and so disaster found you; semper

[Tattletale]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: 0; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 350px;] ZELDA CAUCHEMAR Underneath dark pigments, a spark lives in a burrow, a warren of its own in her irises, only the slightest of oxygen to ignite it into flames. The air in Thirteen is still, tepid, compressed, suffocating, but her lungs are an entirely different mechanism on its own — she is a robot, she thinks, made of compartments crafted from steel and wires, from bronze sheets. Her bones are metal pipes, and perhaps if you shut up, stand very still, hold your breath, stop your heartbeat — you'd hear every creak as she moves her limbs, every rattle when she breathes. They all said she was rotten inside, but you can't be rotten if you weren't alive in the first place; clockwork insides in harmony with each other, molten and burnt with death at the edges. Air catches fire when she exhales, the mixture of manmade components in a sustainable body not a good combination in the end. If there's one thing she excels at, it's getting the mixtures wrong: of herself, of hundred other potions waiting to be tested on unsuspecting humans, and in the end a cloud of smoke greets her once again — how are you, my friend? She'd spit on the cauldron, then peek inside her drawstring bag, the home of leaves, a slowly dying source, unless nature insists and creates cracks through the walls for plants to grow through. She could only wish. She would wish, if she wasn't such a extremist, a masochist of her own kind, but it wouldn't be called self-torture if you love it so much. They believe her to be evil, spawn of the devil, plucked from hell to run mayhem on ground — then so be it. She goes through life like a schoolyard children's game, an eternal hide-and-seek where they were the woodland creatures and she was the beast, sharpened molars to match her own claws. She would wish, but she believes fairytales and make-believe happy endings to be made of the same goodness, and that was reserved for certain people. Certain people who slept on the ground under the canopy of leaves and dead trees, certain people who believed in self-made conformity, and she was not one of them. It would do no good to wish on one's self, nor would it be any good to send your dreams on something dead. She believes herself to be — she is — a suicidal star, a supernova long burst, and the blankness of Thirteen was only the product of devastation left writhing in her wake. She has seen others complain about the paleness of it all, and that could only be a fraction of happiness she tends to steal every now and then, erupting in petty little pranks to set off her ticking time bomb veins. If you would, sir, do so kindly stop, you would hear ropes devoured by running sparks just below the surface of her skin, and that would be adrenaline. Blood, you say? Sir, there would be no use if you had no heart. She taints the atmosphere, turning metallic and tangy when she enters a room, and she hopes one day the fumes with envelope the rest, not to consume but only to taste — let the taste of freedom linger and stick itself in the walls of their mouths until they crave for it. But they don't taste freedom, the only thought to cross her mind while her legs pumped, arms swinging and fist clenching, the stretch of vacant space lengthening with each second (there was nothing to outrun, but she believed that if she ran like a fugitive, they'd come running after.) They tasted acrid smoke and burning paper wrapper, left to crumble to ashes by their doorstep. There were a fair amount of messengers in District Thirteen, but only one would set a package on fire with no certain intention. That would be Zelda Cauchemar, and that would be the sound of herself crashing into another figure as she looked down to check her pockets for her usual stash for leaves.

[semper]

If I concentrate hard enough, these white-washed walls turn into the damp, ragged edges of tunnels. Little flecks of mica embedded in the rocks reflecting whenever the light of a headlamp would strike it; droplets of water falling and speckling, glimmering and shining; the stench of sweat and smog building up in your nose until a single wisp of fresh air is treasured just as much as a golden coin.

I rub my fingers gently across the smooth and flaky surface of the little bit of mica I have, looking at my very faint reflection. The dark shade of my hair is the only obvious trait that I can see; my skin is quite pale and therefore simply blends in with the silver. Unfortunately my skin has never held a kiss of the sun. I pretty much lived underground back in Two, and even here, in Thirteen, I remain underneath the ground, maneuvering around these halls like some ant.

But in Thirteen, I feel trapped. These smooth walls are suffocating and unnatural and lack life. The people here are about as friendly as stinging nettles, unlike in the mines where we depended on each other to make it out to see the daylight and taste the clean air. People in Thirteen don’t give you a second glance unless you’re doing anything “threatening” and I don’t care enough to give them the light of day. They treat wanderers like we treated mosquitos on a hot summer evening: annoying and pointless, just something to be swatted at. I’m nothing more than foreign contamination to them.

I stick the piece of mica back into the little pouch, pulling the drawstring tight and attaching it back to my belt. The room suddenly feels rather stuffy and so I decide to head closer to the surface. At my short height it’s easy to weave around people; like a stinging nettle, as long as you don’t touch them, they don’t bother you. I make sure to leave a bubble of space around each person I pass in order to avoid having to chew out someone (even though I’d love to yell at someone), and luckily the hallway clears out.

Before long, however, my eyes begin to sting. I squint and blink, rubbing them, trying to clear away whatever it is that’s unfortunately found its way into my eye. After a moment it feels fine and so I continue on my way, hand absentmindedly resting on the pouch of pebbles at my side, when my nose starts itching. I scrunch it up, feeling pressure build up in my sinuses until I force out a sudden sneeze.

What the hell?

Another sneeze rips and I come to a very sudden halt – stumbling back a step, I look through watery eyes and find a girl standing close to me. The itching underneath my skin and in my eyes grows intensely and a sneeze abruptly sounds, quickly turning my throat raw. There’s only one thing in this wretched world I know of that makes me react this violently, and so I quickly reach out, grabbing onto this stranger’s shoulders, trying to force my watery and probably red eyes to glare, and I growl at her: ”Where’s the ragweed?”

((First Kyanite!post and it's awful, sorry x: ))

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[Tattletale]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: 0; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 350px;] ZELDA CAUCHEMAR There were years before she was thrust into this world of sterile blankness, one of secluded things: forests hiding behind electrical fences and magic in her home's own four walls. She was seven, and right before her very eyes she discovered that cauldrons were not only reserved for soups and other meals, but also of mixtures that brought in a funny smell that lingered in the atmosphere for a quite a while, and that if you put in one of those special dusts in those little glass bottles, you can see the candy colors that cover the Capitol buildings and always seem to escape your neighborhood, a museum of old rickety shacks covered in dust. She was known to most as eccentric, but she believes they never really know the meaning of the word until they have met her aunt. At least, that's what Zelda calls her -- most strangers prefer the term "witch." "Why do they call you witch?" she asks her aunt, curiosity driving her to tippy-toes and eyebrows raising and eyes desperate to get a better look. Her Aunt only cackles, says something inaudible and incomprehensible Zelda won't bother remembering (she likes to think that she was a human hurricane, and hurricanes never look back) but she does save the good pieces for safekeeping, and one she would treasure for a while would be the one to pave her path. "You're a witch, Zel, and you're special. You're capable of things the rest can't even grasp -- and you're gonna raise hell." And she did does. She is one for destruction, a daughter of wreckage, leaving not even a stone upturned in her wake. She does not stop for self-evaluation, throwing maybe a splitting-second glance behind her, all filler and no depth, not a tinge of remorse in her gaze and only appreciation for what she has caused. Some say it's a very irrational thing to do, but she doesn't -- it's all only a ladder-rung lower from absolute tyranny, and she finds that she could be so much worse. You won't find an oasis of love inside Zelda, and instead you will find rotten bones, bruised organs and sharpened intuition, a strange sort of sixth sense she has molded to fit her own necessity. She flinches even though the stranger's arm has lifted only a few inches into the air, and feels the phantom grip before the human touch. She lives in the world in between breaths and movement, in the forgotten shrapnels of mortal activity, in the cracks of humanity that holds the ghosts of the aftermath of it all. "Where's the ragweed?" His voice comes on like thunder. A smile appears slowly on her lips, cautious, until it hitches in the middle as gravity and apprehension pulls it back to a tight line, getting thinner and thinner, as she lowers her hand and drops the leaves back in her pocket. "You're not one of Thirteen's men, are you? You with your rules and your system -- " Her accusation skidded to a halt as her eyebrows come together slowly then deepen, eyes giving him the quick once-over, finally settling in confusion as his red nose and watery eyes. She's been called an infection to society before, but only now has she seen it literally, right in front of her, and there is no helping the small laugh that bubbles in her throat and escapes, rude and brash, features softening in childish amusement. "What the hell happened to you?"

[semper]

I don’t know who or what this girl is – she doesn’t look like the stereotypical rebels that live here, tucked away in secrecy below ground. She did, however, not appear to have the dark shade of the sun on her skin so that tells me she’s been down under for much longer than I have. She doesn’t have the strong, robust figure that Thirteen’s so-called “soldiers” have, what with their broad shoulders, thick necks, chiseled torsos, and clean-cut hair. Her locks of dark brown hair present the image that she’s just rolled out of bed but I can’t say much, considering that I never fix my own hair and it usually is very unkempt and juts out at different angles some days. She doesn’t look very official in any sense so I can safely assume that my actions will go unpunished by any authority – no, Thirteen is a tricky place. It may be easy to tell authority apart from the civilians but when you’re underground, unable to leave unless you have permission, you tend to quickly find out things about other people.

So why isn’t she familiar?

My eyelids blink hard a few times, clearing away the tears I so desperately wish weren’t there. The eyes are still itchy and I haphazardly rub at them, trying still to focus on this girl. The smile drops from her face and she starts talking: ”You’re not one of Thirteen’s men, are you?” Of course I’m not, isn’t it obvious? ”You with your rules and your system—“ My expression turns to one of confusion.

I came from Two but hardly anyone here knows that. It’s quite apparent that I’m not one of Thirteen’s soldiers or rebels, so that places me in the category of loner. I serve no purpose here other than to take up space and sit on my petty goal of clearing the Obsidian name. To Thirteen and its grandiose purpose, my one goal and I are terribly insignificant and “worthless” in the grand scheme of things. Clearing my name rather than save thousands of people from the tyranny that is the Capitol? ”Oh, what hogwash! Consider yourself lucky that you’re even alive and here, in Thirteen, ready to fight for a new world order!” I had scoffed at them then, considering this place only as a refuge and nothing more. So, yes, I am not one of Thirteen’s men, but that does not imply that I agree with the Capitol and their Peacekeepers and their system since is was them who framed my parents on only pure assumptions and a coincidence.

The smile returns to her face but it’s quickly followed by an obnoxious little laugh. A scowl contorts my face and I tighten my grip on her shoulders. Much to my dismay this girl is taller than me so I can already feel my intimidation factor dwindling by the second. None of my threats or scowls will work on her; usually the height doesn’t matter when trying to scare off someone once you’ve proven to them that you mean serious business, but she’s already laughed in my face, asking what the hell happened to me.

”There’s only one thing in Panem that I’m allergic to other than bullshit and tyrants, and that’s ragweed.” I once again try to glare at her through my blurring eyes, uselessly hoping that the tears in my eyes aren’t ruining my attempt to intimidate. ”You’re the only person in this bleached white hall other than me and we’re Ripred-only-knows how far underground, so tell me, where’s the ragweed?”

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