Public Training Sessions
Jun 19, 2021 1:20:53 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jun 19, 2021 1:20:53 GMT -5
“Weaker tributes will be afraid of your reputation,” Ridley said. “Stronger tributes will either target you or ally with you. Viewers and commentators will care about who you're related to.” She paused.
“The Gamemakers won't, so you'll have to figure out a different way to impress them. Play the part that they give to you, even if you don't want it.”
She looked at him and Emerson.
“It helps to have them on your side in the beginning.”
He was named by the mass as the perfect prince.
On newspapers and the reels of gossip blogs he’d been shown, that was what they had been calling him since this Games season’s dawning. Julian Le Roux, the lion prince, golden eyes, chiseled stature, here to get himself crowned. Is he in a relationship with Paris Vanburen, or is this budding romance between he and a certain career real? most mused. He is very well-versed in sword, archery, and the challenging foxtrot, some stated. Is there another Le Roux victor between the two golden lions? all spectated.
They knew of him, and they knew well.
Reputation was its own deity in this damned kingdom, and it had a faith full of the most reverent. If he glimpsed up at all the eyes on him now, they would be knowing. Another career with a glided legacy, indeed he was here to stunt and preen, a tour de force that had been dulled by repeated performance. The script, it would seem, had already written this next part for him.
So perhaps it was fortunate that he, the actor he is, would rather improvise. Tear the script, and turn on a new page. His smile towards the Gamemakers’ veranda glimmered with a hidden promise. Play the part that they give you, Ridley had said, and they all knew what part Julian had to play here. Julian clicked on the button on the stimulation panel, and marveled as light shot through the air.
And the light wove and wove delicately like it was guided by the invisible hands of Arachne herself – quick and precise. As the stimulation’s barebones appeared, the platform below also rose, hissing out a breath of air as it does, raising itself up a few inches high, not quite a stage but still a place to put on a show. The lights at each corner of the center thudded, thudded, and thudded, until they all showered the raised platform in a glow. The holograph was complete then. In the middle of the center, shimmered a golden cage around the raised platform. Julian stepped through the illusionary cage and then onto the platform, a single sword in hand. He’d been here before. In truth, he was born here, a lion raised behind a golden cage. The capitol did not see him as the perfect prince, no. He was their perfect circus animal.
But if it was a show they wanted, then they shall have it.
“Mannequins, activate,” he said the command he’d programmed, making eight matching dummies spring out from under secret panels in the platform. They bore resemblance to human males and were mirrors of each other: broad-shouldered enough to intimate, and big-muscled enough to show that this wasn’t a mere obstacle course. No, this was a challenge. And although he saw them as such, Julian let his sword clatter to the platform and walk up to its center.
“Mannequins, attac—”
The word cut off from his tongue as he suddenly tasted blood. Julian staggered back; the world spun. Mannequin or not, the punch that’d landed on his cheek was very real. He spit out a curd of red.
The mannequins descended upon him like hungry lions.
He’d rehearsed this before but that was practice, this the show. As he ducked to narrowly dodge the mechanic swing of one mannequin, another jabbed him right in the ribs – enough to knock the air from him. Fists up, he returned it. The mannequin also staggered, although it earned its footing quicker than Julian ever could. He growled at the machines. They knew him. Made from a special memory foam here at the training center, each of these mannequins knew every last move Julian had tried on them this past week by rote, and offered him even a rough estimate of how much he relied on each. He favored his left hook than his right. He loved to tauten his fist hard, meaning his punches hurt him as well as his opponent. He was better at brute strength than fleet footwork, a vanguard, not a rogue.
They knew him. Like everyone in this damned city and everyone back home, they knew who Julian was better than he ever could, and it stoked his ire.
The robots started again, plunging towards him with a programmed vengeance. He evaded one’s grapple, and then got a star burst of pain on his cheek from another’s fist. More blood in his mouth, and now the blows came raining down on him. He punched one, got socked in the ribs from another. There was one he successfully broke, choosing to swerve around the blow instead of duck and then elbowing down, hard, on its robotic arm – the impact enough to draw that hauntingly real sound of broken bone.
Seven left.
But it wasn’t enough. The rest came in waves. One robot saw this small victory and pressed its advantage, choosing the moment to sweep at Julian’s ankle, sending him lurching to the dais, face first. He grunted as he met the platform, but there was no time for rest – he rolled, narrowly missing a punch. He was bleeding now, and the platform was slick from some of it, making his lurch back onto his feet clumsy. He eyed the battlefield.
He was outnumbered. Seven robots left standing, all brand new, and they were readying themselves, running the numbers, calculating the odds. They knew him better than he knew himself.
And so the trick here, was to bare his true self.
Because all this week, Malachi had kept it hidden under an assortment of masks and facades like he’d brought a cabinet from the circus, but he’d never let them commit his true fighting style to memory. It was all faux. He played a part, even if he didn’t want to.
The first robot whirled towards him, and swung. He was too caught up in his thoughts; Julian doubled over, spitting blood. But when the second punch came, he was ready. His feet bounded across to meet it, 1. quick on his feet, and before it made contact, Julian gave his shoulder the momentum, wind across his cheek as he spun inches away from the blow, 2. not ducking the way he did the past week. He had the barest moment to grin as he pulled free what he’d hid in the band of trousers—3. a small dagger, a single claw of steel, that he drove with a feral snarl into the mannequin’s neck. He had never used a dagger before in their previous sessions.
Blood spurted out in a maroon spray. He let the mannequin topple over as he dislodged his dagger with an unholy squelch, eyeing the remaining ones.
Six.
Julian hurled himself towards the other that came at him, full of renewed fervor. As they memorized his fighting style, he knew the things they used to counter it, too. He knew him the same. He sidestepped the robot’s first blow towards face, and then pirouetted as the second jab went for his gut. Sunny would be proud, Julian thought as he leaped to plant his dagger in the robot’s eye.
He fell with it. The other robots crowded in. But Julian used the carcass to lurch himself back onto his feet, narrowly evading the loud thump of a mannequin’s kick that met the platform instead. His eyes reflected the robots, and the golden cage around them. His eyes burned with it. When another came, he was quicker – he sliced away at its throat before it could move, cutting out a bunch of plastic tubes and faux blood. The platform was slick with it now, but his plan had succeeded. In the midst of the combat, he’d gotten back to the place where he’d left his sword.
Five.
Another came, and this time, he gave it no chance – Julian rammed it in body-first like a wrecking ball, the recoil like a gun shot, and then gutted it cleanly.
Four.
Two crowded in. One relied on his arm, swinging it right at Julian’s throat only to run itself into the sharp edge of his blade. The arm becomes cleaved in two. With a growl in his throat, he kicked it back against the other robot that’d tried to join ranks. His blade went through both their chests as they righted themselves. Blood flowed down his hands, making them slick, marking them red. He was a prince, but also a lion.
Two.
He eyed them now as they eyed him, both parties readying themselves for their next move. Julian didn’t make it first though – they did. With surprising speed, they rounded him up, but this time, instead of attacking, they spun around. Julian’s breath caught in his throat as one hooked an arm his throat.
His sword spun, and then it was thrust backwards into the mannequin’s side. Steel jutted from other side, then hissed as Malachi wrenched the blade free.
One.
He faced the last. After that fight, this one knew him better than the others now, knew of his moves, both faux and true. The robot’s eyes were calculating as they watched him loosen his grasp on the hilt of his sword and let it clatter to the now blood-soaked platform. What did they use for it? Tomato sauce? Red dye? The substance feels viscous on his forearms and in between his knuckles that he flex. He made a gesture with his stained fingers: come at me.
The robot did, whirling mechanically onto him, a fist made for a knock out. But before it could make impact, he caught it. The wrist. His veins leapt through his skin as his features scrunched up, holding the robot’s hand there. And before the robot could use its other, Julian broke it clean with a roar. Bones jutted out grotesquely and with another too real sound, but he disregarded it all to stomp his boot against the robot’s chest, hard.
The mannequin toppled over, creaking in protest as Julian took a single, shaky step towards it, then another, confident one. What felt like his first, real breath during all of this was a burst of pain both sharp and dull in his lungs, but it never made his face falter as his chin rose to look where they are, the Gamemakers. The look was accented by the sickening crunch bone makes as he shatters the mannequin’s skull.
Zero.
“I believe you’ve been informed by the trainers of what purpose these lay figures have been made for,” Julian said, the burn of his voice carrying over the room with a thunderstorm’s valor. “A tribute must be able to put on an act as well as they can fight.” Play the part they give you, even if you don’t want to. He smiled. His teeth were red and wet. “Don’t worry, Bambi will bring back the perfect prince again in an hour or so. Bruises can always be covered.” And so were ruthless streaks. Julian was a prince, polite and cheery, but there was also a twisted, hungry animal thing in him that he took pains to keep on a leash. For the Gamemakers though, he’d let it perform, he’d let it dance.
Julian had played his part, and thought he’d done it well, but he’d also made a point: they don’t know the full of him.
No one can, no one will, Julian mused as he let the tension bleed out of his shoulders and attempted not to stumble as he stepped down from the stage, walking out to where an avox stood ready with a cold towel.
Not when I don’t even know who I truly am.
Play the part that they give to you, even if you don't want it.
It helps to have them on your side in the beginning.
“The Gamemakers won't, so you'll have to figure out a different way to impress them. Play the part that they give to you, even if you don't want it.”
She looked at him and Emerson.
“It helps to have them on your side in the beginning.”
– ✧ –
He was named by the mass as the perfect prince.
On newspapers and the reels of gossip blogs he’d been shown, that was what they had been calling him since this Games season’s dawning. Julian Le Roux, the lion prince, golden eyes, chiseled stature, here to get himself crowned. Is he in a relationship with Paris Vanburen, or is this budding romance between he and a certain career real? most mused. He is very well-versed in sword, archery, and the challenging foxtrot, some stated. Is there another Le Roux victor between the two golden lions? all spectated.
They knew of him, and they knew well.
Reputation was its own deity in this damned kingdom, and it had a faith full of the most reverent. If he glimpsed up at all the eyes on him now, they would be knowing. Another career with a glided legacy, indeed he was here to stunt and preen, a tour de force that had been dulled by repeated performance. The script, it would seem, had already written this next part for him.
So perhaps it was fortunate that he, the actor he is, would rather improvise. Tear the script, and turn on a new page. His smile towards the Gamemakers’ veranda glimmered with a hidden promise. Play the part that they give you, Ridley had said, and they all knew what part Julian had to play here. Julian clicked on the button on the stimulation panel, and marveled as light shot through the air.
And the light wove and wove delicately like it was guided by the invisible hands of Arachne herself – quick and precise. As the stimulation’s barebones appeared, the platform below also rose, hissing out a breath of air as it does, raising itself up a few inches high, not quite a stage but still a place to put on a show. The lights at each corner of the center thudded, thudded, and thudded, until they all showered the raised platform in a glow. The holograph was complete then. In the middle of the center, shimmered a golden cage around the raised platform. Julian stepped through the illusionary cage and then onto the platform, a single sword in hand. He’d been here before. In truth, he was born here, a lion raised behind a golden cage. The capitol did not see him as the perfect prince, no. He was their perfect circus animal.
But if it was a show they wanted, then they shall have it.
“Mannequins, activate,” he said the command he’d programmed, making eight matching dummies spring out from under secret panels in the platform. They bore resemblance to human males and were mirrors of each other: broad-shouldered enough to intimate, and big-muscled enough to show that this wasn’t a mere obstacle course. No, this was a challenge. And although he saw them as such, Julian let his sword clatter to the platform and walk up to its center.
“Mannequins, attac—”
The word cut off from his tongue as he suddenly tasted blood. Julian staggered back; the world spun. Mannequin or not, the punch that’d landed on his cheek was very real. He spit out a curd of red.
The mannequins descended upon him like hungry lions.
He’d rehearsed this before but that was practice, this the show. As he ducked to narrowly dodge the mechanic swing of one mannequin, another jabbed him right in the ribs – enough to knock the air from him. Fists up, he returned it. The mannequin also staggered, although it earned its footing quicker than Julian ever could. He growled at the machines. They knew him. Made from a special memory foam here at the training center, each of these mannequins knew every last move Julian had tried on them this past week by rote, and offered him even a rough estimate of how much he relied on each. He favored his left hook than his right. He loved to tauten his fist hard, meaning his punches hurt him as well as his opponent. He was better at brute strength than fleet footwork, a vanguard, not a rogue.
They knew him. Like everyone in this damned city and everyone back home, they knew who Julian was better than he ever could, and it stoked his ire.
The robots started again, plunging towards him with a programmed vengeance. He evaded one’s grapple, and then got a star burst of pain on his cheek from another’s fist. More blood in his mouth, and now the blows came raining down on him. He punched one, got socked in the ribs from another. There was one he successfully broke, choosing to swerve around the blow instead of duck and then elbowing down, hard, on its robotic arm – the impact enough to draw that hauntingly real sound of broken bone.
Seven left.
But it wasn’t enough. The rest came in waves. One robot saw this small victory and pressed its advantage, choosing the moment to sweep at Julian’s ankle, sending him lurching to the dais, face first. He grunted as he met the platform, but there was no time for rest – he rolled, narrowly missing a punch. He was bleeding now, and the platform was slick from some of it, making his lurch back onto his feet clumsy. He eyed the battlefield.
He was outnumbered. Seven robots left standing, all brand new, and they were readying themselves, running the numbers, calculating the odds. They knew him better than he knew himself.
And so the trick here, was to bare his true self.
Because all this week, Malachi had kept it hidden under an assortment of masks and facades like he’d brought a cabinet from the circus, but he’d never let them commit his true fighting style to memory. It was all faux. He played a part, even if he didn’t want to.
The first robot whirled towards him, and swung. He was too caught up in his thoughts; Julian doubled over, spitting blood. But when the second punch came, he was ready. His feet bounded across to meet it, 1. quick on his feet, and before it made contact, Julian gave his shoulder the momentum, wind across his cheek as he spun inches away from the blow, 2. not ducking the way he did the past week. He had the barest moment to grin as he pulled free what he’d hid in the band of trousers—3. a small dagger, a single claw of steel, that he drove with a feral snarl into the mannequin’s neck. He had never used a dagger before in their previous sessions.
Blood spurted out in a maroon spray. He let the mannequin topple over as he dislodged his dagger with an unholy squelch, eyeing the remaining ones.
Six.
Julian hurled himself towards the other that came at him, full of renewed fervor. As they memorized his fighting style, he knew the things they used to counter it, too. He knew him the same. He sidestepped the robot’s first blow towards face, and then pirouetted as the second jab went for his gut. Sunny would be proud, Julian thought as he leaped to plant his dagger in the robot’s eye.
He fell with it. The other robots crowded in. But Julian used the carcass to lurch himself back onto his feet, narrowly evading the loud thump of a mannequin’s kick that met the platform instead. His eyes reflected the robots, and the golden cage around them. His eyes burned with it. When another came, he was quicker – he sliced away at its throat before it could move, cutting out a bunch of plastic tubes and faux blood. The platform was slick with it now, but his plan had succeeded. In the midst of the combat, he’d gotten back to the place where he’d left his sword.
Five.
Another came, and this time, he gave it no chance – Julian rammed it in body-first like a wrecking ball, the recoil like a gun shot, and then gutted it cleanly.
Four.
Two crowded in. One relied on his arm, swinging it right at Julian’s throat only to run itself into the sharp edge of his blade. The arm becomes cleaved in two. With a growl in his throat, he kicked it back against the other robot that’d tried to join ranks. His blade went through both their chests as they righted themselves. Blood flowed down his hands, making them slick, marking them red. He was a prince, but also a lion.
Two.
He eyed them now as they eyed him, both parties readying themselves for their next move. Julian didn’t make it first though – they did. With surprising speed, they rounded him up, but this time, instead of attacking, they spun around. Julian’s breath caught in his throat as one hooked an arm his throat.
His sword spun, and then it was thrust backwards into the mannequin’s side. Steel jutted from other side, then hissed as Malachi wrenched the blade free.
One.
He faced the last. After that fight, this one knew him better than the others now, knew of his moves, both faux and true. The robot’s eyes were calculating as they watched him loosen his grasp on the hilt of his sword and let it clatter to the now blood-soaked platform. What did they use for it? Tomato sauce? Red dye? The substance feels viscous on his forearms and in between his knuckles that he flex. He made a gesture with his stained fingers: come at me.
The robot did, whirling mechanically onto him, a fist made for a knock out. But before it could make impact, he caught it. The wrist. His veins leapt through his skin as his features scrunched up, holding the robot’s hand there. And before the robot could use its other, Julian broke it clean with a roar. Bones jutted out grotesquely and with another too real sound, but he disregarded it all to stomp his boot against the robot’s chest, hard.
The mannequin toppled over, creaking in protest as Julian took a single, shaky step towards it, then another, confident one. What felt like his first, real breath during all of this was a burst of pain both sharp and dull in his lungs, but it never made his face falter as his chin rose to look where they are, the Gamemakers. The look was accented by the sickening crunch bone makes as he shatters the mannequin’s skull.
Zero.
“I believe you’ve been informed by the trainers of what purpose these lay figures have been made for,” Julian said, the burn of his voice carrying over the room with a thunderstorm’s valor. “A tribute must be able to put on an act as well as they can fight.” Play the part they give you, even if you don’t want to. He smiled. His teeth were red and wet. “Don’t worry, Bambi will bring back the perfect prince again in an hour or so. Bruises can always be covered.” And so were ruthless streaks. Julian was a prince, polite and cheery, but there was also a twisted, hungry animal thing in him that he took pains to keep on a leash. For the Gamemakers though, he’d let it perform, he’d let it dance.
Julian had played his part, and thought he’d done it well, but he’d also made a point: they don’t know the full of him.
No one can, no one will, Julian mused as he let the tension bleed out of his shoulders and attempted not to stumble as he stepped down from the stage, walking out to where an avox stood ready with a cold towel.
Not when I don’t even know who I truly am.
– ✧ –
Play the part that they give to you, even if you don't want it.
It helps to have them on your side in the beginning.
The lovely Ridley dialogue is from Stare!