ϻϴηςτεr ιηςιϿε ϻε {κια + βζαιrε} (blitz)

[Death]

[presto][/presto]

| my words | your words | your thoughts | their words | It's not that big of a deal, Kia. You were just learning. You didn't mean to cut her. It was an accident. A training accident. She won't need very many stitches. Just calm down. Go sit down somewhere. Take a breather. Get a snack. Aren't you listening, Kia? "I am so, so sorry," you say to the instructor. "I'm so sorry. Here, let me-" She pushes your hand away with a scowl and looks back to her arm. There's a long and deep cut puckering across it-- maybe five inches in length. Blood seeps from between the two layers of flesh. And she winces, drawing in a short breath. "I am so sorry. Can I--" "There nothing. I'll go get it taken care of myself," she snaps. It's your turn to wince. I can almost see you as a great big dog being scolded, with his ears down and his tail between his legs.  Rather than finding another training station, you slump against the wall. The floor beneath you is chilled and inhospitable. Not the comforting wood like your home. There's an ache inside of you and for the first time since coming to this place, you think of home. And you're sad about having left it.  I'm so damn clumsy. I can't do anything right. I'm just a failure. I hurt a woman. I'm going to have to hurt more. Oh my Ripred what the hell am I doing? "It wasn't my fault, you plead with a passing tribute. The male five. You're good with faces, not names. "It was an accident. I swear." You feel some kind of tears, but you banish them and instead rest your face in between your palms. Just take some of your own damn advice that you throw all over the place all the time, Kia. Smile. Laugh. Eat good food. Tells jokes. Everything is and will be okay.

[presto][/presto]

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

`   District 5 - Fifteen - Sycamore House

` Blaire

It was blatantly clear that I was already hopeless at pretty much everything. Swords? Couldn't swing one to save my life. In fact, I almost cut myself the last time I tried to learn how to use one. It was obvious; I was as good as dead.

But still I was trying. Trying to memorize all the plants - poisonous and helpful. And I was getting the hang of the axes and the spears. But somehow it all seemed meaningless. It was clear that I was fighting - sweating, toiling, wishing, hoping, dreaming - for something that wasn't possible. And that was becoming much more clear when I couldn't even force myself over to the fire-making station. Fire. Ripred couldn't even make me come close to that ever again.

And as soon as I get a flaming arrow shot in my direction I am being escorted away from the perpetrator, spitting venom in all directions and swinging my fists wildly through the air. Fuck everyone here! My nostrils flare like that of a bull and I rip myself free of my escorts who tell me something along the lines of: "Behave you little, worthless shit!" And for a moment it makes me miss Lilith. She was never that harsh. Was. Talking in the past tense because I am already dead.

I look in the direction of the fire station just for a moment, bile rising in my throat as I taste the smoke again ... And I growl angrily as I turn away, angry that I can't just stop being such a baby and deal with it. Learn fire, be near fire, just why can't I face my fears?!

I slide down the wall away from the training stations, next to the kid from ... 3 I think? Anyway, I've taken to calling him Beanpole in my head. "It wasn't my fault," he says, and for a moment I just think he is talking to himself, one of those kids that goes crazy even before this whole things starts. But he is looking at me. I just nod, but he says more. "It was an accident. I swear."

And I look up to see a trainer heading out of the room, a gash on her arm bleeding. Right. Clearly this kid would be dead soon too, what with being so sorry for merely cutting someone. I try to swallow my bitterness towards everyone in this world but some of it still manages to spill out. I can't help it - I'm a bratty orphan boy at heart.

"Alright, Beanpole this isn't a therapy session." I snap, only to feel a little guilty almost immediately after. I pinch the bridge of my nose and grumble, leaning my head back against the wall. "At least you can hit something."

underneath the sycamore
we were both broken in our own ways
sifting through the rubble for the wrong things
and this is where we find our peace

[Death]

[presto][/presto]

| my words | your words | your thoughts | their words | The other tribute is looking back at you. He's slid down the side of the wall near you. You can tell he's got his own shit he's dealing with. Working through. He truly doesn't have time for yours. Shouldn't have to deal with it. "Alright, Beanpole," he says. "this isn't a therapy session." Then, slightly softer, "At least you can hit something." The foul humor melts away. She'll be fine. She'd got Capitol medicine to take care of her. You don't have to get so bent out of shape. "You're right," you reply with a smile, putting your hands at your sides. "It's the Hunger Games. Not group therapy. Wouldn't that be fun, though? All of us, one big group, talking about out problems? How interesting would that be. It would make killing the other much harder." You flick some hair out of your face and turn to study him. He's attractive in that blank sort of way. He looks like a blank slate, but the look in his eyes is set in stone. What's his story? "I'm Kia, by the way. Kia of district three." You slide along the wall and come sit down right next to him. Maybe a foot away. The floor feels cold again.  Then, a smile. A crooked one that hikes up on only one side of your face. You turn to him, your sense already becoming dulled once more. They liked to light things on fire and dance around inside his mind sometimes. And that was never a good thing. But the rioting was gone and instead, you stared at this other kid expectantly. Diversion always made everything better.

[presto][/presto]

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

`   District 5 - Fifteen - Sycamore House

` Blaire

"You're right. It's the Hunger Games. Not group therapy. Wouldn't that be fun, though? All of us, one big group, talking about out problems? How interesting would that be. It would make killing the other much harder."

And I can't help but chuckle at the thought of it. Crazy how these Capitolite pricks haven't thought of that yet. It certainly would spice everything up a bit, make every tribute seem even more ruthless, killing the people they connected with. Then again, maybe they liked us having to thinking about killing people we didn't even know, taking the life of an innocent. They were sick people, I wouldn't put anything past them.

"I'm Kia, by the way. Kia of district three." I look up from where I was staring into my hands, picturing them covered in blood. The real question: Is it mine or someone else's? My guess: Both. And that makes my stomach churn and my head spin and my knuckles want to smash into a wall.

I look at him and nod. "Blaire. Sycamore. Five." I say, flicking my too long hair out of my face. "I would say it's a pleasure but it really isn't, am I right?"

It was apparent the Games pissed me off. And everyone who was here pissed me off. And the fact that I was here and not back at Sycamore pissed me off. Ripred it was obvious that the world pissed me off - always has and always will. I just lean my head back against the wall and try to refrain from bashing my head against it.

underneath the sycamore
we were both broken in our own ways
sifting through the rubble for the wrong things
and this is where we find our peace