[Never] Had It Coming // (Open)

[L△LIA]

[bg=292226][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; border:1px solid #000000; opacity: 1;] i never imagined you d e a d but tell me are you even a w a r e The instructor at the archery station is the most insufferable person of my life. (More than the muscle-minded Careers at the Training Center in Two and here who insist that force is all that's necessary; more than seven-year-old schoolyard bullies who tried to tell me that I — my soul, my disjointed bones, everything I've ever been — was wrong; more than the THUD THUD THUD heartblood voice that haunts my quiet moments before sleep with a backwards kind of dreaming that questions what I've always thought I wanted.) This man insists I hold the bow steady in my hands and smirks with disapproval each time I loose an arrow from the string, missing the target completely. "You're doing it wrong," he says. "I know." These forced flaws wind my voice tight with agitation as I glance up at the Gamemakers overseeing our training. I make a move to correct my stance (because I am better than this and I can prove it, I have to prove it, I need to —), but then his hands are on my shoulders, holding me in place. I am caged in failure. All I can do is wait for the redemption of escape. It comes with a clatter of distraction, a metallic CRASH ringing out from a near-by station. He glances away, the weight of his too-standard expectations lifted for an instant, and I seize the opportunity. If this were the Arena, he'd be dead, only not by my hands — Flipping backwards, the bow is passed from incompetent fingers to the soles of my feet. Toes send arrow after arrow into the dead-eyed center of the target and the dizzy thrum within my veins settles its screams to prove my worth. With one shot left, I turn my attention, intent on exacting petty revenge against the instructor who only moments earlier forced shame to mar the performance I've decided to stake my life on. Posed for the threat of a heartstrike (aimed at his chest for the sake of a split-second of gratification at his fear before I drop arms and legs with a smirk even wider than his own), the face I find staring back at me is not the one I was expecting. Although, in a few days, it will be just as much of a target in my sights.

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[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px] take away the sensation inside bittersweet migraine in my head it's like a throbbing toothache of the mind i can't take this feeling anymore drain the pressure from the swelling I could have told anyone who asked that archery wouldn’t be my forte, but Patrick had insisted I try in that airy, noncommittal way of his, telling me that the things I was capable of might surprise me one day. I’m not surprised now at how my arms scream in protest against the unyielding pressure, how my forearm is stained in a motley of bruises from the bowstring’s unforgiving kiss. But I am stubborn in only the way a Destin can be, bullheaded to my own detriment with gritted teeth and narrow eyes as the little demon in my hands bites at my flesh with a vicious snap and another arrow goes flying two feet wide of the target’s edge. “Try again,” some faceless enigma outside the edge of my focus urges me, and that’s enough to make me snap. With a shriek of blind fury I stomp my foot petulantly against the unyielding concrete beneath it and hurl the bow away from me with as much force as I can muster, sending it flying into the target with an almighty crash. After an hour of practice, I think that’s the only way I’ll ever hit anything with one of the damn things. There’s a bitter, cynical ghost inside of me that whispers questions of any effort at all – why bother, when the end is the same regardless of how many bruises I earn, how many dummies I carve up in the week I have to prepare myself for hell? Death doesn’t hold any discomfort for me save not knowing exactly when it will come, and no arrows or Career-technique can give me those answers. When I turn around, a hand carding irritably through my hair, there’s an arrow pointed at my chest. Perhaps death is coming sooner than I thought. The girl from Two looks like some sort of disjointed scorpion, hovering effortlessly on her palms as her stinger hones in on the suddenly-frantic beating behind my ribcage. To my credit, I don’t flinch. There’s something to be said for having nothing to lose in a realm that guarantees to make you lose everything. Rather than the corrosive fear that my adrenaline is screaming for me to give into, it’s only a vague sort of curiosity that settles across my face, head tilting to the side as I look at the serpentine curve of her spine, the practiced curl of her toes around the bowstring that I couldn’t even handle with my clumsy fingers. “How do you do that?” the sensation's overwhelming give me a long kiss goodnight and everything will be all right tell me i won't feel a thing so give me novacaine

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[L△LIA]

[bg=292226][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; border:1px solid #000000; opacity: 1;] see i'm not walkin on it or tryin to run around it this ain't no acrobatics you either follow or you lead yeah, i'm talkin bout you Moonface to stoneface with the girl from Four — or rather: arrow to chest, danger to heart, intent to accident — disappointment and relief flood my veins in equal doses, like twin facets of the same unidentifiable emotion. The archery instructor is nowhere to be seen and perhaps this is no coincidence. Despite the way my failed revenge begs to disagree, this is probably for the best. My escort would throw a fit if she could see me now, a flutter-tongued hurricane of anger and confusion, because I am supposed to be the perfect Tribute, not some untamed heathen with more muscles than sense. It's an idea I've trained a lifetime for, this thought that I could redefine a standard and become the personification of a revolution, no matter how many of these other Tributes seem to think I'm fighting to change the wrong things. Even as we look at each other, suspended in this state of closeness, it's impossible for River Destin and I to see eye to eye. Trading the surprised tension in her face for curiosity, she asks — "How do you do that?" — as if this were a logical question. Her's is the kind of expression that freely admits to the divide between our minds and I feel my own features slip into a similar set as I try to sort out how to answer. Head tilting in an accidental-mirror mimicry of her as my toe-tug on the bow string relaxes into a less deadly kind of release, the question only fractures into perplexing pieces the longer I think it over. How? There is no how. This is the same as reaching out with an arm, as picking up a pencil or cup. It's what comes naturally; my body was always meant for this. I learned to bend the same way I learned to walk: I stumbled and I fell, but it was always necessary and never optional. "How do you not?"

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[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px] take away the sensation inside bittersweet migraine in my head it's like a throbbing toothache of the mind i can't take this feeling anymore drain the pressure from the swelling "How do you not?" she replies, even the tilt of her head somehow languid and impossible as her aim relaxes, pulling me out of Death's embrace (for now. Maybe in a few days it will be like this all over again - River Destin, best known as the victim of death by foot-arrow). My eyes narrow at her instinctively, trying to figure out if she's mocking me or not, but there's a sort of frank honesty in the raspy alto of her voice, a genuine curiosity that echoes my own initial question. This is what she knows, this contorted Career, more comfortable in impossible arcs and dazzling angles than in simply doling out Death the way her peers have been taught. Anyone she kills will die a beautiful death, and while I don't know how much comfort there is in that, there's bound to be a little. "Not is easier than you'd expect," I shrug, wondering if she honestly doesn't know that most people aren't capable of twisting themselves in-out-around in a human ribbon. The ludicrous curve of her spine had seemed unsettling at first, but something stupid in me starts to wonder if I could replicate it if I tried hard enough. I swore that there would be no bonds, no friendship, but even the oddest of graces has a way for drawing people in. Against my will my expression softens into something almost reverent, the frown leaking away from the corners of my lips. "Your form is beautiful, though. I dance, so I guess I can appreciate it?" Danced. Past tense. The rare evenings where I'll tie on a pair of worn pointe shoes and whirl around our tiny living room are nothing compared to the wide stages and pretty costumes I'd known as a little girl, but there's still something liberating in them that sends a sudden pang of longing stabbing between my ribs. Chancing another look at the girl from Two, my grace-envy takes hold and I let myself fall forward, vaulting up onto my hands in a poor imitation of her shooting stance. The angles of my limbs are awkward and my spine mumbles discomfort, but there's still something within my would-be contortion that has a chance of being beautiful. "I can see where you're coming from, though. The world looks better from here. I'm River. I'm sorry, I don't remember your name." the sensation's overwhelming give me a long kiss goodnight and everything will be all right tell me i won't feel a thing so give me novacaine

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