Such a Mournful Sound // [VT/7/Open]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

He hadn't slept because the dread of this day had become a monster in his dreams, something that stalked him into the Black Caves and trapped him there, alone. It wasn't so hard for Mace to be by himself these days; he almost liked it better than being around others (since mostly those others were the twits on his styling team). No, being alone wasn't a source of anxiety for him. But the Caves had been a place of peace, somewhere he could rest his mind and remember Alexander, and his brothers, alive. There had been fire, and knife practice, and even food, though it was of the disgusting vegetarian variety. He had loved those Caves, even though he hadn't known it, and now his nightmares were twisting them.

So he didn't sleep, which meant refusing the morphling. His team could think that was a good sign, if they wanted. They were wrong. He needed it now more than ever, but he wouldn't do such a disservice to the two women of Seven who had compelled him to win. He knew that now, and maybe that's why the monster chased him. He'd only won because of Dysis' charge, Alexander's fury in the face of death. Those things had carried him through snow and blood and steel. And he wasn't sure how to honor them, how to carry their names back to their families, to bring some comfort back to the world.

Dysis. What did he really know about her, other than her eloquence, her strength? She had looked at him, and she had known him, even when he didn't know himself. And it was because of her that he had sent Aesop on his way, not limping but flying towards whatever lay beyond. He'd found his aim, and perhaps his heart had hardened in the arena, but it was a soft and mushy thing now, hardly worthy of the term. Still, he'd done better by Dysis than pretty much anyone else in the 59th, and he still didn't know what to say to the Admeas. Thanks was far too inadequate, and he had brought nothing to give them.

But he had something for the Hoods. Several somethings, actually, which clacked together in his leather jacket pocket. He could feel the weight of the crowd on him, must more so than he had since Ten, but it was a different sort of heaviness. At home it had been celebratory, joyful, bouyant. In Seven it was judgmental and he wanted to kick the feeling right in the teeth. Because what did they know about what he'd gone through? He'd been in a fog when he'd watched the replay tapes. Had they even see him with Dysis? With Alexander? Maybe they'd only seen the blood on his hands, but he knew the cameras could twist things. The Capitol had needed a warrior Victor, and they'd made him into that without his permission, without his even knowing.

Mace pinched the fabric above the pocket, closing it around the three tokens. Three when there should have been four. He was still angry that he didn't have Alexander's, still felt judged by the crowd, and suddenly the fury was too much. It broke through the barriers he'd carefully crafted within himself, stole the last of the fluffy morphling from his system, and laid the awful, terrible truth bare --

Alexander should have never been reaped in the first place.

She should have been home, doing whatever it was she liked to do. She had no business being on the boys side of the reaping, Mace was sure of it, and if anyone had known, had checked, she wouldn't have been in the arena. Mace didn't know a whole lot about the detention center, but he suspected people survived longer than one freaking week there. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have even had to go. If she really just wanted to dress like a boy, was that a crime?

He wanted to know more about her story - had since the night in the Caves. There were so many questions, so many dangling sentences, and he wasn't sure where to begin, because he had not come this far just to betray Alexander and her family. No. The President undoubtedly knew the truth now, but how many others did? He hadn't seen anything about it on television, hadn't heard anyone whisper. Mace felt fairly confident that Alexander's secret had gone to her watery grave, and so he would have to pick his words carefully.

As though there was another way.

When it was finally his turn to speak, Mace nodded at the mayor and then tucked his hands behind his back. He considered nouns, verbs, adjectives, cast them aside. And when he finally began to talk, it was low and rough, the sound of water on rocks. "Dysis told me everything I needed to know in the arena. She was quite the little lady," and it wasn't really what he felt, but in the end it was as close as he could come. Mace brought one fist to his hip, let it bump lightly against him as he turned to the Hoods.

"I brought you something." Mace glanced back at his handlers, who had not been thrilled when he approached the edge of the stage in Ten, and he was going to test them further now. He wondered if his eyes seethed the way his heart did, one thumping organ of rage and despair. He turned away before any of them reacted and came to the very edge of the stage, where he bent to both knees and finally drew out the three tokens - one leather, one copper, one bone - and presented them on his shaking palm to the Hoods.

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[nettle]

nettle quinn

[/size]
T E A R Y E Y E D
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[/center]

Today was the day, or at least that's what Nettle was told by a group of kids who were hurrying toward the Mayor's house; their eyes were bright and filled with excitement. Although she tried, the sixteen-year-old could not bring herself to smile, not while the images of Hood and Dysis flashed by in succession before her dark eyes. Like every year twenty-four went in and only one came out. This year's victor was Mace, a rather handsome boy whom Nettle had almost enjoyed watching in the games. But that quickly changed once the tributes from her District had been killed off. Nettle never knew Dysis personally, however, that did not stop Nettle from grieving over her loss. It was so unfair. Nettle couldn't bare it.

Nettle crossed her arms against her chest and continued on toward Town Square. She wasn't sure if it was worth watching Mace give a speech. What could he possibly say? There was nothing to say. What could a killer say? I'm being unfair. The thought shot through Nettle like a cold wind as she sidestepped a fallen branch in the middle of the road. It was easy to despise the victor and grieve over the dead, but the victor deserved some pity, right? He was young like her after all, and surely he like Nettle had something, or someone to live for. It wasn't his fault that he was reaped, it was fate's.

With her mind made up Nettle quickened her pace and headed in the same direction of the group of kids who had interrupted her walk earlier. The wind was still today and allowed Nettle to walk with her head held high. Her long, brown hair swept from side to side as Nettle forcefully maneuvered her slender frame through the growing crowd. She figured that if she was going to listen to a speech she might as well be up front where she could see Mace's face better. Once she found a spot toward the front and right of the stage she came to a halt and uncrossed her arms. Slowly but surely Nettle felt small amounts of grief burrowing their way down into her vital organs. Biting her lip was all she could do to keep herself from crying out loud.

Scanning the stage Nettle's eyes locked on Mace in less than a second. It was hard to ignore him in that leather jacket, but Nettle tried her best to avert her gaze whenever she thought his eyes dived into the crowd. She waited patiently for Mace to begin for this was a moment she'd never forget, and if Mace screwed up it would be the moment she despised him for the rest of her life.

Nettle noticed the effort it took for Mace to speak, how he had to try to choose his words carefully for fear of either saying too little or too much. It pained Nettle's heart to think of herself in his shoes. How could she live knowing that she had to outlast or kill twenty-three others? The thought was unbearable and sent a quick shiver up her spine. When he finally delivered the sentence about Dysis, Nettle couldn't quite figure out if she hated him or not. Sure she believed that the family deserved to hear a little more about their daughter's bravery, but were Nettle a part of the family would she want to hear any more than that one line? Probably not. Those few words were enough, because they told the audience everything that they needed to know about Dysis. She was a caring soul until her untimely end.

Alexander was another story. Mace didn't have anything to say. Instead, he brought with him what Nettle believed were a couple of significant tokens. From where she stood she could see the outline of Mace's jaw and hands so perfectly that for a second she contemplated reaching out to touch him, but quickly realized that it would be one of the dumbest things she could do in this situation. Keeping her arms firmly at her sides Nettle tried to get a clearer view of the gifts, but was unable to due to Mace's shaking hand. He's so nervous, Nettle thought sadly. How could she ever consider disliking him? Nettle leaned a few inches forward and locked her eyes once more on his face. In that one glance she finally saw what Mace truly was:

A tortured soul.

[killz4food]

Joseph Russel [/color] [/size] [/i]

He knew the day would come. It was inevitable. He would finally hear the sound of the murder's voice. But Joseph was one to talk. All he did was mug people. Take their money. Their food. Their stuff. And sometimes even their life. But that was for survival. But the games were too. Joseph didn't care. He was ready to walk down to town square and hear the speech of the demon who had killed their tribute and was ready to kill him. He tucked his knife into his boot, just in case anything happened. But it was pointless. The peacekeepers would get to him before he had a chance to try anything. The bullets would fly. People would die and scream. And then the charges would come. They would uncover the robberies and the murder. And that wasn't going to happen. Not today anyway. But what made Joseph any better then this tribute who had killed the District 7 tribute. Joseph couldn't think of anything. So he dressed up in his nicest shirt and pants and headed to the town square.

The knife in his boot made it uncomfortable to walk, and occasional pierced his skin a little bit. But it was to late to turn back now and put it back. He arrived at the city square, prepared for whatever his mind thought was right. But what could this child say that would make anything right between him and District 7. Not a damn thing. But yet the capitol made them go on these stupid tours and look into the faces of all the Districts and say "it's an honor...blah blah blah...sorry I killed your kids." It was revolting in all reality. But Joseph sat there, waiting for the child's speech.

And there he was. Mace Emberstatt of District 10. As he thought, Joseph was revolted. He wanted nothing to do with this boy. But of course he was here. As the boy stood there a million thoughts raced through Joseph's head, none of them good. They may bring pride to him. They may bring misery to his family. But they were still there.
Idea one; there is the knife in your boot.
You could take him out right now or miss intentionally.
Idea two; Insult him on live television. Make him cry for District 10.
Idea three; stand up for poor, dead Alexander.

Alexander...

Alexander wasn't supposed to be officially reaped. She was a cross dresser, truth be told. But it wasn't all that bad. Dressing like a boy when your a girl isn't wrong. It's not a crime. And if it is, then screw the Peace Keepers and their selfish lays. She was a good person. Good Intentions. Good heart. Never wanted wrong. Then she was gone. Just like that. Carried off to the capitol and dragged into an arctic wasteland to fend for herself. Then all three ideas came back into his mind. Maybe he could turn all three of them into one big idea. Make a huge scene. Then he reached to his boot and grabbed the hilt of his knife. It was now or never.

"I brought you something"and then Mace displayed the three tokens. Joseph was infuriated. He grabbed the knife from his boot and screamed at the top of his lungs.

"FOR ALEXANDER!!!" Joseph threw the knife at the stage, landing it in one of the pillars next to Mace.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

The shiver that would become a persistent tick moved up his arm, got lodged somewhere in his elbow. Nothing but the morphling could control it, and it seemed that given a sufficient amount of stress, even the cloying drug was no match for the memory of the snow. Part of Mace was still there, knelt and buried in the pink fluff, fingers wrapped around the hilt of Charas' longsword, in silent vigil. Though it could not have been more than a few moment, a piece of him remained there eternally, shivering and alone.

And though it was not possible for him to be alone, at least not until he completed the tour, there was a distance between him and the world, an alienation he did not fight to overcome. The tremors just reminded him of where he'd been, what he'd left behind. He'd just managed to unceremoniously dump the tokens into the possession of the Hoods when something from that icy, trembling part of him awoke. Or that's how it felt to Mace, in the moment. The whisper of a blade tossed end over end, sailing through the air.

He blinked, quite expecting to find himself on ice. Maybe he'd slept, finally, and dreamt it all. But one look around - a desperate look hoping to find one face among the thousands - told him that dreaming would only ever lead to disappointment.

He finally found the knife buried in a pillar not far from his head. It was a slow, delayed reaction, and by the time Mace processed it, he was mad. Furious. The morphling could not block out memories, grief, or the tremors, but it could make him look like a fool. He was the closest to the weapon, which was the only reason he reached it first. Mace drew it from the wood in one smooth motion, felt the familiar weight of the handle in his palm. It was not one of Larae's knives. No. This could be his knife, if he wanted it to be.

He looked at the crowd without any hope of finding whomever had released it. The Peacekeepers likely would see that before he could anyhow. And what would he do if he had seen the attacker? Mace's fingers curled tighter, so tight that they hurt. It was the pain that cooled his rage, that reminded Mace that he was indeed holding a knife, not trembling around it. He stared at the blade, conscious now that all eyes were upon him.

And when he forced it into the floorboards of the stage, it came down with perfect aim, right above the knot peeking out beneath his boot. Relief rippled palpably around him as Peacekeepers rushed the crowd, and his styling team moved to encircle him. They would likely give him more morphling now, maybe whether he wanted it or not, but he wasn't quite finished with Seven. He took three steps forward to the very edge of the stage and knelt once again in front of the Hood family. "Tell me her name." And he could have been talking about anyone - a lover, a friend, a sister, but he only wanted one name in all of Panem.

Time, as ever, was fighting him - but how long could a name take?And there was the echo of fire back in Mace's gaze, stoked but not yet lit. Somewhere deep the embers had found some fuel.

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[aya]

For I had no tongue, it had been replaced
By a green and growing flower which grew
and I knew if I ever spoke
I would speak true

Owen Rook —

[/i][/color]

Half of Owen Rook hadn't wanted to be here today, but what sort of example did that set for the kids? He'd already halfway destroyed everything the two Alexander Hoods had spent their whole lives trying to preserve: family first. But he'd been selfish — resentful, really — and between the increased focus of the ever-watching eye of the Capitol on their family that started when Alexander had made the Top Eight, he really didn't have much of a choice. All of Panem could've easily seen the miserable, impoverished existence of the broken Cornwall family — the Hood family felt more appropriate; their cheap whore of a mother contributed nothing except for more mouths to feed, whereas Alex and Phoebe — Alex and Alexander — spent practically their whole lives making sure everyone had something that resembled sustenance.

As soon as Alexander died, Owen hardly wasted a day before marching the quartet of remaining siblings off to the community home. He didn't have the same selflessness as the Alexanders; there wasn't enough in him to try to find life-consuming work, not that anyone would give it to him. And it wasn't as if he could do what his older sister had; at this point, everyone knew who Alexander Hood was — the false one, at least — and he couldn't pass her death off as his own and assume her identity. That trick didn't work when the whole nation — perhaps the only exception being her youngest brother, who'd buried his face in Owen's leg as the siblings watched from the square — watched her bleed to death (or had she frozen to death?) with a handful of knives lodged in her body.

Knives not unlike the ones the victor himself threw, knives not unlike the one thrown at the victor. A small chaos ensued, and Owen had to kick himself for being glad they were elevated somewhat, on the family platform. Glad that they'd had a tribute in the family. How sick. It was reasonable, though, to be glad that he needn't scoop Orville up in his arms despite the six-year-old's protests that he could walk just fine, glad that Jason and Ellie didn't have to link arms and grab on to Owen's one remaining belt loop, glad that he didn't need to worry about someone being trampled in the pandemonium. He may not have provided for the family the way Alexander did, but he looked after the others all the same.

In the mayhem, Mace Emberstatt approached their side of the stage for the second time, kneeling, and before he even opened his mouth to voice his inquiry, Owen knew exactly what the victor would be whispering. His heart took off on adrenaline, because even though Alexander's secret scarcely mattered — after all, what more could they do to her at this point? — it was still a secret, and one that Owen had worried just as much as his sister had that it would somehow end up betrayed. He wondered how the victor knew; was it some footage from the Arena, censored before airing, or perhaps this Mace character was just clever.

"Tell me her name."

Panic washed over him as Mace's question confirmed Owen's adrenal response. He really didn't want to tell him; it felt wrong to give up any sort of information, even if it was too late for Alexander now — for Phoebe now. "I —" he took a deep breath, visibly flustered and clutching one of the tokens that Mace had handed to him before, that he'd graciously accepted without a word. He didn't care much for the keepsake value, but he was sure he could find a buyer for the alliance's set — sans the bit of wood Alexander had pulled from her boot and tied into a necklace with her shoelace, but maybe he could check her pine box for that. (He was certain that Alexander wouldn't mind the looting if it meant she could feed her family one last time.) So, only because he owed Mace one for the three little treasures, he took a deep breath and told him — more than he wanted to know, maybe.

"Phoebe," he whispered, locking eyes with Mace. As soon as that was out, he wanted to say more, to expose the truth — just this once — for all the times he'd kept it hidden. He deserved that. "Phoebe Elizabeth Lionel. Alex Hood was our big brother."

Owen glanced around, though it didn't seem anyone else — besides maybe his siblings — had heard. He kept surveying, though, eyes darting across the crowd, the stage, partly out of paranoia and partly because he wanted to do anything but stare into the unsettling, hollow eyes of Mace Emberstatt.

[/size][/blockquote][/justify]