prophesize embodisize // terra photoshoot

prophesize embodisize // terra photoshoot Jun 30, 2021 19:02:13 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Jun 30, 2021 19:02:13 GMT -5

On the final day, Saunders was allowed to meet Terra Montague - one on one. He had gotten a few minutes with each tribute before it all, set on a mission to plan the photos of a child's obituary. Twenty three of them put to use; all but her's, of course. Terra is her name, as controversial as it is.

They aren't too happy with that outcome.

Under dog from Ten, Saunders had bet on the boy from One. A safe bet; maybe that's why they keep losing. Thank god it isn't a sob story, he prefers his survivors without the crocodile tears -- a decade ago things may have been different. He prefers his gladiators without the moral dilemma, and he's well fed between the five of them.

They all pretend to be put together, holding their integrity from the camera's - thank god for it. Saunders appreciates a professional attitude, prepping his studio with two teleprompters between all the lights and cameras. He's contracted for two last collections: the first, cohesive promo's of all the victors - Terra included.

The Second: The Victory Tour.

"Ahh, look at her." A bit of amusement, the worst part is meeting them for the first time. How difficult they can be, Saunders hates a challenge. There are two peacekeeper escorts that linger around her - they speak about her in front of her, as if she isn't there.

Miss National Sensation is the most invisible person in the room, with six eyes on her.

"My, oh my," he responds to the peacekeeper's critiques- what are we to do? Saunders offers her a hand gently, motioning her to the swivel studio chair. The whole studio is scuffed, practically a renovated office room; the damn light flickers. He helps her to the seat before moving behind the camera's, tapping the teleprompter microphone as he stumbles for the right words.

So many questions; where to begin?

"Hello Terra. Do you remember who I am?"

"hello terra //
do you remember who I am?"

The teleprompter reads it back, he checks to make sure before looking back to young Miss Montague. Admittedly, he feels more sympathy for her than the others -- he never worked with them personally. Before the photoshoots, he had only ever worked betting.

Now here she is, he'd hadn't expected her to die without a fight but seeing her at the end of it all? It's a bit too melancholic, even for his taste. They've dressed her up like she's an adult - as if that doesn't defeat the whole point. But it's palatable, it sells better.

Sells better than Babe and Adder; lord, does it have to be a rebel, every year?

So difficult.

Saunders snaps a first photo, trying to catch Terra off guard for something candid. Before the walls are built too high, the camera might just catch something he misses.

"One of you get her a coat already //
lord."

The teleprompter reads, scrolling underneath the question for Terra and the Peacekeeper's remarks. It isn't until he looks up from the photo that he takes his first good look at the girl, another few seconds until he looks for her words on the screen.

What does Terra Montague have to say?

Hope she's figured that out, God knows the world's going to ask.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

prophesize embodisize // terra photoshoot Jul 5, 2021 4:20:20 GMT -5

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Post by ✨ on Jul 5, 2021 4:20:20 GMT -5

flicker .

The first thing you notice is the twitching light.

Instinctively you look for quick exits. You will never be able to unlearn what they taught you at Montague house. A burden, a gift, in a way you're glad for these skills. Without your hearing you cling to any form of survival - vulnerable, the hairs on the back of your neck pricking up at the flicker above your eyes.

One week six days, your other four senses are learning to adjust. You can smell whiskey on the breath of a Peacekeeper, the familiar must of leather hanging on a clothes rack. Feel the slightest breeze through air-conditioning. Taste blood bursting in the depths of your cheeks from nervous chewing. And everything else is too bright or too dark. You see things in the shadows that aren't really there - although that might be your paranoia making up for a lack of hearing, not your sense of sight.

The light twitches, flicker-beat spasm of a moth's wings. You squint, blink fourteen times, the white spots that float over your eyes cause you to hold your breath.

You catch it dancing over his face, he says "her" or "here" - you can't yet tell. Words are all the same on lips, it's the rest of the body that tells a story. The photographer is comfortable, his eyes glancing up to the same broken light - it's annoying him. You wonder if it is buzzing. You try and remember what that sounds like. Guess how old you'll be when you forget.

There's a skylight. Too high up. A back door but it looks to be a cupboard. Two guns in their holsters, one of them is hungover, go for that one - clockwork, muscle memory, will you hear the sound of the other's gun firing before you feel the bullet landing in your chest?

No sound, no words, just lips. You are drowning, yet breathing. A hand is your only escape so you take it and let him lead you in front of the lens, Montague children know how to obey orders - even gentle ones. The faint trace of the girl in the glass curve sharpens, framed upside down. They painted her face like a Stroms child - too old, too young, to be Terra Montague.

hello terra//

Goosebumps on your arms, you feel them blossom underneath your fingertips.

do you remember who I am?//

You nod a yes in response, thankful for no flash. You don't remember his voice but you remember his presence, he walked like all the adults that had been in your life. Like he was a thousand steps ahead of everyone else in the room. The teleprompters might have softened your posture were you not so frightened of this new world without noise, the first attempt anyone had made to help you understand it since you walked out of the arena.

But then your eyes gloss upwards and harden, steel skin and set jaw. The camera flashes, the girl in the lens you were so good at hiding suddenly captured. You should have taken both guns and fired them straight in their temples, point-blank. They had advised you against that trick, once upon a time. But the damage is already done. You've nothing left to lose.

One of you get her a coat already //
lord.

Tucked away for a rainy day, instead you let the coat swallow up the edges of your posture, note the names on their badges and decide to smother them on the train ride home instead.

Less blood. It tickles your nose these days.

Who'd you have to kill, you begin, quieter than you intend - it is tricky, balancing the sound of your own voice like a shot in the dark, to get this job?

Only after the words leave your throat do you look him in the eyes, lens clicking in your peripheral vision.