s t u b b ◊ r n beauty // nofo
Feb 7, 2012 15:30:08 GMT -5
Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Feb 7, 2012 15:30:08 GMT -5
We were spitting venom
at most everyone we know
if the damned gave us a roadmap
then we'd know just where to go —
now let it drop.
Stark Harper —
Another reaping had come and passed without the vapid district escort drawing the name "Stark Harper" from the massive pool of eligible names, and as such, she was just as far as she'd always been from carrying out her life plans: get reaped, win (obviously — she was Stark Harper after all) and work her way into the small group of Gamemakers. That was the position of prestige that she was after; she would easily climb the ranks to Head Gamemaker after they hired her, as it was then that they'd see her brilliance in action. Besides, Head Gamemaker was not at all a position that anyone held on to for very long; one Games that didn't go as the president pleased, that didn't make a gain in the ratings, and that was it. Fired. Executed, maybe, if the failure was bad enough.
But luckily, Stark didn't fail. She didn't lose fights and she didn't lose bets, and though she did lose her temper from time to time, she never lost the fights that often got her into. She refused to let herself; after all, failure was for the weak, and she'd never let herself be counted among them — that was a category for the lower districts, for many of her fellow Careers, for this year's crop of tributes. Failure was for the weak, and Stark Harper was convinced that she was anything but.
So wholeheartedly did Stark detest the majority of District One's citizens, it was a miracle that she ever left her house. It was necessary for her to do so, of course, as she'd do anything — grudgingly, perhaps, but she would — to increase her chances of securing the position of tribute for the next Games. Although it wasn't an election, being more notorious would be helpful if it came down to volunteering. When she was twelve, Stark had learned the hard way that there was a hierarchy where stepping up to enter the Games was involved, so she deemed it beneficial to be as close to the top as possible. If that meant practically campaigning for the position, so be it.
The trouble with this, however, was that Stark was by no means likable and had a difficult time convincing herself that she ought to act as such. So, for the most part, her outings consisted of glaring at everyone with intimidation in mind, keeping her combat skills sharp, or prowling through the shadows in an attempt to relive her brief stint in the murderous Murderess Band, even though the group dissolved quite awhile ago. No matter how nervous the others made her, Stark liked the tense company more than any she'd ever kept — perhaps because they had enough similarities to her that she could actually respect them. The respect of Stark Harper was seldom earned and never given away freely.
"Campaigning" for Stark essentially consisted of heading out to the district square, where a jumbotron was set up each year during the Hunger Games for public viewing. One hand curled around the switchblade that she always kept in her right pocket and the other tucked into a fist, Stark forced herself into the crowd, teeth clenched into a snarl behind lips pressed together so firmly it seemed as if they might spontaneously grow together. Being in the midst a throng of people unsettled her, really; it set her on edge and kept her from any hopes of being at ease (not that the Career ever was.) But Stark never saw being so crowd-averse as a fault — instead, the constant supply of paranoid adrenaline was a useful safety mechanism, and she didn't doubt that the day would come where her constant vigilance would save her from some random attack.
The paranoia was justified, of course, considering that several years ago Stark had been jumped by a group of older boys after attempting to volunteer at her first reaping. She'd managed to escape, of course, because even a twelve-year-old Stark Harper was still a Stark Harper who didn't lose — she might not have won, but she didn't lose — because if you're not cheating, you're not trying. But ever since — well, even before the incident, really — Stark made sure to glare daggers at everyone in her vicinity so that maybe she wouldn't have to actually pull one. Not that she'd mind if she did.
She fought her way through the mass of people, trying to ignore the stench of such a large gathering of Career males in particular, until she reached a spot with what seemed like an adequate number of her peers — peers in age only — and then pretended to direct her attention to the screen. In reality, her icy eyes darted from side to side as she tried to focus in on the movement that surrounded her, scanning the crowd for threats until she felt relatively comfortable. When the blonde was able to put herself at enough ease, she genuinely did begin to pay a bit of attention to the screen, even though it was difficult to focus with all the irrelevant gossip loudly whispered by the teens on all sides of her. She didn't care if what's-her-face was cheating on her boyfriend or if so-and-so's dog ran away from home. I could murder you all, she thought bitterly, brow furrowing in vexation. And your little dog, too.
Running a thumb over the release button of her switchblade, halfway tempted, Stark allowed herself to use the Games recap that was playing at the front of the square as an excuse to ignore her surroundings momentarily. Though she knew everything that had happened thus far, it was hard not to be irritated by how badly their district's tributes had messed up already, with day two not yet completed. Although lasting to the competition's second day was an improvement over the previous year, Stark couldn't help but resent how pitifully the pair of Ones were doing, especially since the Quell Twist made the competition that much easier for those trained to fight in the Games. Honestly, the only thing the lower districts really had going for them was strength in numbers — looking at the quartet of guys that had dominated the bloodbath during the 59th made that quite obvious.
Stark knew that this Quell would have been an ideal scenario for her; the only record of her working well in groups was with the Murderess Band, and even then she'd constantly felt the need to keep one eye on her back for fear that they'd turn on her without warning. Her progress reports from preschool said the same thing anyone could deduce just by looking at her: Stark doesn't play well with others. Stark has trouble socializing. Stark tends to pick on the other kids. The only reason why she'd even consider making an alliance was because of the strength in numbers rule; a swarm of those termite lowers had the potential to take her out, anyhow, and it would be nice to have someone to throw at a mutt at in order to ensure her escape. Someone expendable. Maybe two someones. Though it would be hard for Stark to come off as anything but a snake in the grass, which would certainly pose a problem in getting people to align themselves with her.
As if her thoughts had been projected onto the screen in front of the crowd, a snake's coiled figure suddenly lashed out at a hand, drawing Stark's attention back to the the Games that she ought to be in. Of course, more of their district's pathetic work. This time, Stark couldn't help herself from groaning audibly and complaining rather loudly: "Ripred, she can't get anything right, can she?" She punctuated this with a scowl. "Mediocre score in training, goddamn broken leg in the bloodbath, and then she goes and gets her hand bitten by a goddamn snake. Such a disappointment. Not that Moreno is much better, running away from the bloodbath with hardly a scratch on him." She glowered, positively worked up about how awful the tributes were doing when she knew that she herself would be exceeding expectations in their spots. It wasn't right that she was confined to the district when those who were afforded the opportunities she deserved were not doing their positions justice.
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