trajectory .:. train {d3}

[Arrows]

There's a low fog that follows them from stage to train, freedom to imprisonment. Faces fade in a murmur of mist and familiar becomes a facade of fantasy. Orion stares at the vanishing landscape, home wilting into horror. A pit of stones has settled where once he had a stomach, the weight of his words physically present. Death invited him to dinner, and with a lack of sense he spoke back with sheer stupidity. Orion knows all too well he is no hero, he's the newest flower to fall freshly cut before the feet of Larceny Theft.

Why must guilt be such a bitch?

Escapades of expense now litter Orion's existence, taciturn treats in exchange for slaughter. His hands hold marble and his eyes find no fractures in the frameworks of all the finely crafted crystals. There is more here than he has ever seen, yet still it does not quell even the slightest of satisfactions. There is an error in the algorithm, an issue with the entire equation. The train is a zero, an unimportant instance which will not affect the outcome of the equation. Orion has no interest in the fancy foods or the lavish liquids. Right now a necklace of rope wraps around his neck with every passing second, he picked his path but now he has to walk it.

The doors whir and the only plausible positive factor walks through them, Atticus Manor. Even if he has buried boy after boy and girl after girl,  he won once. Against the opposing odds and through the cruel calculations, he lived. Orion doesn't know the victor, in space they are two cosmic entities merely passing by chance for only an instant. In this moment they are in equilibrium, but soon the solace will cease and energy will propel them apart. It will be unknown if they will ever meet again. Orion sits quietly away from both Atticus and his district partner.

"Look, statistically speaking, the odds of either one of us surviving is much slimmer than I care to say aloud. So," Orion pauses his speeding words with a short sigh, "you better have one heck of a motivation speech Mr. Manor."

[kap]

"Our lives are stories,
waiting to be told."

There was a bit of an uncomfortable atmosphere when Dusty boarded the train. Sure, there were snacks a-plenty, plush chairs and more fancy-looking light fixtures than she ever would have expected, but it just didn’t seem right to her. The young girl wondered if this is how her siblings had felt when they boarded the train, on their way to the Capitol. Then again, they had been chosen for the Games, whereas Dusty had volunteered. They probably just felt fear. Industria Spark was unsure of what she truly felt, aside from out of place.

Normally, people who volunteered were ready and capable of fighting, but when it came to District Three this year, Dusty and Orion were both young, having volunteered only to save another’s fate. At least, that’s how it appeared to Dusty. She assumed that Orion volunteered because Larceny had done to same for him before, but she could never be sure just by assuming. She wasn’t inside his mind, after all.

Being a child of the mayor, Dusty often received a lot of attention. Now, she was going to receive more attention than she’d ever be truly ready for. For now, though, before she ended up in front of crowds of people, she’d have to face two other people on the train ride there. Two people shouldn’t seem like a big deal, but of these two people, one of them might be trying to kill her in the not too distant future, and the other had killed people before, being the victor, Atticus Manor, who’d just entered the room.

When Dusty had sat down, Orion had seated himself away from her, seemingly on purpose. She didn’t blame him, at least, not entirely. The reaping and the visits in the Justice Building were stressful for her, and likely were for him as well. Being all buddied up with one’s District partner probably wasn’t a top priority for Orion right then. Dusty smoothed out her dress when she sat down and then folded her hands on her lap, as she’d been taught to do to be polite. Orion was the first of the two of them to speak, and he spoke to Atticus.

"Look, statistically speaking, the odds of either one of us surviving is much slimmer than I care to say aloud. So," There’s a sigh from the boy, "you better have one heck of a motivation speech Mr. Manor."

Although Dusty didn’t really want to admit it, he wasn’t wrong with what he was saying. A thirteen year old girl and boy who didn’t look to be much older than that from District Three didn’t have the greatest chance of becoming the victor of the Hunger Games. Dusty looked from Orion to Atticus. Then, she decided to speak as well.

”Mr. Manor, I agree with him,” she started, referring to what Orion had said. ”We’re not likely to win,” she continued. ”I’d like to hear what you have to say, though.”

As the girl said these things, she’d hoped she had been polite enough. She was always taught to speak to others with respect, so that was what she was doing.

lyrics: "Sinners" by Lauren Aquilina

[mat]

[googlefont="Megrim:400;"]

Atticus Manor

​​His pull away calendar had only one event marked every year. It was the only time Atticus made any plans at all, and even then it was not by choice. Circled and underlined twice was today’s date. On the side of today’s date on the calendar, in which he asked for a new one each year, read Reaping Day in his own handwriting. Parenthesized on the side was the number ten.

It had been one decade since Atticus woke up and his life changed forever. Ten years of waking up and going to bed with the dead that he burdened himself with. It started with twenty-three, but every year since, the number has gone up by two. An arithmetic sequence in which Atticus believed to be infinite and steady, beyond reasonable doubt. Every year, he pieced together his words carefully, hoping that it would manage to stick and drive his mentees, but he has failed every time. One could argue that Auto and Larceny were an exception to this rule, but he felt the worst for the pair, who had to live with the burden of living through death.

He hadn’t spoken a word to either since, something he should probably get on.

Standing up from his chair, he grabbed to calendar, tearing off today’s date and placed it in his pocket for the Reaping. When the names were called and volunteers announced, he wrote them on the back, folded it up and put it in his back pocket.

These names, he promised to remember, just like the other eighteen that were tucked away in a drawer from his bedroom.

—

The door of the train opens up in front of him, and the two tributes are revealed to him. Industria Spark, a redhead like Bolts, he recalls, sits opposite of Orion Starcrest. It hit the pit of Atticus’s stomach to understand that Larceny had been reaped for a third time in a row. Thankfully, another boy gained the courage to volunteer for him. Atticus wondered what that bowl’s vendetta was against Larceny, but he didn’t dare say it aloud.

Never know who is watching.

The boy speaks first, discussing the odds. Atticus always assumed the odds were stacked against District Three, and it would take a shooting star being wished upon to garner up enough luck to win. Quadrys Lexig was his star, and his scream was his dying wish. The boy continues to ask for a motivational speech, something Atticus has never been good at giving. The girl, Industria, is in accordance with him.

He remains standing, leaning against the train, choosing not to pick a side between the two. Equal distance, equal attention.

He stumbles to think of the right words to say, trying to recall if anyone in the past ten years had asked the same question, and what response he gave. Not thinking of anything, and not wanting to betray their trust so soon, Atticus placed together words as they came to him.

“Face your demons early, I suppose. Conquer them, or come to terms with them as fast as you can.”

The words made no sense, but neither did sending children to their death.

“If you don’t do it soon, you’ll never be at peace. Death or alive, peace is the answer.”

He was not yet at peace, so it felt false to give this advice. But he had to pretend, at least for a short time, because Atticus could not the names in his back pocket fall victim to a short, unfinished life once again.


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[Arrows]

In an instant, the room is an equation and the others its variables. With each word there is an alteration, an addition Orion calculates inside his head. Currently the coefficient of social awkwardness is incrementing at a rate of one per every word spoken. Meanwhile the axiom of the algorithm, or from Orion's perspective the conversation, continues to concur that not a single person sitting inside the silver saturated train car knows what to say. Yet another increase to the social awkward tension and the lack of a butter knife to cut through it.

Orion bites tenderly onto the end of his thumbnail.

Outside, day dips further into night's valley as the first signs of stars begin to crest over the sweeping landscape. The Reaping feels forever ago and freshly befallen at the same time. There is an oddity in the divisive duality of acceptance and refusal that simmers beneath Orion's skin. He chose this seat, the spinning sensations and existential mania. Every quantification and numerical variation shot through his head, and still he chose speech over silence. He has to let the past die. He needs to shed the title saved and step into the space of savior, even if a stone sits waiting to be carved.

Hands run through thickets of knots and curls of exhaustion. Every instinct edges all sensibility towards cordial conversation, but the paradox of Atticus' served sentences stem dysphoria into the rationality of Orion's thoughts. It is not frustration that flows from his area away from the others, but a cold calm with no tonal alteration.

"Acceptance, an aspect I can understand."

Orion's teeth tug at his thumb. 

"But proposing peace as a rational corridor of thought is an error. I understand you want to help us find some fragment of, fine call it peace."

Another nip, a sudden spot of blood. He has bitten down to the bed.

"But the statistics clearly convey that the peaceful do not survive. Look at the victors: broken and beaten, like yourself, spending years searching for it. Those that find it in the games, die. Aurora LaChance, Dove Elsu, and countless other examples."

Orion's voice falls off for a second. He never speaks this much, but his heart is racing and in the corner of his eyes he can catch the traces of water.

"With all do respect Mr. Manor, this is a game of survival. And survival isn't peaceful."

[kap]

"Our lives are stories,
waiting to be told."

Everything that is said seems to be said all so quickly. Industria manages to keep up, but after Atticus speaks, saying something about facing your demons and finding peace, Orion has already let out a large bout of words. The boy’s words sound wise, or at least, he uses more complex terms that Dusty usually would. Granted, Orion was a couple years older than her, but still, his sentences were far more grammatically advanced than her own.

The boy proceeds to point out that those who had found peace never survived. Victors were, as Orion put it, broken and beaten. Dusty knew he wasn’t wrong. Although Atticus was the first victor that she had ever met, she could see this. He was broken, and, in a way, he was beaten. Dusty had always been someone who made friends rather than enemies, though. Did that mean that she’d be completely incapable of surviving?

Survival isn’t peaceful, Orion had said. He wasn’t wrong about that, either. Dusty would have to make enemies in the arena if she wanted to survive, but she wasn’t going to make it a point to be harsh towards them with her words, even if she was harsh towards them with her weapon. Unsure of what to say for a moment, Dusty froze after hearing Orion’s words. Then, she looked at Atticus.

”I don’t like to admit that Orion’s right about what he’s saying, but he is. Peace isn’t the answer in a violent game.” She paused. ”Do you have any other advice for us, sir?”

She still had to be polite, even when she didn’t know what to say. Her mama had always said to be polite, and she wasn’t going to change that right now. Sure, she’d likely have to in the arena, when her weapon met the skin of another person, but right now wasn’t that time, yet.

lyrics: "Sinners" by Lauren Aquilina

[mat]

[googlefont="Megrim:400;"]

Atticus Manor

​​Neither one seems very satisfied with Atticus’s answer. Both of them had interpreted his idea of peace to be passive, but he was trying in no way to make them seek pacifism. That would leave almost no way to win the Hunger Games or even survive the first day. If they did not wield a blade or bow, they’d be among the first dead. Not Industria nor Orion held high ambition to win, that much he could tell from their confidence. He felt the same way too, once, hiding from battle under Glamour Kinkade’s mask as Nell, Sol, and Astrid fought at the beginning.

Atticus still knew their true intentions were to survive, and he understood why they may be confused with his response. They’re still young, still kids. At their age and with their life experience, it made sense why they may not know the contrast between being at peace and being peaceful.

He attempted to clarify what he said, itching at his head in an attempt to shake out just the right words. “No, I don’t want either of you to be peaceful. That’s the last thing. It’s an instinct of human nature to fight when you’re on the brink of death, and I have neither the intention nor the capability,” he spoke quickly, noticing he was being to ramle. Collecting his thoughts, he sat across from Industria.

“I meant that you should know yourself, your limits, your flaws,” he said as the train began to slowly make a curve. “The game they make you watch is ten times harder to play. They try desperately to preoccupy you with interviews and outfits, sparring and memory. It’s on purpose, you know, they want you to work yourselves up.”

He looks at the moon beginning to rise, out the window. “Be aware of that. And always take a moment to breathe.”

This was something he never did.

He never stopped thinking, speaking, eating or drinking, and he never had the chance to just breathe.
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TABLE MADE BY GHOSTY