<Atlas Cornell> two.

<Atlas Cornell> two. Sept 5, 2011 10:47:09 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Lulu on Sept 5, 2011 10:47:09 GMT -5

the crown on my head is heavy on me
they wouldn't know it
cause they don't wanna see

atlas cornell.
sixteen.
male.
district two.

the skin on my face is turning bright pink
as i walk by the girl's choir whispering

the street that i walk welcomes my feet
with cryptic graffiti greetings to read
the smile on my mouth it came dirt cheap
I bought it secondhand

[/i]

Atlas is built stocky and strong, and Career training has only enhanced his muscles and stature. The strongest muscles are in his legs - these were built up from many years of climbing up and down the rocky mountainside on which he makes his home. Years of dieting - or the opposite of dieting, really, though his father prefers to call it that - has allowed him to put on weight, but countless hours of training has converted most of this to more muscle. Broad shoulders would give him an authoritative stance, but this is negated by the fact that he always walks with his head down, preferring to go unnoticed the majority of the time.

Both heritage - he is descended from Native Americans of old, though he doesn't know it - and much sun exposure have given him extremely tanned skin, dotted with various small scars and bruises from training. His father and brother share this same skin tone, and all in fact look very much alike. His hands - quite large - are rough and callused from hard work, as are his feet, since he often goes barefoot while walking along rocky terrain. Standing at five foot eleven, Atlas is perhaps a bit short in comparison to the other hulking Career tributes of his district, but is nevertheless above average height for his age and still fairly tall.

His face, unlike his fraternal twin brother's, does not have hard, angry features. The skin of his face is soft, with not even a hint of stubble, seeing as Nero, his father, frowns upon facial hair and insists that his boys stay clean-shaven. Rather than sharp and defined, his cheekbones are full, and his cheeks give his face a round appearance. His nose is rather large, as are his ears, though these are concealed by his scruffy hair more often than not. Contrary to popular belief, Atlas does smile, though rarely in the presence of his father. When he does, his smile is big and bright, with a faint hint of dimples on his cheeks. Just like the rest of his family, Atlas's eyes, set small in his face, are a deep, dark brown, so dark they appear almost black. They are framed by large, very dramatic dark eyebrows the same color as his hair.

Atlas doesn't pay particularly close attention to his hair, but he knows one thing: he likes it long, and opposes the military buzz cut his father will no doubt insist he receive if he isn't chosen for the Hunger Games. He likes his locks of deep black scruffy and long, or even slicked back on occasion, seeing as it sometimes gets in his eyes during training. When alone, though, he seldom attempts to tame it, as it rarely bothers him and sometimes it's nice to irritate his father, in a way.

Fashion would be the last thing on Atlas's mind even if his family could afford to purchase expensive, high end clothing of any sort. Atlas doesn't care at all what he wears, as long as it's comfortable and won't wear down with extended physical activity. He and his brother, swap clothes often, regardless of the fact that Scorpius is a bit bigger than him. Atlas has a nagging feeling that when his father comes home with a pile of clothes for them to wear - rarely new, always used - that he did not acquire these in a particularly legal manner; some unsuspecting District Two woman will no doubt go outside to check her washline and find her husband's and son's clothing nowhere to be found. He doesn't complain, though - though he isn't a fan of thievery, Atlas is well aware of the financial state they are in, which renders it necessary upon occasion.

i will always walk tall
taller than the clouds when the rain starts to fall
i come out of the wilderness to lay by the waterfall

[/color][/right]
At first glance, Atlas may appear distant and detached. He speaks to very few, often keeping to himself or associating with only his brother and his father. He isn't an easy person to make friends with; when he does converse with someone he isn't related to, he speaks quietly and doesn't say much of anything at all, very rarely revealing any personal information that would allow anyone to get to know him. The only thing he does consent to talking about freely is his training; it's easiest, and besides, he likes it.

He isn't particularly smart, not at all. Perhaps he would be, had he been given the education that most of the youth of Panem received. But Atlas has never been to school a day in his life, so naturally he isn't the brightest of teenagers. He can read and write and reason, he has pretty good natural instincts and a decent memory, but past that, when it comes to book smarts, he has nothing. Even his speaking shows he hasn't yet mastered the English language and probably never will - he speaks slow, as if testing out every word to make sure it's right, not pronouncing them all properly.

For a Career, Atlas is strangely self-deprecating. In general, the teenagers of the higher districts who train for the Hunger Games tend to be quite full of themselves, seeing as they are commonly bigger and tougher and stronger than everyone else. Atlas, however, is the exact opposite - he doesn't like talking about himself at all, and he's often down on himself for failure, particularly where training is involved. This does give him a good bit of humility, though, which most Careers - or his father and brother - don't have.

A quality that Atlas doesn't like to admit to having is his imagination. Though he isn't a master of words, the stories he thinks up and writes down about the stars and constellations he observes are engaging and creative. Sometimes he wishes he could share these with someone, but he doesn't have anyone besides his family, and they'd never approve of his un-Careerlike interest in the heavens. It isn't that Atlas doesn't like being a Career; he loves training, and doesn't want to stop. But he also loves crafting his stories, and the only way to continue doing that is to keep it a secret.

Atlas is definitely an introvert - he enjoys his own company, and feels a lot safer and more content in the safety of his own mind than anywhere else. His favorite time of the day is late at night, when he can escape all alone higher up his mountain, lie down, and stare at the stars. There's no one to bother him up that high. No one to insist he run faster or lift heavier or hit harder or eat more. His father isn't there to bark orders at him, and his brother isn't there to compete with, to be the model of what their father wants them to be but what Atlas isn't. He knows he isn't a typical Career. He knows storytelling and stargazing isn't what he's supposed to be interested in. But up there, no one can tell him what to do or think.

the wires to my head when i press play
who's this new prophet, has she got something to say?
the thoughts in my brain are backfiring
i'm a picture perfect passenger

As far back as he can remember, it had always been just Atlas, his twin brother, Scorpius, and their father, Nero. He doesn't remember anything about his mother; not her name, not what she looks like, not what her voice sounded like, nor if she'd actually been married to his father. He couldn't even remember her ever existing. It didn't help that his dad didn't talk about her, either, and neither Atlas nor Scorpius had ever dared to ask. So for Sixteen years it had been simply them.

The Cornell family was dirt poor, to say the least. They lived in a tiny, worn-down stone hut way up the side of a mountain in District Two, set far off from all the other small houses in their undersized, poverty-stricken mining village. Most mining families in Two had both parents working in the quarries, or at least working some kind of job in general, but seeing as Atlas's mother wasn't in the picture, they were restricted to his father's measly income. And Nero didn't even work full time, either - he devoted much of his time to training up his boys, since he had big plans for them.

Nero didn't bring in enough money to pay for schooling for them, nor would he have sent them if he could. Fortunately, organized education wasn't regarded very highly in Two; a large number of poor village families opted out of school for their children, instead starting them off right away with training for the Games or even a future Peacekeeping job. And that was exactly what Nero intended for Atlas and Scorpius - they would train for the Hunger Games all throughout their childhood, and if that failed and they couldn't get a spot, then they would begin training to be Peacekeepers directly after their seventh and final Reaping. He was desperate to keep them out of the mines; Nero regarded glory and honor highly, and there was nothing honorable about the awful existence he'd carved out for himself in the quarries.

Some families could afford to send their children to fancy training facilities to be taught by professionals the skills they would need to survive in the Games. Obviously, the Cornell family wasn't one of those, so Nero decided right away to train them on his own. He started them off small when they were little, going for long distance runs up and down skinny trails, climbing up courses in the rocky, steep mountainside, lifting homemade weights. Once they grew a bit older, he spent every spare penny he could on weapons to practice with; swords, knives, spears, clubs, anything he could get his hands on, most often illegally. Atlas always loved training hours, and always gave his best effort; strength was one of the few things he had going for him, and it was a satisfying way to spend his time.

Mealtimes were controlled as well. Nero put his sons on a strict diet to match their training regimen - basically, they ate a lot to bulk up their strength, particularly protein, and if either refused food he was told to eat, he would be punished. And Nero had no qualms about punishing them, sometimes even using force; it was one of the many ways why he was less of a father and more of a coach. But Atlas had never been exposed to a nurturing parent, so he had no idea what he was missing, nor did he really care.

Around the age of twelve, Atlas took to sneaking out of the house at night; both his father and brother were enormously heavy sleepers, so there was no risk of getting caught. Once out, he would climb the mountain his house was located on, not necessarily to the top, but as high as he could go before he got tired. He would find a nice ledge to lie on, make sure he was comfortable, and then stare up at the vast expanse of night above him. It was so, so black - save for the tiny specks of light that were stars. The stars particularly fascinated him, and sometimes he compared himself to them; just like a star, he occupied one tiny space in an enormous universe.

He knew about constellations, but he couldn't put a proper name on any of them, having not been educated. So he would make them up - there was the spoon-thing, the Career tribute that held the bow and arrow, ready to shoot the bull coming at him, the dragon, the scorpion. He would craft stories about them, long and detailed, usually without a happy ending because he believed those didn't exist. Sometimes he'd bring a piece of paper and a pencil with him up the mountain, and write his tales down in his untidy scrawl. (Nero had taught the boys to read and write, though their education had all but ended there) He never shared these with anyone, though - a Career training hard for the Games wasn't supposed to be a storyteller. It just wasn't right.

Scorpius was always a lot more gung-ho about their master plan than Atlas was; he often envisioned himself as a Peacekeeper, getting out of his inauspicious life in Two and moving on to better things, getting to see different parts of Panem and have some sort of power, however little it was. Atlas, however...well, he couldn't imagine ever living anywhere else than right here, in the cramped little stone hut in Two. He wasn't dissatisfied with his life; sure, a bit more space would be nice, but he enjoyed the certainty of the routine that repeated itself every day. He wasn't like Scorpius in that he craved change. He did want a spot in the Hunger Games, of course, he had been training so hard for it, and he wouldn't let all that go to waste. Besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn't enjoy being a Peacekeeper as much as Scorpius would. What he wasn't sure of, though, was how much he wanted to win the Games if he managed to get in. He didn't want to move on to live the rich life of a victor. Didn't want all that fame and fortune, and would most definitely rather stay away from the glaring cameras. As he grew older, he grew more and more sure that he wanted to die in the Hunger Games. Just like all stars vanished from the sky at some point, Atlas Cornell couldn't seem to envision himself living past the age of eighteen.

i will always walk tall
i hold my loneliness up like a medicine ball
i come out of the wilderness to lay by the waterfall
lighten my load