MY ANACONDA DON'T ✺ { finn/barnabas, blitz }

[Deleted]

fionnbharr stoddard.

The capitol, the environment, the rooms and weapons and food - it all just felt alienating, man. Ever since I stepped up onto that stage I was awaiting some grand lights and actual excitement that was supposed to be around the corners; in laymen's terms, I was expecting what I saw on the broadcasts, what was supposed reality. Not gonna lie, the capitol was great compared to district eight: fresher air, cleaner clothes (I have my overalls tucked under the bed in my hotel room though, they still smell like Jael's sweaty hands) and larger everythings. But I just imagined that each crack and crevice would be the same, you see.

Despite the image I had in my head, the training center was plain, grey and as dull as the scheme. Bodies filled it the same as the weapons did, a clattering mess, but they were everywhere instead of just lined up at the tables; avoxes tending to commands, dummies standing around helplessly, mentors and victors roaming nearly as lost as the twenty-four of us, and then us (or 'we' or 'I' or 'they' or 'Cha.') All suited in the black of our uniforms - all suited in black like we're already attending our own funerals. Panic filled the room a lot and it clogged in my throat, I swear it did. It clogged my throat and ears and nostrils and arteries until I was left influenced under the same atmosphere with my raising heartbeats.

And, I don't know about you, but this isn't what I wanted for myself nor twenty-three others, but if there's anything I learned from Jael before I left, it's that one man can't turn a tide. Not alone.

In all honesty, I didn't actually want to go to any of the stations, I didn't want to waste my time with the wrong one except I didn't know which ones were the right ones. There's "blades..." and "stealth..." and "plants..." and so many others that I didn't realize I was saying them outloud until I reached the only one with barely any bodies around.

"Camo," camo, yeah. That dumb expression strung together with my mouth hanging open from the uncertainty in the air was wiped clean as I grabbed one of the plates and its yellows and reds and greens and blues and so many colors that weren't black or grey, and for a second I felt tempted to slap the fake (or real tree, I don't judge) in front of me for fear of getting wet paint glued to my hand.

Once I realized that, I slapped it and with it a grin onto my face, showcasing my missing tooth on the side of my center eyeteeth. Browns and greens and oranges tattoo'd my hand from the instant of the slap, and I got this airy feeling in my chest kinda, I'm not sure how to describe it. All I know is that for the first time since I stepped onto that stage, I felt happy again. I felt happy as I slapped the tree and felt it spit back a color palette onto my hand, in a dumb way, but I felt happy.

And so I felt happy as I poured a canister of purple paint and slapped my chest, the liquid running slopply down the black of my shirt and despite the twinge of pain I felt from slapping myself of course, I giggled a little like how I did the second I volunteered.

[[nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

His head was kept down most days, afraid of making any sort of impression on his fellow tributes. To be invisible was all he wished, forgotten in the crowd and to somehow slip away. Such a privilege would never exist, as doomsday drew closer with every tick of the clock. The burden was heavy, a smoke cloud encompassing him in panic and despair. It tugged at the boy's shoulders, causing them to slump and his eyes to droop. And for a long time he wandered. There was no particular destination, nor any rhyme or reason to his footsteps. He was running while trapped within four walls. Tempted to pound upon the walls and beg someone to save him while knowing that this was an inescapable fate. 

The training stations scared him, as did most things in the capitol. Flocked by the other twenty-three, desperate to learn some skills that'd somehow save them. Why Barnabas avoided them was just as much a mystery to him as was probably the others. The first aid station had drawn him in like moth to a flame, desperate to find people like him. There was nothing the station taught him that he didn't already know. Yet another disappointment. 

He had tried the blades and the bows, tried the axes and knives, barely able to swing the sharp metal let alone his the dummies that'd been provided. Barnabas was not a fighter, he doubted he'd ever be. He'd die a scared boy, alone. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. 

And then that mouth twisted into a smile. 

He'd heard it first, a gentle chuckle out of place in the macabre settings. Eyes wide with surprise, he spotted a blonde boy - perhaps from eight - slathering bright purple paint upon his chest. The tribute was vaguely familiar, Finnbatt - Finbart - Finnb- 

Barnabas decided to call the boy Finn. 

It was the first time he'd seen a tribute with happiness in his eyes, Who was genuinely enjoying his time in the Capitol, however short lived it promised to be.  Barnabas wanted more than anything to have what the boy did. "Need any help?" his voice was louder than intended, but it only managed to draw forth a giggle. He rushed over to the camouflage table, thrusting his hand into stark white paint. 

Never before had he let himself go like this. 

Barnabas had never felt so free.

And he hurled the paint toward Finn.

{reality hits you hard
b r o;

[Deleted]

fionnbharr stoddard.

It was probably a really strange thing to see, me, some tiny child lost in a field of blades and bodies, laughing to himself covered in paint, and Mother would probably tell me to behave, to act like I had fifteen years of knowledge of not doing what came to mind. But I was pretty darn happy with what I did, no matter how foolish I looked, because I knew if Jael was here he'd already be waist deep in paint. In the respect, I was looking pretty responsible - just a boy with a hand print of purple on my chest to make my ghost friend look less ridiculous.

With all honesty, I think I looked better with the touch of paint, both me and the outfit; everybody in the same black looked lame, but here I was with a beacon on my chest. And so I wiped my hands on my pants, two parallel streaks like war paint.

"Need any help?"

The voice was loud of course, unlike the tiny laugh afterwards. In all honesty, yes, I probably did need some help considering the gunking hunger games was a few days away, and yeah, it'd be nice to actually have an idea of what I was even gonna do. But yet, I didn't care enough to look somebody in the face and say it, instead I wiped excess purple off of my chest and onto my legs, the color dipping onto the tips of my capitol boot shoelaces. Besides, there was a sense of fear in asking for help in the same sense that there was a sense of fear of volunteering.

"Oh, nuh-uh," I respond, still smiling. Nuh-uh, I was in my own tiny galaxy here in the corner of the room with nothing but a tree and paint and I think I finally understood Cha's way of thinking a little, without actually understanding Cha at all. It's complicated. "Just trying to make the uniform look a littl-" now my first mistake here was turning around trying to come face to face and instead receiving a face full of white paint. Had it not been for the weird way I squint my eyes when I smile (and I mean really smile, not just one of those tiny little baby grins), I probably would be blind to this day, but instead I froze for a hot second with my mouth open in a startled grin.

I didn't know the boy, couldn't think of a name or a district or even what shade of paint would fit him best to throw back, in the few seconds before moving for paint all I could think of was the number seven. Maybe he was from district seven, or maybe his name had only seven letters, or maybe he had like, seven mothers. I could barely live to this day with one mother taking me under her wing, imagine having seven. I wasn't sure, but all I knew was seven.

And that he'd probably look best covered in purple paint too, so before jumping back closer to the tree with my shoulders shrugged past my neck, I flicked paint back and giggled like seven was just an old friend. I laughed like I actually knew his name. And with just a few days left seven might as well be the best I get for a name for a name, and as I skipped backwards into the tree I realized that this is probably the best it's gonna get.

(So I might as well enjoy it) I scooped green into my hand, mixing into an ugly shade with the purple prior to match the attractiveness of my last chuckle.