table testing . [ Pogue ]

[pogue]

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He is not a fighter.

He spreads his religion in little white lines of snow across the table, broken glass laced between his fingertips, scraping against the table as he etches the feeling of forgetting into the wood. There's a choir in the background made of metal and static, antenna outstretched towards the sky. Its voice is blurry, caught up in the songs it screams out, echoing through the skull of the worshipper who sits before it. He can count every scuffed up floorboard and scratch that mark his walls, tracing their kingdoms into the fiber of the wallpaper. He bought the apartment for dirt cheap, sold his soul to the landlord in the arms of the shadows, cigarette smoke. He draws the shades and it goes from coffin to church, light seeping in through the holes in the walls, dancing with the shadows and sins that splatter across the floors.

He's grown accustomed to the way the shadows spread across his skin, soak him in gasoline and light him on fire with the indecencies he clenches between his teeth. They burrow holes into his skin, drown themselves in the blood that seeps from his wounds. There's a shattered mirror in front of him, tracing lines through his reflection, broken glass shards carved into his fist. He admires the scars it left when he shoved his fist into it, whitewashed knuckles pulsing red in the moonlight, falling from fingertips into the floorboards below.

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alex 🐺

[pogue]

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He is not a fighter.

He spreads his religion in little white lines of snow across the table, broken glass laced between his fingertips, scraping against the table as he etches the feeling of forgetting into the wood. There's a choir in the background made of metal and static, antenna outstretched towards the sky. Its voice is blurry, caught up in the songs it screams out, echoing through the skull of the worshipper who sits before it. He can count every scuffed up floorboard and scratch that mark his walls, tracing their kingdoms into the fiber of the wallpaper. He bought the apartment for dirt cheap, sold his soul to the landlord in the arms of the shadows, cigarette smoke. He draws the shades and it goes from coffin to church, light seeping in through the holes in the walls, dancing with the shadows and sins that splatter across the floors.

He's grown accustomed to the way the shadows spread across his skin, soak him in gasoline and light him on fire with the indecencies he clenches between his teeth. They burrow holes into his skin, drown themselves in the blood that seeps from his wounds. There's a shattered mirror in front of him, tracing lines through his reflection, broken glass shards carved into his fist. He admires the scars it left when he shoved his fist into it, whitewashed knuckles pulsing red in the moonlight, falling from fingertips into the floorboards below.

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napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

[pogue]

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He is not a fighter.

He spreads his religion in little white lines of snow across the table, broken glass laced between his fingertips, scraping against the table as he etches the feeling of forgetting into the wood. There's a choir in the background made of metal and static, antenna outstretched towards the sky. Its voice is blurry, caught up in the songs it screams out, echoing through the skull of the worshipper who sits before it. He can count every scuffed up floorboard and scratch that mark his walls, tracing their kingdoms into the fiber of the wallpaper. He bought the apartment for dirt cheap, sold his soul to the landlord in the arms of the shadows, cigarette smoke. He draws the shades and it goes from coffin to church, light seeping in through the holes in the walls, dancing with the shadows and sins that splatter across the floors.

He's grown accustomed to the way the shadows spread across his skin, soak him in gasoline and light him on fire with the indecencies he clenches between his teeth. They burrow holes into his skin, drown themselves in the blood that seeps from his wounds. There's a shattered mirror in front of him, tracing lines through his reflection, broken glass shards carved into his fist. He admires the scars it left when he shoved his fist into it, whitewashed knuckles pulsing red in the moonlight, falling from fingertips into the floorboards below.

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gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕

[pogue]

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He is not a fighter.

He spreads his religion in little white lines of snow across the table, broken glass laced between his fingertips, scraping against the table as he etches the feeling of forgetting into the wood. There's a choir in the background made of metal and static, antenna outstretched towards the sky. Its voice is blurry, caught up in the songs it screams out, echoing through the skull of the worshipper who sits before it. He can count every scuffed up floorboard and scratch that mark his walls, tracing their kingdoms into the fiber of the wallpaper. He bought the apartment for dirt cheap, sold his soul to the landlord in the arms of the shadows, cigarette smoke. He draws the shades and it goes from coffin to church, light seeping in through the holes in the walls, dancing with the shadows and sins that splatter across the floors.

He's grown accustomed to the way the shadows spread across his skin, soak him in gasoline and light him on fire with the indecencies he clenches between his teeth. They burrow holes into his skin, drown themselves in the blood that seeps from his wounds. There's a shattered mirror in front of him, tracing lines through his reflection, broken glass shards carved into his fist. He admires the scars it left when he shoved his fist into it, whitewashed knuckles pulsing red in the moonlight, falling from fingertips into the floorboards below.

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me lol

[pogue]

L  O  V  E

"Begin."

The water swallows me whole and the world goes silent, numb, the light scattering in the crystal I'm submerged in and turning the imposing figure of my Father and the medic he's called to watch into nothing more than distorted shapes, dancing and fracturing as I let my body go weightless.

My heartbeat echoes heavy inside a hollow chest, hardened like stoned and chiseled like granite and laced in the deadliest of poisons, a boy born and raised and taught to kill or be killed. It's the only thing I have ever known, flashing in the irises of my Father and caught in the metallic shine of every Peacekeeper badge that now adorns our walls, stoic totems cementing the legacy my Father carried proudly on his shoulders, the legacy he's put onto mine with every single training session he puts me through.

It's a dangerous thing, to idolize someone like that. But District Two is full of dangerous things that only make dangerous things, and I'm one of them.

It's no sob story of my parent's death, no desire for revenge or romanticized love of killing like I've seen in so many past tributes from my home, just a boy and his Father and the expectations that comes with calling oneself a Career. It's youthful hands and a weapon held between them, a bow a knife a spear a sword and growing fingers curling around the edges. It's dissecting past Games tapes and poking holes in every single tributes strategy, in every move they did or did not make.

It's taking what is and what could have been and turning it into what it should be. Kill or be killed, killer or the fallen.

Or, like today, it is a boy and a beating heart and screaming lungs and the will to survive.

And to think, the first time I did this I didn't even make it a minute before slamming my palms into the glass, fear and bubbles and broken screams underneath the water a chorus to my own failure.

Count my heartbeats with every second that passes, my body weightless under the pressure of the water. When I close my eyes, I hear the music.

♥

It was the soft keys of piano music when I learned what a career was, red rose petals leaking from the skin of Achilles Muto in her final fight, sweltering heat swallowing her corpse when her cannon finally sounded. My mother was a romantic, my own name being born out of the only thing she had ever called pure in this world, and on that night she had sat with pale fingers flowing over the white keys spread before her, flowing as smoothly as the waters I drown in, her eyes closed listening to the musical whispers she let spill out into the room.

It all felt wrong. 

The way the screams and shouts of pain contrasted against the methodical and soft flow of every note she played, an empty chorus welcoming the deaths of the kids on the screen. And I watched with doe eyes and innocent heart as they fell one-by-one, their screams silenced by their cannons and the glint of silver staining red with every swing. 

Note by note, body by body, under the soft glow of the moonlight I finally turned towards my Father, discontent on my face and curiosity laced within every word I spoke.


"Dad, how come we watch this?"

a child,

so innocent.

He pulled me onto his lap, smirk on his face and whiskey still on his breath and an understanding nod worth all of the trust I could ever put into him, one hand motioning towards the screen as the fights blared on the screens, Caesar Flickerman's cheerful voice a sharp contrast to the red screams on the screen, to the soft notes of the piano and my own mother's hums.

"Because, Love, that is how it's always been.

How it always will be.

You'll grow to be better than them. Understand?"

Did I understand? Do I understand? I nodded as if I did, marking my own fate against a backdrop of reds and piano notes. Years later, I learned how to play that same piano, eyes closed and fingertips moving across the keys like water. Against everything that had felt wrong as a child, I see the reds and the roses and the death and the dying with every note I play. It all feels right.

♥

It was the heavy tones of a band I will never know when I broke my first bone at the age of ten, the training center a backdrop for a wrestling match gone wrong in the moment, the sickening sound of a crack and a howl as pain shot from my arm and white splintered up from the surface. With the world dim and the memories of my mother's piano notes giving way to the ringing that scattered between my ears I was carried to the infirmary, my arm wrapped in angelic white and the promise of a full recovery resting on my shoulders.

My mother came into the room with the same grace as the melodies she'd taught me how to play, humming the same tunes to herself that I'd grown up on and the same endearing look scattered across her features, the smile of a hopeless romantic greeting me as she sat on the edge of my bed. Her hums gave way to silence and my heartbeats gave way to fear, the pressure of a career in training pressing down onto my chest, worse than any wave of pain that washed from my arm.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Is he mad?"

And the crickets chirped and the moonlight danced through the windows and up the walls of my bedroom, and she laughed, laughed and giggled until I could do nothing but smile and laugh along, oblivious to what we were even laughing at. Finally  she turned to me, orange hair burning in the night and the whites of her teeth showing in her soft smirk. "Oh Love, if a broken bone were a sign of failure, your father would have never made it as far as he did."

A tap on the nose and a smile on my face and she leaned forward again, cupping my chin in her hand. "When that bone heals, Love, you use that arm to show the boy who did that to you just what you are made of."

She pulled silver laced in her fingertips into the night, twirling it in her hand before unfurling my fingers and wrapping them around it.

 

"What is it?"

"An old family heirloom, dear."

"What does it do?"

No answer given she guided my finger to the button in the center and pressed it down, the soft crack of the metal long since forgotten echoing out into the night, lost quickly to the crickets. A crackle and static poured from the device laced in my fingertips, like a water filled breath before it gave way to the sounds of everything I had never heard in the blacks and whites of piano keys, a song of breaking chains and watching the sunrise and never loving again.

My mother leaned back, a wink and a grin.

"Life isn't always innocent piano melodies, Love.

Enjoy the music."

I fell asleep to the songs dipped in silver in my palm that night and every night forward, until the tidal waves of pain in my arm became no more than puddles, drying effortlessly in the fiery heat of my own ambitions.

Not long after, I found that boy that had snapped my bone and twisted his arm until I heard that same crack pour out of his limb, whistling the songs from the little metal box while I did so.

♥

I open my eyes and feel the water rush back into them, chlorine stinging against my irises and the sounds of the melodies fading back into my mind. My vision finds the timer in the corner, bright red numbers blurry and distorted under the wall of water I sit in, drown in.

My body fights itself from the inside out, lungs curling and cracking and begging for mercy and fresh air and everything alike, everything my Father says a body built for survival should never need enough of. So I fight it, push out against the walls of my own limitations and forwards towards the path my life has always laid out for me, planned and methodical and expected, as easy as the notes of a melody played at midnight.

After all, that is what is expected of me. I blink and see my childhood self, watching the bloodshed against a backdrop of music and humming, my Father telling me I would be better.

I blink and see myself proving him right, the twist of an arm and a snap of a bone and a little silver box playing the same music I hum to myself while carrying the weight of expectation on my back. My Mother was right, the life of a Career was nothing innocent and everything hardened, bloody red and anything but soft. I accept it without hesitation.

It's only when I hear the buzzer spill out into the training room that I rise to the surface, washing the sins from my body as  the water drips from my skin, the sound of waves breaking the silence that had so softly tried to drown me. I gasp for air, lungs finally retreating back into my chest as I grasp the side of the tank, letting the water spill over the edge as I look to my Father.

For expectation.

For approval.

For what I am to be.

"Next time you go longer, Love. Dry yourself off, and meet in the weight room in ten for strength training." 

♥

I drown myself in fabric at half past midnight, the sounds of crickets and owls and the moonlight seeping in through cracked window. With the click of a button a little silver box spills out the same songs I grew up on and I close my eyes, letting my childhood innocence and ignorance fall away in bits and pieces, patched up and through with the armor of a Career. 

[pogue]

Dear audience members... please take your seats, the show is about to begin.

Lights on, cameras rolling, raise the curtains and folks, welcome to everyone’s favorite late-night show, A Game of Love!. That’s right folks, we love to hear the cheers.

Alright alright, the fun is just beginning now, and it gives me great pleasure to announce the following...

From District Two, live and in color it’s the star of the show.. Love Bellisario!

The training station doors slide open, metallic whir a chorus to the Career’s entrance. Love’s footsteps are near silent, as if he is doing more bouncing than walking. Cloud nine swirls around him, accented by the signature shit-eating, deadly grin that is carved into his face. He waves to the skies and the gods above, fingers curling as his gaze drifts to the Gamemakers that watch him through tinted glass. Their shadowy forms blur together as his gaze narrows, smile dropping from his face as he stops in the center of the room. His hands reach down into his pocket and pull out the journal he’s used throughout his time in the training center, placing it down on the metal table to his left before turning his attention back to the Gamemakers. “Love Bellisario. Two.” He spews information that they already know, standing on a pedestal of ego and bloodlust.

The stage is set, folks! Love Bellisario is out and about and looking for trouble, and we have just the participants to bring it to him. Folks, let’s bring the music and pan the cameras and meet our contestants!

”Can we bring out the trainers I asked for?” Love says to no one but the air, counting the thumps of his heartbeats in the silence before the soft sliding sounds of metal are heard from across the room. Two forms enter and Love’s eyes flare with recognition and amusement as their faces come into view.

He knows them, they know him, and they know each other.

And the fun is just beginning.

Oh boy, as the temperatures begin to rise! It is getting hot in here. But, dear audience, we need your help to decide where to go next. Observe your surroundings, observe the situation in front of you, and reflect on what you already know about our star Love here. And then ask yourself this one simple question:

What would Love do?

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    EXPLAIN THE RULES

”You two have a secret.”

Love states it plainly, his words falling swiftly from his lips and coated with the deadliest toxin he’s ever used: the truth. He’s watched the two of them for the past week, in between sword swings and launched metal and faux-kindness with his fellow tributes. It’s a budding romance between the two and the metal wedding band wrapped around her finger is its only obstacle, the striking stain on a deadly affair. Flirtatious eye contact and the occasional brushed hand against her hips.

He’d noticed it on the first day, behind a deadly smirk and in between the shadows of the target range. Love was deadly like that, and their love was just as such.

Two carries a legacy of up close and personal connections with the men in white, and he’d watched it trickle down slowly into friendships with the trainers throughout his childhood. It’d been easy, then, to spark up conversations and to nod along approvingly with every word they said, weaseling his way in between the three of them without them even knowing. Twelve pages of notes later and he’d cemented his plan, written in red against the white pages.

”What are you talking about?” She asks him, tone laced with suppressed anger. Love smirks, tilting his head and ending their little game of playing dumb.

”Can we bring out another trainer? Avery Stahl.” He calls out to the room, letting his voice echo and meld into the walls. His gaze shifts up then back down, slowly panning between the two trainers. Their faces say it all, the look of shock that washes over them both and settles into rosy cheeks and widened eyes. The man keeps that expression, brain cells click clacking together as his eyes dart to her. He hears the doors slide open as they stand there, the timer on the wall just beginning it’s descent.

The woman’s husband enters the training center an awkward mess, all narrowed eyes and furrowed brow as he joins them. His hand brushes against his wife’s back, a sign of support that is anything but reciprocated. Love’s eyes follow her muscles tense and her form shift away from the man she’s meant to love, body language writing a fucking novel and spilling it out in front of him.

”I know a secret, but I won’t tell if you stop me.” He says, taunting the three of them. Her husband face flashes with confusion, but her eyes narrow on Love after a brief moment, fire and fury brimming at the edges. Love smirks in the same way he’d done to Emerson, to Julian, to all of fucking Panem in his interview, before finishing the taunt by pressing his tongue into the inside of his cheek and moving his hand to emulate the... oral nature of her and her side piece.

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    THEY ALREADY KNOW

You two have a secret.

Love thinks it to himself as he stares at the both of them, letting a brief laugh slip out from between his lips. He’s watched the two of them for the past week, in between sword swings and launched metal and faux-kindness with his fellow tributes. It’s a budding romance between the two and the metal wedding band wrapped around her finger is its only obstacle, the striking stain on a deadly affair. Flirtatious eye contact and the occasional brushed hand against her hips.

He’d noticed it on the first day, behind a deadly smirk and in between the shadows of the target range. Love was deadly like that, and their love was just as such.

Two carries a legacy of up close and personal connections with the men in white, and he’d watched it trickle down slowly into friendships with the trainers throughout his childhood. It’d been easy, then, to spark up conversations and to nod along approvingly with every word they said, weaseling his way in between the three of them without them even knowing. Twelve pages of notes later and he’d cemented his plan, written in red against the white pages.

”What is this about?” She asks him, tone innocent and naive in every word. She hopes this isn’t what she thinks it is. He thinks to himself, tilting his head and arching an eyebrow in response.

”Can we bring out another trainer? Avery Stahl.” He calls out to the room, letting his voice echo and meld into the walls. His gaze shifts up then back down, slowly panning between the two trainers. Their faces say it all, the look of shock that washes over them both and settles into rosy cheeks and widened eyes. The man keeps that expression, brain cells click clacking together as his eyes dart to her. He hears the doors slide open as they stand there, the timer on the wall just beginning it’s descent.

The woman’s husband enters the training center an awkward mess, all narrowed eyes and furrowed brow as he joins them. His hand brushes against his wife’s back, a sign of support that is anything but reciprocated. Love’s eyes follow her muscles tense and her form shift away from the man she’s meant to love, body language writing a fucking novel and spilling it out in front of him.

”Hey Love.” Avery says with a smile so innocent it was nearly heartbreaking. ”What’s this about?” And Love does nothing but frown in response, shaking his head before turning his gaze back to the side piece and the chess player. Go ahead, stop me from telling him. He says with his own facial expressions, hand moving down towards his crotch and imitating the... physical nature of the side piece and the wife.

He already knows which one will attack first before it even happens. Her. He’s watched them all, ice blue eyes like daggers in the background of every moment of the Training Center. The two men are like putty in her palms, dead water weight at her side and she is the fire in between them both. Her words burn and singe along with her personality, and that’s why Love had taken such notice of her conversations, the way she threatened to overtake and destroy like the flames he saw in her eyes.

It’s why both of the men cling to her desperately, ice cold waters desperate to feed off the leftover embers in her wake.

And, on the other hand, it’s why she could never be satisfied with just one of them at a time. Fire is meant to spread and consume, after all.

She charges forwards without hesitation, hands curling around a knife from the nearest weapons rack as Love’s actions pick at her infidelity like a half-healed scab. And both the men react in accordance, the man tied up in a fraying rope of marriage muttering ”Honey!” and the one holding scissors at the ready to snap it in two reaching out his hand in desperation to stop her. They’re two sides of the same coin, rusted and dirty and she’s tossing it haphazardly into the waters to try her fortune.

Love’s muscles tense in the face of attack. She’d find no such luck here.

Danger, danger! Looks like we’ve got Love in a pretty intense situation here folks, which means we’ll need your help. Trainer steeped in anger and fury running towards him...

What weapon does Love pick up?

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    GRAB A HATCHET

Love dodges her first swing, jumping to the side and into a somersault as he moves out of the way of her path. His hands come up in a defensive position as he rises on light feet, parrying and blocking her blows and bouncing backwards from her. It’s a widening of the distance between them that she can’t seem to close, muttering obscenities and curse words at him in rage fueled breaths. It’s almost like he’s fighting Emerson with the way she lets her own anger fuel her.

Maybe that’s why he drives a fist into her nose as soon as she lets her guard down.

Blood spurts out as she stumbles backwards from the thrown punch, providing Love an opening to close the gap to the nearest weapons rack and wrap his fingers around an axe, sliding it from its holding container and listening to the metallic ring echo through the room. It’s an advantage that he didn’t offer to his opponent, twirling the hatchet in his grasp as he moves towards her and closes the gap. But Love Bellisario is anything but morally bound. It’s why he would survive above anyone else.

He plays with his food like a sadistic wolf, throwing easy swings at her and watching her dodge them. In his peripheral vision he watches the two men begin to move, smirk carving itself on his face as he throws another easy slash at her. She spins to dodge it and he seizes the opening, jamming the blunt end of the hatchet into her stomach and watching her double over. He twirls the blade in his grasp, leaving a shallow cut on her cheek before he grabs her and kicks her leg out from behind, quickly swiping a knife off the table to their right and pressing it menacingly into her neck, tossing the hatchet to his right.

”Ah ah ah..” He calls to the other two, watching them stop in their tracks for a moment.

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    GRAB A SPEAR

Love waits until she’s nearly upon him before he launches himself into a backwards handspring, immediately widening the gap between the two of them as her swing misses him. He smirks as she charges forwards again, effortlessly dodging the anger-fueled punches as he arcs and bends his body, feeling the soft rush of wind as she misses. It’s only when she throws one that threatens to land against his face that he drops down into a crouch, spinning on one heel and sweeping out her legs from underneath her. She hits the ground with a grunt and a thud.

He takes the opening and somersaults towards the weapon rack to his left, grabbing a spear and feeling the metal rest familiar in his grip. His eyes drift towards the two men as they begin to move and he curses under his breath, quickly sprinting forwards and jabbing softly at his opponent with the spear. It’s an advantage that he didn’t offer to his opponent, effortlessly using the spear as an extension of his own body as he moves towards her and closes the gap. But Love Bellisario is anything but morally bound. It’s why he would survive above anyone else.

He plays with his food like a bored lion, throwing easy slices at her and watching her dodge them. In his peripheral vision he watches the two men begin to close in, smirk carving itself on his face as he throws another easy slash at her. She spins to dodge it and he seizes the opening, twisting and sending the blunt end of the spear into her face. She’s knocked off balance for the briefest of moments and he seizes it, using the momentum to slash the tip softly against her cheek and leaving a soft line of red. He grabs her and kicks her leg out from behind, quickly swiping a knife off the table to their right and pressing it menacingly into her neck before dropping the spear and kicking it out of her reach with one swipe of his foot.

”Easy there, sluggers..” He calls to the other two, watching them stop in their tracks for a moment.

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   GRAB A WHIP

Love’s opening is already laid out for him in the way she charges recklessly towards him, anger fueling her every movement and leaving her wide open. He shifts into a defensive stance as she nears him, curling his fists and narrowing his eyes before he suddenly launches into a kick, spinning on his heel and sending it straight into her charging form. She immediately stumbles backwards, the cut off momentum knocking the air from her lungs and sending her away from him.

He takes the opening and immediately looks to the weapons table nearest to him, grabbing a whip and feeling the twisted leather settle softly into his grasp. His eyes drift towards the two men as they begin to move and he curses under his breath, flicking his wrist and sending the weapon cracking towards his opponent. It’s an advantage that he didn’t offer to her, the loud crack of the weapon echoing throughout the training room as he keeps his distance. But Love Bellisario is anything but morally bound. It’s why he would survive above anyone else.

He plays with his food like a child at supper, throwing easy cracks at her and watching her dodge them. In his peripheral vision he watches the two men begin to close in, smirk carving itself on his face as he hears the whip crack as she awkwardly dodges them. She attempts to roll to dodge him and he spots the flaw in her movements, flicking his wrist and watching the momentum of the whip send it flying out towards her. It wraps around her leg with a simple movement and he yanks with all of his force, interrupting her roll and causing her to body slam down into the metallic floors. He yanks again and pulls her towards him, the whip unwrapping around her foot as he tosses it to the side. He grabs her and spins her around to face the other two men, swiping a knife from the table and moving it down to press into her neck. It glides against her cheek as he does so, leaving a soft line of red on her cheek before he presses it threateningly against her neck.

”Slow your roll there..” He calls to the other two, watching them stop in their tracks for a moment.

Love’s hand arcs around her face, the metal laced in between his fingertips pressed softly into the flesh of her neck. Jugular, he thinks amusedly to himself, memories of Emerson’s muscular knowledge flitting through his mind. The blood from the cut on her face drips slowly down the arc of her cheekbones and settles into the space where Love’s forearm is pressed to it, staining his skin red in remembrance of the fury filled takedown he’d managed to accomplish.

Her breaths are shaking, ragged and tumbling out of her lungs like the lies she’s so easily spilled under the guise of a diamond wedding band. He hears the anger in them, tearing apart the air in front of them as Love’s eyes stare daggers into both of the trainers in front of him, lungs holding steady while he licks his lips. Their gaze drifts from the knife to the boy in front of them, up and down like a fucking carousel because the way the metal is pressed into her throat is enough to draw a trickle of blood that runs down her neck.

They saw his actions and they saw her anger and they saw her fury. And he’s watching the facade and the veil dissipate in place of another, staring back at both of their reflections in the shattered veins of a broken mirror. When Love’s lips finally part and break the silence his eyes are cold, laced with ice and the knowledge that he’s gathered.

What a frisky situation! Well, you know what they say folks, a bird in the hand is worth two idiot men in the bush. Or, something like that. And, as always, you know what we need you to do.

Which trainer does Love taunt?

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    THE HUSBAND

”Sorry what’s in your pants couldn’t keep it together.” Love’s eyes narrow in on the husband, taunting smirk contrasting against the cold look in his eyes. It’s dangling bait in front of a starving wolf and he sees the mans cheeks run red with embarrassment, fingers curling into a fist as Love readies himself. The husband’s gaze drifts to the man that sits so close to him, his friend and his coworker and the outline of then cracks in his own marriage. His rage tangible in the air between them as it dawns on him exactly what’s been going on.

Love’s fist wraps into the woman’s training uniform as he watches the two men lock gazes, fingers clasping around the hilt of his knife before he suddenly slams her head into the side of the table. Her skull knocks against it in a loud thud, echoing through the room as the two men’s eyes suddenly lock onto him. His grip loosens and she slinks to the ground beneath him as he steps back, clasping the knife

Two on one. When he blinks he envisions Julian and Emerson swarming him in the blind rage of their failed legacy.

He tucks the knife into the pocket of his pants, jogging backwards for a few steps as he makes sure they’re both chasing after him before he turns and vaults over the nearest weapons table, landing in a somersault and quickly twisting his form to grasp the opposite edge and pull, flipping the small table onto its side before he presses his foot against it and kicks, sending the metal flying into the two of them. The husband dodges out of the way, blocking the other mans line of sight for just enough time for the metal to slam into his form and send him awkwardly stumbling over himself. Love takes the momentary obstruction as an area of opportunity, making his way over towards the training area modeled after Four.

Ropes and nets and everything in between and Love’s fingertips wrap around the nearest netting, his gaze looking towards the husband as he regains his footing after dodging the table. Love doesn’t wast any time, sprinting forward and launching the netting onto the trainer. It wraps and contorts around his form and Love’s cements it with a single kick to the groin as he runs by, leaving the husband collapsed to the ground in pain and embarrassment. He won’t need them anyways. Love thinks, the man’s failing marriage left in his wake as he sprints by.

He reaches the other trainer in a few leaps and bounds, the trainer holding up a knife he’d grasped from the tipped over weapons table in defense as Love descends upon him. It’s aggressive and breathless and constant pressure, Love taking furious swipes at the trainer and forcing him into a defensive position as they fight. The man’s knife scrapes against his forearm several times in the span of it, leaving little kisses of red and burgundy as blood drips from the shallow cuts. Love finally takes his opening, stabbing and forcing the man into an open position before his left hand drives itself into the trainer’s stomach, doubling him over. Love drives the point home by sending his knee into the man’s stomach. He goes from threat to rag doll in the pain and Love takes full advantage, twisting the man’s form before driving the knife into his thigh.

He screams with pain as Love releases his grip on the knife, leaving it sitting in the trainer’s thigh before he curls his fingers into a fist and drives and uppercut into his jaw. It’s a flurry of punches as Love keeps him within arms reach with a fist curled into his shirt, blood splattering out onto his uniform as Love breaks his nose. By the time he tackles the man to the ground he’s unconscious already, the action cemented only by Love continuing to drive his fist into his jaw before he lets up.

He pulls the knife from the man’s thigh, blood still dripping from the blade.

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    THE SIDE PIECE

”Looks like .you weren’t good enough in the sheets to ditch the hubby for” Love’s eyes narrow in on the side piece, taunting smirk contrasting against the cold look in his eyes. It’s dangling bait in front of a starving wolf and he sees the mans cheeks run red with embarrassment, fingers curling into a fist as Love readies himself. The husband’s gaze drifts to the man that sits so close to him, his friend and his coworker and the outline of then cracks in his own marriage. His rage tangible in the air between them as it dawns on him exactly what’s been going on.

Love’s fist wraps into the woman’s training uniform as he watches the two men lock gazes, fingers clasping around the hilt of his knife before he suddenly slams her head into the side of the table. Her skull knocks against it in a loud thud, echoing through the room as the two men’s eyes suddenly lock onto him. His grip loosens and she slinks to the ground beneath him as he steps back, clasping the knife

Two on one. When he blinks he envisions Julian and Emerson swarming him in the blind rage of their failed legacy.

He tucks the knife into the pocket of his pants, jogging backwards for a few steps as he makes sure they’re both chasing after him before he turns and vaults over the nearest weapons table, landing in a somersault and quickly twisting his form to grasp the opposite edge and pull, flipping the small table onto its side before he presses his foot against it and kicks, sending the metal flying into the two of them. The husband dodges out of the way, blocking the other mans line of sight for just enough time for the metal to slam into his form and send him awkwardly stumbling over himself. Love takes the momentary obstruction as an area of opportunity, making his way over towards the training area modeled after Four.

Ropes and nets and everything in between and Love’s fingertips wrap around the nearest netting, his gaze looking towards the husband as he regains his footing after dodging the table. Love doesn’t wast any time, sprinting forward and launching the netting onto the trainer. It wraps and contorts around his form and Love’s cements it with a single kick to the groin as he runs by, leaving the husband collapsed to the ground in pain and embarrassment. He won’t need them anyways. Love thinks, the man’s failing marriage left in his wake as he sprints by.

He reaches the other trainer in a few leaps and bounds, the trainer holding up a knife he’d grasped from the tipped over weapons table in defense as Love descends upon him. It’s aggressive and breathless and constant pressure, Love taking furious swipes at the trainer and forcing him into a defensive position as they fight. The man’s knife scrapes against his forearm several times in the span of it, leaving little kisses of red and burgundy as blood drips from the shallow cuts. Love finally takes his opening, stabbing and forcing the man into an open position before his left hand drives itself into the trainer’s stomach, doubling him over. Love drives the point home by sending his knee into the man’s stomach. He goes from threat to rag doll in the pain and Love takes full advantage, twisting the man’s form before driving the knife into his thigh.

He screams with pain as Love releases his grip on the knife, leaving it sitting in the trainer’s thigh before he curls his fingers into a fist and drives and uppercut into his jaw. It’s a flurry of punches as Love keeps him within arms reach with a fist curled into his shirt, blood splattering out onto his uniform as Love breaks his nose. By the time he tackles the man to the ground he’s unconscious already, the action cemented only by Love continuing to drive his fist into his jaw before he lets up.

He pulls the knife from the man’s thigh, blood still dripping from the blade.

There’s blood splattered across Love’s uniform when he finally turns back towards the final trainer, gaze drifting from the unconscious woman down to the affair that sits cold in the sins of his own red hot affair. They aren’t dead, far from it, because after all he was a showman above anything else and, from what he’d heard from the little birdies there’d already been far too many corpses leftover from training sessions in past years for it to be anything surprising or new.

His breaths are heavier now, muscles tensing and heart beating rapidly in his chest at the physical exertion he’d forced himself into. But though he’s worse for wear he’s still wearing it well, smirk dancing across his face as the scorned husband finally frees himself from the netting Love had dropped onto him. ”I can see why she wasn’t satisfied.” Love calls to him, raising his left hand to show the metal claddagh ring that sits on his finger. He taps metal to metal, the blade of his knife calling out before he finally stops, a metallic heartbeat signaling their decimated marriage. ”We can’t all be connoisseurs in the sack.” He finishes and it’s the salt on an open wound, all mangled teeth and snarling mouth and bared fangs as Love’s words etch themselves into the man’s mind.

It’s psychological just as much as it is physical. In Love’s life he’s discovered that one can hurt just as much as the other if wielded correctly.

Love’s feet bounce and weave as the man begins to charge, the hollow sounds of the large training pool behind him finally coming in to earshot as he settles in his positioning, feet planted firmly as he takes up a defensive stance and raises his knife in a mocking manner.

Like a charging bull! It’s beginning to turn into a final stand for our dear Love, folks. So, as always, it’s time to cross your t’s and dot your i’s and make the choice...

How does Love react?

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    DODGE

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

He repeats the phrase to himself as he watches the last trainer charge forward, anger and fury and everything in between drudging along behind him as Love recounts his own words and actions that led him here. Love tenses his muscles, lightening his stance as he counts the distances between them with an intense stare.

He can feel the heat of the man’s rage against his face when he finally crouches and rolls in one quick motion, clearing out of the man’s path at the last moment.

He laces the breath of metal in his hands, clutching it with tense fingers as he swings outwards from his crouched position. He feels it connect with the flesh of the man’s heel, slicing through his achilles’ tendon and sending a splatter of blood out behind him in his wake. The man gasps in pain, form faltering at the sudden loss of balance and he crumbles down towards the floor. Momentum holds him tight, though, dragging his charging form forwards into the waters of the pool.

Love hears the crash of the water as he quickly gets to his feet, twirling the knife in his grasp before he tosses it to the side.

The last thing he hears is metal meeting metal as he dives gracefully into the water after the man, colliding with his thrashing form.

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    INJURE

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Love wraps the knife in his hand, adjusting his grasp out of habit if only to make sure the lifeline still rests within his fingers. He’s counting the distance between him and a charging bull, intense stare and thrashing heartbeat counting down the moments before he makes his move. And he sees it in the man’s eyes, the way he’s anticipating metal to be launched at him at any moment.

They are two snakes getting ready to strike, and they both know it.

Now. Love finally says to himself, muscles in his arm firing as he flicks his wrist. The man responds in turn, twirling his momentum and using it to shift left, right out of the line of Love Bellisario’s knife.

That is, if there had been any knife thrown in the first place.

There’s a lightning flash of a smirk as Love clasps the knife still, a fake flick of the wrist throwing the trainer off-guard as he watches the man desperately try and shift his weight back in order to dodge again. Love doesn’t give him the chance, flicking the metal knife out and directly into the man’s thigh. Red spurts out from the wound as the man gasps in pain and crumbles forwards, momentum carrying him forward in its claws. Love listens for a moment, the sound of the man’s sliding form scraping against the metallic floors. The trainer tries desperately to get up as soon as his form comes to a sudden halt, but Love never gives him the chance.

He sprints forwards with the hollow roar of a lion more real than any legacy from One, colliding with the man and tackling him straight into a territory more familiar than anything he has known: the waters.

Their forms tumble into the pool, the ice of the water swallowing them whole as they crash into and beneath the surface. The world goes from painstakingly loud to muffled under the hands of his captor, hearing the sounds of the water flooding past his ears as Love dives forward and grasps the final trainer left standing in his way underneath the water. His heartbeat flutters, thump thump thump ringing hollow in his ears as he breathes out softly, feeling the bubbles bounce and scatter against his face as instincts take over.

And with instinct comes memories.

When he closes his eyes they flood and swarm him in those brief moments, every training session he’d spent underneath the water in the name of his own survivability. Fighting lungs and desperate limbs and widened eyes looking through the glass at his Father’s form, watching his lips part and sink in muffled abandon and knowing exactly what he was saying. Because he’d said it so many times before, had carved it into the mold of his son and watched it set in the sun of time, even as diamond replaced clay and a weak heart became strong under the name Bellisario.

”Fight through it, Love.

Outlast your weakness. Overpower your doubts.”

Whew! It’s getting more tense than a Love and Emerson fan-fiction in this training session, everyone. And we’ve got Love all under the water and taking the stage for his final act. Outstanding! Absolutely outstanding.

You’ve gotten him this far, folks! Take it home.

What does Love do?

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    OUTLAST

The muscles in Love’s legs tense and erupt as he kicks hard, his fists knotted into the trainer’s uniform as he tighten’s his grasp, threading the man’s uniform into his balled fist.

He was in Love’s territory now, one built on clawing lungs and desperate form and every grueling training session he’d ever been put through in his childhood.

His instincts rush in almost as soon as they reach the near bottom of the pool, breathing calming and mind focusing as he forcefully holds the man down beneath him. There’s fear in his eyes and clawing hands flailing wildly in his own need for survival. It stands in stark contrast to Love’s own apathy laced expression, final breath held in his lungs as he watches the sands flow out from the hourglass he holds.

It’s a diamond versus flimsy glass. He was built to withstand, and what is in his grasp was built to break.

It’s only when the man’s form finally goes limp in his grasp that he twists his body until his feet are touching the bottom of the pool, bending his legs before pushing off with all of the power left in his legs. They rocket up through the waters, water clinging desperately to their forms before they crash through the surface in a heap of gasping breaths and unconscious form.

He pulls them quickly towards the edge, medics waiting in desperation to revitalize the man. There’s mercy in his fingertips as he hands him off like the dead weight he is, the unconscious man quickly being carried away on foot and stretcher as he kicks softly with his feet, treading water as his fingertips wrap around the edge of the pool.

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    OVERPOWER

The man fights in his grasp as they enter the water, slamming balled fists desperately out towards him. Love holds him at an arms length, the man’s strikes hollow and soft against his chest as the water pushes against him like an obstacle. His eyes drift down towards the bottom of the pool, murky and distant and just as deadly as it had always been back in his training sessions.

He could drown him down there, hold him until he turns limp and still have enough air left in his lungs for a victory speech afterwards.

But he locks eyes with the man in front of him, all broken marriage and filled with rage and opts for the second approach that flits through his mind. His legs kick once, a powerful force that sends them up and out of the surface of the water. The sounds fill his ears for a brief moment, quickly cut through the by gasp for air that his opponent longs for as he breaks the surface as well.

Love doesn’t give his lungs the benefit of the air that they crave.

His fist knots itself into the man’s shirt, his own training giving him the high ground as he quickly palms his other hand on the top of the man’s head. And it’s halfway through his gasp that Love sends his head back down beneath the surface, hearing only the sounds of the bubbles erupting from his throat as he holds him down underneath the water.

Once, twice, three times. It’s a repeating symphony of breaking lungs before Love finally forces the man’s head into the edge of the pool. It’s hollow at first, the way his skin and skull bounces against the steel, but as Love repeats the motion he gradually sees the red of blood seep out from the man’s face, hears the crunch of his nose shatter against the final hit and feels his unconscious form go heavy and limp in his grasp.

Medics rush in almost as soon as he is done, snatching the trainer from his grasp and carrying him away to the medical ward. Love turns his body and rests his arms against the edge of the pool, heavy breaths escaping from his lungs as his last opponent is charted away.

Love’s eyes drift up in between heaving breaths and cascading heartbeats, finding the red glow of the large timer that hangs from the wall. Three minutes and fifteen seconds left, he thinks to himself. Not bad.

He’d be remiss to say that he wasn’t hurting, all strained muscles and hurting chest at the physical exertion. And there’s bumps and bruises that scatter themselves across the landscape of his body, the occasional landed punch or graze of a weapon that had left its mark. He pulls himself to the edge of the pool, casting a glance over at the shadowy forms of the Gamemakers one final time.

He’d given them what they’d asked for, a show from a showstopper.

Bravo! Bravo! Throw your roses and watch the curtains fall, everyone. I swear! There are tears in my eyes. What a final act, and we couldn’t have done it without you!

Please welcome me in bringing out or host one more time, and as always we’ll leave it up to you in how he shows himself. So, dear audience, as the sun sets on our airtime...

What is Love’s final act?

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    TAKE A BOW

Love breaks his own post-training tradition in the face of a new beginning, muscles in his arm straining in protest as he pulls himself gracefully up from the edge of the pool. The water weight clings to him softly as he stands for a moment, mixing and twirling below him with the little bits of blood that seep from the shallow cuts on his skin. The footsteps are red as he walks back to the center of the room, contrasting against the pearly whites on display in the trademark smile that’s etched once more onto his face.

His hand wraps around the journal he’d placed onto the table in the very beginning of all of this, flipping open the pages until he finally gets to the twelve pages he’d written on the three trainers that had fallen under his weight. Diagrams and notes and circles and squares and every little itty bitty finding he’d snatched from the shadows are written in red ink, meeting his gaze as he flips through each page.

Then, in one fluid motion he rips the chapter free from the book, the sound of tearing paper echoing through the training center.

They crinkle in his grasp, water of his skin seeping into the pages and mixing with the notes he’d carved into them, turning red lines into nothing but bloodstains. Fitting. he thinks to himself. Thirty seconds left and Love tosses the paper into the air above him, hearing the swoosh of the running current under their wings as they bounce and scatter amongst each other.

He bows like the gentleman he is, all seeped in blood and Bellisario bravado.

”Love Bellisario. Two.” He repeats as the timer begins to blare. Keep them. He thinks to the Gamemakers as his eyes dart between the falling papers.

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    TAKE A SWIM

Love settles back into his own post-training tradition, breaking from the path of a new beginning as he pushes out from the edge of the pool and back into the waters. The surface swallows and breaks under his weight in one quick rush, a single woosh meeting his ears before he finally settles into floating on his back. Red seeps from shallow wounds that litter his form, leftover remnants of red whispering into the waters as his gaze shifts upwards to the ceiling. He smiles, all pearly whites before he breaks out into a small laugh, triumphant as ever. He finally pulls himself from the pool when the robotic voice announces one minute remaining, watery footsteps left in his wake as he makes his way towards the center, back turned to the Gamemakers.

His hand wraps around the journal he’d placed onto the table in the very beginning of all of this, flipping open the pages until he finally gets to the twelve pages he’d written on the three trainers that had fallen under his weight. Diagrams and notes and circles and squares and every little itty bitty finding he’d snatched from the shadows are written in red ink, meeting his gaze as he flips through each page.

Then, in one fluid motion he rips the chapter free from the book, the sound of tearing paper echoing through the training center.

They crinkle in his grasp, water of his skin seeping into the pages and mixing with the notes he’d carved into them, turning red lines into nothing but bloodstains. Fitting. he thinks to himself. Thirty seconds left and Love begins his path towards the door, leaving a trail of his own psychological notes behind him. ”Keep em.” He calls out to the Gamemakers as he exits.

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[pogue]

J  U  L  I  A N 

"Bacon ipsum dolor amet short loin meatloaf cow pig tongue andouille beef hamburger ball tip prosciutto."

napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

L  O  V  E 

"Bacon ipsum dolor amet short loin meatloaf cow pig tongue andouille beef hamburger ball tip prosciutto."

[pogue]

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He is not a fighter.

He spreads his religion in little white lines of snow across the table, broken glass laced between his fingertips, scraping against the table as he etches the feeling of forgetting into the wood. There's a choir in the background made of metal and static, antenna outstretched towards the sky. Its voice is blurry, caught up in the songs it screams out, echoing through the skull of the worshipper who sits before it. He can count every scuffed up floorboard and scratch that mark his walls, tracing their kingdoms into the fiber of the wallpaper. He bought the apartment for dirt cheap, sold his soul to the landlord in the arms of the shadows, cigarette smoke. He draws the shades and it goes from coffin to church, light seeping in through the holes in the walls, dancing with the shadows and sins that splatter across the floors.

He's grown accustomed to the way the shadows spread across his skin, soak him in gasoline and light him on fire with the indecencies he clenches between his teeth. They burrow holes into his skin, drown themselves in the blood that seeps from his wounds. There's a shattered mirror in front of him, tracing lines through his reflection, broken glass shards carved into his fist. He admires the scars it left when he shoved his fist into it, whitewashed knuckles pulsing red in the moonlight, falling from fingertips into the floorboards below.

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arx!!

[pogue]

 B   E   L   L   I   S   A   R   I   O

It's said that it started while the blood moon's shadow still stained Panem's history, The Dark Days coming to a halt in waves of bloody red and black. Things were different then, with the districts on the edge of a cliff of change and simply staring at the fall that awaited them. Some found it terrifying, some found it brave, many simply wailed and screamed of the pain that awaited their children for years to come, Hunger Games lacing an everlasting sin with a punishment that fit the crime.

And some, like the Bellisario's, looked to the future.

Past the stormy clouds and blood soaked fields, past the start of the first ever Hunger Games and past the point of coffins hastily buried six feet under and towards the opportunities that came with a shifting tide of bloody waters. There were opportunities to be seized, money to be made, loyalties to be pledged, diamonds to soak in red and proclaim as one's own riches. Some could say it was the result of luck, others could say it was the result of generational wealth clenched tightly in Bellisario hands, and others simply called it the smartest move to make at the time. After all, if you haven't beaten them, you might as well join them.

Regardless, it can't be argued that the Bellisario Family made sure they gave themselves a head start in Panem's history, intertwining their family name into the newfound mining resource that Two had proclaimed its worth on even before the war. And it paid off, gradually but surely, riches doubled and tripled and the Bellisario made sure it carved its legacy into Two not through tributes but through tremendous achievement. Greatness is expected in the Bellisario family, demanded through blood, sweat, tears, and the shine of diamonds formed under pressure.

With the passing of  time came traditions born under fruitful family legacy, held sacred in the soft glow of the moon and placed on the shoulders of every Bellisario child throughout their Career training years. It is through tight-lips that they are  held afloat, the Bellisario's close-knit family relationships serving as a pillar to their continued success. Of course, the disowning of those who don't live up to the family name surely has something to do with their spotless track record as well, but the Bellisario's have let blood-stained history reclaim those sorts of people.

They are the family the Games have hardly heard of, proclaiming their might and their royalty in the achievements of the living instead of the child coffins of the dead and the damned. Deals made behind closed doors and hands shaken in the light of day, the Bellisario family has cemented itself throughout the Districts and the Capitol as a family to know, not through the help of the Hunger Games but through luster and shine bright enough to grab the attention of anyone who dares to look.

They are blood-soaked diamonds that do nothing but shine. And, in time, you will too. So long as you successfully form under pressure.

J  H  E  T  T     B  E  L  L  I  S  A  R  I  O

Vanya, 24  [Played by Rave, bio]
"Vanya's not just told she's cocky- she is cocky. Part of it is inherited, being the oldest and, well, the best, and the other half is from her own merit. She's twenty four, and she's the first Bellisario to get a Capitol-level clearance for travel. That's right, certified, apartment keys for a condo right up Style Street. The style street at that, her first year in the Capitol she would just stay at home with her window open and stare, take notes and get ahead." 


Ira, 21  -  open
It's been three years since you signed your name and your legacy in red, scrawled into paper far older than yourself. You felt pride in those precious moments, breathing shallow breaths under the moonlight as you finally promised your success just like so many others before you had. Only problem is, time moves faster when you don't have the Games to look forward to, to train for, and though your endeavors have been approached with the same steadfast determination you pride yourself on you have yet to see the same fruits of success that your siblings directly above and below you seem to have found. Still, you're one of the lucky ones for now, what with your family's resources and encouragement and countless privileges so many others will never have. "He's just taking a second to get started.", you've heard your Father say behind closed doors. You were his favorite, once, you're just not sure if that still holds up now.

But time is ticking now, your claimed legacy turned to an hourglass tipped upside down. You won't have your family's support forever, no one does, and if you don't do something soon that same diamond you formed into under pressure will do nothing but shatter.

Applicants are encouraged to expand upon or change character concept how they please, this is just a starting draft for a general overview.


Love, 18  [Played by Pogue, bio]
"After all, that is what is expected of me. I blink and see my childhood self, watching the bloodshed against a backdrop of music and humming, my Father telling me I would be better.

I blink and see myself proving him right, the twist of an arm and a snap of a bone and a little silver box playing the same music I hum to myself while carrying the weight of expectation on my back. My Mother was right, the life of a Career was nothing innocent and everything hardened, bloody red and anything but soft. I accept it without hesitation."


Ava, 16
There's something special about being a born a twin in the Bellisario family, something that is celebrated for not only its virtue but also its rarity. It has meant that since the beginning you have been looked at with watchful eyes, lumped together with your equal and your counterpart in childhood and all of the training that comes with it.

Two sides of the same coin, or so your family likes to say. And, while it is true that a constant partner in crime has been something you have appreciated throughout your life, it has also meant that the source of individuality that so many Bellisario children clamor for comes much more slowly. When there's someone constantly by your side it means they see what you see, feel what you feel, do what you do.

Some days, you hate that.

Applicants are encouraged to expand upon or change character concept how they please, this is just a starting draft for a general overview.


Avi, 16
There's something special about being a born a twin in the Bellisario family, something that is celebrated for not only its virtue but also its rarity. It has meant that since the beginning you have been looked at with watchful eyes, lumped together with your equal and your counterpart in childhood and all of the training that comes with it.

Two sides of the same coin, or so your family likes to say. And, while it is true that a constant partner in crime has been something you have appreciated throughout your life, it has also meant that the source of individuality that so many Bellisario children clamor for comes much more slowly. When there's someone constantly by your side it means they see what you see, feel what you feel, do what you do.

Some days, you hate that.

Applicants are encouraged to expand upon or change character concept how they please, this is just a starting draft for a general overview.


Lux, 15  [Played by Alex,  bio]
"It’s almost too poetic to think of herself as that shard of glass, that piece of a mirrorball, showing you exactly what she wants you to see one second and then a totally different picture the next, but that’s what she had been taught after all. Never show your cards, always show them your teeth, and don’t you dare ever give away who you are and what the game is.

Her name’s Lux but she isn’t the light bringer. She's darkness and wrath, wrapped in a saccharine smile, her blue eyes turning to ice, her smile winter." 

M  I  N  A     B  E  L  L  I  S  A  R  I  O

Boy, 21  -  open

Girl, 19  -  open

Ace, 17  [Played by Pogue]

Girl, 15  -  open

O  Z  Z  I      B  E  L  L  I  S  A  R  I  O

Boy, 16  -  open

Boy, 14  -  open

Girl, 12  -  open

♢  ♢  ♢



O  O  C

Hello everyone! So, with writing Love in the Games and the thought put into the family lore, backstory, and traditions, I wanted to turn the Bellisario family into a family plot within District Two. Some things to keep in mind with this are:

1. This is not first come first serve

2. Please don't be afraid to elaborate on existing character concepts that are outlined. In the same vein, please make sure to offer depth within your character application. How does your character approach individuality within the confines of this training? What are their specific motivations, goals, achievements? I'm excited to read it!

3. Please try to have wip applications filled within a timely manner.

3. The Bellisario families live in close proximity to each other in large mansions, allowing them to maintain their close-knit family relationships.

A P P L I C A T I O N


[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Character wanted (provide name if applying for open character):[/b]
[b]Character ideas / expansions:[/b]
[b]FC ideas (optional):[/b]
[b]Notes:[/b]


[pogue]

A R T I F A C T S

Outlined below are some of the Bellisario family traditions, expectations, and events. This post will serve as an expanding list of the Bellisario family legacy, as well as the traditions it holds sacred. Please take a look and understand these sections as you write your application!

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F O R M A T I O N    T R I A L S

Each year on their birthday, from 12–18 years old, a Bellisario kid is put through a Formation Trial to see how much they've grown and how much they've continued their morphing into that diamond of family expectation. Spanning across multiple different categories of training, every trial is meant to rigorously test a Bellisario's growth as a Career as well as a member of the family, and they are not to be taken lightly.

Each trial grows exponentially in difficulty as they continue, and are purposely meant to strip someone down and take them from clay to diamond. If you pass you pass and if you fail you fail, there's no such thing as a redo for the family. After all, diamonds are formed under pressure.

Following the successful or failed completion of every trial, a Bellisario is given a diamond marking on their chest / back. If they pass it is in the form of a tattoo, clean and precise. If they fail, that same diamond symbol is branded into their skin. Think of it like the perfectly smooth surface of a diamond vs a chink in the gemstone, as markings that stick with you forever and continue the immense pressure of the family.

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T H E    D I A M O N D    L E G A C Y

The Diamond Legacy is the last step taken in the family before a teen is considered an "adult", and also serves as a form of record keeping for the Bellisario legacy. On the night prior to their final reaping, should a Bellisario child be deemed "worthy", they are asked to sign their name within the book. Kept in the family since the end of The Dark Days,
the book contains the entries of every Career that the family has ever produced, showing the beginning of their own personal legacy within the family.

Each teen is given their own page within the book, where they are expected to write about what they have learned throughout their training, what they expect themselves to go on to do within their lives, and what pieces of information they are leaving for those who will sign the book after them. While signing, as well as any time after they have signed, a Bellisario teen can look back through the pages and view what those who came before them have written in red ink and reflect on what those members have gone on to do.

These reflections serve as a double edged sword, offering a form of record keeping as well as a Bellisario member the increased load of pressure to live up to what they themselves as well as their family expect them to accomplish. After all, if what you write in The Diamond Legacy is not achieved your passage is inked over in red and forgotten forever. You wouldn't want that, would you?

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T H E    L E G A C Y    T O U R N A M E N T

With access to an expansive amount of wealth and resources, the Bellisario family has formed certain public traditions and rituals that have grown in size and theatrics throughout time. One of these traditions is The Legacy Tournament, an annual bracketed tournament that every Bellisario teen is expected to participate in.

Fighting in a continuous series of one-on-one fights within the Bellisario colosseum located near the mansions owned by the family, a competitor's weaponry and tactics are entirely up to them and how they would like to approach the fights. However, it is expected that every competitor will not let their familial relations hold them back. Ruthlessness is rewarded in the Bellisario family, not kindness. One would say bragging rights is not a large enough prize for the blood, sweat, tears, and scars that this tournament draws out of its competitors, but in a family like the Bellisario's bragging rights are worth more than life itself.

With Love Bellisario's participation in the 88th Hunger Games, The Legacy Tournament has drawn the attention of many Capitol spectators looking for their next source of entertainment between Games, ensuring that future variations of this tournament will be something much more public than any iterations before.

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V O L U N T E E R ' S    B L E S S I N G

One thing is driven into every Bellisario child's brain as they begin their Career training: they are not to volunteer themselves for the Hunger Games unless given a Volunteer's Blessing.

Dating all the way back to the earliest Hunger Games, the Bellisario family has held the random chances of the reapings in the highest of regards, drilling into every teen's head that their own personal pride and ego should not lead them to disgracing the family name through volunteering. There is only one way around this rule, and that is through a direct blessing given only by their parent, following a unanimous agreement of every head of house within the family. Naturally, this is a chance only given sparingly, but after all, having something to work for and prove in themselves is what helps drive the Bellisario Careers.

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E X T R A C U R R I C U L A R    A C T I V I T I E S

Though their childhood and the training it encompasses is laced in uniformity, every Bellisario child is actively encouraged to find activities outside of Career training that stimulate and engage them.

Sketching, dance, art, music, with the Bellisario's large access to resources and wealth it is incredibly easy for any Bellisario Career to find themselves. And, hell, it might actually save them amongst all of that family pressure.

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[pogue]

L  O  V  E 

I’m twelve years old and running my fingers through the soft grass of our backyard, legs crossed into one another and scrawled through notebook balanced delicately on my kneecap. Childhood has a way of providing wonder to even the most simple of things, it ebbs and flows and embeds itself into your brain and your heart until all you can do is look at the world in sparkling hues of white and gold, no negatives found in the innocence of youth. It’s why my eyes drift up from the grass and into the haunting tendrils of the willow’s branches above me, a million little paths of yellow and green veins whispering sweet nothings into the wind and carving their echo and image into blue orbs. Its form daunting, its shadow heavy and sweeping over the area like a blanket and I found my youth in this very spot, crawling underneath the canopy and losing myself in the way the branches soaked up the sunlight and made even the brightest of days feel like night.

I’m twelve years old and far too young when fire springs up through the dust and the dirt next to me, orange lizard wriggling up through the soil and staring at me with curious eyes. It’s like my mother’s hair, the way it looks like the sun and the stars and everything in between in all of its orange glow, hot and bright and

warm, it feels like warmth when I smudge my fingers black scooping it up from the dirt and pull it into my chest, cupped hands quivering softly in the afternoon breeze. The diamond branded into my chest burns with anticipation and warning, hidden under a makeshift bed of bandages and disinfectant as a mark of my own failure, and as red and orange curls around my fingertips with the lizard moving around its new domain I can think of nothing but my Father’s frown at the result of my first Formation Trial, at the way his lips etched themselves into a frown I’d never seen before and the way the sound of a slamming office door still hung heavy in my head and my heart, shaking walls a reminder of my own failure.

Things feel better, for a moment, with red and orange crawling innocently between trembling fingertips.

But Dad has a no pet policy that’s ten Ratmases in the making, heavy memories of Vanya forcing us to put down a puppy at the top of our lists flooding in from the back of my mind. She’d write her promises in the false hypotheses of childhood naivety, claiming that if we all asked for it together Dad would have no choice but to get it for all of us.

And every year we came up empty handed, hiding disappointed faces behind a smiling facade until finally we just stopped asking completely. Lux and I had pressed a cup to the door and our ears to the cup and listened once to hear Mom approach Dad about the pet because we'd forced her to over lunch, pinky promises and crossing our hearts until we hoped to die in a last ditch effort for what we thought we'd always wanted. We got our answer in whispers of emotional attachment and unnecessary burdens, my Father's voice stern and demanding and my Mother's ethereally brilliant in all her wonder.

My biggest mistake isn’t failure, it’s not listening to what my Father wants me to be.

Because I slip fire into my shirt pocket and feel it wriggle as I slip out from under the tree and through the back door of our house, I hold fire tight in my palm until I hear the safety of a soft click of my bedroom door lock behind me. Bloodstained fingers pull an empty shoebox from under the bed and fill it with soil and rocks and my own childhood innocence, blue eyes stare for just a heartbeat too long at the pet I'd always wanted and the pet I knew deep down that I should have never had. A dull pencil marks carved air holes into the box before sliding it back under the bed and a pile of blankets from the edge of my bed.

I whisper a promise laced in everything I know to be sweet that I'd be back soon as my hand rests on the name I'd scrawled across the top of the box, cloaking it in darkness with the echoing click of a closed door.

"So what'd you name the lizard under your-"

"-Shhh. Stop, Vanya. Please"

"...Well?"

"June."

"...June?"

"That's what I just said."

"But it's July right now."

"I like June better."

"Fine, whatever floats your boat."

"Vanya?"

"Yeah?"

"Please don't tell Dad."

It works, for a time.

Because between the swords and the steel that growing hands struggled to swing and grasp I found a reason to look forward to going home that hadn’t been burned to a crisp in the wake of a diamond brand embedded into my chest. I pull dust covered books from the shelves of the local library, feel the paper flip through my fingertips as I search for what my newfound pet should be eating.

I carve my own happiness into the same soil that I’d grown my roots in, plucking little worms out of the dirt and storing them in a tiny baggy in my back pocket for June to eat. And with careful fury I scrub that same dirt out from under my fingernails until there’s no trace left of my betrayal to the rules, blue eyes watching my pet scarf down the food I give her with a smile on my face. Late nights and late night thoughts, a flashlight flickering into view at half past midnight and letting June crawl up and down my forearm, a chorus of giggling and childhood laughter muffled only by my own hand over my mouth.

It works, for a time. Until suddenly, it doesn’t.

It’s on the third week that I notice the way the lizard’s limbs move like they’re drenched in molasses, that I notice that the same fiery orange skin is paling by the day and, no matter how much I poke and prod softly and whisper those same promises to a childhood pet it doesn’t respond. There’s three dead worms left uneaten in the makeshift home I’d made for June when I slide it back under my bed for the final time.

It’s on the morning of the fourth week that I lift back the cover and tell myself June is sleeping.

Because it’s sitting there unmoving, eyes closed and limps splayed out in what my mind wants to tell me is peaceful slumber and I don’t want to hear the way my heartbeat thuds and hammers in my chest, the way my cheeks tingle and eyes water and-

No, June is just sleeping.

A lamp ripped from off my desk and placed above the shoebox shelter and I think it’s enough to warm her up, because I’d read that lizards like this need warmth in between the lines of a library book and my own naivety, and maybe if June is warm she’ll wake up and maybe that’s all she needs. Or maybe she needs to be pulled close to my chest again, cupped hands still and my own mind ignoring the way the wound on my chest burns in a destructive reminder of my Dad’s rules. Because I think June just needs warmth, because she’s so cold and-

Death, in all its permanent glory, tears me apart.

It curls bloodstained claws so tight around my heartstrings that I feel them sever and fall one by one between stammering breaths, it bares its fangs in the way I still have to look down at a dying flame laying in the soil below me and still isn’t moving. Death threads its scythe and slices into the backs of my eyes and I feel water blot itself at the edges of my vision no matter how hard I’m trying to blink them back and press my palms to stop the flow because Dad always said that a man who cries is worth nothing to the world.

My fingers curl and bend in somber silence, bloodstained claws carving my sins and my legacy into the earth. There's a raging storm cloud stained grey and blue behind my eyes, tears splattering a shallow grave and the silk wrapped form of my first and last pet and I can't stop the tears anymore, a storm breaks and a heart follows along the same path and I shudder at the feeling of ice on my cheeks, the way the tears arc and bend down my face and splatter the earth below with a reminder that I’d killed the same thing I’d loved.

I bury June underneath the harsh heat of the July sun, rays bouncing their way through the branches and painting themselves against the bark in some form of twisted smile. There’s two branches crossed into an X and a rock painted orange, just like my Mother’s hair and just like fire and just like June. Hide my tears at the dinner table and plaster a smile on my face in a hopeless facade and nod along that I’m okay when my Mother asks, all tender endearment and curious eyes contrasting my Father’s cold stare. I slip into bed that night with the click of a door’s lock reminding me of Death’s arrival.

"…Love”.

"Yeah, Dad?”

"…Get up. Now.

”What?”

"I’m not going to repeat myself, Love.”

…

…

"Is this where it’s buried?”

”…Yes.”

"Dig it back up.”

I think my face writes shock into itself, moonlight bouncing against puffy blue eyes and highlighting the way my cheeks sag and lip quivers because my Father simply raises an eyebrow, nodding his head before motioning to the sad pile of dirt that I'd mistakenly called a grave and not a warning.

A rock painted orange still feels as warm as the sun when I remove it from the grave and pull the sticks gently to the side, left only with a half a heart and a pile of soil. And for the second time that day my fingertips ache amongst the heavy heart of the earth, pulling back the tear stained mixture of rock and soil one shaking hand at a time. There's dark smudges on my knuckles by the time I pull the buried figure out from the ground in silk much too white for a grave this rotten. "I'm sorry-" I begin, but my Father's hand grasps my shoulder so tight that it feels like the limb will pull itself from my body in muscle and flesh and marched me back through the house, tears and soil and shaking limbs marking a path back to my first mistake and my last betrayal.

Dirt slams up from the shoebox as my Father pulls it from the bed and slams it onto my bedside table, the edges falling into one anther and leaking bloody pools of watery soil. He rips June from my grasp and pulls back the silk and I watch it tumble and swirl in the glow of the moonlight until finally the corpse of my only pet plummets back into its makeshift home, a chorus of stifled cries and choked back sob clawing their way up my lungs and out of my throat. My Dad leaks stoic silence and twelve years of disappointment as he turns to me, ice blue eyes drifting into my view as he lowers himself to eye level, ice cold thumb pushing hard against my cheek to flick a tear away.

"Death is certain and it is unavoi- Love, look at me."

…

"Death is certain, death is unavoidable. Do you hear me?

"… Yes, sir."

"To let it affect us is to make ourselves weak."

…

"I need you to understand this, Love. To let it affect us is to what? Tell me."

…

"…It- it makes us weak."

"Good."

My Father rises in an air of mutual understanding, in heartfelt emotion and heartfelt disappointment and nothing in between, glancing at the same shoebox where I'd hidden fire only weeks before. What's left is only ashes and embers, smoldering in their own grief.

"You'll keep that in here until you can look at it and feel nothing, got it?"

"…Y-Yes."

"And Love?"

…

"Don't let this happen again."

For a week straight after I woke up with tears blotting the edges of my eyes, taking in the forgotten sight of an unkempt grave. And, for a week after that I felt the same severed heartstrings ache and shatter in my chest when I looked down at the body of a fire too hot to ever be held, at a June broken by my own naivety. Too afraid to stow it away, too afraid to lie that I felt nothing, too afraid that I always would.

By the time my heart ices over the form of my only pet is faded and dull, time picking at its edges with hollow fingers and licked lips. I toss the dirt-filled shoebox into the trash on my way to training in the early morning and feel nothing, a soul coated in diamond and steel and nothing at all.

Death, in all its permanent glory, tears me apart.

Until one day, it doesn't.

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Landjaeger ham pastrami brisket chislic shoulder pork tongue. Shank fatback turducken landjaeger biltong filet mignon alcatra flank. Salami chicken flank chuck. Pork chop strip steak chicken, frankfurter cow tenderloin swine short loin meatloaf pork loin turkey hamburger spare ribs. Kevin bacon turducken leberkas corned beef landjaeger turkey. Ball tip pork loin brisket jerky, sirloin short ribs buffalo flank tongue bresaola porchetta ham hock doner. Landjaeger tri-tip biltong, cow short loin pig kielbasa pork loin chislic spare ribs ground round pastrami.

Brisket jowl doner buffalo, shoulder pork chop turkey shank beef ribs alcatra pork filet mignon ground round chislic ham. Bacon chicken alcatra, chuck meatloaf landjaeger sausage filet mignon. Sausage doner capicola jerky short ribs biltong rump tongue meatloaf chuck. Filet mignon bresaola chislic capicola. Beef ribs short ribs beef, cow brisket meatloaf drumstick burgdoggen turkey bresaola spare ribs chicken. Shoulder chuck turducken meatloaf biltong porchetta pig. Pastrami kielbasa jerky tenderloin shankle, prosciutto short ribs salami strip steak beef ribs tail jowl.

[pogue]

L   O   V   E

Bacon ipsum dolor amet short loin meatloaf cow pig tongue andouille beef hamburger ball tip prosciutto leberkas shoulder pork chop chislic. Spare ribs ham hock tri-tip filet mignon biltong, short loin bresaola beef pork chop jowl leberkas pork loin strip steak. Pastrami biltong pork buffalo meatball, chislic turkey fatback short loin. Andouille pig beef swine, fatback kevin filet mignon bresaola kielbasa spare ribs. Brisket buffalo jowl meatloaf beef ribs. Pork chuck t-bone venison buffalo tongue bacon flank frankfurter landjaeger pork belly ham jowl pastrami ground round.

Landjaeger ham pastrami brisket chislic shoulder pork tongue. Shank fatback turducken landjaeger biltong filet mignon alcatra flank. Salami chicken flank chuck. Pork chop strip steak chicken, frankfurter cow tenderloin swine short loin meatloaf pork loin turkey hamburger spare ribs. Kevin bacon turducken leberkas corned beef landjaeger turkey. Ball tip pork loin brisket jerky, sirloin short ribs buffalo flank tongue bresaola porchetta ham hock doner. Landjaeger tri-tip biltong, cow short loin pig kielbasa pork loin chislic spare ribs ground round pastrami.

Brisket jowl doner buffalo, shoulder pork chop turkey shank beef ribs alcatra pork filet mignon ground round chislic ham. Bacon chicken alcatra, chuck meatloaf landjaeger sausage filet mignon. Sausage doner capicola jerky short ribs biltong rump tongue meatloaf chuck. Filet mignon bresaola chislic capicola. Beef ribs short ribs beef, cow brisket meatloaf drumstick burgdoggen turkey bresaola spare ribs chicken. Shoulder chuck turducken meatloaf biltong porchetta pig. Pastrami kielbasa jerky tenderloin shankle, prosciutto short ribs salami strip steak beef ribs tail jowl.

[pogue]

L   O   V   E

Bacon ipsum dolor amet short loin meatloaf cow pig tongue andouille beef hamburger ball tip prosciutto leberkas shoulder pork chop chislic. Spare ribs ham hock tri-tip filet mignon biltong, short loin bresaola beef pork chop jowl leberkas pork loin strip steak. Pastrami biltong pork buffalo meatball, chislic turkey fatback short loin. Andouille pig beef swine, fatback kevin filet mignon bresaola kielbasa spare ribs. Brisket buffalo jowl meatloaf beef ribs. Pork chuck t-bone venison buffalo tongue bacon flank frankfurter landjaeger pork belly ham jowl pastrami ground round.

Landjaeger ham pastrami brisket chislic shoulder pork tongue. Shank fatback turducken landjaeger biltong filet mignon alcatra flank. Salami chicken flank chuck. Pork chop strip steak chicken, frankfurter cow tenderloin swine short loin meatloaf pork loin turkey hamburger spare ribs. Kevin bacon turducken leberkas corned beef landjaeger turkey. Ball tip pork loin brisket jerky, sirloin short ribs buffalo flank tongue bresaola porchetta ham hock doner. Landjaeger tri-tip biltong, cow short loin pig kielbasa pork loin chislic spare ribs ground round pastrami.

Brisket jowl doner buffalo, shoulder pork chop turkey shank beef ribs alcatra pork filet mignon ground round chislic ham. Bacon chicken alcatra, chuck meatloaf landjaeger sausage filet mignon. Sausage doner capicola jerky short ribs biltong rump tongue meatloaf chuck. Filet mignon bresaola chislic capicola. Beef ribs short ribs beef, cow brisket meatloaf drumstick burgdoggen turkey bresaola spare ribs chicken. Shoulder chuck turducken meatloaf biltong porchetta pig. Pastrami kielbasa jerky tenderloin shankle, prosciutto short ribs salami strip steak beef ribs tail jowl.

[pogue]

L   O   V   E

Bacon ipsum dolor amet short loin meatloaf cow pig tongue andouille beef hamburger ball tip prosciutto leberkas shoulder pork chop chislic. Spare ribs ham hock tri-tip filet mignon biltong, short loin bresaola beef pork chop jowl leberkas pork loin strip steak. Pastrami biltong pork buffalo meatball, chislic turkey fatback short loin. Andouille pig beef swine, fatback kevin filet mignon bresaola kielbasa spare ribs. Brisket buffalo jowl meatloaf beef ribs. Pork chuck t-bone venison buffalo tongue bacon flank frankfurter landjaeger pork belly ham jowl pastrami ground round.

Landjaeger ham pastrami brisket chislic shoulder pork tongue. Shank fatback turducken landjaeger biltong filet mignon alcatra flank. Salami chicken flank chuck. Pork chop strip steak chicken, frankfurter cow tenderloin swine short loin meatloaf pork loin turkey hamburger spare ribs. Kevin bacon turducken leberkas corned beef landjaeger turkey. Ball tip pork loin brisket jerky, sirloin short ribs buffalo flank tongue bresaola porchetta ham hock doner. Landjaeger tri-tip biltong, cow short loin pig kielbasa pork loin chislic spare ribs ground round pastrami.

Brisket jowl doner buffalo, shoulder pork chop turkey shank beef ribs alcatra pork filet mignon ground round chislic ham. Bacon chicken alcatra, chuck meatloaf landjaeger sausage filet mignon. Sausage doner capicola jerky short ribs biltong rump tongue meatloaf chuck. Filet mignon bresaola chislic capicola. Beef ribs short ribs beef, cow brisket meatloaf drumstick burgdoggen turkey bresaola spare ribs chicken. Shoulder chuck turducken meatloaf biltong porchetta pig. Pastrami kielbasa jerky tenderloin shankle, prosciutto short ribs salami strip steak beef ribs tail jowl.

[pogue]

The water swallows me whole and the world goes silent, numb, the light scattering in the crystal I'm submerged in and turning the imposing figure of my Father and the medic he's called to watch into nothing more than distorted shapes, dancing and fracturing as I let my body go weightless.

My heartbeat echoes heavy inside a hollow chest, hardened like stoned and chiseled like granite and laced in the deadliest of poisons, a boy born and raised and taught to kill or be killed. It's the only thing I have ever known, flashing in the irises of my Father and caught in the metallic shine of every Peacekeeper badge that now adorns our walls, stoic totems cementing the legacy my Father carried proudly on his shoulders, the legacy he's put onto mine with every single training session he puts me through.

It's a dangerous thing, to idolize someone like that. But District Two is full of dangerous things that only make dangerous things, and I'm one of them.

It's no sob story of my parent's death, no desire for revenge or romanticized love of killing like I've seen in so many past tributes from my home, just a boy and his Father and the expectations that comes with calling oneself a Career. It's youthful hands and a weapon held between them, a bow a knife a spear a sword and growing fingers curling around the edges. It's dissecting past Games tapes and poking holes in every single tributes strategy, in every move they did or did not make.

It's taking what is and what could have been and turning it into what it should be. Kill or be killed, killer or the fallen.

Or, like today, it is a boy and a beating heart and screaming lungs and the will to survive.

And to think, the first time I did this I didn't even make it a minute before slamming my palms into the glass, fear and bubbles and broken screams underneath the water a chorus to my own failure.

Count my heartbeats with every second that passes, my body weightless under the pressure of the water. When I close my eyes, I hear the music.