the pointy end {sam} / blitz!

[✨ zozo.]

Hide and seek
Trains and sewing machines
(Oh, you won't catch me around here)
Blood and tears
All those years, they were here first

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I really should do something whilst I'm here. Anything, at least, to help me learn to survive. Learn to cope. That's what it's here for, right? To help me. Bullshit. Careers spend all their lives training, and not all of them win. Even if a Victor is a prestigious Career, that's 3 others who hadn't done enough. A whole life's dedication to these slaughter-houses, and what do they get? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A few days learning how to patch myself up or start a fire isn't going to do anything if I'm dead on Day One.

We're not supposed to show off, apparently. Leave that to the Career Kids. Stay low, stay away. Eyes, heavy and aching from lack of sleep that has decided to distance itself from me, surely aren't helping. Sleep stays away when I'm in survival mode, and I've been fighting to stay alive from the moment I arrived here. Yet I need the skills, not just for me, but for Bran too. I cannot let him down - I promised. Promised my mother, my sister, my brothers and, most importantly, Bran himself. Our family motto rings in my ears: Family, Duty, Honour. It is my duty to help my brother, my family, and I must do this with honour. With valour, with dignity. I am still a Wolfe, I am still his sister, and I refuse to let him down.

The Gamemakers perch above us, watching, observing. Beady little eyes dart around the room, exchanging words every so often or pointing towards a certain tribute. I keep on forgetting that we're no longer people, children - but tributes. And I suppose I'm one, too. District Eight's Female Tribute, that's all I'll ever be to people in days, weeks, months, years. My name is Aria Wolfe, and the last person who will forget that is myself. As I too look around the centre, I spy the girl from Four, who's sister died in the Seaweed Room last year. Nine's volunteer, and Twelve's, and One's, along with the rest of the Careers. Her district partner, hunched over at the First Aid table, blonde hair swept from his face so hard-set eyes could concentrate on... stumbling, fumbling over the needle in his shaking hands. Mother said to stay away from the Careers, but when have I ever been one to listen to her?

For a while, I sit and watch. I don't know the boy's name - I haven't bothered to learn anyone else's (it makes it easier to slam a knife through their insides) whilst I've been here. All I know is that something happened to his father on Reaping Day, and he didn't take it well. And he gets me thinking, as I watch him struggle over the teeniest, tiniest little weapon (Sarita would laugh and say she'd never thought she'd see the day where someone else was worse at needlework than myself) about how we're all just the same. Each and every one of us in this expansive training facility. All connected, in some way, like a puzzle. We all want to live, none of us want to die, but some other things are hidden beneath surfaces too deep to see at first glance. I don't know why, but they boy from One reminds me of Jon, and a powerful ache for him home erupts inside of me. Surely he won't be able to cause too much damage with a silly little needle, and if he does, well, I know how to take care of myself just fine.

So I spring from the wall I leant on, and walk slowly towards him. The shaking is more prominent now - and I wonder (hehehehe) if he's absorbed the earthquake that shook One last year. Tremors sneak through his limbs, an agitated, desperate look of pain paints itself on his face - too caught up in the piece of fabric to notice my arrival. Delicately, so not to startle him, I slide my hand towards his shaking ones and take the cloth, turning the needle the right way up. "You're supposed to use it with the pointy end" I state, holding back a smile that would certainly show itself if he had not looked so distressed. Jon cared about Father, and looked just like that when he died. And I see more and more of Jon through him as the seconds tick by, and find my head screaming to not trust him, that it's all an act, that he's playing the weakling, toying with my feelings - but I refuse to believe it.

Death can crack the hardest of hearts, and I know that better than anyone.

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs
Speak no feeling, no I don't believe you
You don't care a bit
You don't care a bit

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think others talk do


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[Wonder]

I wait on the Emerald Isle for you to come and rescue me,
from every step that I take. Feet don't you ever break,
drag me over that line, halfway around the medicine ball is far enough
to blow me back, like you broke the bank on the ticket
worth every damn nickel, you got me that time.

I never saw my father die.

The thought clouded every single spot in my head making it nearly impossible to do anything else, moving became nothing but a struggle, and even conversation was completely out of the window. Thrown into a train, forced to ride about on chariots, there was no time to even talk had I wanted to. The Games were fast paced and waited for no one, and they especially didn’t wait for grief – there was still tons of that to come, whether or not I supplied it. The distraught faces of the other tributes were enough to acknowledge that fact. But yet as the days passed, it became easier. A dry mouth that hardly forced out a single syllable no matter the effort, simply disappeared with time. Eagerness to move forward, and anger, and interview prep only forced the talking.

The water helped, the juices, the fine array of drinks that came at the drop of a hat should one ask. There was no excuse for my mouth to be dry, and my unwillingness to talk. At least, not in Carmel’s eyes. The frilly escort had been nothing but unpleased with the unease of her career tribute, having been assigned the best District was no small matter and not wanting to talk was not something she was allowing on her agenda. Despite an unwillingness to talk, a harsh grip of reality that had me wanting to hole up into the depths of the comfiest bed I had ever wrapped myself up in, and the thought of impending doom that seemed to blanket over the entire training center, I had to wake up that morning.

Harsh light hit the windows and the shrill voice of Carmel, hollering down the bedroom hallway quickly roused even the drunken fools from their beds. Forcing through the walls that had built themselves up brick by brick in my mind, the desperate cry snapped me to attention, well, as much attention as one could have in the days that were to follow. It was hard to say if I had actually even drifted off into sleep that night, I spent no time watching the clock, watching each minute strike, each number change indicating another second, minute, hour gone on without my dad, Zircon Myler, living and breathing.

There was no time for dilly dallying, these were the games after all. It didn’t frighten me. No, the idea of surviving in the arena, the idea of taking out other children was nothing but a lesson imprinted so heavily in to my mindset that it had become out of the question to shake it off. And perhaps even, it was better to think of a dying father, than ones impending doom. Was he prepared to die? Was I?

I never heard my father’s dying words.

The training center filled up quicker than ever, tributes branching off left and right to take a stab at what they thought they were worst at, some clearly avoiding stations that their eyes longed after, trying not to show off their strengths despite how much their body wanted them to. Being a career had its advantages, there weren’t any stations that were needed to be avoided, I could show off any particular skills that I wanted and not be judged for it. I could clean slice a head of a dummy and watch at the awe filled faces and laugh, it was something hard to believe that people lived in places that had no one who tried as hard as we did, the careers that is.

There was no making up for the years of training, a certain sense of experience just seemed to exude from each of us, coming from District One, Two, or Four just automatically seemed to make you a monster, a killer, someone to avoid at all costs despite how good one of us may be – I may be. But that was really the question, was I a monster? I hadn’t even bothered to learn anyone’s names besides those from the career districts. The Dempsey girl, Kiera, psycho as ever, skulking about the training center like a lion on the hunt. There was Atlas, from District Two, a career, and his partner Demeter who spent an awful lot of time with knives. Learna, Penelope’s sister, who surely hadn’t trained but had a reputation that exceeded career status, and Mason the boy, career, but nothing really there.

That was five names in a room of twenty-three others, and there was no propelling force within me pushing forward to learn anything. Was I a monster?

No. No I was not a monster. The first aid tutor babbled in my ear about applying pressure, and doughnut wraps, severed limbs, stitching up wounds, but none of it really clicked. Despite years of training, first aid had never really been an area of specialty and despite the fact that maybe I should very well take the time to listen – I was clouded by thoughts. I was clouded by my father. How long until my clock would tick away too? How long would my mother last after the both of us had left our earthly bodies? Stitchingwasreallyeasyallyouhavetodois Was it my fault that my father died? Areyoupayingattentionidon’tquitethinkyou’re When my name was called did it finally push him over the edge? Hereyouknowwhattakethisifyouwon’tpayattention Was it really the curse that the parents were supposed to die before the child? Justsimplystitchitupgotitillbebacksoon.

Forcibly trying to push a needle into fake flesh, it quickly slammed into my fingertips, a drop of blood escaping, already injured and we weren’t even into the arena yet, that was a good sign. The small point wouldn’t stop shaking, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the room wouldn’t stop shaking, cringing, my body wouldn’t stop fighting the urge to wail and scream and escape out that window up high maybe if I climbed high enough it would or maybe just maybe I could unlock a door with the needle or “Shit.” The needle went through my index finger again, a large red drop escaping from it, maybe I just needed to bleed to know I was alive.

“You're supposed to use it with the pointy end." A smaller girl. What District? I didn’t even know. She was the cripple’s sister, the sibling tributes. How cruel fate was to such small kids, especially her, small and fragile and yet snarky. Sarcastic as hell, how dare she? How dare she how dare she howdareshetryandundermine me.

“Thanks.” I flip the needle over in my palm, the silver point shining quickly reflecting off the gym lights. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your cripple or something?” And the stinging kept going, and the monster kept raging, and slowly but surely I kept on dying.

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OOC: lol what's a blitz idk do u?

[✨ zozo.]

I'm on the front line
Don't worry, I'll be fine
The story is just beginning
I say goodbye to my weakness
So long to the regret

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I can practically feel my family shoving advice down my throat. Don't trust them, Aria. Stay away from them, Aria. He's a Career, Aria, it's staring you in the face, Aria. AriaAriaAriaAriaAria you're stupid Aria. They're not here though, none of them (except Bran, of course, but I don't like to think about that because the guilt eats me from the inside and it hurts), so I push them away. I'm here now, they did nothing to stop me, and I suppose I'm going to die one way or another. Better off here in the hands of a frustrated Career than out in the arena with dismembered body parts and my body slowly shutting down.

He thanks me, and for a moment, I actually thought the guy had some heart. Then "Aren’t you supposed to be with your cripple or something?" poured form his mouth, and in a finger-snap, my views on him changed completely. My head swivels on my shoulders to spy Bran - hands twisting rope around to form different knots - satisfied with his safety. He seemed to be alone, for now, so contently, I turn back to the first aid station. Scowling, annoyance skimming under my skin, fingers grab my own set of needle and thread, stabbing the material with furious hands. The reminder of Bran's presence here makes it all the more draining to sit and teach myself survival skills so I can live, and he doesn't. Telling myself over and over again that I'm doing this, learning this, for Bran - but we all know 24 go in and 1 comes out. I should've listened to Sarita more when she tried to teach me to sew. At least I could actually use the damn slither of silver the right way up.

Years of physical play fighting isn't enough to win these Games, but I thanked my past self for my sour, sharp tongue - quick to rebound attacks as fast as my fists did. I dion't have time to stop myself before the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a sarcastic, bitter retort. "Aren't you supposed to be at a funeral, or something?" There. I'd done it. Played with fire, time and time again, risking burn after burn as the flames dance closer and closer to my body with every moment my mouth is open, whispering for me. Warning me. But as soon as they dance off of my lips, muscles tense up, bracing myself for the impact of reaction. Play with his weaknesses. That's how the others got ahead, got further. Find a weakness. And destroy it.

Before he it destroys you first.

And now I know that I'm alive
I'm on the front line
Don't worry I'll be fine
I say goodbye to my weakness
And now I see the world through diamond eyes

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{ooc: idek what this is but i guess we're blitzing now?}

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[Wonder]

I wait on the Emerald Isle for you to come and rescue me,
from every step that I take. Feet don't you ever break,
drag me over that line, halfway around the medicine ball is far enough
to blow me back, like you broke the bank on the ticket
worth every damn nickel, you got me that time.

She’d said it. Whether or not it was a slip of the tongue, an accident, or a purposeful blow, she had said it. My father was dead. There was no beating around the bush; there was no avoiding the topic at hand. When a man died during the reapings, not in the actual arena himself, there was bound to be talk about it. It was a wonder, maybe, perhaps, every harsh look, every silent whisper, and awful glare had nothing to do with the status that I’d clung to so hard since my arrival.

I was the kid whose father had died nothing more; I was not a career, a killer, probably. Despite that title that clung to me for my years of training day in and day out, it was the fact that the person closest to me in my life – the man I’d lost so suddenly, was my identifier. “Yes, I do.” There was a funeral somewhere, sometime, but there were no details for the dead man walking. “And I’d happily stick this needle in your throat if I can get there sooner.”

And just like her blow, I nailed one right back. Words hurt more than anything that could possibly happen in this arena, there’d be numerous times where I’d received a blow to the head, numerous days where I was quite sure that I might blow up, but there was never worse a time than when I was publically humiliated each and every day. “But we all know that isn’t happening.” The words escape my mouth before I know what I’m saying, there was no way I was going to my father’s funeral, the only way I was going to it was if I was being buried side by side with him. The likelihood of my death was so big, that my mother was probably waiting for my death to bury both of us at once. Less cost, less mourning.

The thought of my mother standing above both of our corpses being lowered into the ground was heartbreaking, scary, and impossible. Impossible that a woman so strong for so long losing both of the men in her life, so quickly. Every inch of me welling up, feeling like exploding, blowing up, but all there was was me and a girl from District 8. “I’ll go to yours instead, waiting for the hovercraft to pick you up.”

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[✨ zozo.]

Tear it down
Break the barricades
I need this favor
I want to see what sound you make
Under the night where you can die

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This boy could talk, alright. With each angry stab into the material, I pretend it's him, jabbing my annoyance out as I stitch up the bandage with clumsy stitches. Father-talk simply wasn't my forte. I haven't cried since I came here, I don't think I cried since my father died - in fact, it all has seemed to mesh together as one blue of events that will not separate themselves in my head. I remember feeling empty, for a while. And then angry. So, so angry. Even the mere mention of him set me off. Grief could certainly play to my advantage here - it was just about stepping on the right keys and pushing the right buttons before the blonde boy from District One exploded in my midst.

"Well I'll take that offer up, Needleboy" I chide, throwing down my equipment in a huff. Anger boiled through me, threatening to overflow. "Better you wait out here for the rest of your life before you get to see your father again. I, on the other hand," and a smirk twists its way into my expression, joining eyebrows that furrow together whenever I'm frustrated, "would love to see mine."

I still didn't know his name. Quite frankly, I liked Needleboy a lot better. It suited him - sharp, quick, slicing through the air with hurtful words and threatening promises. I’ll go to yours instead, waiting for the hovercraft to pick you up. Like the cranes that glide upwards to steal corpses away from arena after arena, I stand up from my sitting position, abandoning all hope in first aid like I did with sewing years ago.

"I'll be waiting, Needleboy" I spit before furiously turning on my heel, cheeks flushed with rage and eyes prickling dangerously as they search for Bran, someone, anyone else who could distract me from the thought of Bran's, mine, or even Needleboy's lifeless, limp bodies being dragged towards the sky in a prison of metal. And oddly, I don't want to see him die.

How does it feel
How does it feel?
All I feel is like I'm on fire
Wake up, I know you can hear me
Make me a promise here tonight

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