put it in the default career setting.

But then Aurora's machine is spinning back around, and there's almost a sense of anger in it that I recognize undeniably as my sister. I back up and trip over the tile that had cracked, hit the ground hard, seeing stars for a second and fuck, the slightest beginnings of a panic starts gathering in my throat because the dummy is still there, above me now, and I can't do anything except frantically kick out at the joints of its legs.

This wasn't part of the plan, not even fucking close, and I watch the machine block out the lights on the ceiling, unyielding, raising its weapon. My mind blanks and I feel myself grab Tatton's machine from where it's lying beside me, grunt and hoist it over myself right as it the axe comes down on my stomach. I can feel the thud of the blade embedding itself into the metal and the shockwaves that it sends through my entire body. I know I'll have a bruise there tomorrow, but as the machine lifts its weapon and takes my makeshift shield with it, I release a shaky breath, wide-eyed.

I watch it wobble with the weight of its new addition and get to my knees, lunge forward and grab the machine remnants still attached, throwing my weight into it and taking us both back to the ground. The bot whirs as it adjusts to the mass and tries to right itself again but I get up first, clutching my stomach and stomping down on its throat over and over again until it makes a crunching sound and the wiring fizzles out.

I look down at it for a moment, to where the artificial blood is already seeping into the name-tag, and think for a moment that I can still Aurora's stupid pen that she smokes all the time.

By the time I take another breath, it's gone.

I think I might be crying, and I tell myself that it's just the pain from the strength of the blow, the shock to my abdomen.

The last robot is for little Cathy. Smart as a whip, I had told the trainers, and I half expected them to give the machine one. But her brain is her everything, and even though she wasn't a fighter, Mom was always sure to praise her for it.

I think that had made me even angrier as a kid. Because here was my little sister, no more lion than I was, she couldn't even fight, and yet they all still loved her more than they loved me.

Her machine is smaller than the rest, maybe faster as a consequence, but I can't tell yet, and I don't know how the Capitol managed to make something so robotic look so child-like, but here we are. There's something different about this machine, and I remember I had asked them to make it the strategist, the smartest of the six because that's what Cathy was. But it hangs back as I step over the five on the ground already.

When I get closer it makes a frantic beeping sound, some imitation of fear maybe, something to slow me down, and I only hesitate for a second. I hoist my sword up and wait for it to move, to attack me, to do something so I can show that I'm not weak anymore, that even though she's younger than me, more appreciated than me, she's no better than me. But it doesn't do anything, it just backs itself into a corner, beeping louder, and I can hear the screws in it rattle from how hard it trembles.

It wears my sister's face for half a second, and I guess that's the point, but I know even though my childhood wasn't Cathy's fault, she isn't innocent.

I ignore the pitiful sounds the machine makes and swing my blade into the thing's neck hard enough to take the head off.

I drop my sword then, look at the rust on my hands, the fake blood, my siblings' blood, and bring my hands to my eyes. It covers the tears trailing down my face and when I pull them back I stare up at the gamemakers through a film of all that red, try to look them both in the eyes because still, after all this, that's what I was taught to do. There’s a vicious little thing inside me, something not quite lion and not quite man.Every nerve in my body feels like it's on fire and I try to, or try not to maybe, picture the metal bodies at my feet as those of my siblings.

This is what I would do, I realize, this is what I would sacrifice in order to belong, to be adored and loved. I would destroy them, my family, if I had to. I would turn my back on everything I knew in order to get what I wanted. It's not like they ever cared about me anyways, not before I left and not after.

Ridley was right.

It took me almost two decades to get here, this turning point, and it snaps something inside of me.

I love them, I tell myself, I hate them, and maybe there isn't even a difference between the two.

*all fighting styles and/or weapon choices of the le roux siblings were determined & described to me by their respective writers ! stan their talent !

The machines are already set up when you take your seat beside Nilima at the front of the observation box. You have enough time to scan the names painted across them, bright enough to be visible even at your slight distance, and raise your eyebrows; you recognize them only from top eight interviews and television spots on Ridley, but that's more than enough. "Bad blood, I take it?"

The announcer calls the first name of the day, and you fall silent and turn to the door, but not before noticing that Ridley herself isn't there. Interesting.

Emmett Le Roux demolishes the constructs of his family—not always easily, but then if it was easy it wouldn't keep your eyes locked on his every move. And it does. Everything happens too quickly for you to look away for a moment; Emmett throws, swings, feints, dodges, as the robots come for him implacably, each with styles so visibly distinct you can only assume he had a hand in designing the programming. He uses the machines against each other at one point, in a move that might have cost him his head if he had been even a touch slower; and he hits the ground once, and seems almost ready to panic, but recovers himself at the last moment.

He's crying, by the end of it, and no doubt bruised, and splashed with fake blood from when he let himself get distracted thrashing the false Harper's face. But he's the only one still standing.

Skill and drama. Fluid strategizing against multiple fighting styles, and against opponents whose skin never yields the way flesh does, who never offer an opening by faltering with pain. A fumble, but a comeback. "That," you say with relish, "is how to start the day," and you write a 10 beside his name without hesitation.