~*Stay A Child While You Can Be A Child*~ <Done!>

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Actions: 87F717
Speech: F52887
Thoughts: 43BFC7
Others' Speech: FDD017

[/size]

Her fingers drummed staccato rhythms against the keyboard of her custom-made laptop, the sun reflecting light off of her white-blond hair as the slight breeze flowing through the square tossed it every which way. Lyla usually didn't work outside, but this was a minor hack, just messing up a few systems that would make sure some Capitolite political advisors got some very cold showers in the morning. It had been so long since the caramel-eyed prodigy had seen the sun that today's unexpected warmth coupled with the scent of Spring on the wind had driven her from her stuffy house, toting one of her less advanced hacking devices along with her.

Lyla Matheson, as usual, was a bright splash of color against the sea of gray that was District Three. The blonde genius was currently sitting at a small table on the sidewalk next to an old café, sipping a latte delicately from its foam container and basking in the sun as she passively watched the long stretches of binary stretching across the screen, her narrow white fingers occasionally jumping over the keys to adjust something within the program. The eighteen-year-old would have gone completely unnoticed by passerby if she hadn't been sitting there in an obnoxiously loud assortment of neon colors, lime green tutu stretched over electric-blue tights, feet adorned with shocking pink high-tops, yellow of her v-necked tee shirt almost painful to look at. Lyla's whitish hair was held away from her forehead by a hot pink headband, her lipstick matching the color precisely, caramel eyes outlined with turquoise glitter, the lashes thickened with blue-tinted mascara. A clunky pair of plastic green aviators with the lenses popped out adorned her oval-shaped face, large earrings of the same color brightly contrasted against her waist-length blonde hair. Needless to say, the young computer whiz drew her share of stares from the earth-tone-wearing people milling about the square. Noticing this, Lyla smiled serenely at a passing elderly lady that was giving her a filthy look, taking another tiny sip of her latte. Drawn momentarily away from the hack, she took a minute to people-watch. The only other thing noticeable in the square was some kid a few yards away, turning pirouettes and singing loudly. Nothing close to her eye-wrenching getup. Lyla was definitely the center of attention, and this fact made her grin even wider. What could she say, she got almost as much of a high from standing out in a crowd as she did from making life inconvenient for Capitol residents by screwing with their technology.

Chuckling darkly, Lyla turned her attention back to the task at hand. She knew what everyone thought about "that Matheson girl," the blonde airhead whose highest ambition was probably to get a job designing fashion software or some other job for simple, vapid girls like her. "Honestly, that Matheson girl's a disappointment," they all said, clucking and shaking their heads. "Turned into a simpleminded little fluffball after she lost her brother. You'd think she'd have retained more intellect, coming from two high-IQ parents like that." If only they knew. At an Intelligence Quotient score of 193, Lyla's intelligence far outstripped that of both her parents. But for the sake of keeping her hacking a secret, Lyla drastically downplayed her genius status, acting like simple multiplication made her brain hurt. After all, who would suspect the little neon-colored bimbo who bounced around the District like life was a game to go home at night and type her way into the Capitol's power system, cutting off all lights and heat in the City Circle for two weeks. No one, that's who. And Lyla preferred to keep it that way.

Smiling grimly, she completed the final keystrokes of the hack, the screen of her laptop reverting back to a fun brightly colored background and little icons used to open applications. Satisfied, the girl gently closed the lid of the machine, slipping it carefully into her bright pink canvas satchel as she took one last delicate sip of her latte. A quick glance at the large yellow plastic watch adorning her wrist told her that she'd have to be home for dinner in a few hours, Lyla stood up, planning on maybe walking aimlessly around one of the District's few clothing shops for a while. Nothing like giving the people what they want to see, the daughter of the district's two most talented programmers traipsing aimlessly about the streets, giggling as she blew her parents' hard-earned commission money on neon leggings and lace gloves.

She turned around quickly, ready to start briskly up the sidewalk when the sudden impact knocked her off her feet. Lyla fell hard on her backside, simultaneously thankful that she hadn't landed on the bag containing her computer and that the smooth cobblestone of the walkway wouldn't snag her tights. The white-haired genius quickly pulled herself up and dusted off her rear end, slipping into airhead-speak to deliver her apology to whoever she'd hit.

"Ohmygawd, I am sooooo sorry. I totally wasn't looking where I was going, and I, like, ran right into you! Are you, like, okay and everything? You didn't break anything, right?" Despite the fact that she had knocked someone over, Lyla laughed inwardly at her flawless portrayal. Lying to everyone was just too fun sometimes.

[/blockquote][/color]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: If I stay in one place I lose my mind, I'm a pretty impossible lady to be with. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

"Sometimes I go out by myself, and I look across the water..." My voice rebounds loudly across the dull, muted pathways of my home district, accompanied only by the scraping of my feet upon the cobbled path as they flourish an intricate language, swooping cursive against the rough ground. I'm barefoot and the rough hurts my soles, but I feel oddly thrilled doing something that I perhaps shouldn't even be thinking of. Another pirouette is accomplished with flawless grace; I grin a pleased smile to myself even as the next sharp turn bites angrily at the smooth skin that runs underneath my toes. The sun beats down even in the middle of winter - at times, I wonder what snow looks like - and sets my platinum blond locks aflame in a vibrant whirl of color against the constant, drab citizens that hurry about. Nobody recognizes me in this bustling square; they are tenebrific in their own right, casting shadows upon all aspects of life but their own.
But really, it doesn't bother me. I enjoy being unknown.

"And I think of all the things, what you're doing, and in my head I paint a picture!" Even though I'm without the music and slightly out of breath, my body still moves with a mind of its own to the imaginary beat that is tapped out as an off-key melody within my mind. From this position my hair manages to become skewed in my face, golden tendrils obscuring my vision and creating a hazy curtain. I huff and draw elegant fingers to rake back the unruly strands, humming quietly and weaving past the few who give me curious and slightly disgruntled glances when they think I'm not looking. Everybody in this District is so tense and neutral - the constant furrow of their heavy eyebrows remain stationary despite the rays that beat down happily against our insipid buildings, willing life into people that have long lost their luster. 'Cause since I've come on home; well, my body's been a mess," It's not my style. "and I've missed your ginger hair; and the way you like to dress..."

A friend of mine once remarked that I undergo a complete shift when dancing. I just can't help it - when I'm stationary, it's like my muscles are paralyzed and everything is so intimidating. I'm tiny after all (5"2, thankyouverymuch), and with the identical houses and unchanging times it grows easy to become placid and lost within this labyrinth. Vaguely I wonder which would be worse; a constant, unmoving mass, or the blatant superficiality of the Capitol. Full of stickybright dreams and confounding people, so dressed up in makeup to hide the humans inside. If they look in a mirror, do they even recognize themselves?

I tug the dress that clings to my slender form as I take a temporary reprieve from the complicated jumps and spins, relishing in the way the fabric floats off my form. If my father was to come upon me now, all brightbright eyes, shoulderblade hair and a summer dress that floats around my taut legs I'd be beat into submission - but this is the worker zone. He wouldn't be caught dead amongst the putrid scent of normality. Spandex shorts cling tight to the curves of my hips, ensuring that nothing scandalous would be on the verge of becoming reality. There's only a certain amount of confidence infused into my dancing, and it doesn't include spreading my secret around the District.

"Won't you come on over, stop makin' a fool out of me," Every muscle in my body flexes in delight as my fingers shivershudderstill, toes curling for a fraction of a second before I spring high into the air. My aerial is perfect, legs straight and feet pointed towards the soaring sky, while the ground momentarily flips by under my gaze. I grin at the familiar feeling of weightlessness, propelling me forward into the next lyric.
It's too bad that the faster you fly, the harder you fall.
"Vaaaaler--" The moment my feet touch earth I'm propelled backwards by an unknown force, skidding with such momentum that I roll backwards on myself before coming to an ungraceful stop. For a moment I blink in confusion, before slowly levering my head to see an almost obtrusively bright girl rambling on with her apologies. It takes another second for coherent thought to come back to me, rubbing away embarrassingly hot tears when my knees and shoulders sting angrily at the sudden impact.

"Ohmygawd, I am sooooo sorry. I totally wasn't looking where I was going, and I, like, ran right into you! Are you, like, okay and everything? You didn't break anything, right?" I attempt to smile and smear off the dirt from my arms, wincing when it comes away tinged red. "N-no. I think I'm okay." After the initial shock wears off and my regular, socially awkward demeanor comes back into play and I instead roam over her features, ignoring the compulsory urge to blink.

If I had to sum her up in one word, it would be... well. Loud. Very, very loud.

Readjusting my dress and shifting nervously on the spot, I offer a shy grin. "Are you, um, are you okay? I didn't rip your tights, did I?" As soon as the words leave my lips I blush furiously and avoid eye contact. Julian, what in the world are you doing? There's no way you can talk to her without making a fool of yourself, she's so pretty! But maybe... I don't know. I'm tired and hot and hurt now, all thoughts of dancing away has left under the glare of the splendid sun. Even though she's abrasive and bold and so unlike me, I find myself intrigued. Do I know her? Perhaps. She seems familiar. Mama hasn't been around recently with current events, and Papa purposely keeps me away for fear of making a fool out of myself.

"I like your hair. It's gorgeous. How does it get so shiny?"

[OOC: Oh my Ripred he wouldn't hush. Be pleased, it's two in the morning right now. What should they do from here? I'm all for her taking him under her wing, but what should that entail? And when does she figure out he's a guy? Oooh, that would be awkward.
"You're a guy? Have you ever kissed a girl?"
"N-no."
"What about another boy?"
"LYLA!" xD ]

[/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

"Nah, my tights and everything are totally fine, I didn't fall that hard, are you - "

[/b]

Guilt ate white-hot at Lyla's consciousness as she looked down at who she'd run into. The little girl looked to be about eleven, maybe twelve, and she was obviously scraped up a bit, the skirt of her pretty sundress splayed haphazardly around her skinned knees. She had tousled blonde hair that wasn't quite as white as Lyla's own, oceanic blue eyes that were brimming with tears, and a lean, muscular body that might have suggested that she was a dancer or perhaps a gymnast. Biting back a gasp of recognition, Lyla noticed that this had been the child she'd seen dancing with such abandon a few minutes ago. The teen prodigy bit one of her carnation-colored lips in worry, kneeling down next to the injured girl.

"I like your hair. It's gorgeous. How does it get so shiny?"[/i][/color]

The blonde laughed, her gold eyes crinkling with mirth as she ran her fingers through the wind-tossed strands. "Frequent deep conditioning and good genes, I guess," she said before opening up her bag and digging around through its contents, eventually coming up with a small tin box full of band-aids that were as neon-bright as her clothing. Smiling at the skinned-up child, Lyla shook a few of the sterile bandages out into her open palm, cracking open the paper envelope of the first one. Bright, intense lime green. Her favorite. She remembered just in time to put the extra breath into her voice before she spoke, ensuring that she would sound like a ditzy, vapid schoolgirl. "Here. I'm glad I have these, I sort of fall down a lot. But now you can use them!"

She pressed the first bandage against the little girl's injured knee, trying to smile at her in a way that she hoped was comforting. "These are, like, really good band-aids. The kind from District Six that already have medicine in them and stuff. They should even make the scrapes stop hurting here in a little bit."

The white-haired teen continued to open more bandages, placing them on the various visible injured patches on the younger girl's skin, knees, forearms, the heels of her delicate, pale hands. Upon closer inspection, the kid was positively angelic, Lyla decided, wondering if she had been that cute when she was little. But thinking of herself at that age made her think of Leo, which sent a nasty pain shooting through her chest, so she pressed the thought from her mind and cotinued patching up the little girl's scraped skin. She had originally bought the band-aids to use for herself if she ever sustained an injury such as a solder burn while altering one of her computers, but Lyla figured she could always buy more, whereas this child's financial situation was unknown to her. Most of the brightly-colored bandages were now gone, the vivid pinks, yellows, blues, greens, and oranges decorating the little girl's lilly-white skin, but Lyla stuck the remaining two or three back into their tin container, which she then secured in her canvas shoulder bag.

The caramel-eyed teenager pulled herself back to her feet, offering her hand with its neon-colored nails to aid the girl on the ground. "I'm really sorry I, like, knocked you over and everything, hun," she said, the remorse in her voice genuine. "I saw you dancing earlier. You're, like, super-good! And you look totally precious in that dress. By the way, I'm Lyla." [/color]

ooc: Hmmm. As for her taking him under her wing, I was thinking that she'd probably show him how to give a big "screw you" to the people that hate on him for being different, since that's basically what she does. Maybe show him how to do some simple hacking to mess with bullies and his douchebag bigoted jerk of a dad.

As for when she finds out about the little gender-issue, that could happen whenever. I have a feeling it'll be priceless. xD[/size][/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: Sometimes I wish I could run far away from here, but life is imperfect, and so am I. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

A hesitant smile and I allow her to take care of my injuries, uncurling slender digits and flinching when the sharp sting presses against raw wounds. It's certainly not the worst I've been through - five hours of constant tumbling leaves your shins as one big bruise - but the embarrassment of being caught near tears with such a pretty girl makes the pain all that more intimidating. I bite my lip when the first band-aid goes on, but can't help smiling back at the comforting grin that she shoots my way.

In a sense, I feel free when I'm here. People don't know who I am; if they knew that the illustrious Rockshaw was tacked onto my innocuous given name, they would do almost anything in my presence; people even bow if they think it necessary. My father owns what must be a quarter of this District's plants and workers, lording over them with a just and gentle hand. They know not of the shame behind closed doors, or the pressure to be something I'm not. And definitely not of the belt that acts as a bringer of redemption when I've wronged.

Please don't, I'll be better this time! Stop, it hurts! Notagainpleasenodon'tdon'tdon't--

"I'm really sorry I, like, knocked you over and everything, hun," Her voice brings me out of my reverie and I shake my head, swallowing the lump and taking her hand. It is bright like everything else on her body, but soft and delicate. It reminds me of mama's skin. I smile. "No, that's okay. I-I probably should've been watching where I was jumping." The porcelain white of my skin is now decorated with what must be half a dozen bandages, delivering splashes of color against my pale countenance. I stretch out the palms of my hands and observe them carefully, rotating them and grinning quietly when the sun catches and makes them glow. Around us life bustles on without a care, but I'm content in our little bubble - it feels friendly and quite unlike the general emotion of our world. Nails come up to scratch awkwardly at the back of my neck and I shuffle against the immaculate brickwork, light heating the ground and making my feet tingle with pleasurable pain. "I saw you dancing earlier. You're, like, super-good!" My face alights with a rapid combustion, staining the snowy skin a deep red. I'm used to getting compliments from Mama or my other dancing friends, not some gorgeous teenager in the street with a happy smile and complex eyes.

"T-thank you?" I stumble out, blushing harder when my voice cracks on the end. I'm a child in this body, masking my age without difficulty. My worn fingers play with the light fabric of my dress, frowning lightly when I find a few tears that weren't there before. "And you look totally precious in that dress. By the way, I'm Lyla." My mind runs on a blank for a moment, staring at her sightlessly. Precious? Wait. She thinks I'm a girl?
I'm not terribly good in science, but it's known that I could technically be both. That reminder is painfully obvious hidden beneath tightight shorts so I cross my arms over my chest self-consciously, willing for a coherent sentence to come forth. Nothing escapes past the heavy knot in my throat; words live and die but never witness the light of day. A part of me realizes that I should correct her - though really, I don't even know if I want to - but a sentence slithers forth anyhow, dispelling the notion. She seems caring and cheerful enough, I don't wish to make the situation anymore awkward that already needed.

"I like the dress too." I smile, glancing down for a second at the vibrant yellow and blue that meld together with jagged stripes of color. It was found in the back of Mama's closet while I was searching for jewelry, and the urge to try it on was just too great. "And I'm Julian." Any urge to add my last name is squashed by the singular, writhing mass of people that flow around us like a human tide. "But please, call me Jules." A sharp sting reminds me of my injuries, and the idea dawns that imported items must cost money. "Oh, here. Let me pay you back!"

But the dress holds no secrets besides the one I desire to keep hidden, and a scowl mars my elegant features. "I forgot my money back at my house." Mama has always taught me to be kind to strangers, especially when they are the first to aid you. So instead I paint a large smile onto my face, peering up into her oddly colored eyes with the iridescent azure of my own. "Let me repay you. What do you want?"

[OOC: He likes to ramble when Lyla's around. It's adorable and irritating all at once.]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Julienne. It was a pretty name, Lyla decided, if somewhat uncommon. The caramel-eyed teen gave her new acquaintance a dazzling smile as she picked up her satchel from the ground. "Nice to meet you, Jules! I mean, it's not really nice that I knocked you over and everything, like, that part wasn't cool, but the actual meeting part is totally great, y'know?"

Lyla's head was starting to throb from the perpetuation of her airhead act, having done it at school for seven hours that day. The blonde prodigy considered dropping her facade for a moment, acting like herself for once. Don't be an idiot. It's too dangerous, you're in public, and you can't just automatically turn intelligent in front of the girl. The cold voice of her logical mind hissed irritably at her, squelching her desire to act like the most important thing in her life was something other than new shoes. She snapped back to reality just as Julienne stumbled into an somewhat awkward, foot-shuffling insistence to pay her back for the medicated bandages. Honestly, the young hacker thought, her heart warmed by the child's simple kindness, something that was not commonplace in the Districts. Do kids get any cuter than this?

Lyla giggled, a bubbling soprano laugh that sounded like water in a stream, gently brushing the young girl's tousled hair back from her face. "Sweetie, don't worry about it. My parents are Creed and Lia Matheson, they're, like, big-name computer-programmer-people. We may not be as rich as the Rockshaws or anything, but I can totally afford all the pretty band-aids I want."

Lyla was lying about the fact that her parents money had paid for the bandages, of course. She had written the program that paid for them along with some nice new computer supplies herself. While most kids her age pushed pencils and stacked computer chips in a stark, sterile factory after school, Lyla Matheson worked on specially commissioned jobs for the Capitol. This was convenient in more than one way for the golden-eyed prodigy. One, creating the programs that the Capitol used to operate and protect its electronic systems made it much easier to hack through them later. Lyla would always leave loopholes in her software, loopholes that she alone knew about. A passcode here, a snippet of binary there, and she could traipse freely along the computerized pathway of the hated city, wreaking untraceable havoc as she went. The second reason was the very nice chunk of supplemental income the commissions brought her, along with the ironic humor that the Capitol was actually paying the white-haired genius to destroy it bit by bit. In fact, Lyla's own earnings had funded everything from her laptop to her bag to her obnoxiously bright neon clothing. She felt that if she possessed the funds to take care of herself, her parents shouldn't have to.

"Actually, I should be the one doing something for you after I knocked you over like that. Do you like ice cream, Jules?" The blonde dug around in her bag for a a lime green wallet, extricating it from the depths of the canvas satchel and checking her cash supply, more than enough to get two large ice creams at the sweet shop and still have enough left over to grab another coffee on the way home. Plus, she had time to kill, and she really wanted to do something to make up for Julienne's unnecessary injury.

Lyla smiled at the girl, eying her brightly colored dress and out-of-the-ordinary hair, bright blonde in a District full of various shades of brown. Julienne, it appeared, was a woman after the neon-wearing hacker's own heart. "I've got hours before I have to head home, and I was looking for something to do, anyway! All of my friends are totally busy tonight, so maybe we could, like, go shopping or something too! Gah, Jules, we could have so much fun!"

Lyla jumped up and down excitedly, clapping her hands in rapid succession like an elated ten-year-old. The bubblehead gig was starting to get really old, but she'd keep it up for Julienne's sake and her own, at least until she could go home and work on her new pet project - hacking into the electronic service systems of the Presidential mansion. Just imagine, screwing with the internal temperature, messing with the water pressure so Snow's toilet would explode when he flushed it... The possibilities were endless, but Lyla saved her work on the hack for late nights, after her parents were asleep and local Peacekeepers would be preoccupied with somewhere other than her decent neighborhood. One could never be too careful with these types of things, and Lyla was rather fond of her tongue, thank you. Jolting out of her thoughts, the blonde turned her gaze back to the angelic little dancer.

"Awwww, c'mon, you know you want to."

[/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: Kindness is rare and should be cherished; such a gift that many seem to lack. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

There is a moment of stuttering hesitation and my smile fades - I view something bitter and entirely out of proportion in her eyes. Like a second entity rearing its head and demanding to be let out into the world, it gleams with such a ferocious certainty that I blink upon instinct. It casts her face in a decidedly more intelligent light, wiping the vapid, bubbly expression entirely from the elegant plains of her countenance. I study the change with more than a hint of curiousity, wondering absently to myself; what are you hiding, Lyla?
But at once the cheery disposition returns in full force, with such conviction that it makes me wonder if I was merely dreaming. Yet, I'm now intrigued by the taller, older girl, and have no thoughts of letting such beginnings of an adventure slip through my brightly decorated fingers.

I nod hesitantly at her request, mind flicking briefly to cones shared on warm summer days with my dancing friends. It doesn't seem entirely right - first she helps me with band-aids and makes me pretty again, then offers me ice-cream? Her gentle hand feels warm and welcoming against my scalp; it's been much too long since I've felt the touch of another save for Mama. My dancing has been put on hold because of a fire in the studio, and it's been a week since I've been lifted. Perhaps I am a friendly and slightly clingy person by nature, but I can't help the bright smile that graces my features at the pleasant tingling her digits leave as they fall back to her side. "Sure!" Lips peel back to expose stickybright teeth, known to glow even in darkness. Hygiene is something that must be kept up without exception; I wrinkle my nose at the boys in my class who don't smell quite right.

It is the fault of the dancer inside me that my hips sway in a much too feminine manner as I float over and latch onto her left arm, nestling the appendage over my chest and grasping it with both of mine. I twine my fingers with hers and smile up, tugging gently to get her to move in the direction of the nearest parlor. "I love ice-cream. Papa says I shouldn't eat it because it would make me fat, but Mama always manages to sneak some in for me." It has never been insulting, or degrading. A simple fact. Julian, I don't know why you like dancing, but I'm allowing it because it keeps you in shape. It would be a disgrace for our only... son, the cringe on that word always makes me want to burst into tears to become fat. That means no junk food. Understood? I would always bob my head like the good little boy and nod, taking this in as one of the many facts of life. Grass is green. Sky is blue. Papa will be angry if you eat icecream, because it makes you fat. And fat is bad.

The sun begins the daily descent towards oblivion and I content myself with the gentle breeze that sweeps carefully through my golden locks, accompanying the quiet tap-tap of our soles. It is high-time to work and the streets are nearly deserted, lending a certain intimacy that makes my heart thrum a pleasant, steady beat. I've always craved an older friend; maybe it's because they have more of the wisdom of adults, but are still young and able to bound back from heartbreak. My right ankle throbs angrily with the constant pressure and relief of our steps, but I steadfastly ignore it to ensure she doesn't feel worse than she already does for knocking me down. "How did you twist your arm?" I ask out of the blue, watching her shyly from thick lashes. I'm merely curious; I can feel the slight bend on the barrel of my nearly-flat chest. She intrigues me - from the abrasive brightness of her clothes to the complex, layered personality, she has my whole being in a state of easy alert.

Her tutu whispers against the fabric clothing my waist and I nudge her with my hip to turn right down a less-used street, the muted tones of each identical store giving way to neon signs and brightly lit, quietly thrumming windowsills. I smile at the budding nightlife, hidden away deep within the heart of the District. Dying rays are still cast upon the glassy reflections but soon it will give way to lively people transformed for the night. They understand that I have no ill-intentions and give me such; I am but a younger face in the sea of people yearning to forget.
There is a large man that disturbs my balance and my foot missteps; I can't help the muffled whimper that slips forth from my closed lips. Perhaps the injury is a bit more severe than I had originally planned for. Still, with luck, it is lost among the building crowd.

[OOC: I apologize for the mild powerplaying. I just figured it was an easier way to get the plot really rolling. >.>]

[/size][/color]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Lyla grinned down at Julienne, squeezing the young girl's hand with the pressure of friendship. Being around the child made the eighteen-year-old almost remember what it was like to have a younger sibling, and the nostalgia squeezed at her heart with a bittersweet ache. Not a day had gone by in five years that Lyla hadn't gone through her life feeling incomplete without Leo by her side. But he was with her, she had to keep reminding herself of that. He was with her in every keystroke, every modified program, every altered code instrumental in bringing down the bastards that had caused his death in the first place: Lyla was hacking the Capitol for her brother, not for herself.

Her caramel orbs squinted in anger as Julienne expounded on her father's stipulations about her weight. What a complete asshole, The young prodigy growled inwardly, her default vapid expression knitting its way into a scowl as she let her new little friend tug her down the street. You don't ever talk to a girl negatively about her weight like that, especially one as young and impressionable as Julienne. People get eating disorders when you pull stuff like that.

"How did you twist your arm?

Julienne's innocent voice smoothed out Lyla's irritated expression, prompting her to smile down at the younger girl. "You wanna know a secret?" the blonde whispered conspiratorially, leaning down to whisper the question to the younger girl as they entered the front door of the sweet shop and sat down at the nearest open table. Lyla wasn't sure she liked the odd little limp that Julienne had recently developed, along with the slight lack of color in her already-pale countenance. The injured girl needed to sit down and rest.

Lyla reached over to a small stand on the table and grabbed two menu cards, handing one to Julienne and holding her own secretively in front of her mouth so passerby could not see her lips move. "When I was eleven my little brother and I snuck into the scrapyard one night, looking for some old computer parts we could use. We found a lot of great stuff, but just as we were almost done, the Peacekeepers found us," the precocious teen paused here for effect, gauging the younger girl's reaction. "Well, naturally, we ran, scared little kids that we were. There was a big fence out in the back of the scrapyard, and my brother was already on the other side by the time I caught up. I had a pretty big bag of parts on my back, and it was pretty heavy, so it made me lose my balance at the top of the fence and fall off. I fell on my arm, and it broke pretty badly. We couldn't exactly go to the med center and say I had hurt myself running from Peacekeepers, so I had to let my mom set it. It never really healed right. I think it's pretty cool, having a battle scar and everything."

Lyla smiled devilishly at her companion, holding her warped arm out for the child to get a better look at it. The appendage was bowed slightly, the elbow not able to fully extend or contract, a large lump of bone protruding from one side of the ulna where the break had been completely beyond help and the bone had grown back in a tangled mess. Just looking at the arm was enough to make her remember how Leo had been crying as hard as she was when they drug themselves home, sobbing that it was all his fault and he should have been the one carrying the parts. Another contraction of that bittersweet nostalgia took hold of the young genius, bringing her mind traveling back to her sweet little brother with his white hair and caramel eyes like hers, how he had always tagged along with her, how he liked to sing as they walked to school, the sound of his laugh, the look on his face as the boy from District Two snapped his neck on live television... The horrifying image jolted Lyla back to reality, and she realized with terror that she had related the whole story to Julienne without using her airhead-voice, and she had spoken in fairly intelligent vocabulary. She swallowed the gasp of horror that built up at her gargantuan slip, praying that the little dancer wouldn't notice.

The golden-eyed genius hastily tried to look engrossed in her menu as a server came up to the table to take their order, using her seconds of refuge behind the laminated plastic to slip back into her light and airy alter-ego. "Ummm. Yeah, I think I, like, want... a root beer float! Yeah, one of those, and, ummm... some of those salty thingys... fries! French fries, yeah, some of those!"

[/b] The blonde looked cheerily up at her friend sitting across from her. "Pick anything you want, hun. You're so skinny and cute that you could eat your way through the whole darn menu and not be fat."[/color][/size][/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: And I never met a Toby that I didn't like. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

My chin rests quietly in my palm, watching the girl speak about tales long past without a shred of false focus. Each syllable paints a vivid picture in my mind; two siblings with glowing locks sprinting through rusty metal and complicated formula, rummaging into the depths of waste to come up with gold. Her face lights up with an odd nostalgia that is both tragic and beautiful at once - my fingers twitch to wipe away the faint lines of sadness with the soft pads of my digits. Instead I let her talk, lips curling up without consent at the deeper, smoother tone of voice that presents itself. Something real shines through her eyes and makes me smile genuinely, liking this intelligent Lyla as much as the other, scatterbrained one makes my heart glow with a slow friendship.

As she extends her arm I take it quietly with hesitant hands, running nails along the curved bones of her forearm, tracing gentle patterns into the baby-soft skin that runs inside. My thumb brushes against the mess of bone that juts out from her ulna with a bizzare sense of satisfaction, mapping her veins tenderly from under supple flesh. It's this simple sense of unburdened camadrie that lets me watch her facial expression, dragging a soothing rhythm with short nails as her features drop slowly into pained remembrance. Upon racking my mind it's remembered that she once had a brother that was taken in the Games, and any form of thought is most probably like irritating a wound that will never quite heal. She seems almost vulnerable like this. It prompts a sad smile when she jerks her arm back and attempts to hide her face, lapsing back into light, airy speech.

I smile politely at the waitress and after a moment's hesitation, glance longingly at the large fries that sit a few tables away. My metabolism is startlingly high and I eat much at a rapid rate - but it's always a little nibble here or at home. I shudder in fear at what Papa would do if he saw me devour like I'm capable of. It's a bad idea, Julian. He's going to figure it out, and then you're going to be in trouble. Still, the smell of grease and ketchup and real food breaks me, and I sigh before turning to the lady. "H-hi. Can I get, um, two large fries and a-an ice cream cone?" My blush intensifies when she gives me a weird look but nods, whisking away with the smell of fried goodness. I hate talking in public, it always turns into an awkward mess of stumbled conjugations and forgotten words.

Before she can judge me (not that I expect her to, but I'm nervous by nature) I turn with a sheepish smile. "It's been ages since I've actually eaten. I had a recital not too long ago, so I wasn't allowed to injest calories. I-I've been living off water and fruit, really." And my stomach growls its agreement. People begin to roam outside of the old diner, earthen tones beings splashed with colorful accents against the neon lights of the signs. I once entered a strip club because of the intoxicating beat I heard from within - needless to say, it was a scarring experience. Still, I made friends like I do whenever I go, and yearn to return for but a few hours. I don't dance, no. I enjoy watching the people pass me by.

When the waitress comes and delivers our food I am momentarily distracted, grabbing fistfuls of the fatty goodness and swallowing almost without chewing. It doesn't occur to me that this must be terribly unladylike, the sole focus of my thoughts to shovel as much junk into my maw before it's taken away. Ripred knows when I'll next be able eat again.

Once done my frenzied escapade into momentary paradise, I blush hard and excuse myself to clean up. To keep up appearances I wander carefully into the woman's washroom, taking my time with cleaning the salt from under my nails and my face. There is a horrible few seconds of hesitation - the pressing weight of my momentary weakness inside the cavity of my chest and an empty stall where a porcelain throne to beautiful disaster awaits... but my knees hurt and I don't feel like kneeling quite yet. When I get home. I don't want to ruin this day with Lyla through something as selfish as my own detrimental tendencies. Sore joints throb protest as I instead limp back out into the softly lit room.

We pass the time in a comfortable silence; the cooling sun reflects off the orbs of her golden irises to alight them in a shining xanthrous hue. I absently pull her arm forward and pay with the slender expanse of her fingers, running curious knuckles up and down the bowed surface. Everything about her intrigues me - she has too much heartache in her eyes. Seeing that the menus hide her face, I lever myself over the table with my good leg and gently pull it down to expose her elegant features, tugging the clunky aviator shells from her frame and laying them to rest on the table. "Why are you doing this, Lyla?" She knows I'm not referring to the kindness. It's evident even in my voice. "What are you afraid of?"

[/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

The caramel-eyed girl's face contracted into anger again as Julienne related to her the tale of how she hadn't eaten anything substantial in so long. The younger girl hadn't directly said it, but Lyla felt her growing fury direct itself to her young friend's unknown father. What kind of man does this to his daughter, a delicate little thing like Julienne? she thought, malice coursing through her veins and bringing a faint blush splashing across her high cheekbones. The white-blonde teen forgot to put the faintest bit of extra air into her voice, the sounds leaving her mouth with an irritated edge as she insistently pushed the child's fries toward her. "Eat. Now."

It damn near broke Lyla's heart to watch the little dancer dive into to the salty sticks of fried potato as if she'd never see food again. Now with near-unbearable sadness rushing through her as well as righteous anger, the young computer whiz vowed to find out where Julienne's father lived, who he was, what he did, and use that information to hack the pathetic excuse for a man's life into a miserable oblivion. Lyla Matheson had very few true friends, but Ripred help the those who decided to mess with the ones she did have. Julienne, she decided, was a very true friend, someone who genuinely seemed to like her both ways, intelligent and irritatingly ditzy alike, someone whose stand-out-in-the-crowd attitude matched her own with her shameless dancing down the streets. And Lyla certainly wasn't going to allow anyone, not even the girl's father to damage her like that. For some reason, even though she was a girl, Julienne reminded the golden-eyed prodigy of her lost little brother with her sweet, quiet demeanor and the way she sang unashamedly as she danced through the district with abandon. This bittersweet realization made Lyla's muscles constrict with worry as the younger girl politely excused herself, thoughts of dancers who had kept themselves thin by binging and purging running rapidly through her mind. She was on the verge of getting up to check on her new friend when Julienne emerged from the restroom, looking reasonably healthy and not at all nauseous, folding herself gracefully back into her chair.

The neon-bright hacker allowed herself to relax a bit as her young friend reverted back to a curious examination of her mangled arm, Julienne's delicate fingers tracing soothingly over the warped lines and ridges of the bone. The sun was sinking slowly outside the large, floor-to-ceiling windows of the sweet shop, the smog in the air scattering the light so everything in the district was painted with a glorious neon-pink hue, the precise color of Lyla's treasured high tops. The young genius allowed herself a soft smile, extricating a menu from its metal rack so she could flick her caramel eyes through the to-go options, seeing if she could find something to send home with Julienne in case she was hungry in the near future. The teen prodigy was distracted from her mission when the young dancer leaned forward, removing the menu from her neon-finger-nailed grasp and gently tugging the green plastic aviators from her face. Lyla felt rather naked without her signature accessory, but didn't pick the polyurethane frames up from the laminate table for fear of seeming rude.

"Why are you doing this, Lyla? What are you afraid of?"

The white-haired genius was immediately able to discern her young friend's meaning behind the question. Julienne certainly wasn't inquiring about her kindness, the free trip to the sweet shop, the donation of her precious imported bandages. The young girl had clearly noticed the unintended emergence of her intelligence, and now she wanted answers. The funny thing was, Lyla didn't mind sharing her secret with Julienne. The little dancer wouldn't rat her out. For some reason, she believed that with a rock-hard conviction that she hadn't experienced in a long time. The teen prodigy tucked a stray strand of hair back behind Julienne's ear, pressing the soft yellowish lock back into place with a motherly caress of the younger girl's cheek. When she spoke, there was no extra air sullying her soprano timbre. There was no point in hiding anymore."Sweetie, there's nothing in the world that scares me. I'm not afraid of a darn thing. In fact, it's the world that should be frightened of me."

But really, was that statement true? Lyla allowed herself to ponder this for a moment. She wasn't scared of the powers of District Three, and she certainly wasn't scared of the Capitol. She hated the Capitol, yes, but its methods of intimidation did nothing but add fuel to the raging flame of her loathing. For a long time, Lyla had thought that she was terrified of being Avoxed, but now, upon careful self-inspection, she realized that as long as the Capitol didn't find a way to wipe her knowledge, she could still hack. They could take everything, tongue, fingers, but the young genius would still find a way to gain entry to the shining city's electronic pathways, causing all kinds of trouble. No, Lyla decided, there was nothing on this earth that truly frightened her. The only thing that scared her was failing Leo, not avenging his wrongful death. And she was well on her way to doing that.

Lyla sighed, rubbing at her left temple with a few fingers. Where to start? "Jules, have you ever..." she began awkwardly not quite knowing how to share the secret that her best friend Prewitt, the only other human who knew about the hacking, had been able to find out on his own. "Has someone ever done something to you that was so wrong, so horrible that you couldn't rest until you paid them back with interest for it? And even though you knew you'd be in huge trouble for it, you took your revenge anyway?

Lyla looked around carefully. The sweet shop was empty, all the attendants were seemingly in the back, preoccupied with other things. Still feeling paranoid, the white-haired girl yanked her laptop out of its pink canvas container, popping it open and running a quick security scan on the facility. Nothing. No cameras, no mikes. Nodding in satisfaction, Lyla pulled a small notepad and a pen from her bag, hurriedly scrawling 193 across the electric-blue surface of the paper in bright purple gel ink. The blonde never spoke her IQ out loud, feeling that it was bragging. She ripped the paper from the stack of identical sheets, shoving it across the table towards Julienne as she whispered her explanation in a quick hiss. "That's my IQ. There's a reason I act like a moron in front of the general populace, Jules. The Capitol murdered my little brother, and, well... The revenge I chose, it can only be carried out by a genius. They'll never suspect me if they think I'm an idiot."

Lyla took a deep breath, knowing that the word hack was almost a form of profanity in District 3, where technological integrity was preached as gospel to the entire population. She said it anyway, in the same quiet half-whisper. "Have you ever heard of hacking, Jules? Not minor hacking, stealing passwords and stuff, I'm talking major hacking, breaking into a program and altering its code so it functions differently. You know all those malfunctions in the Capitol they've been talking about on the news? Power outages, food from the mechanical chefs arriving undercooked, water pressure not being regulated correctly and causing toilets to explode, trash collection robots debilitated beyond use for weeks? Yeah, that's all me. And I'll never get caught as long as everyone here thinks I'm an airhead, get it?"

(OOC - Good gracious, these two can't shut up around one another. xD)

[/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: What if the world came crashing down around us? :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

"Has someone ever done something to you that was so wrong, so horrible that you couldn't rest until you paid them back with interest for it? And even though you knew you'd be in huge trouble for it, you took your revenge anyway?" I'm poised to disagree and shut down - to deny and conquer and just ignore the memories that slowly invade my mind, but it's too strong and I quickly fall under its spell. My fingers curl stark-white on the countertop and the muscles of my jaw constrast against the smooth, unbroken expanse of my face as my eyes turn glassy and distant. Notagainpleasenodon'tpleasedon'tdon'tdon't--

My footsteps creak quietly up the stairs, pads light as I desperately try and avoid the tell-tale squeals of somebody coming up to the next floor. Mama is out of the house and it's just Papa and I - that alone is enough to instill fear or a bitter nostalgia into the pit of my chest. School was painful today, in gym class I couldn't find my shirt so I had to run around bare-chest. It's becoming more and more obvious that I have infant... um, lady parts, and while the effect might be cute in practice it does nothing for confidence when placed in the real world. A maid scuttles down the hallway but stops upon seeing me; she bows low and flashes a hesitant smile. "Master Rockshaw, your father wishes to see you." My fingers twitch nervously but I nod, dipping my head in grateful thanks. She hurries around the immaculate wooden floors, and disappears into another section of the house.

Each trembling breath coruscates throughout my body, delivering a liquid heat that flushes the tips of my ears and stains alabaster skin a delicate red. Even his doors are imposing - massive oak barriers into a world that I have no wish to inherit. Swallowing nervously, I tap out a staccato beat that doesn't yet betray the slow sense of dread. "Come in." His voice rolls across me like growling thunder, making the pages clutched in my delicate hands crinkle in agitated energy. When I shoulder open the towering gates he barely glances up, pen scratching quietly on the documents in front of his desk. The tip of the plume brushes against the chiseled lines of his clean-shaven face; he could be handsome again if he learned to smile.

"Y-you wanted to see me, Papa?" This time he sets down his utensil with utmost care, watching me through unwavering azure eyes. They are the only part of him that resembles me - and even then they hold none of the same emotion - and his orbs are set firmly, brows drawn into a constant light frown. "Yes." He muses quietly, brushing a strand of cropped raven hair from his aging features. For a moment I'm struck with a feeble hope that he'll forget what today is and I can go on my way without feeling like I'm stepping on eggshells. I long for Mama to erase the rigidity that has crept into my shoulderblades and how the room suddenly seems too small. "It is report card day today, is it not?" My head bobs of my own accord and nails rip at the thin paper, desperately wishing to be anywhere but here. Nothing is ever good enough for him. Nothing.

I gently push the stack of papers onto his desk, watching as he takes his time flipping through him. The material makes a quiet murmuring sound as his rough fingers carress the pieces. I've been good, kept up with my marks. Straight As.

He glances to me for a moment.

I think of that B in Mathematics.

Swallow. Without hurry he rises from his seat and flicks the buckle expertly from his waist, drawing the belt forth with a serpentine hiss of fabric upon leather. My body trembles but I crawl up on the redwood-grain desk that smells like politics and trickery, laying my cheek into the cool surface. "What did I tell you, Julian?" For a second I think of denying him; of staying silent. But the makeshift whip touches the smooth expanse of my calf and I supress a moan of terror. "That I have to be smart to make it up to you." A violent crack reverbrates around the room and my howl is muffled by my arm, teeth sinking hard into the flesh in order to think about something other than the searing pain that flares around my back. "And have you been?"

My eyes squeeze just and a pathetic mewl slips forth as another crack of flesh against supple oxhide, willing away the world in an attempt to forget about his disapproving glare and the maids that fret in the level below us. Don't say it, Julian. You're better than that. The silence annoys him and it's obvious by the brutal crack that he creates. I howl into the air and arch my back, fingers clawing desperately on the surface. "No!" I sob, fleeting reserve broken. "I'll do better next time, I promise!" Satisfied, the only rhythm for the next few minutes was the sickening crack of flesh being bruised beyond normal recognition.
A week later, I had a dance recital. It took heaps of make-up to cover, and I almost cried when I had to tumble down.

Another week after that, one of father's prized machines broke down and cost him thousands. Nobody ever figured out who it was.

My pained whimper brings me out of my reverie, nails throbbing from being clenched so hard against the sides of the table. Furiously I wipe at my eyes and willing no tears to fall, instead focusing on her hushed tone of voice. "Y-yes." I murmur quietly, not meeting her gaze. "More than you'll ever know." She scribbles a large number on a napkin and my eyebrows shoot up almost to my hairline, touching the glittery ink with a sort of awed curiosity. "I understand." I intone softly, folding up the napkin and sliding it into the pocket of my dress. "It's much easier to face the world when they take pity on you, isn't it?" That brings up the faded bruises that throb uncomfortably as I sit, stretching with the flesh as I lean over to look at her better. My smile is small but genuine as I lean for a moment into her hand, willing for a moment for the rest of the world to just fall away.

I wish I was as confident as her. The thought appears without any real venom, just an absent fact like it's nice out today or those fries were good. She stands out in a crowd with no fear of the unknown while I flinch at the thought of all eyes on me, save for up on stage where I thrive in the attention. My fingers wander absently on one bright yellow bandaid, smoothing its shiny surface as I wonder if I use enough on my back, will it take away the bruises? The waitress breaks the moment, delivering a large cone that radiates cool in my hand. She smiles - her eyes catch the light and make them seem abyssal. Judging. I swallow and nod my thanks, watching the creamy food with more than a hint of hesitation.

"I-I shouldn't. I've already eaten too much today." But I still reach out and give a careful lick to my treat, ignoring the hard grumbling in my stomach that demands more. Before I inhale the thing, however, I offer it to Lyla with a slow smile.

[/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

The tears welling up in Julienne's eyes bothered Lyla, making her wonder if her new friend would walk out on her because of the hacking that would deem her a sinner among the so-called righteous people of the district. The blonde genius faltered in her comfort of the child momentarily, wondering if the first thing the little girl would do after exiting the sweet shop would be to run straight to Peacekeeper headquarters and turn her in. Angry at herself for even having a thought like that, Lyla ousted the paranoia from her consciousness, irritated beyond belief when the realization that Julienne might have been tearing up in relation to something with her home life hit her. The caramel-eyed prodigy found her hands balling into tight fists, neon-bright nails carving four little half-moons into each of her pale palms. It would not be a good day for Julienne's father when he met Lyla Matheson.

The little dancer across the table from her gazed at her newly-delivered ice cream cone hesitantly, only taking one small lick of the sugary-cold scoop before offering it to Lyla. "I-I shouldn't. I've already eaten too much today."

Lyla shook her head wildly, white-blonde hair flying as she pushed the hand containing Julienne's cone back towards its owner. "Absolutely not. You're the only person who has the right to decide what you can and can't eat, and I know you're still hungry. Plus, I'm full anyway."

Lyla tried to smile, tried to unclench her fists, tried to stop being so angry, but the vapid peace she usually slipped so easily into would not come to her. The fury at Julienne's father, someone she had never even met, grew to a point where she almost couldn't handle it, her hands shaking where they lay clutched tightly in her lap. No one, no one had the right to intentionally starve their child. That kind of parenting was so horribly sick and shocking to Lyla, who had two loving parents at home that had always made sure there was ample food on the table for their children, that the golden-eyed girl almost couldn't understand how it was possible. The eighteen-year-old berated herself at not noticing the symptoms of malnutrition in Julienne's visage earlier. Yes, the little girl was covered in well-toned, lean muscle from years of dancing, but she was still so skinny, not nearly thick enough to be proportioned correctly with the height of her body. Lyla, while not fat by any means, had never been skinny. The neon-wearing hacker had more curves than most girls she knew, an hourglass waist that gave way to hips that were actually slightly wider than she liked, legs that were more substantial than spindly. She had always had enough to eat, had always run in the mornings to keep herself in decent physical condition, and the fact that her little friend was being forced to starve herself for the sake of her art sent an invisible knife stabbing into Lyla's chest. She had to do something.

But what could she possibly do? There was no child advocacy program in the districts, there never had been. So Julienne's parents were starving her. Who cared, when a good portion of the children in the district were starving because their parents couldn't afford food to put on the table? Lyla cared. She cared quite a bit, actually. Enough to conduct illegal activity here in the middle of an open sweet shop. Biting back a snarl, the blonde opened up her laptop, clicking on an icon that masked her self-made hacking software. "Jules, I'm going to teach you how to do something. I need you to pay attention, you might need to use this one day."

The caramel-eyed teen moved her chair around the table so she was nestled next to Julienne, pointing at the large map that covered the screen, covered almost entirely in tiny yellow dots."This is the Capitol. Each one of those dots represents an electronic system where some sort of programming is involved. If I zoom the map out, I have access to all the districts as well." A few more clicks and an electronic representation of District Three popped up, its webbing of yellow dots not nearly as thick as the Capitol's, but still substantial."The green dot is our location. If I click on this yellow dot nearest to us, the programming for the lighting in the sweet shop comes up."

A single click, and long stretches of binary began crossing the screen, a secret code that Lyla had taught herself to read, weaving the fabric of the shop's access to the power grid that covered the district. "This is the simplest kind of hack there is. You can't modify the system unless you're able to read binary, but you can shut it down by doing this."

Lyla scrolled down the long stretch of code, picking a point at random. The blonde highlighted a few lines of ones and zeros, grinning as she pressed the backspace key. Click. Code altered. Hack completed. Lights off. Pretty cool, huh?"

She looked over at the younger girl, her skin now tinged neon-pink from the setting sun slanting in through the window pane. Julienne's face was unreadable, but Lyla couldn't help but feel she had done the right thing. She had put a weapon in the little dancer's hands, a weapon she was sure that Julienne would be smart enough to use with the right training, something that the young girl could turn to and manipulate her enemies, including her father. "If you want, I can teach you everything I know. Once you learn to read binary, you can alter systems to make them do whatever you want instead of what they were made to do. You can send internal temperatures of buildings into much colder or much hotter readings than the software would typically allow. You can get around security firewalls and gain access to information that would allow you to blackmail anybody you wanted. I'm giving you a tool here, Jules, but it's completely up to you if you want to use it."

[/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: Sometimes I wish everybody had a soul. :.

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

For a moment I watch the scrolling code across the screen, the repetative numbers making my head throb in confused bewilderment. She highlights a seemingly innocuous batch of numbers and deletes them - instantly, the lights flicker off. I gape at her in amazement, running my fingers along the softly glowing keys on the flat portion of her laptop. All thoughts of belts and screams is slowly drowned out as I scan the scrawling wall of code, wondering exactly how she can see anything among this mess. "If you want, I can teach you everything I know. Once you learn to read binary, you can alter systems to make them do whatever you want instead of what they were made to do. You can send internal temperatures of buildings into much colder or much hotter readings than the software would typically allow. You can get around security firewalls and gain access to information that would allow you to blackmail anybody you wanted. I'm giving you a tool here, Jules, but it's completely up to you if you want to use it."

I gently close the laptop and the lights whir back to life; a finger gently turns her jaw so she faces me. My smile is pleased but slightly sad as I shake my head. "I'm not smart like you, Lyla." I murmur softly, absently playing with a strand of her white-blonde hair. "I struggle really hard to retain straight As, only because if I don't, I get--" The near-slip up is contained with a visible strain, teeth gritting together as I swallow the last word that threatens to slip out. Beat. "In trouble. People think I'm slow, and they're right. Trying to teach me something as complicated as that would be a losing battle." In order to cover up the bitterness I feel about the subject I take a huge bite of my cone, feeling the soothing cold numb my throat and let me think about something other than my lack of social and academic prowess.

Inside the bell jingles as another customer invades our little sanctuary, employees scratching their heads in momentary confusion as the lights hum flourescent beauty upon the pale palour of the workers below. All it takes is one flick of the eyes - a passing glance upon his features - for my blood to freeze where it sits. I narrowly avoid his steely glare, jerking my head to the side perhaps too forcefully for it to be natural. Acid chruns violently inside the pit of my chest and my tongue doesn't wish to work, dry and scaly against the softness of my mouth. Suddenly the treat makes my gag reflex hit, and I hastily push myself away from the metallic table. "Excuse me a moment." I mutter inaudibly, fleeing quickly to avoid the crisp suit that orders his dessert without a clue.

The door swings shut behind me and I take a shaky breath, pacing frantically along the tiles, hair flying as limp golden strands about my face. I know him, he's one of Papa's workers. He'll tell the man about anything important if it catches his eye. Oh Ripred. What if he saw me? That means he'll tell Papa and then he'll know what I'm wearing and what I've been eating and-- Unknown to my consciousness I've sunk down into the tiles, forehead resting against the porcelain basin of the toilet and breath coming in quick, heaving gasps. Each calorie I've ingested sits pretty in my stomach, an unwanted secret which rebounds as a broken crescendo in the forefront of my mind. I-I need to get rid of the evidence. No exceptions. I hate myself for doing this and in a rare moment of violence, hate everything that comes with it. Father and his job and the belt and the scale and... and...
The noise always comes before the pain - a strangled moan that sounds much like I'm drowning in myself -, fingers prodding hard at the back of my throat in order to release the eventual redemption. My gag reflex has been eroded over the months - or is it years? - of constant binge and purge; though it's taken some back-hand procedures and strong pills to keep my teeth white. There is a moment of quiet hesitation and then my stomach lurches with startling suddeness, and all the contents I've eaten in the past day come spewing forth.

When I retch it shows the serpentine coil of my spine, pressing from underneath fragile flesh to create the image of a warped, living skeleton. Tears run thick down my cheeks where they spiral into the clouded water below, lungs hitching as a dry sob works its way forth. It's not fair that the girls in my classes can be thin and perfect without this following them around, the added baggage of shameful things that hound their past. It's the only way to stay beautiful for Papa. But all I can feel is the dull ache in the center of my chest.

From the blood rushing through my ears I can hear the door swing open, and quiet footsteps against the immaculate ties. I just don't care right now, too caught in the fear of the man noticing me to really pay any attention anywhere else. My head attempts to raise but a horrible twisting in my gut has me bent over the bowl again, gritting my teeth and breathing hard as the next contraction comes. Anything to stay thin, if it makes me worth something. It's the price of art, isn't it?

[/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Lyla bit her lip in frustration, her front tooth leaving a dent in the pillowy, carnation-painted flesh. Hacking wasn't all that difficult, and she knew in her heart of hearts that Julienne would be smart enough to pick up the elementary skills. Would the little blonde dancer ever hack the Capitol? Most likely not, but if Lyla could teach her young friend enough to give her a significant weapon against the world, well, that would be better than nothing, which is what the poor girl had now. The prodigy ran a neon-nailed hand through her whitish tresses and sighed, parting her shocking-pink lips to speak just as she saw Julienne's oceanic orbs widen in fright.

The petite ballerina almost threw herself out of her chair in haste to limp back off to the restroom. Lyla's caramel eyes narrowed in suspicion, lashes blinking off turquoise glitter as she whipped her head around to gaze at the man who'd just come in the door of the sweet shop. He had the nondescript look of your typical District grunt-worker, someone that stacked computer chips in a sterile white room all day before going home to a wife and maybe a few kids, not incredibly rich but with enough money to keep food on the table. Middle class. The thought struck the blonde genius that this might perhaps be Julianne's father and that's why the younger girl had run off, but she shook her head. Logically, the whole scene would have been far more explosive if that were true. Golden eyes flicked down to the clunky plastic watch adorning her warped wrist. Julienne had been in the bathroom for far to long.

Standing up and brushing crumbs from her electric-lime tutu, Lyla quietly padded over and pushed open the door to the ladies' room, pink high tops squeaking shrilly once they touched the clean-scrubbed tile. It took a moment for the young hacker to connect the violent retching sounds from the first stall with the pretty child in the colorful sundress, but once she did, a ragged gasp of horror cut the air like a knife. So she had been right. Paralyzed with the wave of emotions that crashed over her - fear, anger, helplessness - the caramel-eyed girl stood stock still until the sounds of Julienne's lunch hitting the toilet were replaced with heavy, ragged breaths that Lyla felt echoing in her own lungs.

Jules?"

The soprano timbre of her voice was ratcheted up a half-octave with worry, its loud tone barely audible as she shuffled her way over to the locked door of the handicapped stall, gently bringing a pale hand up to knock against the painted metal. "Julienne, sweetheart, let me in."

Lyla knew that the little dancer would understand her meaning in the delivery of the short phrase. Let me in. The older girl not only was asking for entry into the stall, but to know what was really going on. There were obviously some pretty heavy things going on in Julienne's life, and the blonde hacker felt incredibly compelled to help this child whose sweet demeanor and lighthearted ways so reminded her of her lost little brother.

Lyla knocked at the door of the stall again, this time with a little more force, enough to show she meant business, but not so much as to sound agitated. "Honey, I don't care what anyone on this earth has told you. You are a beautiful young lady and a brilliant dancer, and no amount of food you consume is going to change that. Anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot, and I'll gladly march up to them and tell them so. I've got your back, Jules. Just tell me what's wrong, sweetie, please."

[/blockquote]

[sadniss everdeen]

Julian Rockshaw

.: I can express my thoughts through emotions, but words just make everything worse. :.
  

[306EFF] I'm not very eloquent; really, I much rather like to move.
[FF7BB0] Words confuse me, they tie my tongue and heart into little knots.
[90AD30] Whatever isn't said remains in the safety of my mind.
[ECD672] People think I'm slow, but that's okay. All the smart people I know are sad.

My stomach churns again and I hack violently with watering eyes squeezed tight shut, but nothing comes out. Acid burns a searing path up my throat as the last dredges of my meal disappears, and I wearily smack the handle so that all traces of my weakness swirls noisily down into the sewers. I allow my back to slump against the rigid stall even though my muscles remain in a constant state of suspicious alert; despite all intentions and berating, my mind won't allow the blonde to see me in my state of despair. "Julienne, sweetheart, let me in."It would be easy, wouldn't it? To flip the lock and run into her arms like the sister I never had, to allow her to sooth away my problems with nothing more than elegant fingers and murmured lullabies. I promised once to myself that I wouldn't burden other people with my issues, and that weight hangs heavy on my shoulders. Opposite me is a small sink and I tiredly rinse my mouth, trying much too hard to escape the sour taste of failure and rebuked temptation. "Go away." I mumble instead, spitting out the remnants of bile and ignoring the dull ache inside my stomach. My voice is small and childish - it's a wonder it isn't drowned out by the next sharp tap.

"Honey, I don't care what anyone on this earth has told you. You are a beautiful young lady and a brilliant dancer, and no amount of food you consume is going to change that. Anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot, and I'll gladly march up to them and tell them so. I've got your back, Jules. Just tell me what's wrong, sweetie, please."

Of its own accord my fingers come up and unlatch the lock that separates our worlds, allowing the bright girl full view to my huddled form. "But that's the problem, Lyla." I sniffle, trying pitifully hard to hold back tears. "I'm not a lady. Papa wanted a son so badly, and he was crushed when he came out with... this." They come again, leaving streaks down the downy softness of my alabaster complexion. "H-he would've even been content with a girl that he c-could spoil and call his own, but it hurts to even look at me! I-" Now I bury my face in her clothing, clinging hard to an anchor in this rapidly spinning world. "I-I'm a hermaphrodite, Lyla." the words are stilted, shaky. Its one thing to live with this, its another entirely to confess it into the outside world where they take on tangible form. "The Capitol made me label as a boy and sometimes I hate it because I love clothes and dresses and boys as much as girls. I hate not being able to wear a tight shirt or participate in any sort of girl talk. T-the boys in my class tell me I look too girly and that I should bulk up, but the only way Papa will even acknowledge me is if I'm beautiful."

 I don't tell her about the fact that he's one of the President's friends or that he's too rich and powerful to bring down - his network is that of a silkenly spun spider's web - because in this moment, it doesn't seem to matter. My face nestles in the crook of her neck as her scent of vanilla and security envelopes me akin to a warm blanket. "Sometimes it just so, so hard. I try to be perfect and his little boy because that's what the outside world needs to see, but I'm never good enough." Her golden eyes catch the rough lighting to set them ablaze, all fiery emotions and mirrors into her soul. My fingers interlace with her's and for a moment I let the calm settle over us, claiming the outside world in a transparent screen of surreality. My mind wanders for a moment and I focus absently on matching her breath with mine, synchronizing the movements in a simple, rhythmatic dance that people lose themselves in for hours. Outside the din of the little diner is a muted clatter, others being so generous as to give us time by ourselves. My smile is small but genuine, mapping her features with gratitude.

"Thank you." I say softly. "For caring."Words are clunky and irritate the message, but I feel that this is bigger than (or perhaps the wrong subject to translate from) simple touches and grateful smiles. "Mama loves me too, but she's busy and can't always be there. They fight over me because she loves Papa too, and doesn't want to shut him out. But hE doesn't love me, and it hurts her too much." Somewhere in that train if thought I remember Mama crying into her bourbon glass, pretty raven locks bound into a bun with waves framing her face. When I was young they tested my DNA, Papa swearing up and down until the test results came in that I wasn't his. Though I may not look like them, it hurts that he'd sooner call his devoted wife a tramp than admit me his child.

Another secret weighs heavy against my tongue, and in light if all the grand revealing that's just taken place, this one spews forth without explicit consent. Perhaps needing to have somebody know besides hushed speculations in the servants corner, or even to have somebody sing him sweet, affectionate lies about how it's all going to turn out okay. "When I don't do good a-at something, maybe school or dance or friends..." there's no turning back now, no sheepish grins or innocent shrugs. All or nothing, baby. Words get stuck in my throat but this is one explanation where touch is more than sufficient tonexplain my inner workings. The dress is pulled above my stomach and held with my teeth; when needed, I have no shame, and I take her hands. Hesitating just for a second, I place them against my starkly visible spine and turn.

The marks are still painfully vivid; long, jagged stripes of purple and black that have stopped swelling enough so that I can move again without crying out. They travel to my shoulders and dip underneath the tightness if my spandex shorts, each andeminder of my mistakes. "Do you see now?" I whisper, as if any loud sounds will break the fragile stillness. "Why it's so hard to resist?"

[Deleted]

Lyla Matheson

Upon the opening of the stall door, Lyla become a neon blur, swooping in and taking the child in her arms in one fell motion, one bright-nailed hand stroking soothingly through golden tresses, the other rubbing small circles between the little dancer's too-prominent shoulder blades. Caramel eyes squeezed shut against her own tears, the prodigy murmured soft shushing noises as the younger girl whimpered out her confession against the highlighter-yellow fabric covering Lyla's shoulder.

"I-I'm a hermaphrodite, Lyla."

[/b][/color]

The unexpected words made the white-haired genius give pause, carnation-pink lips parted in surprise. She had of course hears of the rare medical phenomenon, babies born as not one gender but both, but she had never actually seen one, not until now. She realized vaguely that she was still holding Julienne, who she guessed was technically Julian now, her interrupted motions of comfort probably making the poor child think that she... he was about to be rejected. Lyla went back to her routine in earnest, shocking-pink-painted lips against the flowery-scented golden hair whispering sweet nothings as the child's story continued, repressing her growing anger at Julian's father for the little dancer's sake.

"Sweetheart, it's your choice to be who you want to be. No one has the right to tell you who you are, no one. This is your life, your happiness, no one else's. Sometimes... Sometimes people try to mold you into who they want you be, but that's when you have to fight. The people in this district wish I would just follow the crowd and act like everyone else. So what do I do? I dress and act obnoxiously as I possibly can. I make them notice me, I force them to accept the fact that this is who I am. That's what you have to do, Jules, if you want to be happy."

"Sometimes it just so, so hard. I try to be perfect and his little boy because that's what the outside world needs to see, but I'm never good enough."[/i][/color] The golden-eyed girl continued to hold her friend close, the feeling of warm, salty moisture against the hollow of her neck making the tears she had fought so hard to hold back slip out of her golden eyes, carving twin trails of turquoise sparkle down the pale planes of her cheeks, dripping two spots of bright, bright blue into the golden sea of Julian's hair. This poor child, her friend, her newly-found younger sibling that she had been without for so long, needed her help. Needed anyone's help, really, but Lyla was so attached to the young dancer by this point that she knew it had to be her. The white-blonde genius clutched Julian even more tightly to her, her voice breaking as she tried to hold back an anguished sob. "I know, babydoll. I know it's hard."

When the dancer pulled away from her, Lyla couldn't bring herself to wipe away the rivers of turquoise decorating her cheeks, to blink away the tears that pooled in her amber orbs. She was too focused on the child's words, too preoccupied with her frantic, half-formulated plans to somehow get Julian out of this situation. Too stricken with horror as the skirt of the bright sundress was lifted, exposing the stains of abuse that flowed unbroken down Julian's back, disappearing into the waistband of compression shorts. She couldn't stop herself when she finally started sobbing heavily, the floodgate broken by the sight of the little dancer's pain. Lyla reached for her sibling-friend again, enfolding the child in a tearful neon embrace as she gasped for air, making tragic little sounds, the symphonic underscore of her seemingly bottomless sadness, cheeks covered completely in bright blue sparkle. She felt horrible for crying, weak. How could she be crying when she was so horrified, so upset, so angry? The white-hot fury in her veins only made the young hacker weep more intensely, clutching the child like Julian would be ripped out of her arms by his cruel monster of a father if she let go of him for one second. "I'm going to fix this, Jules," she whispered brokenly against the whisper-soft fabric of the dancer's sundress. "I don't know how yet, but I'm going to fix this." [/color]

ooc: I'm sorry it's so short, I started crying and couldn't see my keyboard. D:[/size][/blockquote]