i'm underground, i fell down [flyss]

[solo]

Riven Fowley

Aster has me dressed in simple clothes today. Black pants, tight yet flexible. A t-shirt the color of maple leaves in the middle of summer. The same brown shoes with black laces that she's had me wearing for a while. It hasn't been long, but they've started to mold nicely around my overly large feet, and while I hate to admit it, they're comfy.
I've been working in the self-defense station today, so I'm pretty tired. The trainer was a big guy, maybe ten inches taller than me. I guess that's not saying much, since I just barely reach five feet. I hold in a laugh. I'm so small and pathetic, I already know I won't make it past the bloodbath. Some battle-crazed teenage boy who's trained his whole life for this will come at me with a knife and I'll be gone before the announcer finishes saying may the odds be ever in your favor. No, the odds are not in my favor. Most of them are against me.
I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms over a stomach which now feels bloated with food. I couldn't help it. I've never tasted anything so good, and I've certainly never had so much of it at once. A plate sits on my lap, empty and all but licked clean. I spy a bread crumb on the side, pick it up between two fingers, and pop it in my mouth. It still tastes good, even though I'm stuffed.
Slowly, I pick up my plate and stand, walking over to the nearest table and setting it alongside some other dirty dishes. I cross my arms and lean back on the wall. My gaze flickers slowly between the tributes, all eating and talking and laughing. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that 90% of them actually want to be here. I'm part of the 10% who made a reckless decision and now must deal with the consequences.
I set eyes on my alliance, who are all sitting together, but I don't join them. They're all so chatty. I get the feeling I'm the only observant one among us. They're not much, but they're something, and I need that something to keep myself alive. However long I can stay that way. I scan the rest of the tributes, thinking, evaluating.
Yep, I'm toast.

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 388}

[flyss]

Anarchy

District four | the 75th hunger games

I've had a number of strained relationships in my life-- my mother, my father, the kids at my school-- and I've learned to keep to myself as a way to fix the things I do wrong. But food is something I've yet to figure out; I need it to survive, but I don't want it. I hate the way it sets stiff in my stomach and the way it feels sliding down my throat and the after taste virtually anything leaves in my mouth after it's gone. So that day, for the second day since I had gotten to the training center, I hadn't planned to eat dinner.  Of course, I was urged by Harlem and select others to get something to eat, so I had picked through the tray of chicken breasts to find the smallest one. It sat half-eaten on my plate for the entirety of dinner, its heat long gone. Perhaps 30 minutes ago, it would have looked apetizing, but now it belongs in the trash. Quietly, I pick up my plate and stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot another girl doing the same, and when she finishes, the leans up against the wall to watch the others.  Her name falls dead on the tip of my tongue, her face one of the few that I've yet to watch during our training. If I remember correctly from the reaping recordings, she's from district 10. River? Raven? She's not of particular value to me, but I find myself intrigued nonetheless. The way she watches the others reminds me of myself.  After I set my plate down with the others, I slip off of my wooden ring and move to set it in my pocket. I sigh, remembering what I got up to do. A trip to the bathroom is in order, and I'm urged by the soft rumbling noises in my stomach to hurry up and make it there before my food fully settles. It's always easier to throw it up sooner rather than later, and I need to do it and get back before the others finish their meals. I take my steps slowly, allowing myself time to gauge the lower-district girl as I walk past her-- she's short and thin, barely reaching to my shoulders, perhaps a good ten inches or so below me. Reluctantly, I decide to stay and join her, my own mass taking place a few feet to the left of hers. I say nothing; if she wants to speak, she will initiate it. For now, this is nothing but a game to me.

• 435 words • D4 Female; 75th • notes:

♥︎

[solo]

Riven Fowley

As I watch the tributes around me, I am distracted for a moment by a girl, one of the Careers, passing by me. She's taller than me, even more so than most girls. Thin for a Career. She moves casually, unhurried, sets her plate down on the same table where mine is. My eyes catch a flicker of motion where her hands are, and she slips something in her pocket. A token, perhaps?
My train of thought is brought up short, breaking down before it has arrived at a station. Something is wrong, but they're not sure what. And then, after a few seconds, they find it: I didn't bring a token with me. I can't very well wear Kennedy's boots, as I'm sure the Gamemakers have already planned our outfits for the arena, and they would never allow such a thing. I have nothing. Not even some sort of trinket from my little box I keep under the bed.
The pieces are put back together somewhat messily, and the train is moving again.
I don't look up, but I notice the girl has now taken the spot next to me, her posture matching mine. Is this purposeful? I remember reading somewhere that people are more comfortable when their posture matches yours. At this point, I quite honestly have no idea, and I decide to wait before making any more assumptions.
For a while, I stay silent. I don't look at her, but it registers in my mind that she's from Four. Her name escapes my grasp, probably because there were so many volunteers from her district. Of course there were. They're Careers.
My gaze flickers across the room, hopping from one tribute to the next. One by one, it rests on Ivar, Wylla, and my alliance, respectively. Then for a moment I watch Scarlett and Lazarus. These are the ones I have spoken to, the ones I have formed an opinion on, however haphazard that opinion may be.
Haphazard. Adjective. Lacking any obvious principle of organization.
While the opinions themselves are somewhat disorganized, the individuals are laid out neatly in my mind, compiled in separate boxes and pushed back on shelves. When I find something new, I pull out the proper box and add whatever I have discovered to the mess inside.
At that moment I decide to indulge myself in the box of the girl next to me. There is no label, although I will soon discover that. Inside are mainly hard, fast facts that everyone knows: she's oddly tall, a Career from Four, a volunteer. Then there's the stuff I can deduce: despite being from a rich district, she's skinny, which could indicate any number of poor eating habits. She is quiet, observant, presumably taking everything in and analyzing it. Most likely analyzing me.
"Sizing up the competition?" my words jar sharply against the white noise of the other tributes as I glance sideways at my companion. I have the urge to chew on my fingernails, but instead cross my arms, locking them against my chest. "Did you find anything interesting?"

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 505}

[flyss]

Anarchy

District four | the 75th hunger games

She stands there for a while, alert to the girl next to her but focused on the tributes who still sit, eating like kings, food almost falling out of their mouths as they speak to those around them. She finds herself clutching at her stomach for a moment, but doesn't allow the behavior for long; she's learned that it's harder to get into people's heads when they see her as weak. She ends up sticking her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt to keep them occupied.  Her fingers grope the inside of the cloth as soon as they're inside, calloused fingerprints searching for the note card she knows she left in there, but she can only find a pen. The district 10 kid-- or is she older?-- decides to speak, though, and Anarchy gives up her search for the time being. It's only a list of names, anyway; she's sure that she'll figure out who her friend here is by the time they're done talking. "Sizing up the competition?" R-- as Anarchy has decided to name her, for lack of remembering the girl's actual name-- crosses her arms before continuing, a movement which strikes the tribute from 4 as either defense or confidence. Exactly which, she does not know yet; it's not like it's the type of question you can ask somebody. "Did you find anything interesting?" Searching for words, Anarchy finds herself being choked; she is torn between meaning and filler and something in between,  but forces herself free from her own grasp enough to speak. "Not really," she says, shuffling her feet. "Most of them are rather boring, actually." A brief chuckle escapes her lips at this and the force constricting her grows tighter with each gentle rack of her chest. Reluctantly, she allows herself a glimpse to the side, eyeing both the girl and the elevator. "Have you?" She's not sure if the girl will be willing to share, but she figures that since R was the first to ask, that she would be expecting the same in return.

• 343 words • D4 Female; 75th • notes:

♥︎

[solo]

Riven Fowley

From a quick glance, I can see her wrapping her arms tightly around her stomach, possibly from eating too much food. A very likely explanation in this scenario, although not necessarily guaranteed. She stuffs her hands inside her pockets. When I ask my question, she seems to freeze up a bit, not really sure what to say. Either she's been caught off guard or is weighing her response as carefully as she can.
"Not really," she replies, and I hear the sound of her scuffing her feet on the floor. "Most of them are rather boring, actually." Her reaction surprises me. Her words are intelligent, perhaps a little arrogant, but her actions show some level of anxiety. A small laugh escapes her lips. This confuses me and I'm unsure how to continue the conversation, or if I should continue it at all.
With some hesitation, she glances over at me, her gaze flickering between me and something over my shoulder. "Have you?" Does she want to leave, or is there someone behind me? Or perhaps she dislikes making eye contact, like I do.
"Riven, sweetie, look at me when I'm talking to you."
I remember Grandma saying that to me countless times. I always looked at her forehead or over her shoulder when I was talking to her, or anyone else for that matter, and she'd come down on me like a vulture for it. Now she just complains about my hair and how it always gets in my eyes.
I remember that I'm in the middle of a conversation. I shrug, and give a faint smile. "Everyone interests me on some level or another." I glance around, wondering if I can give an example. I spot Wylla eating her food, but skip over her to another girl, the second twelve-year-old. "She's interesting." I say, nodding once in her direction. "Pretty young for a volunteer. I guess she probably went cause of all her siblings." my gaze drifts over to the boy with the paralyzed legs. "And him. He's got something to prove, I think."
I turn my head to look at the girl beside me, grey eyes meeting cold blueish ones. My head tilts slightly to the side. "You catch my interest too. Is there something going on behind me?"

THROUGH ALL MY MAKE BELIEVE
THERE'S SOME REALITY

{Word Count: 376}