[D5] The Reaping

[aya]

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Nell Locke" He then reached into the other ball. "Sol Shim!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, February 2nd, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

S o l S h i m

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Today ‘Ma had said that once I had gotten home, she would make us a meal that would seem like it was a toast to the kings or the heavens up above for none of them have been walked upon by the title of tribute that day to live another year while others go and perish. Others including Luna Shim and Erebus Turner, Tyler Westbrook and Saxton Hale. They had planned a toast to the gods up above that said that their family was safe again, they had planned something of happiness and celebration for they do not have to watch their child’s death be planned out across television. ‘Ma had told us that we shouldn’t worry about what was going to happen to us, because we were safe. She told us that.

But if she told us that, if it was supposed to be a truth escaping her lips; why am I standing upon this stage shaking hands with a girl who had been sent up here just like me, to die? I wonder this, ponder it for a moment before it all sinks in. I am going home, I am going to the place where my friend had gone and never returned from. Though, maybe this time I will return. Return to my friends, to the people that had made my life a something instead of a nothing. To come back for Lluvia, to come back for Nieve. To come back for all of the people that ever made my life something more important than it had been the day before, that sounds like a promise I’d like to make.

It is a battling war as I had woken up to get out of bed and actually go to the square that had called away Luna to a place she never returned from. To a place she had died in, fashioned like a place that would be figured out to be something that was old; a place that would only result in one single cowboy or cowgirl. For they were in the wild west, where only the toughest of the tough could survive. Though it seemed the battle to get out of bed would be a loss as my mother’s shouts, prying and nagging me out of my bed seemed to be a spell placed to make me do such things, because I did them.

It felt like burning fire to move downstairs, the fire chewing at my bones and telling me that I was too weak for this, but I’m not. I’m not too weak, I am strong. I am only broken from the promises that had been given and taken away by a single girl that was the age of fifteen. I gulp down the food that tastes like bread, close to no taste for my mother is not one of special tastes. She is not one to make things different. She is a lady that likes to stick with the same things, to stick with things that are easy to change but all depend on human actions.

It seems like liquid fire to gulp down each glass of water that is on the verge of being healthy, the passion of each gulp growing to a sin because every gulp I take makes the stomach quiver in disgust.

There is no stopping my body as I excuse myself from the table, telling the family that I am going early.

(“You’re fine, Sol. Don’t worry about anything.”)

She had always been one to speak lies. 'Ma believes that everything will end up fine, that nothing will happen to me. That everything will go straight back to normal, because they never will. I had waited for the first six months after Luna’s death, even during the time that she had been inside of that arena by the tree we always met at. The tree we talked under, the tree we grew up under. It was our own little tree that nobody bothered to touch since it had obviously meant so much to us. Though she never returned, so why should I believe ‘Ma when she says everything will be fine? You’re right, I don’t.

My footsteps become quicker the closer I get to the square, the small amount of people there looking like a deathly pale that shouldn’t be painted on another’s face normally. The white that fills their cheeks, the white that crawls all over their body is decorated with fear. The tense arms staying right by their sides, their heads bowed towards the ground where they won’t have to face the eyes of another person. I had been there awfully early, for at least one hour had passed by before people started to fully file in. It was a long time before it seemed to slow down, the people dwindling down and down until everyone was packed into the small district square where two people would be plucked from the crowds of young boys and girls to be sent to a battle to see who is the strongest. To see who’s the most courageous of them all, where only one may come back if they had the blessing of it being one of them.

The footsteps of a male that comes from that place enters the skies, booming all around the district square and letting everyone know that it had become time for two people to go together into the Capitol with their mentors to be taught how to survive.

His voice speaks up in the microphone, the people of the district growing impatient. "It is time," He said over the impatient crowd, hoping to go home as soon as they can and to find out if they had gone lucky or not. "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!" The male hadn’t taken a second thought of what he was doing before placing his hand in the bowl filled with female names, speaking out loud again. "Ladies first," He unfolded the slip of paper, a name ringing out through the crowd that Sol hadn’t found familiar. "Nell Locke" A girl made her way up to the stage, almost white hair that seemed to wave and shine in the wind as she walked and made her way up to the top of the stage. The male wasted no time. He reached in the male’s bowl, pulling out a name that seemed a bit too familiar for comfort. Something that sounded like a person I've grown to know over the last few years. "Sol Shim!"

And that was the day that I figured out we all have our own comics, our own superheroes and our own super villains. My story has one super villain, claiming the person I had loved so much already.

The Capitol, a group of people designated to ruin people’s lives.

[sol shim accepts his position as tribute]

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Made by Kire

[Loony]

[googlefont="Calligraffitti:400"]

Nell Locke

Nell Locke was not raised religious. She had no God, no retribution, and no shrine to a deity that could save her soul. She didn’t believe in forgiveness or repentance. There is no way to repay for your sins and no kind welcome for attempting to anyway. Nell Locke knew she did not believe in religion, and yet, somewhere along the line, she had sold her soul to the devil.

Many months ago (whether it was three or ten or twenty she did not know) Nell Locke had made a deal with the devil, sold her soul to escape reality, and embraced her damned life. Dim alleyways and grimy bars were the gates to her hell, and she walked in without looking back. For it was in these depths of despair that her demons waited, stalking her like a lion stalks a gazelle. The stench of raw need mixed with pathetic desire, as she longed for her savior, maybe the only true God in her religion free life. The deal was always the same, the devils hand flashed salvation, but never handed it for free. Her eyes would follow the baggie, latched upon her escape, and her chapped lips started to bleed as she agreed to whatever his conditions were. Whether it was money, or jewelry, or her soul, she handed it over without ever taking her eyes off the prize. Nell Locke was pathetic, hooked, and damned the first moment she shot heroin, and the grim reaper was ready to take her soul.

No one ever told Nell that she sick. No one ever saved her from herself. There was no one left in this world to care for the girl with paper arms and clouded minds. No one to teach her to pray for forgiveness. Her only guidance was the drug, which called to her with gentle whisper, and led her back to itself for escape.

It was no surprise that on the day of the reaping, Nell Locke awoke with her false God gone, and drips of crimson running down her arm. Her bare feet settled themselves upon the oak planks, while her head spun without her moving it. She had done this so many times but never had much success with reaching the sink before vomiting. With light steps she ran stumbled to the basin and released her stomach. Her head pounded with extraordinary anger, but she could do little more to appease it than drink from the faucet.

This was not her home. (Nell Locke never had a home) The shabby walls were not familiar to the girl with ghost skin. She heard the snores drift through the plywood, and knew she could still escape without having to face whoever she got high with last night. For all she knew, she could have bummed some drugs off this guy with the promise of sex and money. Of course, she always found a way out of the sex. (She wasn’t some lowlife prostitute, just a pathetic junkie) But it was best to be on her way as soon as possible.

Carefully pulling her hair back into a bun, she hobbled down the steps to the cobblestone. Following the crowd as she tugged a light gray sweater over her head. It wasn’t hers (Nell Locke would realize how little she owned if she ever stopped to reflect) but it’s sleeves were long enough to protect her hands from the cold breeze. She was aware what day it was, and yet she didn’t care enough to dress up for the occasion. She vaguely remembered that her brother used to scavenge for dresses for the reaping while she searched for button up shirts for him. He always insisted that they looked their best. (If only he could see her now)

She followed the crowd to the District Square. The bumping and pushing led her to the pen with the fellow eighteen year olds. She wiped her nose with the sweater sleeve as the girls all refused to make eye contact with her. They went the same school for a decade, but they also knew who what she was. With no one else to care about, she could only have the vaguest of worries for herself. Of course, she knew there was a minimal chance that it would be her, but she couldn’t bring herself to even imagine a reality where… “Nell Locke.”

Nell Locke sold her soul for a high.

She danced with the devil, and welcomed his cold embrace without acknowledging the consequences.

Now here she stands, alone in this world. Her steps are not small, nor timid, but her head is hung low. Her eyes are rimmed red, yet tears do not fall. She is nothing but the shell of the girl she used to be, a soulless woman entering a soulless land.

Looking out upon the rows of faces who rejected her very existence, Nell Locke cannot feel anything but some kind of acceptance. Her death would mean nothing to everybody, and her survival would mean everything to nobody.

Nell Locke sold her soul, and now the devil had come for payment.

[Ayy acceptance is :key: and Nell Locke accepts her position as d5f]

one two three for trib wall (or whatever is easiest)

[lance]

Avery Westbrook

Help I'm alive
My heart keeps beating like a hammer
Hard to be soft
Tough to be tender

third, says, thinks

A year had come and gone.

Three hundred sixty five days and three hundred and sixty five nights, and yet Avery Westbrook still felt broken.

It had been one year since Tyler's name had echoed across the District Square. One year since Avery's brother had defiantly prevented him from volunteering in his place. One year since he had bravely stepped up to the stage to accept his fate.

One year since Tyler had fought tooth and nail in an arena of twenty three others, surviving for over a week before he finally lost his life to the blade of a Career.

There had been a mere six others that had stood between Tyler and home. But ultimately, it had been too little, too late.

The effect had been drastic on the Westbrook family. Their father had rather quickly sunk into an alcohol induced haze, as if he was trying to mute his emotions by staying constantly drugged down.

The doctors still were not sure whether his body had gave out from the abuse or whether he had simply lost the will to live.

Their mother had also suffered, wasting away into a shadow of her former self. Even today, Avery would return home from work to find her sitting in the exact same spot as she had been when she had left, staring absently at the wall.

Avery couldn't blame her. After all, she had lost a son, and he his other half.

---

Sunlight gleamed through a crack in the curtains, creeping ever closer to Avery's eyes. Tilting his head slightly, he took a glance at the bed pushed up on the other side of the room. A bed that hadn't been lain in in three hundred sixty five days.

Letting out a deep sigh, Avery sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

One year ago, Tyler Westbrook had been reaped for the Hunger Games, and had left his family behind.

Well, brother. It's Reaping Day again. Avery thought as he pulled on a pair of pants.

I've missed you more than words can imagine.

Walking over to the windowsill, Avery parted the curtains, letting the blazing summer sun shine over him. The sudden warmth felt soothing, relaxing, almost, on his bare torso.

Don't you worry, though.

I'll be there soon enough.

Grabbing a shirt from over a chair, Avery Westbrook prepared to execute his grand finale.

---

"It is time," The District Escort, dressed in his usual gaudy attire, drawled.

"It is time to once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games."

Finally.

"Let us begin the Reaping!"

I'm sorry, Mother.

But this is for the best.

"Ladies first." The escort dipped his hand into one of the twin glass orbs.

Please don't let it be-

"Nell Locke!"

Oh thank Ripred.

Avery straightened up to his full height, gazing over the tops of his peers' heads, searching for a particular someone on the girls' side.

At least it wasn't Kira.

Kira Galloway, redhead, seventeen, Avery's best friend aside from his brother, and also one of the sweetest people in the District.

If she had gotten reaped the same year Avery was to-

And then he found her, blue eyes connecting with green.

The green were sparkling, joy and immense relief evident in their gaze as their owner avoided being sent to the death trap yet again-

And then the laughter died, much like Tyler's ally from Four's life had when a spear had been thrust in her eye socket, and was replaced by fear-

She knows-

And suddenly they were pleading with a desperation that caught the blond boy off guard-

Avery, no!

But Avery, yes-

Avery?

"Sol Shim!"

Please! Avery!

Avery, shut the fuck up.

Don't....

And Avery Westbrook could only watch as suddenly, a boy with dark hair stepped up to the staging area where Tyler had stood the year before.

I can still-

Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shutthefuck-

NO.

Avery shook his head, refocusing his gaze on the redheaded girl standing across the Square. Her eyes were filled with fear, real fear,

Because of me.

He shifted his gaze toward the back, where his mother stood, frail yet strong, and still very much alive.

No. Not yet.

He turned back toward the staging area, where the escort was announcing the unlucky white-haired girl and the unlucky dark-haired boy as this year's representatives from Five.

Not while I still have something to live for.

Avery Westbrook closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Sorry, Tyler.

But I must wait a little longer.

Come take my pulse the pace is on a runaway train
Help I'm alive
My heart keeps beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer