Sunday, September 21, 2014
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
D8 Final Day
"If I burn, they're burning with me. That's a promise." Charlene died last night, of smoke inhalation, I suppose. Gasped out her last breaths, head lying in my lap as I coaxed dribbles of water into her mouth. The cannon went off a few hours before dawn, and I slowly carried her body out and laid it on the grass outside the Cornucopia. She was gone this morning when I went back out. The acid moat is gone too. Good, this works in my favor. If Snow and Moore want a fight, they can come to me.
I dig a firebreak all around the grassy former island, a large long one that it would be difficult for fire to leap, then sluice down the grass around the Cornucopia, pouring two bottlesful over myself when I'm done. All the supplies are inside, but it doesn't matter now. No one will need them after tonight. Jumping over my firebreak, I begin firing arrows into the trees around me. The wind will spread it, and I see plenty of pines - they'll go up like torches and spread the flames, too. I will be surrounded by a wall of fire. By fire Charlene died, by fire my opponents will die.
"Kobayashi Maru," I mutter to myself. My grandfather used to say it all the time before he died, he told me that it was from before the Great War. It meant I do not accept this, I will not play by these rules. But since Charlene has died, I have no reason to not play by these rules.
I go back to the Cornucopia, tying a wet cloth around my mouth and nose as smoke begins to hang in the air. I strap on a sword and a knife, still holding my bows and arrows. "Alright, Snow," I say aloud. "Come and play."
It's not long before I see them, running through the woods - whether from my fire, or the mutts, I don't know. I don't care. They have to com here. I string the arrow to the boy, holding it tensely for a moment and aiming, before letting fly. I'd aimed for the middle of Moore's stomach, but it flies to the side and strikes her left arm slightly. I curse and draw steel, waiting for them to get closer before I throw my dagger. I've always been better at throwing missiles than shooting, my dagger strikes her square in the chest and falls to the ground, blood spreading across her chest with unnatural speed. Snow stops with a little gasp, of shock or pain or grief. Good, she knows how I felt as Charlene died on my lap.
Snow looks up at me, eyes blazing with fury. "I hate you!" she screams, drawing her own sword. She is limping, I notice, is she wounded? That would work in my benefit.
"Reciprocated," I say coldly, settling into a good fighting stance. She attacks me, swinging with insane energy. She is good, good enough to be a Career. Figures. I barely manage to parry all her attacks, but from plentiful food and water, no lack of rest, and unwounded, I am in better shape than she is. I keep catching glimpses of Moore's body out of the corner of my eye, which bothers me, but I made a promise. I'll go back to District 8, I will train the next tributes. I will take the food back.
Snow is tiring, I can feel it, but she is still more highly trained than I am. I concentrate on blocking her and avoiding being hit, plenty of time to attack when she is too weary to defend. One of the great pine trees falls across the empty riverbed and we are showered in sparks. I barely flinch as a piece of burning ash lands on my hand, and I instinctively brush it away before it's on long enough to do damage. Snow, however, is doomed, she did not have the ability to drench herself beforehand. Her clothes go up like a torch, and then that fiery red hair. Her anguished scream rakes across my ears, and I flinch, before driving my sword through her without another thought. The fire I set was to bring them in, no one deserves to burn to death.
The trumpets blare and the fire instantly goes out - probably the Gamemakers blew some chemical into the air - but I just stand a moment, staring down at Snow's body, my sword still sticking in her chest. Charlene's face swims in front of my eyes, and I shake myself. The ladder has already descended beside me and I am suddenly overwhelmed with the thought that /I have made it, I am going home./ I kept my promise. I tilt my head back and flippantly flip the Capitol a salute, before stepping onto the ladder and rising up into the waiting hover.
I dig a firebreak all around the grassy former island, a large long one that it would be difficult for fire to leap, then sluice down the grass around the Cornucopia, pouring two bottlesful over myself when I'm done. All the supplies are inside, but it doesn't matter now. No one will need them after tonight. Jumping over my firebreak, I begin firing arrows into the trees around me. The wind will spread it, and I see plenty of pines - they'll go up like torches and spread the flames, too. I will be surrounded by a wall of fire. By fire Charlene died, by fire my opponents will die.
"Kobayashi Maru," I mutter to myself. My grandfather used to say it all the time before he died, he told me that it was from before the Great War. It meant I do not accept this, I will not play by these rules. But since Charlene has died, I have no reason to not play by these rules.
I go back to the Cornucopia, tying a wet cloth around my mouth and nose as smoke begins to hang in the air. I strap on a sword and a knife, still holding my bows and arrows. "Alright, Snow," I say aloud. "Come and play."
It's not long before I see them, running through the woods - whether from my fire, or the mutts, I don't know. I don't care. They have to com here. I string the arrow to the boy, holding it tensely for a moment and aiming, before letting fly. I'd aimed for the middle of Moore's stomach, but it flies to the side and strikes her left arm slightly. I curse and draw steel, waiting for them to get closer before I throw my dagger. I've always been better at throwing missiles than shooting, my dagger strikes her square in the chest and falls to the ground, blood spreading across her chest with unnatural speed. Snow stops with a little gasp, of shock or pain or grief. Good, she knows how I felt as Charlene died on my lap.
Snow looks up at me, eyes blazing with fury. "I hate you!" she screams, drawing her own sword. She is limping, I notice, is she wounded? That would work in my benefit.
"Reciprocated," I say coldly, settling into a good fighting stance. She attacks me, swinging with insane energy. She is good, good enough to be a Career. Figures. I barely manage to parry all her attacks, but from plentiful food and water, no lack of rest, and unwounded, I am in better shape than she is. I keep catching glimpses of Moore's body out of the corner of my eye, which bothers me, but I made a promise. I'll go back to District 8, I will train the next tributes. I will take the food back.
Snow is tiring, I can feel it, but she is still more highly trained than I am. I concentrate on blocking her and avoiding being hit, plenty of time to attack when she is too weary to defend. One of the great pine trees falls across the empty riverbed and we are showered in sparks. I barely flinch as a piece of burning ash lands on my hand, and I instinctively brush it away before it's on long enough to do damage. Snow, however, is doomed, she did not have the ability to drench herself beforehand. Her clothes go up like a torch, and then that fiery red hair. Her anguished scream rakes across my ears, and I flinch, before driving my sword through her without another thought. The fire I set was to bring them in, no one deserves to burn to death.
The trumpets blare and the fire instantly goes out - probably the Gamemakers blew some chemical into the air - but I just stand a moment, staring down at Snow's body, my sword still sticking in her chest. Charlene's face swims in front of my eyes, and I shake myself. The ladder has already descended beside me and I am suddenly overwhelmed with the thought that /I have made it, I am going home./ I kept my promise. I tilt my head back and flippantly flip the Capitol a salute, before stepping onto the ladder and rising up into the waiting hover.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Re-revised D8
Timothy takes the time to yell obscenities across the now-smoking river at Snow and Moore before grabbing my hand, dragging me inside the Cornucopia, and shoving a wet cloth at me. "Tie this around your mouth and nose, now," he orders. I do so, he already has his on and is tacking up one of the huge canvas sheets across the entrance to the Cornucopia - I believe it is a tent he cut up. I clamber up the boxes, helping him attach it to the lip at the top with the super-strong tape we found in one of the generic repair kits. "This won't work for long," I say fearfully through my mask, secretly agreeing with every word Timothy had called them. "The smoke will get through the canvas."
"No it won't," he says flatly, stepping down onto the golden floor. "That's wood vinegar they're burning, highly toxic smoke that is heavier than air. It'll sink down, and it tends to return to its source, i ee, the river. It's also highly explosive," he adds happily. "It'll flash burn those - girls. We're far enough away it shouldn't actually effect us."
"Pyroligneous acid," I correct absentmindedly, remembering the few chemistry lessons we'd been taught at school.
"Whatever," Timothy grumbles. I ignore his irritation, feeling distinctly heartened by his words. Wood vinegar was one of the few flammable acids, and with that dark muddy color...he was probably right.
"In which case," I say slowly, and he looks at me. "It'll burn pretty quickly, right? I mean, it's mostly water, so once all the chemicals are burned off, it'll just...go out."
"How do you expect me to know?" Timothy demands indignantly. "And it's 80% water."
"Because you're the one who plays with fire," I point out.
"Yes, it burns quickly," he says sullenly. I nod, and we sit down to wait it out, hoping the smoke clears as quickly as its source burns out. After a few minutes, Timothy bursts out again. "Dibs on Snow." He is still fuming, livid at having his favorite weapon used against us. I wasn't even aware he could be so angry, with his diabolically mischievous mind. I didn't know he could actually kill.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay in here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask conversationally. Charlene gives me a look and we fall silent, waiting for the cannon shots that would announce our enemies have fallen victim to either the mutts or their own sadistic trap.
"No it won't," he says flatly, stepping down onto the golden floor. "That's wood vinegar they're burning, highly toxic smoke that is heavier than air. It'll sink down, and it tends to return to its source, i ee, the river. It's also highly explosive," he adds happily. "It'll flash burn those - girls. We're far enough away it shouldn't actually effect us."
"Pyroligneous acid," I correct absentmindedly, remembering the few chemistry lessons we'd been taught at school.
"Whatever," Timothy grumbles. I ignore his irritation, feeling distinctly heartened by his words. Wood vinegar was one of the few flammable acids, and with that dark muddy color...he was probably right.
"In which case," I say slowly, and he looks at me. "It'll burn pretty quickly, right? I mean, it's mostly water, so once all the chemicals are burned off, it'll just...go out."
"How do you expect me to know?" Timothy demands indignantly. "And it's 80% water."
"Because you're the one who plays with fire," I point out.
"Yes, it burns quickly," he says sullenly. I nod, and we sit down to wait it out, hoping the smoke clears as quickly as its source burns out. After a few minutes, Timothy bursts out again. "Dibs on Snow." He is still fuming, livid at having his favorite weapon used against us. I wasn't even aware he could be so angry, with his diabolically mischievous mind. I didn't know he could actually kill.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay in here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask conversationally. Charlene gives me a look and we fall silent, waiting for the cannon shots that would announce our enemies have fallen victim to either the mutts or their own sadistic trap.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Revised D8
"Dibs on Snow." Timothy is fuming, livid at having his favorite weapon used against us. I wasn't even aware he could be so angry, with his diabolically mischievous mind. I didn't know he could actually kill.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up. So now we're swathed in one of the huge thick protective canvas tents, hoping the smoke will kill 1 and 12 or the river will stop burning, before we smother.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay under here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask in painful gasps. Charlene doesn't answer, both of us trying to breathe more slowly and shallowly to prolong our oxygen for as much time as possible. It was a race of time, between the mutts and our air.
"She's just doing what we're supposed to do - kill each other and survive," I point out, a little startled by the fury in his tone. We are extremely lucky we spent the morning sluicing down the entire island, before Snow and her hellish ideas popped up. So now we're swathed in one of the huge thick protective canvas tents, hoping the smoke will kill 1 and 12 or the river will stop burning, before we smother.
"I'm serious, that little-" He goes into a string of words that I sincerely wish had never been invented. "She's determined to turn us into well-cured hams."
"Hams?" I give him a blank look. Besides smoking, I don't see the connection.
"Long pork?" he prods in disbelief, staring at me. I don't reply, simply gazing at him expressionlessly, unblinking. I swear that boy is a piece of work - even killing mad and inches from death, he will still cut wisecracks. He shakes his head, looking away again. "I mean it, you know. I'd like nothing more than to spit her on a sword." He has got cooking meat on the brain. Understandably.
"Technically it was Moore firing the arrows," I offer.
"I'll let you have her, then," he says moodily. Yay. I get to face the Career.
"On the plus side, the mutts might get them," I say with brutal cheeriness."So then we could just stay under here and whichever one smothers slowest is victor."
Timothy:
I'm pretty sure Charlene's bipolar. One day it's 'this will never work.' The next day she's all - ah, sarcasm. Sarcastic optimism. I decide to play along. "Idea, that," I say in an offhand manner. "Where's the pillows, we can mix things up a little." All bantering aside, it is definitely getting stuffy in our canvas filter. "Do you think a slow death asphyxiating or a faster, painful death having your lungs frazzled, is preferable?" I ask in painful gasps. Charlene doesn't answer, both of us trying to breathe more slowly and shallowly to prolong our oxygen for as much time as possible. It was a race of time, between the mutts and our air.
Day 2, D8
Fire arrows. Snow and what's-her-face are shooting fire arrows at us. I glance at Timothy, who looks indignant that they're using his preferred weapon against us. However, we've prepared for this eventuality, having sluiced down the meadow around the Cornucopia with river-water. I'm glad I made him take this precaution, and we sit at the mouth of the Cornucopia, watching their vain attempts to set fire to our camp. They grow better with practice, however, and soon Timothy suggests we retreat into the horn. I'm not thrilled about losing our view, but it is certainly the prudent course. We're hurried on our way by the fact that an arrow pinged off the gold right where I'd been sitting mere seconds ago.
Arming ourselves, we sit down to wait it out. The howling of mutts is clearly audible, and it's too much to hope that they won't somehow make it onto our protected little island. We can only hope that they'll get 1 and 12 first. "Timothy," I say quietly. "We can't both make it." The question trembles on the air - which of us will be killed off? Or will they make us fight each other?
He reaches over, taking my hand. "We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," he murmurs softly.
Timothy:
Charlene giggles slightly at my words, and I smile a little, glad she seems to have cheered up a bit. "Have I mentioned today how much I really, really hate Snow?"
"Which one?" she asks dryly, reaching for a bottle of our precious water.
I peer out at the treeline. "Does it matter? That poisonous apple didn't fall far from the warped tree. He wants us dead, she's trying to kill us. She's worse than a Career," I add in a grumble. "This is the sort of behavior one expects from them, but a Twelver should know better."
"We're in this to win this, too," she reminds me.
"Neither of us has killed a single person," I point out, a bit waspishly, and she doesn't reply.
Charlene:
I don't want to die. But Timothy is just so much more full of life, excited and enthusiastic and clever. I'd rather be the loser than he, I want him to live. But if it comes down to me and either of the others....he's right, Snow is worse than a Career. I feel even more revolted by the fact that we'd considered her as an ally before she allied herself with Careers. "Moore?" I mutter. "Is that her name?"
"Maybe," Timothy grunts. Conversation languishes as we wait.
Arming ourselves, we sit down to wait it out. The howling of mutts is clearly audible, and it's too much to hope that they won't somehow make it onto our protected little island. We can only hope that they'll get 1 and 12 first. "Timothy," I say quietly. "We can't both make it." The question trembles on the air - which of us will be killed off? Or will they make us fight each other?
He reaches over, taking my hand. "We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," he murmurs softly.
Timothy:
Charlene giggles slightly at my words, and I smile a little, glad she seems to have cheered up a bit. "Have I mentioned today how much I really, really hate Snow?"
"Which one?" she asks dryly, reaching for a bottle of our precious water.
I peer out at the treeline. "Does it matter? That poisonous apple didn't fall far from the warped tree. He wants us dead, she's trying to kill us. She's worse than a Career," I add in a grumble. "This is the sort of behavior one expects from them, but a Twelver should know better."
"We're in this to win this, too," she reminds me.
"Neither of us has killed a single person," I point out, a bit waspishly, and she doesn't reply.
Charlene:
I don't want to die. But Timothy is just so much more full of life, excited and enthusiastic and clever. I'd rather be the loser than he, I want him to live. But if it comes down to me and either of the others....he's right, Snow is worse than a Career. I feel even more revolted by the fact that we'd considered her as an ally before she allied herself with Careers. "Moore?" I mutter. "Is that her name?"
"Maybe," Timothy grunts. Conversation languishes as we wait.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Day 1 D8
Timothy:
"We're burning the bridges," I say determinedly, after all the cannon shots. "We're the closest, and if we can do it quickly, we're set."
Charlene:
"If," I say firmly. "That's a pretty big if. How do we burn them all at once?"
Timothy:
I squint across at the gleaming gold horn. "Medical fluid. Alcohol, etc. Flammable stuff."
Charlene:
When it comes to fire, Timothy is a genius. I stand, slinging on my backpack. "Let's go, before the others start to circle back around."
Timothy stands too, and suggests, "Let's run. The faster we get everything done, the better." I nod, and we sprint down, across the bridges, dropping the packs, pouring flammable liquids over all the bridges, striking matches and putting to torches, throwing mini-torches onto the bridges and watching them flame up. Timothy is dancing about happily, waving his torch and occasionally helping the bridges burn when he thinks the flames are too low. I shake my head, turning back towards the Cornucopia. We might be safe from the other tributes, but there are always fun new twists thought up by the Gamemakers...
Timothy:
The burning bridges are a glorious sight, but there is more to do yet. I watch Charlene starting to make a wall of spears, familiarizing herself with the weapons. I go over, helping her build a wall around the Cornucopia and fortify it. There is a magnificent hissing as the burning wood falls into the steaming river, and Charlene pulls a piece of cloth over her face. "Acid!" she calls and I nod, pulling a hood over my own face. We retreat into the Cornucopia, taking a good meal of the supplies in it before settling down for the night.
"Do you want early watch or midnight watch?" I ask, handing her a couple of blankets.
"Midnight," she replies, cocooning herself and lying down. "I do better in early morning."
"Perfect. Sleep well, I'll keep a competent guard." I go out, climbing the Cornucopia to the top, where I can see 345 degrees around me with no trouble, and wrap up in blankets, leaning against the raised tail.
The moon rises, the air growing colder on my face, but wrap snugly in the warm cloth, I remain at a comfortable temperature, keeping a sharp eye out. A little before the light of dawn should enter the sky, I slide down and enter the horn, waking Charlene. "Your turn, I need rest," I whisper to her.
Charlene:
I do not know whether it is because I trust Timothy or that I am so exhausted I have no choice, but I fall asleep almost immediately. My dreams are haunted by bloody figures wreathed by smoke, but they are separated from us by a river of fire - a tenuous but currently adequate defense. When Timothy wakes me up, I start to clobber him before I hear his voice - and he has wisely pinioned my arms before attempting to wake me. I am awake immediately, so the time between him entering the horn and me leaving it cannot be more than five minutes. I climb the tail, finding a warm spot where I assume he has been leaning. I settle back, looking about every few minutes, and watching the east for the first sign of the sun.
"We're burning the bridges," I say determinedly, after all the cannon shots. "We're the closest, and if we can do it quickly, we're set."
Charlene:
"If," I say firmly. "That's a pretty big if. How do we burn them all at once?"
Timothy:
I squint across at the gleaming gold horn. "Medical fluid. Alcohol, etc. Flammable stuff."
Charlene:
When it comes to fire, Timothy is a genius. I stand, slinging on my backpack. "Let's go, before the others start to circle back around."
Timothy stands too, and suggests, "Let's run. The faster we get everything done, the better." I nod, and we sprint down, across the bridges, dropping the packs, pouring flammable liquids over all the bridges, striking matches and putting to torches, throwing mini-torches onto the bridges and watching them flame up. Timothy is dancing about happily, waving his torch and occasionally helping the bridges burn when he thinks the flames are too low. I shake my head, turning back towards the Cornucopia. We might be safe from the other tributes, but there are always fun new twists thought up by the Gamemakers...
Timothy:
The burning bridges are a glorious sight, but there is more to do yet. I watch Charlene starting to make a wall of spears, familiarizing herself with the weapons. I go over, helping her build a wall around the Cornucopia and fortify it. There is a magnificent hissing as the burning wood falls into the steaming river, and Charlene pulls a piece of cloth over her face. "Acid!" she calls and I nod, pulling a hood over my own face. We retreat into the Cornucopia, taking a good meal of the supplies in it before settling down for the night.
"Do you want early watch or midnight watch?" I ask, handing her a couple of blankets.
"Midnight," she replies, cocooning herself and lying down. "I do better in early morning."
"Perfect. Sleep well, I'll keep a competent guard." I go out, climbing the Cornucopia to the top, where I can see 345 degrees around me with no trouble, and wrap up in blankets, leaning against the raised tail.
The moon rises, the air growing colder on my face, but wrap snugly in the warm cloth, I remain at a comfortable temperature, keeping a sharp eye out. A little before the light of dawn should enter the sky, I slide down and enter the horn, waking Charlene. "Your turn, I need rest," I whisper to her.
Charlene:
I do not know whether it is because I trust Timothy or that I am so exhausted I have no choice, but I fall asleep almost immediately. My dreams are haunted by bloody figures wreathed by smoke, but they are separated from us by a river of fire - a tenuous but currently adequate defense. When Timothy wakes me up, I start to clobber him before I hear his voice - and he has wisely pinioned my arms before attempting to wake me. I am awake immediately, so the time between him entering the horn and me leaving it cannot be more than five minutes. I climb the tail, finding a warm spot where I assume he has been leaning. I settle back, looking about every few minutes, and watching the east for the first sign of the sun.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Sunday, April 6, 2014
D8 Bloodbath
Timothy's POV:
Charlene, where is she? I barely glance at the Arena, sneering slightly at its appearance, staring anxiously around the circle of tributes. Where is she?
Charlene's POV:
The sun is so bright, it hurts. I squint, huddling down on my platform, sun glinting off the Cornucopia and the river, straight into my eyes. I turn to look behind me and overbalance, and I'm falling...
Timothy's POV:
I gasp in horror as Charlene's scream of terror rips through the air, drowning out the sound of the giant clock ticking. She has twisted on her plate and lost her balance, clawing at the air in horror as she struggles to stand upright. I clench my fists, praying she regains her balance, but instead she falls...
Charlene:
My feet slip from under me and I fall, twisting in midair and managing to tuck my legs under. I land on the plate mere seconds before the bell goes, winding myself. I roll off, playing dead as everyone runs for the bounty to my right, hoping to escape the bloodbath...
Timothy:
No blast accompanies her fall, she must still be alive. I run forward, elbowing others out my way as I snatch up three backpacks. One of them is ridiculously heavy, let's hope that weight is something good. I continue running, darting behind other tributes when possible, crouching low and zigzagging when not. I drag Charlene to her feet, thrusting one of the packs into her arms and practically dragging her still as we run across a bridge into the woods. I glance up - if the sun is right, we're heading east. Good, if we are being tracked our shadows will soon be in front of us, and we won't be facing the sun.
Charlene:
I am gasping for breath, barely able to keep up. "Timothy - I have to slow down," I manage to force out about a mile into the woods. "I'm a weaver, remember, not a marathon sprinter!" He's more cut out for this sort of thing, the boys were always wrestling and racing and whatnot back at home.
Timothy:
One glance at her tells me we'd better slow, or she'll drop dead anyway. Checking behind a fallen log for snakes, I sit down and start checking over the packs. Not much in them, no water, of course, only a little dried fruit, three blankets total, two ropes, and-
Charlene:
"A knife." I hand it to Timothy, watching him examine it. He sits thinking about what to do, muttering plans and calculations to himself. My mind wanders back, to eight o'clock this morning....
"I want you both to know," Kataro said, tears running freely down his pink-tinted face, "that you are the most wonderful pair I've ever escorted, and I - I hate seeing you go in there!" he burst out. "I don't want either of you to die, b-but if you d-do, I promise I'll see y-you get a good b-b-burial..." He was crying so hard by then he could barely finish, and Charlene hugged him tightly.
"I promise one of us will come back to you," she promised sadly, and Timothy pulled out the scrap of cloth that had been his token, handing it to Kataro.
"In case it isn't me," he murmured, causing his escort to break down in fresh tears and hugged him tightly.
Charlene couldn't help a silent giggle as Timothy's eyes bugged out and he grimaced in embarrassment. Pulling her token out as well, she handed it to Kataro as he released Timothy, and she too was once again tightly embraced by their escort.
Timothy:
I glance at Charlene to see if she's listening to me, and see her sitting there in a heap of misery with tears running down her face. "You don't have to if you don't want to, you can be lookout," I add.
Charlene:
Timothy's voice brings me back with a start, and from the way he is looking at me I know I must've been dazed out quite awhile. "What?" I ask awkwardly, still torn between past and present with an odd sense of surrealism. He sighs and shakes his head at my ditzyness, repeating his words. "We need to chop down the bridges during the bloodbath and strand as many as we can in the middle. There has to be another source of fresh water somewhere in the arena, we need to find and poison it, too."
He's crazy. Loopy. "Um, hello? We're not air plants, we need water too."
He looks annoyed at this obvious flaw. "Fine, we'll wait by the water and kill anyone coming to get it. I still think we should control the only bridge..."
"That sounds more sensible," I agree, and he promptly throws one of the packs to me.
"Good, gear up, and let's go burn some bridges!"
"Hang on," I say slowly. "All we have to do is burn all but one, and we're dead. Whoever is left by the Cornucopia will have food, water, and weapons...specifically bows and arrows."
Timothy:
Really, Charlene isn't stupid, but she's way too negative, and not half opportunist enough. "Then we'll wait till the Careers are hunting, dopey, and be the ones left at the Cornucopia! Now, unless you have more gloomy predictions, come on."
Charlene:
He can be so obnoxious. Why are the obnoxious ones always right? Or is it vice versa...they are obnoxious because they know they are right and can afford to be rude...either we do it their way anyway, or we fail...I follow him as he treks back the way we came, wishing I were home with a cup of tea and a book.
Charlene, where is she? I barely glance at the Arena, sneering slightly at its appearance, staring anxiously around the circle of tributes. Where is she?
Charlene's POV:
The sun is so bright, it hurts. I squint, huddling down on my platform, sun glinting off the Cornucopia and the river, straight into my eyes. I turn to look behind me and overbalance, and I'm falling...
Timothy's POV:
I gasp in horror as Charlene's scream of terror rips through the air, drowning out the sound of the giant clock ticking. She has twisted on her plate and lost her balance, clawing at the air in horror as she struggles to stand upright. I clench my fists, praying she regains her balance, but instead she falls...
Charlene:
My feet slip from under me and I fall, twisting in midair and managing to tuck my legs under. I land on the plate mere seconds before the bell goes, winding myself. I roll off, playing dead as everyone runs for the bounty to my right, hoping to escape the bloodbath...
Timothy:
No blast accompanies her fall, she must still be alive. I run forward, elbowing others out my way as I snatch up three backpacks. One of them is ridiculously heavy, let's hope that weight is something good. I continue running, darting behind other tributes when possible, crouching low and zigzagging when not. I drag Charlene to her feet, thrusting one of the packs into her arms and practically dragging her still as we run across a bridge into the woods. I glance up - if the sun is right, we're heading east. Good, if we are being tracked our shadows will soon be in front of us, and we won't be facing the sun.
Charlene:
I am gasping for breath, barely able to keep up. "Timothy - I have to slow down," I manage to force out about a mile into the woods. "I'm a weaver, remember, not a marathon sprinter!" He's more cut out for this sort of thing, the boys were always wrestling and racing and whatnot back at home.
Timothy:
One glance at her tells me we'd better slow, or she'll drop dead anyway. Checking behind a fallen log for snakes, I sit down and start checking over the packs. Not much in them, no water, of course, only a little dried fruit, three blankets total, two ropes, and-
Charlene:
"A knife." I hand it to Timothy, watching him examine it. He sits thinking about what to do, muttering plans and calculations to himself. My mind wanders back, to eight o'clock this morning....
"I want you both to know," Kataro said, tears running freely down his pink-tinted face, "that you are the most wonderful pair I've ever escorted, and I - I hate seeing you go in there!" he burst out. "I don't want either of you to die, b-but if you d-do, I promise I'll see y-you get a good b-b-burial..." He was crying so hard by then he could barely finish, and Charlene hugged him tightly.
"I promise one of us will come back to you," she promised sadly, and Timothy pulled out the scrap of cloth that had been his token, handing it to Kataro.
"In case it isn't me," he murmured, causing his escort to break down in fresh tears and hugged him tightly.
Charlene couldn't help a silent giggle as Timothy's eyes bugged out and he grimaced in embarrassment. Pulling her token out as well, she handed it to Kataro as he released Timothy, and she too was once again tightly embraced by their escort.
Timothy:
I glance at Charlene to see if she's listening to me, and see her sitting there in a heap of misery with tears running down her face. "You don't have to if you don't want to, you can be lookout," I add.
Charlene:
Timothy's voice brings me back with a start, and from the way he is looking at me I know I must've been dazed out quite awhile. "What?" I ask awkwardly, still torn between past and present with an odd sense of surrealism. He sighs and shakes his head at my ditzyness, repeating his words. "We need to chop down the bridges during the bloodbath and strand as many as we can in the middle. There has to be another source of fresh water somewhere in the arena, we need to find and poison it, too."
He's crazy. Loopy. "Um, hello? We're not air plants, we need water too."
He looks annoyed at this obvious flaw. "Fine, we'll wait by the water and kill anyone coming to get it. I still think we should control the only bridge..."
"That sounds more sensible," I agree, and he promptly throws one of the packs to me.
"Good, gear up, and let's go burn some bridges!"
"Hang on," I say slowly. "All we have to do is burn all but one, and we're dead. Whoever is left by the Cornucopia will have food, water, and weapons...specifically bows and arrows."
Timothy:
Really, Charlene isn't stupid, but she's way too negative, and not half opportunist enough. "Then we'll wait till the Careers are hunting, dopey, and be the ones left at the Cornucopia! Now, unless you have more gloomy predictions, come on."
Charlene:
He can be so obnoxious. Why are the obnoxious ones always right? Or is it vice versa...they are obnoxious because they know they are right and can afford to be rude...either we do it their way anyway, or we fail...I follow him as he treks back the way we came, wishing I were home with a cup of tea and a book.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Charlene Whipple Interview
"Just a peek of chest, not enough to please Farnorth," Alaric tells me with a twinkle in his eye. He had not been able to dismiss my perverted male prepper altogether, but we had managed to consign him to just my hair, when I can be covered, much to his displeasure.
I chuckle at his remark. "The less showing, the happier I am."
"I know, honey," my stylist says sympathetically. "But most people in the Capitol don't feel the same, and we want you alive to continue to bring a degree of modesty to the Games."
I smile at his phraseology. "I know you're doing all you can to keep me alive. And the dress is lovely, it really is. The material...it's so soft."
Alaric nods. "Only the best, for the Tributes," he says wryly.
"For the moment," I add dryly.
We look at each other a long moment before he says, "Don't go into your interview with that attitude. It won't gain you any fans."
"How should I approach this?" I ask quietly.
"He'll ask you about the girl for whom you volunteered," Alaric says urgently. "Tell them what you will about her. Caesar will probably want to portray you as a great hero, depending on how you handle his questions. That's the most flattering view and the crowd will lap it up, but don't be 'just another hero.' Make it memorable. Make them remember her, and they will remember you. It will also help her next year, and you, if you're her mentor." The way he speaks of Satinee, I realize with a jolt that he knows who she is and why she was reaped. But his next words are even more grim.
"There are some in power who might've been told to remove you. You didn't do yourself any favours, volunteering for a marked girl. You don't come from a district where that's the norm, she wasn't your family. It could be seen as an act of defiance. Drive it home, every chance you get, that it was because she was young. It was because she was the only child left to her father. It was because she deserved a second chance at life. Not because you wanted to slap the Capitol in the face. But subtly. Do it subtly, don't make it obvious you're trying to appease them."
I am scared at his words, so scared. "It wasn't in defiance," I whisper. "It was because I knew her father would be broken, utterly broken, if he lost both his children. And she...she's only twelve..."
Alaric looks at me grimly. "Even that could be interpreted as defiance."
"Then I won't make it about her," I say quietly. "I'll move the conversation away from her as quickly as possible."
"What will it be about?" he asks, equally quietly.
I brush my hand over my dress. "Fabrics," I say dreamily. "Fabric is what I know, and the ones I've worn here are..amazing. Like light and air woven together and made tangible."
Alaric smiles a little. "Honey, just keep up with those descriptions and no one will give any rebellion on your part a second thought."
"Rebellion?" Kataro's voice comes, panicky and even higher than usual. "What?"
"Nothing," Alaric says quickly as the escort enters the room completely. "A very poor joke on my part."
Kataro's relief is nearly tangible, lying over him like a sheet. "Oh. You should restrain from such jokes, Alaric, they're in very poor taste. Is Charlene ready?"
I take a deep breath, lifting my head and nodding. "Yes, I'm ready. Where's Timothy?"
Poor Kataro looks pathetically dismayed at my question. "Probably still involved in fisticuffs with his stylist," he says reproachfully. His reproof isn't aimed at me, I can tell, but at the non-present Timothy. "He refused to wear what was laid out for him, and Maran has made sure he couldn't put anything on underneath, not since his stunt at the Chariots."
I suppress a giggle. "Maybe I could talk him down, while Alaric soothes Maran," I suggest, and am rewarded with a look of pure gratitude from Kataro.
"Would you really?" he asks hopefully, and I nod. "Hang on," he says enthusiastically and trots out. Alaric and I share a glance before bursting into giggles.
A moment later, Kataro trots back in, followed by a slouching Timothy, who has his hands stuck in his pockets and is wearing an air of suspicious resentment. Kataro leads Alaric out to reason with Maran, as Timothy and I measure each other up. I finally plop down on a plush chair, pulling a grape off of its stem and throwing to Timothy.
He catches it and sits down opposite me. "Kataro said you'd volunteered to calm me down," he says, and pops the grape into his mouth.
I shrug. "I just thought it would be a good idea to pull you and Maran off of each other."
Timothy eyes my outfit. "I don't suppose you'd want to swap stylists?"
I chuckle ruefully. "I am no more keen on wearing Maran's abominations than you are." Timothy grunts in agreement, but I'm not done. "If you could design your own outfit, keeping in mind this is the Capitol, what would it be?"
He looks at my dress closely. "Something similar to your clothes. Floaty, only more flamboyant. I don't like pale colors, too girly."
"Why don't you suggest that to Maran, maybe you and he and Alaric can work something out," I suggest.
Timothy nods and stands. "Good idea. I guess I'd better go back in there."
I smile at the reluctance in his voice. "Probably." He nods to me and goes out, leaving me to ponder the problems of having a poor stylist.
* * *
Two hours later, I am astonished at the compromise that has been reached. Timothy is dressed in a very old-fashioned, extremely flamboyant outfit - pure white shirt with long loose sleeves and tight cuffs, a royal blue vest over it, tight black pants, a swirling red cape which he enjoys whooshing out, tight black leather boots, and to top the whole ensemble off, a broad-brimmed black hat with large purple foofy feathers. I stand gawping at him with my mouth open, while he stands smugly grinning at my expression.
"You look...dashing," I say finally, and his grin broadens. Sweeping off the ridiculous hat, he bows low, with much unnecessary twirling of hands.
"Thank you, Madame," he says in a mock-deep voice. "You are lovely yourself tonight."
"I know," I say cheekily, and take off for the elevator while Alaric and Kataro laugh uproariously. I hear Timothy's footsteps behind me and speed up, reaching the elevator first, but the door remains open. It closes right before our team reaches us and he tickles me all the way down - I am positive everyone else we pass thinks I am being prematurely murdered, from my unending shrieks. We come to a stop and he immediately stands up, straightening his hat and standing primly until the door opens. I do my best to straighten my dress and try to whack him as he exits, but he nips smartly out and I miss.
The team arrives on the next trip, jammed in with another District's passel. Timothy and I are surreptitiously chasing each other around, I keep edging towards him for revenge and he keeps wandering 'obliviously' off. Kataro seems inclined to scold us but Alaric murmurs to him to let us play.
As more tributes come down, Peacekeepers line us up to go on stage. My heart begins to pound as I think to the interview ahead, and I bite my lip, smearing my lipstick. Timothy, beside me, takes my hand and squeezes gently. "You'll be fine," he whispers. "Caesar isn't actually as scary as the Arena, he just looks it."
I giggle at his irreverent words, and almost immediately it is time to go on stage.
I am called before Timothy, and as I go out, the lights almost blind me. My heart is pounding so loudly all I can hear is a roaring in my ears. I slowly realize it is the crowd and almost puke. Today they are cheering my appearance, tomorrow it will be my death. I settle slowly into the chair beside Caesar's, determined to give them an interview they won't forget.
"Good evening, Charlene," he greets me warmly. "And how are you this fine night?"
"Been better, will be worse," I respond quietly. Caesar doesn't seem to know how to answer this and quickly moves on.
"Speaking of worse, how did you feel upon being Reaped? But then, you weren't Reaped, were you?" He sounds mildly curious and I quickly move to quell it.
"No, I volunteered. Satinee is so young, and she was so scared. I couldn't bear to see her up on the stage."
"And we all admire you very much for it," Caesar says quietly. "But surely, you at least brought a special token?"
I smile a little in remembrance. "No, I didn't bring one. But the whole team has a little handkerchief, all the same, that Timothy and I are both using as tokens."
He nods sympathetically. "Very united. But you didn't want to bring a bit of home with you? Surely you miss it?"
"No," I say flatly. "I don't miss District Eight at all."
"Not even a special someone?" he asks innocently.
"No." I reply laconically.
"Then you must have enjoyed the Capitol," he pursued. "What's your favorite part so far?"
"I haven't enjoyed it," I reply distantly. "I've come here to be killed, not enjoy myself. But if I must choose, it would be my team. Kataro and Alaric are two of the most wonderful people I've ever met."
"I'm sure they appreciate that," Caesar says quietly, patting my hand. Patting my hand?! Capitolians. "So do you have a strategy?"
"Yes," I say wearily, hoping my time was almost up.
"Can you share it with us?" he suggests.
"I intend to stick close to Timothy. I'm pretty sure he's the one with the most intelligence of any of we tributes."
"Ouch," Caesar comments with a chuckle, and is finally rewarded with a small smile.
"I didn't say the only one with intelligence," I protest with the faintest ghost of a laugh. "I said the one with the most."
"And do you have any last words for us, Miss Whipple?" Caesar asks.
I suppress a yawn. "Goodnight."
He laughs and holds my hand up. "I present, District Eight's Charlene Whipple!"
Timothy's POV:
Oh. She is so stupid. I glower at her in astonishment and dismay as she sits down, before going out onto stage myself, determined to erase her obtuse and boring interview. Caesar has his face in his trained smile, but as I get closer I can see the strain in his eyes. "Hello, Timothy," he says brightly as I come over.
"Gooood evening, Caesar," I reply, making my voice rich and rolling, and with a melodramatic swirl of my cape, I bow deeply to him. "It is a pleasure, such a great honor, to meet you face to face."
Uh oh. Wrong tack. He is even more uncomfortable and I hurry to cover my mistake. "You are such an anticipated part of the Games, from tributes and viewers alike," I add.
Charlene's POV:
Is he crazy? What's he up to with that flashy outfit and flattering Caesar? I see Kataro in the crowd and am pretty sure he's fainted. This isn't boding well...
Timothy's POV:
I seat myself beside Caesar and cross my legs, winking at a pink-tinted girl in the front row. She titters and blushes pinker as I return my attention to Caesar and his first question.
"Well Timothy, what was your first thought upon being Reaped?"
I consider a minute. "I'm not going to repeat it in front of the ladies, Caesar. Perhaps in private sometime." There is a roar of laughter and I grin cheekily out at them all.
"Much appreciated," Caesar says with a grin, then moves on. "Charlene mentioned you have matching tokens?"
"Well, you know how girls are, Caesar," I say conspiratorially. "They can be so emotional if you don't humor them."
He laughs. "Will you get in trouble for that later?"
"Probably," I say cheerfully. "But not until tomorrow, most likely."
"What do you miss about District Eight?" my interviewer inquires.
I heave a deep sigh, apparently thinking hard. "That's a hard one, Caesar. Perhaps..." I pause a long moment. "The girls? The girls of District Eight are so much prettier than any other District."
Charlene's POV:
He is so getting kicked later.
Timothy's POV:
I grin mentally, I can almost feel Charlene's eyes boring into my back. She's so easy to aggravate sometimes, it's funny. I determine to make her even more irritated with my next answer.
"So, is there anyone especially special?" Caesar asks conspiratorially.
"About half a dozen," I answer carelessly. "But Caesar, you've wrecked my plans, now they all know about each other!!"
More laughter from the crowd. Apparently players are popular.
"Ah me," Caesar says, grinning. "Well I hope I haven't gotten you into too much trouble. How have you liked the Capitol? Any parts you've liked in particular?"
"How to choose, how to choose," I say dramatically. "The food, the lights, the people, the clothing..."
"We all noticed your outfit change during the Chariot Ride," Caesar observes dryly, and I smirk.
"That was mostly to annoy Charlene," I reply cheekily.
Charlene's POV:
He is so getting kicked. So getting kicked.
Timothy's POV:
"I wish you luck," Caesar chuckles. "Any strategy for the Arena?"
"That is for me to know and for you to - dot dot dot," I reply wickedly, with another wink.
"Any last words?" Caesar asks jovially.
I stand, swirling my cape again. "Farewell, masters and madams," I say in a deep dramatic voice. "Farewell, for a time!"
Whirling, I speed up to my seat beside Charlene, whirling around and into it as Caesar announces my name and district one more time.
I chuckle at his remark. "The less showing, the happier I am."
"I know, honey," my stylist says sympathetically. "But most people in the Capitol don't feel the same, and we want you alive to continue to bring a degree of modesty to the Games."
I smile at his phraseology. "I know you're doing all you can to keep me alive. And the dress is lovely, it really is. The material...it's so soft."
Alaric nods. "Only the best, for the Tributes," he says wryly.
"For the moment," I add dryly.
We look at each other a long moment before he says, "Don't go into your interview with that attitude. It won't gain you any fans."
"How should I approach this?" I ask quietly.
"He'll ask you about the girl for whom you volunteered," Alaric says urgently. "Tell them what you will about her. Caesar will probably want to portray you as a great hero, depending on how you handle his questions. That's the most flattering view and the crowd will lap it up, but don't be 'just another hero.' Make it memorable. Make them remember her, and they will remember you. It will also help her next year, and you, if you're her mentor." The way he speaks of Satinee, I realize with a jolt that he knows who she is and why she was reaped. But his next words are even more grim.
"There are some in power who might've been told to remove you. You didn't do yourself any favours, volunteering for a marked girl. You don't come from a district where that's the norm, she wasn't your family. It could be seen as an act of defiance. Drive it home, every chance you get, that it was because she was young. It was because she was the only child left to her father. It was because she deserved a second chance at life. Not because you wanted to slap the Capitol in the face. But subtly. Do it subtly, don't make it obvious you're trying to appease them."
I am scared at his words, so scared. "It wasn't in defiance," I whisper. "It was because I knew her father would be broken, utterly broken, if he lost both his children. And she...she's only twelve..."
Alaric looks at me grimly. "Even that could be interpreted as defiance."
"Then I won't make it about her," I say quietly. "I'll move the conversation away from her as quickly as possible."
"What will it be about?" he asks, equally quietly.
I brush my hand over my dress. "Fabrics," I say dreamily. "Fabric is what I know, and the ones I've worn here are..amazing. Like light and air woven together and made tangible."
Alaric smiles a little. "Honey, just keep up with those descriptions and no one will give any rebellion on your part a second thought."
"Rebellion?" Kataro's voice comes, panicky and even higher than usual. "What?"
"Nothing," Alaric says quickly as the escort enters the room completely. "A very poor joke on my part."
Kataro's relief is nearly tangible, lying over him like a sheet. "Oh. You should restrain from such jokes, Alaric, they're in very poor taste. Is Charlene ready?"
I take a deep breath, lifting my head and nodding. "Yes, I'm ready. Where's Timothy?"
Poor Kataro looks pathetically dismayed at my question. "Probably still involved in fisticuffs with his stylist," he says reproachfully. His reproof isn't aimed at me, I can tell, but at the non-present Timothy. "He refused to wear what was laid out for him, and Maran has made sure he couldn't put anything on underneath, not since his stunt at the Chariots."
I suppress a giggle. "Maybe I could talk him down, while Alaric soothes Maran," I suggest, and am rewarded with a look of pure gratitude from Kataro.
"Would you really?" he asks hopefully, and I nod. "Hang on," he says enthusiastically and trots out. Alaric and I share a glance before bursting into giggles.
A moment later, Kataro trots back in, followed by a slouching Timothy, who has his hands stuck in his pockets and is wearing an air of suspicious resentment. Kataro leads Alaric out to reason with Maran, as Timothy and I measure each other up. I finally plop down on a plush chair, pulling a grape off of its stem and throwing to Timothy.
He catches it and sits down opposite me. "Kataro said you'd volunteered to calm me down," he says, and pops the grape into his mouth.
I shrug. "I just thought it would be a good idea to pull you and Maran off of each other."
Timothy eyes my outfit. "I don't suppose you'd want to swap stylists?"
I chuckle ruefully. "I am no more keen on wearing Maran's abominations than you are." Timothy grunts in agreement, but I'm not done. "If you could design your own outfit, keeping in mind this is the Capitol, what would it be?"
He looks at my dress closely. "Something similar to your clothes. Floaty, only more flamboyant. I don't like pale colors, too girly."
"Why don't you suggest that to Maran, maybe you and he and Alaric can work something out," I suggest.
Timothy nods and stands. "Good idea. I guess I'd better go back in there."
I smile at the reluctance in his voice. "Probably." He nods to me and goes out, leaving me to ponder the problems of having a poor stylist.
* * *
Two hours later, I am astonished at the compromise that has been reached. Timothy is dressed in a very old-fashioned, extremely flamboyant outfit - pure white shirt with long loose sleeves and tight cuffs, a royal blue vest over it, tight black pants, a swirling red cape which he enjoys whooshing out, tight black leather boots, and to top the whole ensemble off, a broad-brimmed black hat with large purple foofy feathers. I stand gawping at him with my mouth open, while he stands smugly grinning at my expression.
"You look...dashing," I say finally, and his grin broadens. Sweeping off the ridiculous hat, he bows low, with much unnecessary twirling of hands.
"Thank you, Madame," he says in a mock-deep voice. "You are lovely yourself tonight."
"I know," I say cheekily, and take off for the elevator while Alaric and Kataro laugh uproariously. I hear Timothy's footsteps behind me and speed up, reaching the elevator first, but the door remains open. It closes right before our team reaches us and he tickles me all the way down - I am positive everyone else we pass thinks I am being prematurely murdered, from my unending shrieks. We come to a stop and he immediately stands up, straightening his hat and standing primly until the door opens. I do my best to straighten my dress and try to whack him as he exits, but he nips smartly out and I miss.
The team arrives on the next trip, jammed in with another District's passel. Timothy and I are surreptitiously chasing each other around, I keep edging towards him for revenge and he keeps wandering 'obliviously' off. Kataro seems inclined to scold us but Alaric murmurs to him to let us play.
As more tributes come down, Peacekeepers line us up to go on stage. My heart begins to pound as I think to the interview ahead, and I bite my lip, smearing my lipstick. Timothy, beside me, takes my hand and squeezes gently. "You'll be fine," he whispers. "Caesar isn't actually as scary as the Arena, he just looks it."
I giggle at his irreverent words, and almost immediately it is time to go on stage.
I am called before Timothy, and as I go out, the lights almost blind me. My heart is pounding so loudly all I can hear is a roaring in my ears. I slowly realize it is the crowd and almost puke. Today they are cheering my appearance, tomorrow it will be my death. I settle slowly into the chair beside Caesar's, determined to give them an interview they won't forget.
"Good evening, Charlene," he greets me warmly. "And how are you this fine night?"
"Been better, will be worse," I respond quietly. Caesar doesn't seem to know how to answer this and quickly moves on.
"Speaking of worse, how did you feel upon being Reaped? But then, you weren't Reaped, were you?" He sounds mildly curious and I quickly move to quell it.
"No, I volunteered. Satinee is so young, and she was so scared. I couldn't bear to see her up on the stage."
"And we all admire you very much for it," Caesar says quietly. "But surely, you at least brought a special token?"
I smile a little in remembrance. "No, I didn't bring one. But the whole team has a little handkerchief, all the same, that Timothy and I are both using as tokens."
He nods sympathetically. "Very united. But you didn't want to bring a bit of home with you? Surely you miss it?"
"No," I say flatly. "I don't miss District Eight at all."
"Not even a special someone?" he asks innocently.
"No." I reply laconically.
"Then you must have enjoyed the Capitol," he pursued. "What's your favorite part so far?"
"I haven't enjoyed it," I reply distantly. "I've come here to be killed, not enjoy myself. But if I must choose, it would be my team. Kataro and Alaric are two of the most wonderful people I've ever met."
"I'm sure they appreciate that," Caesar says quietly, patting my hand. Patting my hand?! Capitolians. "So do you have a strategy?"
"Yes," I say wearily, hoping my time was almost up.
"Can you share it with us?" he suggests.
"I intend to stick close to Timothy. I'm pretty sure he's the one with the most intelligence of any of we tributes."
"Ouch," Caesar comments with a chuckle, and is finally rewarded with a small smile.
"I didn't say the only one with intelligence," I protest with the faintest ghost of a laugh. "I said the one with the most."
"And do you have any last words for us, Miss Whipple?" Caesar asks.
I suppress a yawn. "Goodnight."
He laughs and holds my hand up. "I present, District Eight's Charlene Whipple!"
Timothy's POV:
Oh. She is so stupid. I glower at her in astonishment and dismay as she sits down, before going out onto stage myself, determined to erase her obtuse and boring interview. Caesar has his face in his trained smile, but as I get closer I can see the strain in his eyes. "Hello, Timothy," he says brightly as I come over.
"Gooood evening, Caesar," I reply, making my voice rich and rolling, and with a melodramatic swirl of my cape, I bow deeply to him. "It is a pleasure, such a great honor, to meet you face to face."
Uh oh. Wrong tack. He is even more uncomfortable and I hurry to cover my mistake. "You are such an anticipated part of the Games, from tributes and viewers alike," I add.
Charlene's POV:
Is he crazy? What's he up to with that flashy outfit and flattering Caesar? I see Kataro in the crowd and am pretty sure he's fainted. This isn't boding well...
Timothy's POV:
I seat myself beside Caesar and cross my legs, winking at a pink-tinted girl in the front row. She titters and blushes pinker as I return my attention to Caesar and his first question.
"Well Timothy, what was your first thought upon being Reaped?"
I consider a minute. "I'm not going to repeat it in front of the ladies, Caesar. Perhaps in private sometime." There is a roar of laughter and I grin cheekily out at them all.
"Much appreciated," Caesar says with a grin, then moves on. "Charlene mentioned you have matching tokens?"
"Well, you know how girls are, Caesar," I say conspiratorially. "They can be so emotional if you don't humor them."
He laughs. "Will you get in trouble for that later?"
"Probably," I say cheerfully. "But not until tomorrow, most likely."
"What do you miss about District Eight?" my interviewer inquires.
I heave a deep sigh, apparently thinking hard. "That's a hard one, Caesar. Perhaps..." I pause a long moment. "The girls? The girls of District Eight are so much prettier than any other District."
Charlene's POV:
He is so getting kicked later.
Timothy's POV:
I grin mentally, I can almost feel Charlene's eyes boring into my back. She's so easy to aggravate sometimes, it's funny. I determine to make her even more irritated with my next answer.
"So, is there anyone especially special?" Caesar asks conspiratorially.
"About half a dozen," I answer carelessly. "But Caesar, you've wrecked my plans, now they all know about each other!!"
More laughter from the crowd. Apparently players are popular.
"Ah me," Caesar says, grinning. "Well I hope I haven't gotten you into too much trouble. How have you liked the Capitol? Any parts you've liked in particular?"
"How to choose, how to choose," I say dramatically. "The food, the lights, the people, the clothing..."
"We all noticed your outfit change during the Chariot Ride," Caesar observes dryly, and I smirk.
"That was mostly to annoy Charlene," I reply cheekily.
Charlene's POV:
He is so getting kicked. So getting kicked.
Timothy's POV:
"I wish you luck," Caesar chuckles. "Any strategy for the Arena?"
"That is for me to know and for you to - dot dot dot," I reply wickedly, with another wink.
"Any last words?" Caesar asks jovially.
I stand, swirling my cape again. "Farewell, masters and madams," I say in a deep dramatic voice. "Farewell, for a time!"
Whirling, I speed up to my seat beside Charlene, whirling around and into it as Caesar announces my name and district one more time.
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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