MY ANACONDA DON'T ✺ { finn/barnabas, blitz }
Sept 25, 2014 19:00:02 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Sept 25, 2014 19:00:02 GMT -5
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.