Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Charlene Whipple & Timothy Mark Training
(Can I change Timothy's last name? And you might want to take a couple of days to read this, it's not very detailed but it did contrive to be very long.)
I listen to Atala attentively, worried sick. Now that the glitzy Chariot ride is over, and we're in training, the true impact of why we are here is coming back around to hit me again. Hard. Right between the shoulders. Timothy has positioned himself about halfway around the circle from me, not quite directly opposite me, and he keeps cutting up and trying to make me laugh when Atala's not looking at him. He's being very distracting, despite my best efforts to ignore him, and he isn't the slightest bit discouraged that I'm not looking at him. One of the other boy tributes, standing beside him, is convulsed in silent laughter, to my dismay.
Atala dismisses us and I try to get away before Timothy hones in on me, but no such luck, I swear he started moving before she told us to get to it. He teleports to my side and asks brightly, "Where should we start?"
"I don't know," I say faintly, and indicate the other tributes. "We're from a very interiorized District, and the Arenas are always exteriors. How can we hope to compete with, say, Nine, and Eleven, and - and Four?"
"We turn the outside, inside out," Timothy says. How does he pull off these ridiculous sentences with a straight face? "We turn inside dangers into outside dangers, dangers they won't know how to fight."
"How?" I ask cautiously. This does not sound good.
"We target the weakness of their District," he murmurs, his voice dropping. "Four is watery, they don't know fire. Twelve, on the other hand, is fiery, they don't know water well. We target their weaknesses."
"And Seven?" I ask sarcastically. "With their outdoorsy preparedness and strength with axes?"
"We find individual weaknesses," Timothy says seriously. "But for now, we need to learn what we can. We need to learn to turn inside dangers, into outside dangers." I trail behind him as he makes a purposeful line for the fire-making station.
After that, he drags me around to visit every survival station, quietly instructing me on how to turn the survival skills we are learning, into pitfalls, snares, and death for the other tributes, a study I find excessively distasteful. Timothy is in despair at my unwillingness to kill the other tributes, but reluctantly accepts my strictures, as my progress is mediocre to good.
The next day is marginally better. I bully him into allowing me to choose the stations we visit, and the skills we practice. To his surprise, we visit all the same stations, the survival stations, only today we are learning survival skills to survive, not survival skills to kill and maim. He reluctantly accedes to my demands that we learn to contain a campfire and how to make it appear several hours old, when it is only minutes dead. We also study plants and the best combinations for taste and nutrition, instead of how to make poisonous plants appear harmless.
We scarcely visit the weapons stations at all, but about halfway through the day, I give in to his insistence that we visit the close combat station. The instructor teaches us basic principles, stances and moves, suggesting we embroider on them and correcting us when we do not do well. By the time training is over for the day, I feel reasonably well-prepared for the Arena.
Sort of. Ish.
The day of Private Training is a nightmare. Kataro is having a tizzy fit at the slightest provocation, and when there hasn't been one for at least ten minutes, he goes back to his favorite standby of 'what if we didn't do well?' When Timothy jestingly says that we'd receive a low score and die in agony during the Bloodbath, Kataro goes into hysterics and has to be taken off to bed. Our stylists are left to take us down to the Training.
Once in the waiting room, Timothy and I sit close together. He holds my hand, and I can see by the way he keeps frowning and glancing at me that he's worried about me. I'm worried about me. My stomach is in knots and the rooms keeps lurching in a confusing and nausea-inducing manner. I scarcely notice the other tributes as they are called out, and only really pay attention once Timothy goes.
I sit hunched over, struggling not to be sick, feeling simultaneously hot and cold. My name is called and I stand - far too quickly, the world gives an odd maneuver in which is simultaneously spins to the right and lurches to the left. I reach out, touching the wall to steady myself, then slowly and carefully walk into the gymnasium.
I know immediately, I'm in deep trouble. The place reeks of smoke and cleaner. I manage to get all the way to the middle of the room before being violently ill. I fall to my knees, dropping one hand to the floor, then collapse onto my side, barely avoiding the pool of sick. I vaguely register Peacekeepers lifting me up and carrying me from the room before I black out.
I wake to the sound of Alaric's and Kataro's voices. Kataro sounds on the verge of hysterics again, Alaric seems furious. I curl up a little, noticing that I'm in bed. Timothy's voice cuts across the angry adults', and I prick my ears up, listening.
"She'll be fine. She was so nervous she made herself sick. Just let her rest for the remainder of the day, she'll be fine for the interviews."
"And the Arena?" Kataro demands, his voice higher pitched than ever. "She'll be one of the first to die!"
"I'll take care of that," Timothy says quietly. I am desperately curious to know what he means, but not curious enough to get up and go ask. I hear the music that preludes the announcement of the scores, and curl up, hiding my face in the blankets. Imagining my 1, for all of Panem to see, I nearly make myself sick again, but fall back asleep before I can think too much about it.
Timothy's POV:
I can't help worrying about Charlene as I go into the gymnasium. Her hands had been ice cold, and she was so pale she was almost green. She's a thoroughly nice girl and won't last for more than a day in the Arena without help. I intend to help her, but in order to that, I have to impress the Gamemakers...I decide to half-destroy their lair.
Giving them a cheeky grin, I bop over to the fire-making station. Starting a small blaze, I expand upon it into it is a raging bonfire in the station. Noticing the Peacekeepers are beginning to shift, I hurry up my efforts until the fire, rapidly expanding from a conflagration to an inferno, spills over onto the floor of the rest of the gymnasium. There is a shout and Peacekeepers surge forward, beginning to quench the fire. I retreat, leaning against the artificial tree trunk used in camouflage, and watch in interest. I am summarily dismissed and go out with a smug grin, although it fades as I wonder how Charlene is doing.
(I did not know Timothy was a Pyro...interesting.)
I listen to Atala attentively, worried sick. Now that the glitzy Chariot ride is over, and we're in training, the true impact of why we are here is coming back around to hit me again. Hard. Right between the shoulders. Timothy has positioned himself about halfway around the circle from me, not quite directly opposite me, and he keeps cutting up and trying to make me laugh when Atala's not looking at him. He's being very distracting, despite my best efforts to ignore him, and he isn't the slightest bit discouraged that I'm not looking at him. One of the other boy tributes, standing beside him, is convulsed in silent laughter, to my dismay.
Atala dismisses us and I try to get away before Timothy hones in on me, but no such luck, I swear he started moving before she told us to get to it. He teleports to my side and asks brightly, "Where should we start?"
"I don't know," I say faintly, and indicate the other tributes. "We're from a very interiorized District, and the Arenas are always exteriors. How can we hope to compete with, say, Nine, and Eleven, and - and Four?"
"We turn the outside, inside out," Timothy says. How does he pull off these ridiculous sentences with a straight face? "We turn inside dangers into outside dangers, dangers they won't know how to fight."
"How?" I ask cautiously. This does not sound good.
"We target the weakness of their District," he murmurs, his voice dropping. "Four is watery, they don't know fire. Twelve, on the other hand, is fiery, they don't know water well. We target their weaknesses."
"And Seven?" I ask sarcastically. "With their outdoorsy preparedness and strength with axes?"
"We find individual weaknesses," Timothy says seriously. "But for now, we need to learn what we can. We need to learn to turn inside dangers, into outside dangers." I trail behind him as he makes a purposeful line for the fire-making station.
After that, he drags me around to visit every survival station, quietly instructing me on how to turn the survival skills we are learning, into pitfalls, snares, and death for the other tributes, a study I find excessively distasteful. Timothy is in despair at my unwillingness to kill the other tributes, but reluctantly accepts my strictures, as my progress is mediocre to good.
The next day is marginally better. I bully him into allowing me to choose the stations we visit, and the skills we practice. To his surprise, we visit all the same stations, the survival stations, only today we are learning survival skills to survive, not survival skills to kill and maim. He reluctantly accedes to my demands that we learn to contain a campfire and how to make it appear several hours old, when it is only minutes dead. We also study plants and the best combinations for taste and nutrition, instead of how to make poisonous plants appear harmless.
We scarcely visit the weapons stations at all, but about halfway through the day, I give in to his insistence that we visit the close combat station. The instructor teaches us basic principles, stances and moves, suggesting we embroider on them and correcting us when we do not do well. By the time training is over for the day, I feel reasonably well-prepared for the Arena.
Sort of. Ish.
The day of Private Training is a nightmare. Kataro is having a tizzy fit at the slightest provocation, and when there hasn't been one for at least ten minutes, he goes back to his favorite standby of 'what if we didn't do well?' When Timothy jestingly says that we'd receive a low score and die in agony during the Bloodbath, Kataro goes into hysterics and has to be taken off to bed. Our stylists are left to take us down to the Training.
Once in the waiting room, Timothy and I sit close together. He holds my hand, and I can see by the way he keeps frowning and glancing at me that he's worried about me. I'm worried about me. My stomach is in knots and the rooms keeps lurching in a confusing and nausea-inducing manner. I scarcely notice the other tributes as they are called out, and only really pay attention once Timothy goes.
I sit hunched over, struggling not to be sick, feeling simultaneously hot and cold. My name is called and I stand - far too quickly, the world gives an odd maneuver in which is simultaneously spins to the right and lurches to the left. I reach out, touching the wall to steady myself, then slowly and carefully walk into the gymnasium.
I know immediately, I'm in deep trouble. The place reeks of smoke and cleaner. I manage to get all the way to the middle of the room before being violently ill. I fall to my knees, dropping one hand to the floor, then collapse onto my side, barely avoiding the pool of sick. I vaguely register Peacekeepers lifting me up and carrying me from the room before I black out.
I wake to the sound of Alaric's and Kataro's voices. Kataro sounds on the verge of hysterics again, Alaric seems furious. I curl up a little, noticing that I'm in bed. Timothy's voice cuts across the angry adults', and I prick my ears up, listening.
"She'll be fine. She was so nervous she made herself sick. Just let her rest for the remainder of the day, she'll be fine for the interviews."
"And the Arena?" Kataro demands, his voice higher pitched than ever. "She'll be one of the first to die!"
"I'll take care of that," Timothy says quietly. I am desperately curious to know what he means, but not curious enough to get up and go ask. I hear the music that preludes the announcement of the scores, and curl up, hiding my face in the blankets. Imagining my 1, for all of Panem to see, I nearly make myself sick again, but fall back asleep before I can think too much about it.
Timothy's POV:
I can't help worrying about Charlene as I go into the gymnasium. Her hands had been ice cold, and she was so pale she was almost green. She's a thoroughly nice girl and won't last for more than a day in the Arena without help. I intend to help her, but in order to that, I have to impress the Gamemakers...I decide to half-destroy their lair.
Giving them a cheeky grin, I bop over to the fire-making station. Starting a small blaze, I expand upon it into it is a raging bonfire in the station. Noticing the Peacekeepers are beginning to shift, I hurry up my efforts until the fire, rapidly expanding from a conflagration to an inferno, spills over onto the floor of the rest of the gymnasium. There is a shout and Peacekeepers surge forward, beginning to quench the fire. I retreat, leaning against the artificial tree trunk used in camouflage, and watch in interest. I am summarily dismissed and go out with a smug grin, although it fades as I wonder how Charlene is doing.
(I did not know Timothy was a Pyro...interesting.)
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Friday, January 24, 2014
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Monday, January 20, 2014
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Monday, January 6, 2014
Charlene Whipple Chariot Ride
Water. Air. Light. The fabric of my dress cannot possibly be made by human hands. It is not the multicolored abomination District 8 has come to expect for their chariot ride outfits - instead, it is monochromatic, a beautiful blue that flatters my coloring. The slim bodice and off-the-shoulder neckline flatter my shape, while remaining elegant. Despite the hours I spent at my prep team's utter mercy, I do not detect a bit of makeup on my skin, yet somehow I am flawless. My hair is pulled back in an elegant braided bun, on the back of my head. A silver belt clasps my waist, my only jewelry is an ornate gold necklace with pearls and lavender diamonds. Everything about me speaks quiet beauty.
"You're a genius," I whisper to my stylist, and he beams.
"I just worked with the beauty that was already there," he replied. He's wonderful, really, always managing to turn everything I say to him into a compliment for me. He also has better taste than the rest of the stylists, despite his lavender skin and vibrant purple hair, lips and eyes.
My prep team hovers around me. "You're radiant, darling!" trills Alada, but Farnorth doesn't seem to agree, eyeing me sullenly.
"She's too pale," he mutters darkly. "And that dress is too much." He eyes my dress darkly and I suppress a shudder, wishing it were withing my power to dismiss him altogether and just let Alada do my hair and makeup. However, it is not in my power to do so, and I make a mental note to ask my stylist if he can do something about it when I return from the chariot ride.
My escort bounces in. "Come on, co- Alaric, isn't that a bit against tradition?" He eyes me closely, perturbed by my monochromatic dress.
"Yes," my stylist replies serenely, and pats me on the shoulder. "Charlene is against tradition. I aimed to show that in her dress. And doesn't she look lovely? Spin for us, honey," he directs at me, and I obey, twirling once, slowly, then a second time more quickly to make my dress billow.
"I suppose," the escort accedes reluctantly. "But she won't match Timothy."
"Matching outfits are overrated," Alaric says smoothly. "Come, now, we don't want to be late for the Chariots."
Kataro gives in, clearly reluctant to surrender but unable to carry on the argument at this point. We trail out, meeting Timothy in the hall. He eyes me as darkly as Farnorth and Kataro did, only resentment tinges his gaze. I cannot blame him, his own outfit is a color wheel made fabric - purples at the top, slowly merging into the other colors as you went down, the darkest shades on his back, turning lighter as you moved towards his front. Imaginative, and on some it may be flattering, but the way he wore it, he plainly wished to be wearing anything else. Possibly even nothing. His pants were opposite his shirt, blues at the top and purples at the bottom, his clothes mirror-imaging each other.
In the elevator, we pick up another couple of tributes, but I keep my head down, not looking at them. I don't want to see them, to see what they think of my dress, to judge their outfits. If they are stronger than I, I do not want to be afraid. If they are weaker, I do not want to feel pity. Plenty of time for both those emotions in the Arena. I need to keep my distance. I cannot make friends. I do not want to see the face of my killer. I do not want to see the face of one I might kill.
I use these phrases to suppress my curiosity all the way down. I wait until they are out of the elevator to leave it myself, following Timothy and the escort to the chariot. It is covered in gauzy bunting, depicting textiles. Alaric helps me up into it, Timothy disdaining his stylist's help and swinging in on his own. I turn, start to speak to him, but he deliberately turns his head away and ignores me. Miffed, I look away, watching the activity around us.
Trumpets blare, it is starting, the chariots are moving into position. Stylists and escorts back away to the edges of the room to keep from being injured, calling last-minute advice and encouragement to their tributes. District 1 is just about to go out, when Timothy springs into action beside me. I and our team, as well as possibly the teams of other tributes and other tributes themselves, watch in shocked horror as he strips, peeling off his shirt and tossing aside, before unbuttoning his pants and yanking down. I yelp in horror, closing my eyes and clapping a hand over them. I hear the tributes around us laughing uproariously, as I clutch the side of the chariot weakly with my free hand. Timothy nudges me with his elbow and I peek hesitantly between my fingers. He had another pair of pants on beneath the color wheel ones. The pair he is currently wearing is much more tasteful, loose and long, also every color of the rainbow, in exactly the same order. But instead of blocks of color, it is almost watercolor, each shade of each color melding seamlessly with the next.
I glance over at our team, his stylist is livid, one of his prep team wearing a smug grin. The man throws Timothy a double thumbs-up, which Timothy returns. The chariot lurches as we head towards the doorway, and Timothy turns to give me a broad, wicked wink. And so we go out, Timothy wearing nothing but pants and a smug grin, I leaning against the side of the chariot, laughing helplessly.
"You're a genius," I whisper to my stylist, and he beams.
"I just worked with the beauty that was already there," he replied. He's wonderful, really, always managing to turn everything I say to him into a compliment for me. He also has better taste than the rest of the stylists, despite his lavender skin and vibrant purple hair, lips and eyes.
My prep team hovers around me. "You're radiant, darling!" trills Alada, but Farnorth doesn't seem to agree, eyeing me sullenly.
"She's too pale," he mutters darkly. "And that dress is too much." He eyes my dress darkly and I suppress a shudder, wishing it were withing my power to dismiss him altogether and just let Alada do my hair and makeup. However, it is not in my power to do so, and I make a mental note to ask my stylist if he can do something about it when I return from the chariot ride.
My escort bounces in. "Come on, co- Alaric, isn't that a bit against tradition?" He eyes me closely, perturbed by my monochromatic dress.
"Yes," my stylist replies serenely, and pats me on the shoulder. "Charlene is against tradition. I aimed to show that in her dress. And doesn't she look lovely? Spin for us, honey," he directs at me, and I obey, twirling once, slowly, then a second time more quickly to make my dress billow.
"I suppose," the escort accedes reluctantly. "But she won't match Timothy."
"Matching outfits are overrated," Alaric says smoothly. "Come, now, we don't want to be late for the Chariots."
Kataro gives in, clearly reluctant to surrender but unable to carry on the argument at this point. We trail out, meeting Timothy in the hall. He eyes me as darkly as Farnorth and Kataro did, only resentment tinges his gaze. I cannot blame him, his own outfit is a color wheel made fabric - purples at the top, slowly merging into the other colors as you went down, the darkest shades on his back, turning lighter as you moved towards his front. Imaginative, and on some it may be flattering, but the way he wore it, he plainly wished to be wearing anything else. Possibly even nothing. His pants were opposite his shirt, blues at the top and purples at the bottom, his clothes mirror-imaging each other.
In the elevator, we pick up another couple of tributes, but I keep my head down, not looking at them. I don't want to see them, to see what they think of my dress, to judge their outfits. If they are stronger than I, I do not want to be afraid. If they are weaker, I do not want to feel pity. Plenty of time for both those emotions in the Arena. I need to keep my distance. I cannot make friends. I do not want to see the face of my killer. I do not want to see the face of one I might kill.
I use these phrases to suppress my curiosity all the way down. I wait until they are out of the elevator to leave it myself, following Timothy and the escort to the chariot. It is covered in gauzy bunting, depicting textiles. Alaric helps me up into it, Timothy disdaining his stylist's help and swinging in on his own. I turn, start to speak to him, but he deliberately turns his head away and ignores me. Miffed, I look away, watching the activity around us.
Trumpets blare, it is starting, the chariots are moving into position. Stylists and escorts back away to the edges of the room to keep from being injured, calling last-minute advice and encouragement to their tributes. District 1 is just about to go out, when Timothy springs into action beside me. I and our team, as well as possibly the teams of other tributes and other tributes themselves, watch in shocked horror as he strips, peeling off his shirt and tossing aside, before unbuttoning his pants and yanking down. I yelp in horror, closing my eyes and clapping a hand over them. I hear the tributes around us laughing uproariously, as I clutch the side of the chariot weakly with my free hand. Timothy nudges me with his elbow and I peek hesitantly between my fingers. He had another pair of pants on beneath the color wheel ones. The pair he is currently wearing is much more tasteful, loose and long, also every color of the rainbow, in exactly the same order. But instead of blocks of color, it is almost watercolor, each shade of each color melding seamlessly with the next.
I glance over at our team, his stylist is livid, one of his prep team wearing a smug grin. The man throws Timothy a double thumbs-up, which Timothy returns. The chariot lurches as we head towards the doorway, and Timothy turns to give me a broad, wicked wink. And so we go out, Timothy wearing nothing but pants and a smug grin, I leaning against the side of the chariot, laughing helplessly.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
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