treatises on falling down. [pete/oz]

[doodle :)]

oz

We gotta get away and disappear
We're running out of time
The sun is low we'll go and break away
Fade into the light.

First: he tilting, spiraling, quaking of the body -- how it freezes the brain, and the muscles, as each braces itself for the impact. The drop. How the body is no longer a body but a cumbersome mass, like a boulder, how it no longer feels like you but instead something colliding into you, for that brief second that you're in suspension. Then the blow. How it never feels like you hit it, but it hits you. Smacking right into you, how your mind, frozen with one shock, is shattered by another. For a moment, you're a broken thing, only half-aware as your mind tosses between numbness and an aching pain. Then not a broken thing, but a limp, heavy thing, much like a dish-rag sopping wet, trying to haul yourself back to your feet. Then a fixed thing, standing upright, aware now that you had fallen, that a part of your body hurt because you fell, so not totally whole, but as the pain ebbs (if it ebbs), you begin again. Assuming you do.

Oz had grown very used to falling. He had the sequence of events perfectly memorized. It didn't surprise him when the shock came; when the pain came; only that it always seemed to get harder, not easier, as he tried to peel himself off the floor. He stopped midway. Knees tucked to his chest, beneath his chin, fetal position, looking like a turtle to the tributes that passed by the self-defense station.

The training dummy loomed over him. Its pinkish holographic face flickered, as a little green light on its chest flared. The ball-joints of its robotic abdomen whirred as it straightened up stiffly, its arms dropping and swaying listlessly at its sides. Tribute down -- awaiting further instructions.

A voice like god boomed over the station's intercom, dry, bitter: "Get up." Not far, a flabby and balding man smoking a cigar glowered behind a wall of tinted glass. His thick, tobacco-smudged finger fell away from the intercom's switch. "Come on, kid. You know the moves, you're just refusing to watch the damn robot. It's not that hard. Get. Up."

Oz's hands convulsed into fists. Joint by joint, he righted himself. He aimed his eyes at the dummy, taking it in, his eyes dark, hollow with an anger that he'd never known before. It lay quietly in him. Somehow it seemed patient, because it was so still, so calm. Oz wasn't used to anger. It wasn't his way. Sometimes it seemed as though he forgot what it felt like. Yet the anger in him was familiar. He thought it was determination. Maybe, this time, I'll be something.

"Position!" the intercom barked.

He spread his feet apart, raised his fists.

The green light on the dummy's chest flared crimson; the face flickered. Oz watched the hands, the ball-joints as they whirred and positioned it into a fighting stance. The first fist -- a blur of white, yet he saw it, the distance, it was coming for his face, he knew right away. All he had to do was tilt back -- more like jerk -- swing his head out the way. He felt a slight breeze push into his face as the dummy punched air.

He didn't see the other fist.

A collision in the lower back. Pain halved him; it seemed to split apart the vertebrae in a sudden explosion. He didn't even notice he had fallen until his nostrils flattened against the floor and his mouth was gaping open and his lungs were shuddering for air.

The dummy straightened. Its light flashed green.

"UP."

Oz stretched his fingers across the floor.

"Get. UP."

He rolled his face onto his cheek so he could breathe. He saw the climbing bards, a few yards away. Always fell as he tried to climb them, again and again. People watched, but they wouldn't say anything. They could see the bruises on his face and arms from where he kept falling; the band-aid across the bridge of his nose. The sunken cheeks and eyes from his inability to eat and sleep. It already looked like he was in the arena.

The wall of glass. The tributes that passed him by. He didn't have to see their eyes. He knew. You look like a crushed bug.

Back in his bedroom, there was a drawing of one of his old characters. A rabbit. Crushed and dismembered in a shallow character, blood flowing freely from its facial orifices. He had drawn it without thinking, with the hopes it would make him laugh. Yet it hadn't.

He saw the eyes of the people that passed him by. And he imploded.

The anger in him lashed out and seized him and crushed him. It became him. He was no longer a broken thing on the floor, he was movement itself, he was a scream that burned his throat, he was a projectile slamming itself into the chest of this horrible, evil thing that hurt him and hurt him and hurt him. It laughed, and so Oz laughed with it, as the robot creaked backward and fell, rigidly, clattering, totally unaware. Laughed at the man barking over the intercom: "The fuck you think you're doing?! Don't you DARE touch that shit, it costs more than your fucking house, Niner! Get the hell out of my station, you little psycho!"

He laughed and pointed his middle finger at the air, laughing happily, freely.

elegant

[Deleted]

I had been keeping an eye on the kid.

The guilt was starting to bubble up and boil over. If I wanted to live, a child would have to die. He looked no bigger than Gabriel. Whenever he fell off the wall or got knocked down by a robot, I saw Gabriel. Gabriel hugging me in the Justice Building. Gabriel barely being able to speak, using his limited words to tell me that he didn’t want me to go. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

The kid looked rough, I couldn’t really blame him.

I was having trouble sleeping too, and sometimes eating just didn’t feel worth the effort. But I reminded myself I needed to be in good shape. I needed to live. I promised Sabrina I’d be there for her and for Luca - I wasn’t going to break that promise. But that didn’t mean I had to sit there and watch this kid suffer. If I did die, I wanted Luca to have a dad he could be proud of. Not a monster.

I was a bit behind schedule today. Normally I spent the mornings discussing strategy with Teddy - and sometimes Flynn - ate breakfast, then trained for the rest of the afternoon. But I decided today that I wanted to help Oswald. I went to the Dining Hall and got some sandwiches, fruit, and drinks. I knew some people didn’t like eating with a lot of people around and thought maybe if we found somewhere one on one to talk I could get him to eat, talk about why he couldn’t sleep.

All of that was in a bag I left with a trainer near the door. It took me a moment to spot him among all of the chaos of the Training Center, but eventually I did and I headed on over, “Hey Oswald, right? I’m Peter, I was wondering if you wanted to go for a little walk and talk some, kiddo.” I held out my hand for him to shake and offered a genuine smile. I wondered if he had any older siblings. Either way, maybe if I stepped into that role it would comfort him a bit.

Flynn probably would think I was wasting my time. He thinks I need to focus less on other people and more on myself and my own survival. Even Teddy says I need to worry more about surviving. That part kind of surprises me, because it’s not the Teddy Ursa I know. Even the Teddy I saw on TV before I met him wasn’t like that. Though I could kind of understand where they were coming from. I needed to live.

And I was going to live.

But I would live on my own terms. I was still going to be a kind person. I was still going to help others and have compassion. I refused to lose my empathy in exchange for my life. Because really it didn’t matter if I lived if I wasn’t even the same person anymore. I wanted to live for my family and my son. But if I no longer had room for love in my heart for strangers, for my siblings, for my parents, and for Luca, why did it matter? I was going to go home the same person I left home as - whether that be in a body bag or with a crown.

[ 562 words ]

[ table by kait]

[doodle :)]

oz

We gotta get away and disappear
We're running out of time
The sun is low we'll go and break away
Fade into the light.

"You're the kind of person who gives up."

Bitch, PLEASE!

There was no better emotional high than totally wrecking something. To be more powerful than something else. Sure, the robot had turned itself off, but it was still heavy and firm enough to make his shoulder sore, to have to use his strength to really bowel it over properly. And that strain of muscle, that soreness made him feel alive. Because it proved that he was strong enough -- maybe the proper term was "good enough (at something)," but that's all semantics, what's the difference between goodness and strength anyway, his Ethics class had taught him it was all the same, only the strong had any good left in them, that was why all Capitolites are morally and intellectually superior to district residents. So, maybe if he was strong, maybe he could be good -- better than the robot, at any rate. God, to be good! For the first time in the past few days, energy and hope sparked alive in him, and the feeling of both reminded him of when he wanted to graffiti the reaping stage -- God, the power that had coursed through him then had been phenomenal! If only his friends weren't such cucks sometimes, he could've absolutely torn that place apart! It would have been unrecognizable, totally covered in his own cartoons, his own mark, he would have been like a savage beast marking its territory. This is ALL MINE NOW, BITCHES!

To think...he could've done that to his own reaping stage...

...He should've done it. Shouldn't have let his friends stop him. Shouldn't have quit before he'd even begun.

But you can't change the past. Only let it haunt you.

But look at all those tributes diddling away at all those stupid little stations! He hoped they had all seen him take it down. He hoped they could all see him swaggering around the Center now, not really going in any certain direction, but rather parading around covertly, only the huge grin on his face drawing attention to him. Then they'd all think to themselves, Wow! Look at that kid! He's really going places! I was wrong about him the first time, look how confident he is! He's gonna make it!

And then, to his dismay, he got what he wanted: attention.

"Oswald, right?"

He jerked to a halt, his smile twisting into a pained grimace. A male's voice. If the Training Center was anything like District Nine's middle school -- which, culturally, it was an exact replica -- then a boy talking to another boy after the other boy achieved something was not good. Meant a fight, usually verbally, sometimes physically. No one was allowed to excel in anything in school -- the teachers encouraged this. One of the reasons why Oz never really applied himself in gym class -- kept his head down, pretended to be sick as often as he could. Whatever got him out of being the bullies' little plaything during dodge-ball. Or even worse, maybe he'd find out he was actually good at something, and someone would want to show him up. Of course, this only applied to boys, most of the time. Maybe if Peter was a woman, Oz wouldn't have turned around so slowly, shoulders tight, eyes narrowing suspiciously. In Oz's head, "woman" still equaled "mom," so long as the woman was older than him and a stranger.

He sized up Peter. Definitely bigger than him, but what else was new. Everybody in this fucking place were giants compared to him, even Nowles. But if Oz could push over that heavy-ass robot, then maybe he could push over this bitch too.

Peter put his hand out -- too slowly to grab at Oz. Yet Oz eyed Peter's hand warily all the same. "I'm Peter, I was wondering you wanted to go for a little walk and talk some, kiddo."

"Kiddo?" Oz blurted, eyes going wide -- total mood-shift; he'd expected a threat, not fucking kiddo. He started to wonder if this guy was a threat or just a weird-ass. "What are you, my guidance counselor?"

elegant

[Deleted]

Maybe that was a bit much.

Kind of like when I first met Teddy and he almost immediately went into lecturing me like I was his kid or something. And here I was, trying to do the same thing to Oz. Maybe Ivan was right, maybe I deserved the nickname Little Teddy. But hey that wasn't a bad thing, I just needed to change my approach here a little. I was starting to think this kid was less if a Gabriel and more of a Willa. Which wasn't bad either, after all I was still close with Willa. I just had to handle her a little different like when she dyed her hair blue and mom about had an aneurysm.

I put my hand away when he didn't take it and looked down at him, "I'm sorry if that bothered you, let me level with you. I have two younger siblings around your age, alright? And I just wanted to talk to you, see how you're doing. But in here? The walls have eyes and ears. So if you want to walk with me and talk with me that might be a good idea. Besides, having someone a little bigger on your side never hurts and I have some tips that might help you out in the Arena."

A lot of the time Willa didn't want to just talk about her feelings. That stuff was lame for a fourteen year old. And it was scary having to be vulnerable a lot of the time, even if it meant you could get help. Instead I had to ask her if she wanted to chill and play video games or watch a movie when I had a feeling she needed someone to talk to. She wanted to feel like she was getting something out of the exchange.

Here I was going to make Oswald feel like he was getting something out of it rather than just talking about how he was feeling. He was getting survival tips, he was getting on the good side of someone a bit bigger than him. Which wasn't saying much, kid was tiny. I don't think he's hit his growth spurt yet and that can make a big difference. It made a huge one for me. When I was younger I was about his size. And then boom, I sprouted like a fucking tree.

"I'm not gonna force you to come talk to me kid, but if you want some tips that may just save your life I'm headed towards the door now. It's up to you whether or not you're coming. "

I was going to give him the choice. After all I wasn't some weirdo trying to lure in a kid with candy. And some people you just can't help. Like the time I met that guy Dillwyn during lunch. I wanted to help him, but he was beyond help. He refused help and trying to force help upon him would only make things worse. I hope he's okay back in Six though, and maybe one day he gets the help he needs.

I just hoped Oswald wasn't beyond the point of no return yet, he's just so young. I understood why he might not have picked someone else, but maybe he should have. Even with Luca on the way I'm not sure if I would have been able to bring myself to sentence someone else to death. Which is ironic, now I have to kill or at least outlive 23 people to ever see Luca. 23 lives for the price of 1.

[ 591 words ]

[ table by kait]

[doodle :)]

oz

Hello
My name is Mr. Fear
I wish I had a faster therapy
I've come
To mind control your needs
Tonight I'm gonna star in all your leads

Siblings, huh. Oz couldn't relate. Only child, never wanted any siblings -- well, sometimes he thought that Snuff and Mya were the brother and sister he never had. Their openness with each other, how instinctive it was to want to see them and enjoy being with them. How the things they did for each other sometimes went beyond mere friendship. Like their Quell pact. Or how Oz broke it. You don't do things like that for just anyone.

It was kind of a weird feeling, being compared to some guy's two siblings like that. An awkward feeling Oz couldn't describe: soft, he supposed, in a way that should be comfortable but just wasn't. But what really bothered Oz was how sound this guy's logic was. He hated it when grown-ups used reason in an argument; Oz never knew how to respond, except to admit that they were right. And this guy, Peter -- the calm, rational way he spoke -- Oz cringed, but not at Peter, at himself, as that childlike shameful sense of wrongness began to creep into him. Because this guy didn't talk like a caricature anymore. He spoke like someone who was capable of rational thought. Sometimes kids Oz's age forget that they're not the only ones who can think, so it comes as a shock when they find that someone -- especially someone in authority -- can actually make rational decisions too.

But Peter was still more than just some guy with a little brother, or even some guy who just wanted to help. He was a tribute, too. (And a male, but that was becoming more and more beside the point as Oz continued considering it.) In every Games, there was at least one psycho. Honestly, it was frightening how frequently cold-blooded liars and natural serial killers were reaped. Came with the pressure of growing up in a system that actively wanted to kill you, he guessed. Some kids just let that reality break them. Really, in Panem, what was even the point in appreciating human life, except for some primordial instinct that it was wrong not to? So why should Peter.  

But -- dammit! -- Peter made too much sense! If only he didn't make sense, then Oz could just shoot him some birds and go along his merry way, but nooooooooo...

Peter tried to give him a choice, but really, only a fool wouldn't take him up on the offer. Assuming it was on the up-and-up.

"Alright, fine," he grumbled, edging alongside Peter. "But you better be on the level. Cause, um---" Oz wasn't gullible. He knew he had to try to arrange some sort of "insurance policy," no matter how many sibling-related sob stories this guy could whip out his pants. "There are gangs in Nine, yah know, um...They'll, like...break your brother's kneecap if you mess with me."

He thought that kneecap detail made it sound more authentic.

elegant