jack imberline | d8 | 1st hunger games | fin
Aug 30, 2019 0:02:25 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Aug 30, 2019 0:02:25 GMT -5
Jacquard "Jack" Imberline
age thirteen
district eight
fc: nico liersch
"What's a kid like that doin' in with the rebels?"
I'm thirteen, Jack wants to say, but doesn't correct them. People tended not to like being told they were wrong, Keepers least of all, and after the last in his row of cells to open their mouth (a high, unfamiliar voice, asking after their scheduled dinner of thin porridge and stale bread) had gotten a pistol-whipping from the brunette one they'd all kept silent, with only the rustle of the two Peacekeepers' canvas uniforms to break up the dull humming of the cell walls.
He idly wonders if his parents had been the ones to stitch them together. Peacekeeper uniforms had been one of the few items District Eight continued to produce, as the war dragged on, and by the third year his mother had gone knocking on the doorstep of those factories, with nothing left of her ill-timed foray into the lacemaking business except the old stocking frame she'd been unable to sell off, crammed into one corner of their tiny flat.
When he was younger, Jack had loved taking apart that stocking frame and lining up all the little pieces in neat rows against the dusty windowsill, trailing his fingers across each of the metal bits as he matched them up in the schematic. Jacquard, she'd admonish with quite more worry than he thought she ought to have, given how he always managed to put it back together right, but she'd kiss him and laugh and set out a plate of fresh-baked cookies on the floor for him, next to the machine parts.
His mother and father haven't been home to say goodnight to him in years.
Rifles had fewer parts than the stocking machine. Jack likes how the pins and springs fit against each other just right, and he likes picking out the right pieces to make the jumbled mess on the workbench into something useful. Commander Edwyle (none of this 'Mr. Wolfe' or 'Sir' business, I might be your commander but we're all equal comrades here) would tell rebels who stopped by that he could fix broken equipment faster than any of the other men in their squad, and Jack was proud of that part, too.
Two years ago he'd stood behind that circle of men in the abandoned warehouse, screwdriver in hand and casting desperate anxious glances at Edwyle, the only one he knew. They were all so much older, he'd thought, feeling so lost amidst their laughter and raucous singing; the boys from school, after all, had largely ignored him, too short to keep up with their long strides and too quiet and thoughtful for his voice to pierce past their shouting.
But Julio had clapped him on the back and pushed him into the center of the circle, and his older brother Andrés had set down his guitar to dig out a sheet of lyrics for Jack, and then Frankie Wren had plopped himself down beside the two to tell him stories -
Jack's first thought, last month when his mother told him she'd finally managed to get pregnant again, was that he wanted to be the kind of big brother that was like Julio, or like Edwyle, who asked Jack for ideas and listened to him just like he did with the real adults.
He thinks about the mayor's office that kept "losing" his father's petitions, or the businessman who'd shown up at their front door to laugh in his mother's face. The rebels didn't like making people feel ignored, and that counted for a lot in Jack's books.
"Stay back!" Commander Edwyle hissed as the banging on the warehouse door grows louder. "I'll -"
"This is the last stronghold," Frankie snapped back at him. "If we go down, we'll go down fighting. Together."
Jack said nothing, his fingers closing around the grip of the gun he'd been working on. It was missing a buttplate and the magazine spring was a little loose, but he was pretty sure he could fire it reasonably accurately, if he had to. Andrés had begun teaching him to fight when the tide of the war turned, mostly with knives and fists but occasionally with guns when they could spare the bullets.
Edwyle glared at him when he picked it up off the table. "Jack," he said. "Please don't."
"But I just want to help -"
"You're more valuable safe." His voice was clipped, eyes already scanning up and down across the room. "You're the f-"
But whatever the commander had been about to say next was lost, cut off by the slow crack of the door frame as the entrance began to give way. Jack found himself shoved into one of the low cabinets beneath a rusted sewing machine, old tulle trying to choke its way inside his mouth - "Get in! Now!" - Commander Edwyle managing to slam the cabinet closed seconds before the door crashed open and Peacekeepers swarmed in. Jack pressed his body against the walls of the cabinet, closed his eyes, and listened. It was a tight fit, his back and neck aching as he tamped down the temptation to peek outside and know something of what was happening amidst the gunshots and yelling.
When he could pick out individual voices again, he heard - Andrés roaring curses in a language he didn't understand, followed by the thud of something heavy, and a cry of pain; the sound of clicking handcuffs and heavy bootsteps; a Peacekeeper's voice admonishing another to "Hurry up, we're doing rebel hunting, not embroidery!". Jack held his breath, listening to the sounds of his friends being led away. He had to obey the commander, even if -
Something tugged on the tulle beneath him, and the cabinet door squeaked open, sending Jack and the cloth tumbling out in one big tangle.
"Apologies," the Peacekeeper said sarcastically, his hand circling easily around Jack's thin wrist. "Look what I embroidered."
"Hell if I know. He can't be more than, what, nine? Ten?"
I'm thirteen, Jack wants to say, but doesn't correct them. People tended not to like being told they were wrong, Keepers least of all, and after the last in his row of cells to open their mouth (a high, unfamiliar voice, asking after their scheduled dinner of thin porridge and stale bread) had gotten a pistol-whipping from the brunette one they'd all kept silent, with only the rustle of the two Peacekeepers' canvas uniforms to break up the dull humming of the cell walls.
He idly wonders if his parents had been the ones to stitch them together. Peacekeeper uniforms had been one of the few items District Eight continued to produce, as the war dragged on, and by the third year his mother had gone knocking on the doorstep of those factories, with nothing left of her ill-timed foray into the lacemaking business except the old stocking frame she'd been unable to sell off, crammed into one corner of their tiny flat.
When he was younger, Jack had loved taking apart that stocking frame and lining up all the little pieces in neat rows against the dusty windowsill, trailing his fingers across each of the metal bits as he matched them up in the schematic. Jacquard, she'd admonish with quite more worry than he thought she ought to have, given how he always managed to put it back together right, but she'd kiss him and laugh and set out a plate of fresh-baked cookies on the floor for him, next to the machine parts.
His mother and father haven't been home to say goodnight to him in years.
"Well, they do like to nab 'em young. Easier to brainwash kids into fighting for their violent agenda before they're old enough to tell right from wrong."
Rifles had fewer parts than the stocking machine. Jack likes how the pins and springs fit against each other just right, and he likes picking out the right pieces to make the jumbled mess on the workbench into something useful. Commander Edwyle (none of this 'Mr. Wolfe' or 'Sir' business, I might be your commander but we're all equal comrades here) would tell rebels who stopped by that he could fix broken equipment faster than any of the other men in their squad, and Jack was proud of that part, too.
Two years ago he'd stood behind that circle of men in the abandoned warehouse, screwdriver in hand and casting desperate anxious glances at Edwyle, the only one he knew. They were all so much older, he'd thought, feeling so lost amidst their laughter and raucous singing; the boys from school, after all, had largely ignored him, too short to keep up with their long strides and too quiet and thoughtful for his voice to pierce past their shouting.
But Julio had clapped him on the back and pushed him into the center of the circle, and his older brother Andrés had set down his guitar to dig out a sheet of lyrics for Jack, and then Frankie Wren had plopped himself down beside the two to tell him stories -
Jack's first thought, last month when his mother told him she'd finally managed to get pregnant again, was that he wanted to be the kind of big brother that was like Julio, or like Edwyle, who asked Jack for ideas and listened to him just like he did with the real adults.
He thinks about the mayor's office that kept "losing" his father's petitions, or the businessman who'd shown up at their front door to laugh in his mother's face. The rebels didn't like making people feel ignored, and that counted for a lot in Jack's books.
"Despicable. I heard they just hand 'em guns and tell 'em to kill. There's nothing the rebels won't do, no one they won't sacrifice if they think it'll prove some stupid point."
"Stay back!" Commander Edwyle hissed as the banging on the warehouse door grows louder. "I'll -"
"This is the last stronghold," Frankie snapped back at him. "If we go down, we'll go down fighting. Together."
Jack said nothing, his fingers closing around the grip of the gun he'd been working on. It was missing a buttplate and the magazine spring was a little loose, but he was pretty sure he could fire it reasonably accurately, if he had to. Andrés had begun teaching him to fight when the tide of the war turned, mostly with knives and fists but occasionally with guns when they could spare the bullets.
Edwyle glared at him when he picked it up off the table. "Jack," he said. "Please don't."
"But I just want to help -"
"You're more valuable safe." His voice was clipped, eyes already scanning up and down across the room. "You're the f-"
But whatever the commander had been about to say next was lost, cut off by the slow crack of the door frame as the entrance began to give way. Jack found himself shoved into one of the low cabinets beneath a rusted sewing machine, old tulle trying to choke its way inside his mouth - "Get in! Now!" - Commander Edwyle managing to slam the cabinet closed seconds before the door crashed open and Peacekeepers swarmed in. Jack pressed his body against the walls of the cabinet, closed his eyes, and listened. It was a tight fit, his back and neck aching as he tamped down the temptation to peek outside and know something of what was happening amidst the gunshots and yelling.
When he could pick out individual voices again, he heard - Andrés roaring curses in a language he didn't understand, followed by the thud of something heavy, and a cry of pain; the sound of clicking handcuffs and heavy bootsteps; a Peacekeeper's voice admonishing another to "Hurry up, we're doing rebel hunting, not embroidery!". Jack held his breath, listening to the sounds of his friends being led away. He had to obey the commander, even if -
Something tugged on the tulle beneath him, and the cabinet door squeaked open, sending Jack and the cloth tumbling out in one big tangle.
"Apologies," the Peacekeeper said sarcastically, his hand circling easily around Jack's thin wrist. "Look what I embroidered."
