La {Tortuga} y El {Fuego} // PJ

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shrimp
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La {Tortuga} y El {Fuego} // PJ Feb 4, 2012 22:30:57 GMT -5

Post by shrimp on Feb 4, 2012 22:30:57 GMT -5

~septima garnet

They come for her in swarms, beckoning with claws so gaudy and intricate that she canbarely believe that they were human. They grab at her and fight, yanking at her hair and ripping at her skin with such ferocity that she would scream lest her mother comes in with tones so sharp that they slide through her arms like invisible blades (yet perhaps these words have become tangible objects, for what else can be the reason for the raised lines scattered across her body like macabre tattoos?). The things they do to her burn like the darkest pits of hell, and when she emerges from the battle she looks like an otherworldly figure, and she felt like one as well. Her silent protests were paid no mind and the look on her face ignored as she was left alone for a time, only to be wrenched from the safety of Einstein and Archimedes and back into Satan's lair.

Today, there are two that have dragged her from purgatory and into the darkness. The one on the left is coated in what seems to be charcoal, with short, spiky hair that in the dull light looks hot pink. Around her eyes is a bright tattoo that weaves itself throughout her face so it looks almost like a cluster of poison ivy, and Septima is sure that it would continue all the way down the neckline and even to unmentionable places. The one on the left is the exact opposite; he's so white that he looks like china, with hair so black and wild that she wonders if he has plucked the feathers from a raven and fashioned it into a hair-piece. His eyes are a vivid, bloody red, and briefly she fears that their goal is to make her albino. They smile once, and she is stricken with terror (the female's teeth are stylized to be sharpened fangs, and the male's are so perfect that she can't believe that they're real), and thus, the dance begins.

"We're planning on giving you a more natural look," the dark one purrs. "But, rather than going with bland and boring, we're going to accentuate your eyes with makeup, and you'll have a paler skin tone than usual." The porcelain one continues with a vibrating tenor tone that sparks through her spine and sends shivers of terror throughout her body. "You are to apply the eyeshadow daily, as well as the lipstick - make sure that the colors match. You'll have a set wardrobe to wear every day for the next month as well, and that must match the makeup." Septima simply nods, too petrified to speak. The words that the two have uttered have simply passed into one ear and out the other, and she simply hopes that they don't give her a breast alteration or give her cat whiskers. The two then pounce.

She feels the dyes soak off of her body, the turquoise skin and orange hair from last month's stylist slipping down the drain and into nothingness. For a second, she feels free of all the business deals that her parents have put on her body. She's able to escape the life of a walking advertisement; of a socialite who simply wants to curl up with her physics textbooks and study thermodynamics once more, just to make sure that she's got it perfectly down, rather than frolic through party after party and sneaking the vodka from the avoxes. But then the chemical shower soon emits the last of its purifying magic, and she's ushered into a bath to wash the remnants away ("If it's on for too long, your chances of developing incurable diseases increase, darling.") and soon realizes that her "normalcy" is once again, nothing but a business transaction. Soon, after the month has passed, the deal will end and she'll be ushered to the new, eager stylist who is eager to showcase his or her skills.

As the porcelain one finishes applying vibrant, purple lipstick, she is ushered in front of a mirror, the arrogant stylists standing heroically, satisfied with their work. "What do you think?" the charcoal one asks, her eyes brimming with excitement yet clouded with the worries of this design plummeting the two into the black book of the Capitol. So, she pretends to love it, squealing about how wonderful she looks when in reality she looks sickly, the chemicals not having done enough to get rid of the faint turquoise, which now seems to be a pale olive green. Her hair is muted, which isn't terrible, but the lipstick and eyeshadow only makes the terribly dyed skin and bleached teeth more prominent. In reality, Septima hates the design, hates this lifestyle and hates her parents for making her do this. But she could never hate the stylists - no, these alien beings whose ambitions inspire them to be daring and use her for a spokesperson always are so eager to please that even if they scare her at first, she can never tell them the truth. Besides, regardless of her actions, her look will become somewhat of a rage in the Capitol. Soon, many people will don the "sickly contrast" look, and all thanks to the genius daughter of government workers.

Pleased with their work, the two usher her out of their run-down shop, gushing with happiness of how Septima Garnet will be their savior. And the door slams shut with a bang, keeping a piece of her soul within the confines of that dimly lit room. For a while, she stands outside of the store, feeling lost, but finally she heads out with no direction in mind. Purple high heels click on the sidewalk and blue eyes stare down, ignoring the gawks of passerbys who talk amongst themselves ("Is that Septima Garnet? She's always such a good dresser - we should have done that kind of look instead of this pink mess."). Finally she settles herself down on a cluttered street that's surrounded by quaint cafes whose music floats into her ears, and she begins to faintly hum one of the tunes. "Did they tell you, you should grow up, if you want to succeed..."

She wishes that Jacklyn was here, and that the two were on speaking terms. Perhaps the older girl, the one who had done everything that Septima had ever dreamed to do - fought back against her parents, done whatever the hell she wanted - would know how to console her, just as what Septima had tried to do the day that Jacklyn's screams were audible through the walls and blood ran down her formerly bejeweled face. Jacklyn would know what to do, because Jacklyn was the better person, the one who wouldn't take anybody's shit. Septima was just the girl with the extra large brain and extra small willpower.

And, thinking this, Septima Garnet, daughter of two prominent government officials, and currently the official billboard for Triple Z Inc. begins to silently sob.

Last Edit: Feb 5, 2012 14:45:47 GMT -5 by shrimp

/dead/head/
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I'd like to be a hairdresser. Or two. I'd like to be two hairdressers.

La {Tortuga} y El {Fuego} // PJ Feb 5, 2012 12:15:08 GMT -5

Post by /dead/head/ on Feb 5, 2012 12:15:08 GMT -5

ROLAND PEPPER

A harsh ringing assaulted his ears and the dream of his home with his family dissipated like smoke no matter how hard he sought to cling to it. It was time to start his duties. He had been moved from master to master, each time they sending him back to the government that made him because he was "inadequate." No one wants an Avox who (figuratively) speaks his mind. After each time he had been rejected he had been brutally tortured, cleaned up, and sent out again. When he was inevitably sent back his punishment was increased in intensity and length and it took longer to clean him up to make him suitable for public serving. For the last few days he had just been doing jobs around the Capitol in general. Sometimes he could worm his way into finding a bed for the night, but sometimes he just had to wrap the slight coat they supplied him with and hunker down in a corner. But that was only if the jobs they assigned him were postponed until the next day, as he was told not to come back until the job was finished. Most of the crap they gave him was delivering messages and more often than not he was sleeping in the street because these Capitol flakes were off gallivanting around the city all night at innumerable parties and social gatherings.

Roland made his way to a harsh looking man whose name he didn't even know, but his face was red with anger and the usual person who dealt with Roland seemed oddly absent. The red man turned his hateful gaze on Roland who shuddered a little but quickly composed himself and stood at attention (which seemed the proper thing to do around this man.) "So, avox," he spit the word like it was something dirty, which it was, "I'm stuck with you today. I need you to get out of my sight for a while. Take this and deliver it." Roland was handed a large package with no writing on it. Roland raised one bushy eyebrow at the red man, wondering who he was supposed to deliver it to. The red man noticed this look and slapped Roland across the face. The were stars, some chuckling to be heard around the room, and then the floor. Good Christ. Roland had been hit before, it was inevitable in his new life, but never so hard. The red man pulled Roland, who was still reeling, up from the ground by his shirt collar. Roland was lifted until his face was right next to the red man's face. The heat radiating off of it was so great that it caused Roland's eyes to water, or was that the pain? But he stunk of hatred and military training. "Listen punk, I have things to do and I am not going to let some traitorous, mutated freak disrespect me. I don't want to see your disgusting face until you have completed your task." The strong fingers released their grip on Roland's uniform and Roland tried not to look at the man again as he rushed from the room wondering how on earth he was supposed to do this.

The streets were cold and the wind was merciless, whipping Roland's long hair around his face. He pulled the collar up on the coat that he had gotten to replace the pitiful one the Capitol had issued him at the beginning of his enslavement. "Gotten" was really a nice term, a fellow Avox that Roland had become as close to friends as he could get now-a-days had given Roland a map of the city with a spot marked on it. Roland had slipped away and gone there when he was supposed to be returning from delivering yet another message and found a small cache of item the old Avox must have been collecting over a lifetime. This coat had been among them. It was long enough to mostly cover the uniform he wore, and warm enough to keep at least a bit of the nip out. He had been storing things in that very same hole in the wall since the old man had died. He thought back to when that old man had comforted him when fear controlled Roland. It was right after his tongue had been taken and tears poured down Roland's face almost all the time. Damn, it was only two years ago. He checked his mental calendar and realized that it had been two years to the day since he had been captured and turned into an Avox. Not that it mattered much, he was condemned to the life of servitude under these freaks until his death. If I can't find a master that I can work with that might be shorter than I initially thought. A tiny ghost of a smile threatened to appear, but was quickly squashed when Roland entered the epicenter of Capitol mutilation to themselves. It always took his breath away to see what people did to themselves for "fashion." Roland contemplated his current predicament and the mark on the side of his face from the hefty slap he had received this morning. He caught his reflection in a shop window and noticed that that side of his face was an angry red and the skin around his eye was already starting to swell and discolor. Perfect. Roland had to keep wiping his soon-to-be black eye because it was watering and the tears adding to how cold he was. He rounded a corner where the crowds were slightly less, planning to sit down and think for a minutes.

Then he saw her. It wasn't normal to see a Capitol socialite anything but on her A-game, and this one seemed very distressed. Her skin was an odd pale bluish and there was purple and hair and makeup. Roland didn't care for the extremely unnatural things that these people did to each other, and it had never occurred to him that some of them didn't chose it, but this girl seemed different. Forgetting his place, Roland walked over to her, resting the package on one hip like a mother and squatted next to her. She was a skinny thing, and seemed to be very important because she seemed to be getting odd looks from the other patrons of the shops that lined the street. He wanted to sit next to her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. But then he realized that she was the enemy. She was part of the reason that his brother had been taken from him and his family destroyed. A sudden hatred rose up in him but then he really looked at her and saw one of his younger sisters in her place, crying about something and his heart melted. He put a hand on her shoulder without even giving it a second thought.

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Last Edit: Feb 5, 2012 17:28:30 GMT -5 by /dead/head/

Roland Pepper//Avox/26/formerly D2/run-away/caring/lost[/i]

shrimp
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La {Tortuga} y El {Fuego} // PJ Feb 5, 2012 17:01:58 GMT -5

Post by shrimp on Feb 5, 2012 17:01:58 GMT -5

Oh woe is she, she who feels like the entire world is a hurricane out to get her, like Panem itself is attempting to destroy her life and her body so that she is merely a shell of a person. She feels like a martyr, forced to bear the burden so that others may prosper - and she loathes it. The fact that she must put up with this not for just the remainder of the year, but for the rest of her life is what makes her punishment truly unbearable. She will never be allowed to dress herself, to pick her own clothes, to be her own person. Rather, she will be used just like a prostitute: often, and without qualms. Of course, she will be dressed classier (most of the time), but the feeling will be the same.

It is her mother's fault, she reasons, that the entire operation has been put into motion. Her mother doesn't care that her daughter dies each day that she's dragged off into empty shops and dirty rooms to change her hair, her clothes, her entire image just so someone else can prosper from her mutilation. Her mother just cares about the sales, about the extra income that allows her to throw her birthday bash, or her Opening Ceremonies dinner and most especially her Finale Fiesta. The Garnets are a cruel bunch of people, from the indifferent father to the tyrannical mother and the bitchy older sister. But Septima is different - she always has been, and thus, this is why she suffers so.

The porcelain doll that she has become sits on that bench, unaware of her surroundings as the tears stream down her cheeks and drip onto her lap. She vaguely sees that the tears are cloudy, filled with the translucent blush that's been applied to her face, and it only causes her to weep more, because even the things that seem natural are no longer so; they're spoiled and soured with the touch of synthetic evils. And this is what she's thinking when she feels the gentle touch of a stranger on her shoulder, and she becomes so shocked that for a moment she stops crying and stares in terror at the man who's decided to become her company for the day. Is he here to kidnap me? she thinks, but his demeanor seems to be anything of the sort. Still though, she jerks away quickly for it's just not right for him to do that, even if his intentions are as beautiful as Jacklyn's natural face.

She realizes that perhaps it's impolite to do so - even if he is a serial killer, there are people around for her to scream at for help, and her mother always taught her to be civil to everyone, for the cameras stationed along the busy streets will be enough to keep the heiress safe and sound. Yet the man's appearance does not help allay her fears; he's disheveled, hair flying every which way and covered with what seems to be a film of oil. His emaciated body speaks of untold horrors and his tall stature will no doubt be at least a head (or maybe even two) taller than hers.

But his attitude is something entirely different. She can detect a softness in him, almost like a doting family member rather than a perverted young man without a roof to rest his head underneath. And that alone prevents her from fleeing the scene with trembling muscles and shaky breaths (even her mother's advice has flown out the window at this point, for how can she truly remember the cold-eyed woman's speech at this point?). Instead, she stands up, unbalanced on seven-inch high heels and bony legs that are huddled together in an awkward fashion. Her watering eyes, cause the blue contacts to irritate her, and she has half a mind to take them out before she realizes that there's no place to put them.

What do I do now? she ponders. Septima, while having an educated upbringing, has never been able to put the social skills that she so obviously lacks into fruition. Social gatherings are filled with the liquid death that she abhors yet needs because it's just such a relief to not care about anything at all and as such, social conduct is not even needed. So she stands there for even longer before finally muttering a small "Sorry..." from under her breath, her alto voice barely overheard amongst the chaotic chatter that surrounds the duo. She wipes the tears from her eyes, the contacts falling out of her eyes and landing onto the muddy streets below, and muddy-brown eyes blink in relief as she finally feels normal for once (albeit, she can't see much besides the male who's directly in front of her).

"I... I didn't mean it like that," she mutters, as if he can read her mind and understand that she doesn't want to hurt him any more than what she might have already done. But then she understands that perhaps he doesn't know, or maybe he does and she's just too dense to comprehend this, so she stammers out an "I mean, like, I didn't... I was just surprised and... Erm, yeah." Then she falls silent, brown eyes looking down at her toes, which ache from the too-small shoes that they have been squished into. Perhaps the man simply wants to leave now, just as she wants to but can't because she's started the conversation and to leave right now would be against everything that her mother has reprimanded her for. So she waves, a simple gesture that takes about a half a second, and utters the thing that should have probably been said before she jumped away from him with a surprisingly (slightly) agile movement.

"Hi."

/dead/head/
Seam Resident

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last seen Mar 2, 2012 20:04:29 GMT -5

I'd like to be a hairdresser. Or two. I'd like to be two hairdressers.

La {Tortuga} y El {Fuego} // PJ Feb 5, 2012 21:38:47 GMT -5

Post by /dead/head/ on Feb 5, 2012 21:38:47 GMT -5

ROLAND PEPPER

With his arm on her shoulder Roland had a sudden flashback to a simpler time. Suddenly he was back in the large kitchen of his own house. It was a Saturday afternoon and everyone was home for a change. Roland poked about in his own mouth and found that he had both his tongue and the ability to speak. His twin sisters were across the table from him, making something that required a lot of glitter and a lot of sequins. He wouldn't be surprised if they both turned out to be designers from the Games when they got older, providing that neither of them were called on to be tributes. His stomach tightened horribly at the thought of seeing either one of them fighting for their lives in a twisted arena while the entire country watched. He blinked and the kitchen was gone. In its place stood the town square where names were being drawn. He looked around and saw his brother standing a few feet from him, sweating bullets. Was there something going on that he didn't know? In a second it didn't matter because the name had been drawn and the words upon it read, "Xander Pepper." His heart stopped and a scream rose up in his chest.

And he was back in the streets of the Capitol next to a beautiful, if not a bit made-up, looking young woman. He saw the fear in the bright blue eyes and her muscles jerk away from him. She looked scared, and he realized that he must not look his best. It had been a while since he had been forced into any kind of water and the slap from this morning left one side of his face beaten and bruised. He jerked his hand away with as much urgency as she had moved and he looked down at his hands. The Capitol did not waste the technology of erasing scars and burns from Avox's like they did to victors, and his hands were badly damaged with several nails missing, puncture marks, and shiny raw flesh indicating recently burned flesh from various punishments for various offenses. His eyes, having grown in diameter from all the healthiness being sucked from his face (as well as the rest of her body) look up to meet her own brown ones. She was suddenly standing and he had the sense that he had missed something that she said, maybe while he was reliving the past. But, more out of politeness than anything, Roland stood up with her. It was almost comical that, despite her very high high heels, she was still some inches shorter than he was.

She was stammering about something and he realized that it was a sort of apology for jerking away so suddenly from him. It was a very odd sensation after two years of nothing but orders and insults one lone, soft voice has issued the first kind word he had heard for a very long time. Before he knew what was happening his mouth stretched into a wide (closed-lipped) smile. This girl seemed to be in trouble and it had been so long since he had helped anyone. He very badly wanted someone to depend on his for something again, and not just for idiotic messages or fixing leaky faucets or any other menial task that had to be done. He wanted to matter to someone. But he was getting ahead of himself. Just because this woman hadn't pushed him down and spit in his face just meant that it was probably just a matter of time. But that isn't fair either: judging a girl based on portion of the population, albeit a huge portion of the population. He inwardly grinned again. Roland shoved his hand in his pocket, fiddling around with what would become his solution. It dawned on him and he withdrew his hand from his pocket and in it was clutched a pen that Roland had found weeks ago and had put it in there absent-mindedly. Being the only paper that was handy, Roland had no quams about writing on the package he was carrying (this kind of thing was what made him such a bad Avox.)

His eyes flicked between the girl and the paper, steadly lingering on the paper as time wore on. He Put the pen in his pocket and took a step over so the girl could see what he wrote in a slightly messy hand.

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He didn't feel that giving his name was necessary and he didn't want to know hers until he could feel out what she was like. No one in his life as of now really knew his name. He was often referred to as "that creepy one" or sometimes even "Caveman." The latter came to be because for the first couple of nights Roland became overwhelmed by sorrow and cried and in his crying he made sounds that the people who worked in the government building where they had kept any Avox who was in between masters for whatever reason. It was a place that felt like home more than anywhere in the Capitol, or even in Panem now. Roland hoped that the girl would not immediately dismiss him if she made the connection to his social status.
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Roland Pepper//Avox/26/formerly D2/run-away/caring/lost[/i]