creativity wins // mirage & itzal

[Python]

﹙   m i r a g e   v i g i l  ﹚

It had taken a few hours, but Mirage finally emerged from her wine drunken stupor. It was only after she heard the fifteenth bang on her door and the grating voice of her escort that she blinked herself back into reality. She had been playing with the wall screens for hours in her bedroom, changing the scenery to fit her mutating moods. She stared at a nest of birds sitting somewhere in the outskirts of a District she didn't recognize, and wondered why there were cameras there in the first place. And why did she have access to them?

She flipped off her escort as she walked out the door. The "all work, no play" business was getting old. She had already watched all of the Reaping footage to learn about her opponents - now was the time to enjoy herself before digging her claws into the competition. The Capitol had so many rich wines to try!

Her desires led her toward the Dining Hall, but she stumbled upon a treat on the way. There was some sort of graffiti drawn across the wall, and in front of it stood one of her fellow volunteers, Itzal. If she remembered correctly, he was from District Five, and their reaping had been relatively average. She stopped in front of the artwork and happily interrupted. "What is this masterpiece called?"

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

i t z a l

Amén, 'tamo' bendecida'
En el nombre del party, de to'a la' gata' mía'
Estamo' gastando plata, no' dieron la membresía
Hicimo' tanto ruido que llegó la policía

I spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to work the bidet.

It’s not so much what set me off, but sort of the last thing – it was more the accumulation of all the bullshit that became abundantly clear when we got to the capitol.

I think we’re supposed to be all wide-eyed about how fantastical it all is. The high rise buildings neon lights, chrome everything, screens with definition that rivaled reality, and all the clowns that walked up and down the street dressed like caricatures of caricatures (dyed and teased, shoulder pads, diamonds, the works).

My little section of district five was a collection of crumbling concrete buildings and rusted out oil tanks. Nights were lit not by dazzling screens or blinking neon, but instead the flash of red flame that peaked out the smokestacks of refineries that sprang up throughout the district.

We used to live in a double townhouse when my father was still alive. Red brick and squat it seemed more like a dream now. I could still picture the fireplace my father would light with coal in the winter. In exchange for the hours and days away, working at the refinery paid better than any of the other jobs in the district.

When he had gone missing, the peacekeepers had come to take us out of the townhouse by decree. The refinery paid the mortgage, and without my father, we had no right to live there. My mother was a meter reader and technician for one of the power conglomerates. Her salary wouldn’t have covered half, let alone kept up alive here.

It’s something to get pulled out of your own home and then see this – the apartment done up with everything we could ever wish for, things we wouldn’t imagine after what we’d lost.

Happy? I should be happy that I get a taste of it?

I would find another way to calm my nerves.

There’s something to fury spurring the creative process. I’d stolen paints from the camouflage station for ‘practice’ and sat my ass in the hallway during the early hours of the morning to scrawl a message. The base had been creating using spraypainted outlines. I’d covered the empty gray wall with my masterpiece: black outlines in white, a peacekeeper on their knees fellating a faceless man in tribute sweats.

‘What is this masterpiece called?’

I dabbed another splotch of white on the peacekeeper’s helmet and turned to face the girl from nine.

Her reaping had been curious. Another volunteer, someone that had been self-assured enough to stand on stage and stare down their victor. Seeing her for the first time, Mirage was sharp corners and serious.

“How about, Where They Belong?” I offered. I finished my work signing with an IU. “I figure the PKs are familiar with the position – they suck off the capitol all the time, don’t they?”

It would be gone by the afternoon, of course, as though it had never existed at all.

“You know if you like, I could paint you, nine,” I gave a grin as I chipped the white and black from my fingernails. “Much better than wasting time with the rest of them in the mess hall.”

ELEGANT

[Python]

﹙   m i r a g e   v i g i l  ﹚

Mirage couldn't help but grin now that she had a full view of the painting. A Peacekeeper sucking off the Capitol was the perfect image to represent their status in the world, and the greatest way to get an ass-beating if anyone found out Itzal painted it. So far, she liked his guts. His quick response was surpising as well. Self-proclaimed 'artists' always had special names for their pieces, and most of it was garbage. The graffiti in Nine was an eyesore at best. This was much more fun to observe, and the name suited it.

"You can say that again. They're like cockroaches in my district." She folded her arms and frowned pointedly. "The Capitol decided to build more Peacekeeper Academies. It's part of the reason why I'm here." A real job wouldnt cut it. That was the 'simple' solution others would recommend to her, but she would rather be dead than worry about whether her next meal is coming or not. That was no way to live. It's not living at all. It's pathetic.

Her escort's words replayed in her head. "You need allies." Rubbish, she didn't need anyone, but she couldn't help but acknowledge that it was a good idea. Most people didn't win on their own. Tributes used each other to get to the top. Mirage had no issues with that, she didn't care about making friends, and people were disposable. Finding the right people, however, was the problem. Not many were worthy of her time.

But if she did consider anyone....it would be a fellow volunteer. Someone who wanted to be here.

"Oh, I would love to be painted," she cooed, "As long as you make it tasteful and elegant." She would not be mocked unless she deserved it, and she didn't dream of doing anything to embarrass herself on television

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

i t z a l

Amén, 'tamo' bendecida'
En el nombre del party, de to'a la' gata' mía'
Estamo' gastando plata, no' dieron la membresía
Hicimo' tanto ruido que llegó la policía

It wasn’t so much what she’d said, but how she said it. No hesitation, not even a little, before tossing the police state to the trash. Not that I expected to find a bootlicker in our bunch, but you know there’s kids too afraid to say what they really feel. People who play on what’s the right line to toe, rather than willing to take a risk.

When she spoke, I knelt to gather my paints. I cocked my head back with a grin. Now here was an interesting development. Was she trying to razz me for what I’d said or was she serious? But then did it even matter? If she was going to learn one thing about me it was that I took deals seriously – so long as they were in my favor.

“Well now, what kind of girl should I take you for?” I put my chin in my hand and raised my eyebrows. “I can offer you another portrait, maybe tomorrow before breakfast. Maybe on the doors so that everyone’s gotta see your face when they’re waking up.”

I traced my hands down to my knees and pushed up to stand. “Or we could get acquainted, and I could find a private studio for you, nine. I promise anything I do would be tasteful.”

I leaned back against the wall with my elbow and flashed a smile that had worked at least thirty-three percent of the three times I’d tried it.

“You could tell me all about why you decided to put yourself in here. In trouble with Johnny Law?” Here I was, half regretting my volunteership and I might’ve been facing someone that made the best out of a shitty situation. Wasn’t life the worst? “Not like we have more interesting things to do anyway.”

ELEGANT

[Python]

﹙   m i r a g e   v i g i l  ﹚

She had walked into the 'private studio' suggestion. Now it was a matter of if she felt like it, and if he was worthy enough.

"No, but I would be if I stayed. More Peacekeepers means more girls like me getting busted, and I'd rather be here than in jail." This place granted her a choice. She could choose to be here, she could choose who to kill and where to run, but the Detention Center would stifle any sense of control freedom she had. She wasn't suited for a place like that. She wouldn't allow herself to lay beneath the boot of a cockroach. That was against the laws of nature - the ones she designed, where Peacekeepers were at the bottom of the food chain for being such ass-kissing losers.

She stepped forward, close enough for eye contact but far enough to avoid any temptations. "Tell you what. You can paint my portrait on the doors, and if I like them, we can get acquainted in the private studio later. You can tell me all about why you volunteered."

It was only fair to have someone earn their way into her private life. She had a thousand masks to put on, and she didn't plan on showing her true colors unless the situation demanded it. "Off-putting" was one word used to describe her. It scared customers away, so she learned to deceive her way into people's hearts and empty the sympathy in her eyes the moment they turned their backs. As if a dealer ever cared anyway. The ones who did were idiots.

"How does that sound?"

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

i t z a l

Amén, 'tamo' bendecida'
En el nombre del party, de to'a la' gata' mía'
Estamo' gastando plata, no' dieron la membresía
Hicimo' tanto ruido que llegó la policía

“Okay then. Sounds nice.”

I never took it so much as breaking the law to markup free space with graffiti. Granted, our district was concrete and crumbling brick, so it felt like doing the world a favor to cover it in splotches of neon or hues of black. We could find a little bit of rebellion in it, carving out our names. Drawing up a story. Making a memory indelible.

She didn’t have that, or she held onto something that threatened to drown her, had she stayed in nine.

I wanted to ask her what that could’ve been, but it feels stupid. People did all sort of shit in desperate situations. Took money from the wrong person or talked back to someone who had our number. Or we searched too hard for something we already knew the answer to. She made her choice just as much as I’d made mine; maybe neither of us knew any better. But we’d got what we were looking for here.

I started with her nose and picked a purple to start with the shadows of her face. I started on the door and kept quiet, turning now and again to make sure I wasn’t losing her proportions.

“So, you were running from something that would’ve killed you.” It came out less an accusation and more matter of fact. No use beating around the bush here. “I can respect that. Not the same as me, but it’s a better reason than half the people who did volunteer.”

Kids who were proud or thought they were in love came to mind. Stupid shit. Not Mirage, though, if what she alluded to had an ounce of truth.

“I’m not gonna lie to you chief,” I focused on the coils of hair atop her head, “I regretted it as soon as I said I’d volunteer. But I’m here now, so I’m making the best of it.”

I gave a shrug.

“My dad disappeared, and I thought I could get answers to it. And maybe if I didn’t, he’d see what I’d done and it could bring him back.”

ELEGANT