needles and thread [bill x georgina]

[cameron]

little bill cubs

Years ago a lamb relieved himself while Little Bill gave the babe a ride on his shoulders and the smell stuck with him for months. The Cubs residence wasn’t equipped with a shower like his training center bedroom, and no matter the time he spent scrubbing his skin red in the large wooden barrel they used as a tub he couldn’t make the scent of fresh piss leave. It soaked into his bedsheet, clung to his clothes, and infiltrated every waking moment of his life.

That was how he felt after having hot soup spilt on him by the girl from 11, despite the napkins used to sop it up and the steaming shower he’d gone and taken after. Back in the training room, he still smelled chicken broth rising from his body, and he wondered if his extraordinary sense of smell was his body’s way of making up for missing an eye. He grabbed a handful of needles from first aid and closed his fist tight, letting the pinpoints prick him all over, reminding his body who was ultimately in control, reminding himself how out of control he truly was.

He took a breath and let the needles drop to the floor, one too deep and still hanging from his palm as he walked off toward the blades station. He was unsettled, frustrated, and mostly drawn to the sharp knives and swords because of his own morbid desire to destroy himself; but this wasn’t the place for that, and one slow stroke of a spear tip was enough to draw blood and quell his thirst. Little Bill stood still, needle still dangling from his hand, and watched as another girl picked up a blade, uncertainty worn on her face like war paint.

[revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay]

(  G E O R G I N A  )

Adapting wasn't her strong suit—she spent her whole life living under crystal chandeliers and reading frayed pages of the books in libraries her parents had bought. The training center full of wild careers and the constant worrying if she would be alive in the following weeks was something foreign.

Georgina let her fingers stroke the burnished steel blades, picturing the shiny crimson red blood these weapons have shed. The knife felt weird in her subtle hands, the silver blade weighing down her arm and a tingling feeling like it doesn't belong in her palms. Her face was an easel - painted with multiple shades of ambiguity.

She tried to twist and turn and cut like she's read before in a book about their compositions. Her eyes were focused, trailing the silver blurs of the blade. But it a tug at first, the knife snagging the underside of the sleeve of her grey uniform - cutting a slit in the lavish fabric.

[cameron]

He was momentarily mesmerized by her, eye trained on her hands as she turned the blade over and over, focused on the blurs of silver that swung back and forth around her tight frame, moths chasing a light that refused to sit still. If anything, she seemed unfamiliar with the metal in her dicey grip; he could tell the tributes apart from who was raised in death and violence or not fairly immediately. Growing up taking down sheep after sheep, his deathdar was readily perceptive despite never meeting an career until that week. The two from 2 had obviously caused their fair share of suffering and pain, but the siblings from 11 were acquainted in a different way. There was a major disparity between their upbringings, and he knew he’d have more in common with the 11s any day.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint this girl’s home district (but had it narrowed down to 7.) He studied her harder, her face as enigmatic as she so clearly wanted, until the knife sliced through her sleeve and almost through her skin. Any other day he’d hold his distance; that day he jogged to her, plucking the needle from his palm and pulling out the loose thread hanging from his own sleeve. “Here,” he grabbed her arm, “I can help.”