Exxus :: [Halcyon + Phyneas]

[L△LIA]

This is the hush.

When she rages, she storms — lightning and hail and the world-splitting crash of destruction. For hours she has torn false bodies limb from limb until plastic chests that have never known hearts (and certainly won't now) split open wide enough for the ceiling to gaze into the empty space where a pair of lungs should be. By now, she hardly feels as if she has any lungs left either, breathing ragged as she wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. Wisps of loose hair writhe free from her ponytail, sticking to the fake cherry-stain of blood that coats her hands. A smear of sheer red is left across her skin, the wicked ghost of every lie she has told herself today.

It has been almost two years and the girl still tells herself it is only a matter of time until the history of her last name fades back into quiet obscurity. Her sister's Victory is only a momentary legend. New champions will steal her crown. Halcyon is not cursed to forever be a shadow-dweller. These are the mantras she tells herself as she hacks away at training dummies with swords and shoots off a round of glares to the trainers who eye her with both disappointment and great expectation, hoping the brutal girl before them might suddenly cross the room with a series of back-flips, if only to punch them in the face. This particular daughter of the Antoinette name will only ever be willing to meet half of those expectations.

Knuckle-crack, she swings her fist into the nearest punching bag as she walks by, haphazard and defiant. Even now, she refuses to drop her chin. She cares little for how Cricket's glory may or may not reflect upon her, stubbornly looking to prove that she is strong enough to champion her own battles. That's why, despite walking the line of exhaustion, she doesn't stop to rest and instead marches over to the practice area for knife throwing.

These blades are much smaller and lighter than the broadsword she has been swinging around and she holds little appreciation for the delicate nuisances of attacking with this type of weapon, preferring those with more heft and bone-smashing ability. Still, this is her way of taking a break and so she flings the first knife at the wall, frowning as it misses the outline of the target-body by a foot or so. Her breath is quiet as she picks the next up and takes a moment to focus before throwing again. It hits in the thigh, almost missing entirely again, and she cringes as one of the other Careers behind her sniggers and mutters a comment about Halcyon lacking her sister's grace and talent, except spoken in the kinds of words Halcyon might favor if her own words weren't cursed.

Perhaps that's why she bites her incoherent  tongue and picks up a third dagger instead of whirling around in search of a confrontation, knowing she couldn't say anything back one way or another, or maybe this is simply the eye of a storm.

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

[Loony]

^Phyneas^Pine^

The emotions drove me from my home.

The whir of emotion that Ares left in his wake, from pity to sorrow to anger, remain for a long time after his death. These powerful emotions that lead to me standing up and leaving. My mother, sobbing as we prepared to bury her son. My father's gaze as he looks on without compassion. The cousin's did not care, for they knew our pain, yet felt they could not be bothered to care. These people around me were a raging river, their emotions fly past me, pushing and pulling me in every way. Disappointment, compassion, sorrow, pity. All of them causing a current so strong that I could not keep my head up. So I got up and left, walked straight into the bitter air, and walked. No one even noticed my disappearance.

I went to the first place I could think of, the training center. Where brutality was accepted with open arms. Where I could lose myself in a world worked up with testosterone. The walls of the training center hold many people, but so rare are the occasions when I actually talk to another. The group sessions are the only time when I have to interact with other people. I am not judged because of my strange actions, as a quiet soul here is a one that is likely very focussed on destroying. I can be myself. This is where my emotions came to die. This is where I am at peace.

I pick up a knife, and with an expert hand I twirl it between my nimble fingers. As it jumps from finger to finger I try to work out my feelings, yet nothing comes to mind. No... my feelings are missing in action. They always have been, but there are times when I feel what could be described as sorrow or joy. When I am at my lowest and highest I am granted these moment of clarity. I suppose today is my lowest because as I think about my jumbled mess of a life, anger grows, defined only as a sheer desire to destroy. These are the moment I relish, these moments when I can think with such clarity and grace. It is so easy to express your emotions when you know what you are feeling, and right now I feel fury.

I quickly step up to the range and in quick succession I plant five knives in the head of the target. This quick act displaying my ability to kill. I quickly retrieve them as my anger recedes, slinking back to whatever strange place it originates from, and I begin the mundane process of throwing set after set of knifes, shedding my thoughts. Its a while before I notice the girl next to me, making a feeble attempt to hit the target. She has long brown hair, yet she never looks my way, preventing me from identifying her as she launches a knife into the air. Her technique is off, and the knife sails off course like I silently predicted. I could quickly fix her problem if she needed me too, but who wants to be told what to do by a retard?

The others whisper something about the girl's sister, yet I do not catch their words, only their sniggers afterwards. This feminine and pathetic move from boys jacked on steriods is when I can take no more of the utter bull from these people who go around and act like they can't feel. I would kill to be able to feel. Anything would be better then not feeling at all.

But the girl ignores it, and as she throws the next knife, I make the mistake of opening my mouth. "There is nothing harder to do then to ignore a passing comment. That's what I was told by my teacher. You must be very strong-willed."  What am I saying? Even I, a social inadequate, know that I sound like a complete and udder freak.


OOC: Dialoge isn't my thing. XD

[L△LIA]

and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

The dagger st-st-stutters in her grip, the way her words can't. Other people might disagree, yammering on thoughtlessly about how the only thing her mouth can do is stutter, but that's not quite right. Those who stutter still manage to say what they're trying for, sooner or later, just the same way as this knife merely pauses its trajectory. It was meant to be thrown and it will, but her mouth...

Ripred.

Her mouth is the devil's monster, speaking only in unholy tongues. If it were this knife it would be laying belly-up on the ground, melting and reforming itself every which way: Knife. Tea Kettle. Carburetor. Door knocker. Flute. Pile of nails. A broken, mechanical heart. The real tragedy is the accuracy of all that, of how she sometimes feels she is made of little more than those kinds of random and useless things, but she shakes the thought away, bristling against her own mind.

"There is nothing harder to do than to ignore a passing comment. That's what I was told by my teacher." Knuckles rippling against the dagger's hilt, her grip tightens as stubbornness keeps her eyes trained forward, locked onto the target dummy in front of her. The voice of the guy beside her doesn't sound anything like the one who had been taunting her before, but she's not in the mood for pity either. Those are the only things anyone ever seems to treat her with: pity and insult, as if people can't make up their minds as to whether she's the kind of inferior that deserves punishment or patronizing sympathy for being so pathetic. She refuses to concede to either of those options. "You must be very strong-willed." Maybe he does too.

Flicker-shiver, her eyes dart in his direction, giving him the side eye as she debates whether he's being sarcastic or if she's just received a genuine compliment for the first time in who-even-knows-how-long. With a skeptical raise of her eyebrow, she gives him a firm nod: Damn straight. Halcyon Antoinette has more strength in her will than the combined musculature of every Career in this place.

Even though she refuses to be so easy a person as to smile in response, the corner of her mouth twitches ever so slightly as she turns back to face the target dummy again. This time the knife doesn't hesitate, soaring up and free from her grasp. It misses top marks for the heart, but she still manages to lodge it into the shoulder — ever closer to her goal. This is the way it has always been, her sister a beautiful, graceful, living myth of easiness... and Halcyon too blunt around every one of her edges, only improving because she is too headstrong to give up. Too strong-willed, a voice in her head echos and her eyes do a double-take of the boy at the next station.

It's something like a stutter. Words meant to be said that can't quite make it out, but that just might find a way. Sooner or later.

[Loony]

16

MALE

DISTRICT 2

AUTISTIC

JAI STEVENS

PHYNEAS PINE

Words are strange, a jumble of verbs, adjectives, and nouns. They have always alluded me. Often they come out in a strange string of nonsense. They stumble over each other as they pass over my lips, making the receiver confused. Today is no different, and words avoid me. The people around me continue with their training, the stall taste of the air does not change, but I'm struck with surprise. The girl turns to him with such malice and disdain, that I almost take a step back. But with a firm nod, I suddenly understand that this girl is probably tougher and stronger than me. Looking at this girl, who does not offer any words in response to my confusing train of thought, I feel as though there is nothing I could say, cohesive or not, that would faze her. I stare at her, suddenly convinced that she is an acquaintance of some kind, because when she turned, I was struck by her appearance. I could have sworn that I knew her, she was familiar to the point of being as recognizable as a close friend. Her name escaped me, just like the words that I wanted to say. Instead, I watched as her squarish face turned back towards the dummy. She threw yet another sharp, perfect blade, and with a firm thud it placed itself in the shoulder of the dummy. Gone is the struggle that the girl who couldn't locate the mannequin. I am impressed with her accuracy. I struggle to turn away, mystified by her silence. Her refusal to even acknowledge me, and her sheer confidence, both tell me this girl must have more confidence than any career here.  But she glances back at me, just a quick head turn, and in that moment, recognition swarms me. Halcyon Antoinette, the supposed retarded sister of the victor of the 63rd games, stands in front of me, showing that she could be stronger than even her sister. I take a step back, her silence makes sense. Not once in my life have I ever been star-struck, not once have I ever felt that some one may be able to even begin to comprehend my anomalous mind. The girl who stood before me was braver than her sister, the girl who stood before me was more misunderstood than even me. She was a woman who rose above the expected and resented being in the shadows, because her defiance to enjoy the rich lifestyle of a victor takes shape in her presence here. I can't fight of the smile that crosses my lips. "Halcyon Antoinette, the girl in the shadows, you will one day be in the limelight. Just keep on throwing those pieces of silver." And I laugh. She must think I'm a freak, but I don't really care. Ever since Ares death, all I wanted was to be known as more than his brother. I wanted to be Phyneas, the strange but strong boy who was more than capable of caring for himself, so if I make a fool of myself than I don't care. Because at this point in my life, it would make me more than just a victim of Ares death.

TEMPLATE BY HAYANA OF CAUTION 2.0