{ Elya Johnwayne | FIN | D2 }

[aya]

Elya Nymeros Johnwayne

well jesus christ i'm alone again
so what did you do those three days you were dead
cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend

District: 2
Gender: Female
Age: 16
Name: Elya Nymeros Johnwayne

Living Family:
john johnwayne, father, 43
wayne johnwayne, uncle, 41
clint johnwayne, grandfather, 70
gracie johnwayne, step-grandmother, 32
bruce johnwayne, 'uncle', 14
william morgan johnwayne, 'uncle'(still a fetus)

Deceased Family:
'cowboy' dan johnwayne, brother, 18 (tribute, 67th Hunger Games)
myrcene johnwayne, mother, 30 (suicide, year of the 55th Hunger Games)

jesus christ that's a pretty face, the kind you'd find on someone i could save

Even if Elya had any say in the matter, she'd still choose her eye to be the first thing anyone noticed about her. Only, instead of looking at her like some broken toy, they'd see her as she truly was: resilient. But for how brutal life could be there, the people of District Two were surprisingly unused to damaged goods. She supposed it made sense in the context of a district that demanded perfection above all else, but being so near and dear to the Capitol's hearts did not shield them from the harsh way of living that stonemining was, did not save them from decade of indentured servitude that was practically the only other way to make money for someone who was not born into it.

Her remaining eye is as dark as her default expression, a cold grey that borders on coal black. Old folks sometimes used to tell her that with eyes like that, she ought to have been born in Twelve; for how far from well-off the Johnwaynes were, she may as well have been. Elya's eyepatch scares them off now, but she wasn't always quite so fortunate.

Although it's only been a year, Elya looks as if she's aged five since being reduced to monocular vision. A dark circle frames her right eye while a black patch covers her left; faint lines now crease her face from growing so world-weary so quickly. Past the eyepatch and the glower — or perhaps accented by it — she bears a severe sort of beauty. Her thin features sit on a broad face, formerly quite symmetrical. The black strap of her eyepatch blends in perfectly with her dark hair, worn long and loose except during training. These are both held back by her ears, which stick out just a bit too far, although with her long hair they are more easily hidden than the same feature on her brother's head.

if they don't put me away, well it'll be a miracle

She hadn't even been trespassing that night. She was newly fifteen and just as absorbed in her training as any self-respecting District Two ought to be — and then some. After all, if she couldn't do the Hunger Games, what else did she have? The Johnwayne family was dirt poor — except for whatever Grandfather Clint had stashed away, but the old bastard was no more likely to share with his eldest two sons than he was to publicly declare that Dan was an upstanding citizen. And the lower classes of their district had two options, usually: the mines or the Games.

It was easy to find the latter so appealing, particularly when juxtaposed to the glamour-free labor that John Johnwayne was so drunk and so bitter about. And Elya was good. She'd poured every ounce of her heart and soul into it, and her dedication had made her a dangerous career, where once she had just been ruthless. Her big brother had his size and grit and brutality, but Elya had discipline, cunning, and a level head, which put her leagues ahead of him in almost every fight between them. She was good.

She was good, but that did not mean it wasn't impossible to get the jump on her.

She hadn't even been trespassing that night, she'd just left her coat in the training center and it was supposed to be freezing the next day. Their house had no heat, so she needed the warmth of the garment, otherwise the next day would be completely miserable. It had only just closed, and while the front door was locked, the back one hadn't been, so she entered and left from the alley that ran around the back of the building.

She hadn't even been trespassing that night, but he'd stopped her for it, anyhow. White uniform standing out against the black of the lightless alley, he stared at her, flashing a white smile equally disarming as the badge of authority he bore on his breast. Hold up a second, he'd told her — he was young, not much older than Dan, not much bigger. She'd later piece together that he was about to be assigned to a district. Exhausted and not in the mood to deal with his shit, she tried to push past him. Mistake.

She had assaulted a peacekeeper that night, if only by the loosest of definitions, but he'd forced her up against the wall for it anyhow. So fast that her face had been scraped against the bricks before she could get her guard up, so fast that when her reflexes kicked in and she tried to bring her left arm up in defense, it was pinned behind her back — and then it was snapped from the force of her efforts meeting the strength of his resistance.

And then she was on the ground so fast she didn't have time to process her fall. Her leg, shoved into an awkward angle and then brought down with more than the force of gravity, snapped, same as her arm. She kicked viciously with the other, but he pinned her down beneath the weight of him, held her arms — one broken, one still struggling against his strength — above her head where they were useless. But even when he pulled out his knife, his face so close to hers — dark hair, dark eyes, dark smile — she refused to plead for mercy.

well jesus christ i'm not scared to die, i'm a little bit scared of what comes after

She never could piece together what had compelled the peacekeeper to do it — his face was unfamiliar, and she'd never got the chance to identify him by name. To Elya, the man was known simply by the tattoo of a rose on his neck. Dan had hunted high and low in the weeks she was laid up in bed, but he found no sign of him either. Nor did he see Roseneck when'd been hauled off to the detention center for the crime himself. And when she'd gotten back on her feet, Elya looked high and low for the man (the monster) but was left at the conclusion that he'd gone, and there would be neither sound nor single-eyed sight of him again. And there would be no retribution.

Her arm healed, her leg healed (leaving her with the slightest of limps), and her eye would never grow back. She was determined, however, that the cracks in her psyche would not be permanent, and that the wound would not hinder her fighting. There was precedent, obviously, where the Games were concerned; even fully-blind tributes had proven themselves capable of making it to the end, and their own district had put forth a one-eyed brute four or five years prior. Not that he was any sort of role model, of course; Dante had been an unlikable slab of meat with a more unlikable she-bitch barking orders to him — that was, until he'd been utterly carved up in the pandemonium of the Feast.

She hated the idea of being pigeonholed into that category. Just like she hated the stares and the murmurs and the tone that they all used when they talked at her. Yes, at her. And she hated the way her left side had become one giant weak spot, and the way the bridge of her nose always seemed to be in her peripheral vision. and the way she felt as if she was always facing slightly left, just to compensate for the blind spot.

She hated, she hated, she hated, and then she hated some more. And when Dan was returned from the Detention Center, he hated, too, on her behalf and on his own. But her brother was quick to remind her that Roseneck could have done a lot of things he did not do. Fingers or hands would be a more devastating loss than what she suffered, and he'd have had no problem slitting her throat if that's what he'd wanted to do. Dan was sympathetic, but his practicality was comforting in its own way.

do I divide and fall apart, cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark

Nights were hard for months after. Sleep did not come easy, and the knife under her pillow didn't help Elya in her dreams. Once, twice, even thrice a night she'd wake up flailing, drenched in sweat, hand flying to the eye that was not there. Alleys were out of the question, and her hyper-vigilance made it exhausting to go more than a few blocks across the district.

She cursed herself for being stupid, beat herself up for feeling afraid. It took time, but Elya swallowed her fears, put on a front, and began wandering all over the district at night until she was more familiar with the streets at night than during the daylight. She remained vigilant and wary of strangers, but the only thing that unsettled her to see in her minimal peripheral vision was the white of a peacekeeper uniform.

When she had recovered, she'd redoubled her training efforts — after all, she reasoned, she'd been dealt a disadvantage, but if she were victor, she'd be given a celebratory tour of each and every district. That included wherever Roseneck ended up. She would be everywhere and he could not escape her. Besides, what else would she do? Elya Johnwayne had known nothing in this life that had given her more satisfaction than beating down an opponent in single combat.

But as the months passed, Elya began to find that her heart was no longer in it the way it used to be. Her wound had left her more jaded and cynical than the fifteen years of shitty childhood that she'd lived before. As she trained, she began to go through the motions rather than actually feeling them. She no longer envisioned herself with that crown atop her head. Elya Johnwayne was capable of winning the Hunger Games, but she no longer possessed the desire.

It occurred to her that there was one surefire way to hunt the peacekeeper down, no matter what district he found himself in. She'd have to join them.

we've all got wood and nails, we turn out hate in factories

Where passion once ruled, vengeance now drives her. In the time since her assault, Elya Johnwayne has grown obsessed with tracking down the peacekeeper that stole her eye. She was always insensitive and conniving, but she grew frigid. A heartless ice queen, she now gives very little thought to things that aren't slowly pressing her thumbs into Roseneck's eyes and drinking the symphony of his shrieks.

Her temper shortened, her patience deadened, and her zeal burned up in a fire of calculated hate. Elya loathed the peacekeeper for what he robbed her of: not her vision, not her dignity, but her spirit. It was unfair for a girl already so world-weary for her age to be forced to take on more disillusionment all at once, to become so disenchanted so quickly. Her hopes, dreams, and desires all evaporated, all converged into a single want: Roseneck's blood.

When Dan stepped up to raise hell in the Games, she made up her mind. The peacekeeper's fate was sealed. District Two had held one good thing for her, and with her brother shipped off to inevitable death, there was nothing left for her among the stones. So Elya schemed and plotted and planned. In the interim, she would bide her time. Then she'd track the man down, one way or another. And he would suffer.

odair

[aya]

Done

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Gotta love a girl with a mission. Hope she gets her change for revenge.

ACCEPTED!