everyone you know goes away :: Fridae & Fitz

[pogue]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; padding-right:15px;padding-left:15px;] F  I  T  Z    M  E  Y  E  R  S [attr="class","scrollbar"] It's on the third day that he realizes he's built himself on an empire of dust and dirt, as easy to destroy as it was to build. It takes the form of a restless night, tossing and turning in sheets that have been bleached one too many times for the blood of Three's past tributes to still linger on in the folds. They feel heavy and broken by the time midnight rolls around, cloak turned chain and he's dragged down and down until eventually his eyes close, holographic images of Three's smog-stained skies the last thing he sees before slipping into the silence. Maybe that's his curse, yeah, to miss a place he'd claimed as home but had never felt it claim him back, to miss the soft warmth of a fire made only to last the night, to yearn for the feeling of white-knuckled fists pressed into his stomach until he finally collapses to the ground and lets himself taste the dirt. That's what he misses the most, that type of pain. The physical kind, that dances across the skin and threads itself in blues and blacks and purples and screams when you touch it, that stains your skin red with the blood of a split lip as it dribbles down your chin. The kind that ebbs and flows and goes away with time, always prominent but never permanent. The kind that is nothing like what he feels now, all icy heart and shortened breaths and the inability to stare at himself in the mirror without seeing a husk of rotting flesh and exposed heart, like nothing he's ever seen before. Every morning that he awakes he buries it, sneaks a swig of a bottle and cracks his knuckles and hisses at the fluorescent lighting of the training center whenever he enters. Easier to hold a scowl on the face than sadness, he tells himself. When he sees a girl with calloused fists and swinging hooks and a training dummy wobbling on its feet he feels his eyes widen, feels a smirk slide onto his face as for the first time since he's entered the Capitol he sees home.  "I know fists that have seen a fight or two when I see 'em." He says as he approaches her from behind the training dummy, feeling the hollow clanks as it wobbles back and forth from her punch before he puts a palm to the head and stops it, devilish grin still dancing on lips that are begging to be split and bleed. "You're a fighter too, huh?"

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[rook]

fridae drummond

mars, the god of war, pretending so serene
he's keeping his hands clean
while i make war on this war machine

Last time I was in the cage I was beaten within an inch of my life. Some girl, much taller and stronger than me stood over my broken body, pressing her foot down against my ribcage and raising her arms in victory. I remember my swollen cheek sagging on the canvas, blood running from my mouth, and all the world around me a blur, thinking then that things could not possibly get any worse for me.

You can always count on life to kick you when you're down.

In the months that have followed - running from debt collectors, hiding when Higgs' goons came knocking, I healed, but I never truly found my fight again. I need to find it if I'm going to live. I need to find that fire again.

Padded gloves are provided, but I find the old ways are the best. I tie four knots in a thin piece of rope and place them evenly between my knuckles, proceeding to wrap the rope around my fists and up my arms. Dad always used to say that if the rope isn't red by the end of a training session, you didn't train hard enough.

I unleash on a training dummy, it's weight and feel isn't the same as a real person, but it resembles something similar, and I can build a good rhythm after a few minutes of quick practice. Before long I'm getting tired, and my body is covered in sweat.

A voice snaps me out of my focused state, and the noise of the training centre floods back to my ears. He is tall - well, everyone is tall to me, but over 6 feet at least. His features are harsh but his voice soft.

"Yup, my dad taught me to fight when I was seven," I say, grabbing my water bottle and taking greedy sips whilst I catch my breath.

"So that boys twice my size wouldn't mess with me."

I stare seriously at him, before breaking into a smile.

a careful chosen word, designed to hurt
but will it stir some new philosophy?
retreat or be defeated, baby

lyrics: mars the god of war by the beths

[pogue]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 000000; padding-right:15px;padding-left:15px;] F  I  T  Z    M  E  Y  E  R  S [attr="class","scrollbar"] For a second he's dancing on pins and needles, palm still pressed to the head of the training dummy as he stands over it, looking down on the girl as the height difference becomes fully apparent. A younger him would've let underestimation seep into his bones and his brain, disregarded danger at the notice of the difference in their size but an eighteen year old Fitz Meyers knows better.  One too many punches thrown from the short stuffs in the cage still linger on the hollow memories of bruises long since healed, lessons learned and lessons gained from white knuckled flesh. Amazing how much throwing a punch in the dead of the night taught him, amazing that even after learning it all he'd still ended up landing himself here. He sees his own chapters written in the same pages as hers as she speaks, tone serious and distant as she comes down from the high of a flurry of thrown punches. He knows that sense of survival all too well, the way Three forced him to eat or be eaten, to hurt others before they hurt you.  "Sounds like a good dad, if I'm honest, not sure what boy twice your size you're talking about though." He says sarcastically, looking himself up and down as he lets his palm slide down and away from the dummy. There's fake blood seeping from underneath the surface, remnants of the girl's punches and it splatters against his skin, staining it red for the briefest of moments before he wipes it on his pant leg out of instinct. "Fitz Meyers." He offers, sticking out a hand stained red because it's the only peace offering he's ever known, memories of clasping palms to help an opponent up after a fight laced into his instincts. "Guess I'm not the only cage fighter volunteer here, huh?" He says, letting a smirk fall onto his face. Did your dad raise you to throw yourself to the wolves, too?"

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[rook]

fridae drummond

mars, the god of war, pretending so serene
he's keeping his hands clean
while i make war on this war machine

A hand stained crimson, red running in sharp inky icicles across his palm lines - extended as a tainted offering of peace. The irony of it is not lost on him I don't think, with a jester's smile growing wildly on his face and an unrelenting fire behind his eyes. Mine aren't any cleaner than his, and I suppose that if we were both forged in pits of mayhem and suffering then we can understand each-other better than most.

I shake his hand firmly.

"Fridae Drummond."

It'd be a complete buzzkill to tell him that my dad's heart exploded five years ago, back when I was a journalist and not a dirty mafia fall-guy fighting for sport in the sewers of Nine. A lot can change in a short space of time, especially when you're desperate. Money never lasts, and neither does your luck when you're on the breadline and news doesn't sell. To survive you have to lean into your other strengths.

If dad knew just how I turned out, I expect he'd be more ashamed than proud. His little girl was never meant to become this.

Oh well, the dead don't get to be disappointed in me.

"Not sure what kind of wolf throws up on stage at a Reaping." I fold my arms, still smiling as I deflect his question.

The last thing he needs is to know about all the shit reasons why I raised my hand and put forward my name in place of Naura Tern's. It'd do no good to anyone.

a careful chosen word, designed to hurt
but will it stir some new philosophy?
retreat or be defeated, baby

lyrics: mars the god of war by the beths