Words can be sharper [Danny, Charade] <closed>

[charade]

Razor Creel


"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump."
The sound of blood pounding in his ears always excited Razor. It meant his body was working at it's best. And why shouldn't it? He was the best. Maybe the best in all of district two. A bead of sweat passed over his lips, bringing with it the scent of apples. Apples. That cream he started using a few days ago must be doing its job. He paused for a moment, putting the 120 pound weight on its bar and sat up. In front of him was a mirror and he gazed at his reflection for a minute. His skin was smooth and covered lean muscle. Just as it should be. Nothing second-rate for him, Razor was going to go straight to the top. His shirt was soaked in sweat, and so he removed it, tossing it to the ground in a heap. His chest and stomach muscles were looking good, but.. they could be so much better. He turned his torso, so that his back could be seen in the mirror. His tattoo reflected a deep blue-black. Though the words spelled nonsense in the reflection he knew they spelled the phrase "The Odds Are In my Favor." He caught sight on a few other people in the gyms, working various parts of their bodies. He turned his head to watch a brunette girl stretch out her toned legs. "I may have to pay her a visit." he mused to himself.

The door opened and a few more people walked in. bringing with them the cool breeze from outside. He thought of them with disdain. None of them were good enough. None of them thought about the Hunger Games like he did. They might be in it to win it, but he wanted in to decimate. If he was reaped, there would be no doubt as to what the best district was, and even less doubt as to who the best victor was.He imagined crowds chanting Razor Creel over and over again. Idiots that they were.What did they know? In the last three years, two backwater teenagers from district twelve had won The hunger games. District twelve! The poorest, worst district in the whole country. A girl from district one had won last year, and this year the final two contenders were from twelve and three. It was embarrassing. He hated the dead tributes from district two. he would be much better than them. No.. He was better than them. And when the time came, everyone would know it. Sighing irritably for a moment, he leaned back down down on the rack.Taking the weight back into his hands he began to pump it up and down with renewed vigor. It just wasn't enough. It was never enough.
"Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump."

[apocalypse]

ooc; sorry this took me so long. i think it's an okay post. yeah, thanks for waiting(:

bic;

I surely hate the saying 'Silence is golden.' I mean, it made no sense at all . . . I think. How can silence be golden if nothing is even happening? For stuff to be completely silent, you can't be breathing; and death is certainly not golden. I don't usually over-think things, but I felt different today -- more observant. And with being more observant, I wanted to get more done; go to more places. I might feel like this because my cast was finally taken off. My arm felt one-hundred pounds lighter, and my body two-hundred.
I knew where I had to go today -- The Training Center.
Sure, I know that somehow, that was a bad idea, my arm wasn't healed yet, and it would probably affect what was left of the healing process, but I'm not going to bother scaring myself; the thought only lasted for less than ten seconds. My parents wouldn't mind, my dad would be happy that I was training again -- he was never strict about it, but he liked seeing me actually get tougher and stronger and progress as a boy. For a seventeen year old male, I don't always make the right decisions -- this is one of them (but I don't care).
I walk into the Training Center like I've done many other times. I instinctively go to the spear-throwing.
Spear-throwing makes me feel useful. I hate feeling useless. I like the feeling of being important -- like a Victor -- but I'm not. All I am is a teenage boy with bad habits and secrets no one else knows about.
I like it like that sometimes.
I pick up a spear with my right arm, the one that was just injured, and my dominant arm. The feeling of the sensations of Training comes back to me -- when I do something good, my face lights up in happiness; when I fail to do something right, my head bows down in displeasure.
I guess I just have to put myself down like that.
When looking at the dummy, I know where to aim, the chest, or the head (the heart or the brain). My hand still grasping the spear, I throw it. And....
I miss.
I just needed a warm-up throw, now this was serious.
My name is Nyklus Moalkis, and I'm secretly gay. I also privately drink beer. Shhh. No one else knows (:

[charade]

Razor Creel

Razor put the weight back on the bar and lay still for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling as breath came in gasps and sweat poured off of his forehead. He had broken his own record and lifted 275 pounds for 50 reps. He grabbed a towel to wipe his face and sat up, looking in the direction of the brunette. To his dismay she appeared to have left. He shook his head. People could be so unreliable. She should have stayed so that he could further impress her. "Not worth my time." He said to himself. He wiped his chest off, and draped the towel around his shoulders before he left the weight room behind, deciding it was time to move to one of the weapon training areas. The Hand to Hand area was the closest, and he moved towards it, watching a sparring match between a boy and a girl. The girl won after delivering a crushing kick to the side of the boy's head. Razor contemplated engaging her in a fight, but decided against it, as he had spent most of the previous week in this particular room. He felt it was time to spend more time on metal weapons.

Walking at a brisk pace, Razor made his way past the sword station, ranged station, and blunt station. He had spent what he considered to be ample time in all of these stations in the past few months. He paused every now and then to criticize someones technique or form, or to just be a general downer.
Just as he was about to leave, he recalled that he hadn't gone to the throwing stations. He debated it for a minute, as the exit was now closer than the station in question. His ears pricked up at the sound of trumpets, and he turned to look at a nearby screen. They were announcing the winner of the 57th Hunger games. It was a Girl from District 12. A legless Girl. Razor's features scrunched with anger and he struck the wall nearest him. Someone like that winning the Hunger Games was an embarrassment to his whole district. "That settles it." He seethed. "A higher caliber of tribute is needed; I have to train more." He stalked angrily to the Spear station, wroth with what he had witnessed.

There were a few people there, and Razor's attention focused on a short blonde boy with green eyes. He watched as the teen threw the spear at the practice dummy, and missed. Razor snickered. "Hey Kid. Those bracelets are weighing down your arm." He grabbed a spear from the racks. "This is how you do it." He said as he threw the projectile a the dummy. Razor's spear hit the still form in the leg, in just about the area that would be a knee. "You see that?" He quipped. "If that were a person, they would have lost a leg. Just like the current victor." [/color]