#;empty screams

[huntedhunter]

To fight against the Gods  | Task nine

He counted the seconds as he was aggressively biting his lower lip to the point of blood. The iron taste was electrocuting him, giving him strength though and a motivation not to spill it. Because it was his and it was with a limit. He had to be calculated only now, because this time, he was on the edge with no shortcuts available and no turning backs. The blade he was walking barefoot on was too thin for him to turn on his heels and walk the other way. There was no salvation as he stood in the waiting room, thinking of the moment he built in his head a million of different ways, without as much as a result. He had skills to show off, but wanted to think of the better ways of putting them into light in only ten minutes. He wanted to be breathtaking in his movements and impress, which wasn’t likely for a district as mediocre as his Eight. Yet, nobody in Eight has ever been Hunter Twill and he was as much of a District Eight citizen as he was a Capitol one, no matter how discriminated. He knew he was more and that they’d be expecting the boy who could have had a sharp tongue, but had none instead and could still start fires even in avox robes. He was gasoline, and they were probably curious, if nothing more. Hunter just had to take advantage of his reputation, show them a good play and maybe even live up to the expectations.

He was chewing gum. Out of all ironies in the world, his escort offered him gum just before the presentations began because she was a compulsive chewer and he pointed that out cheekily. He did ask, jokingly, if it was an euphemism, but she just giggled the Capitol way and denied it. He didn’t care. He took the piece of gum and put it in his pocket just in case, and found himself chewing by the time they got to District Four. He wouldn’t admit, but he was nervous. There was only a shot to make it blow and there were no turning backs, no matter how much he looked in that direction every time a new tribute walked in to present their skills.

So when the voice boomed his name, he took his time to stand up, lazily leaving his chair and winking at a passive, not present Alice with good luck - because he didn’t care if she did well when it wasn’t going to help her much, and he wished she wouldn’t have stressed herself so much over it. Sometimes, it didn’t hurt to do a kindness, and those were his only moments of selflessness, even them being selfish. He sauntered to the door and looked over his shoulder at the remaining tributes. So pathetic. He wanted to laugh at them but didn’t for the sole reason that it was childish and he was being one of the most mature - in theory - tributes of the year. He walked in, still chewing gum, still with his hands deeply buried in the pockets of his jeans and only took his left hand out to wave once, as casually as he could with his heart pumping blood at the speed of light. He couldn’t calm down, but that became his drive. He smiled, adrenaline taking over, and typed in his touch voice. “Any of you fine man want to see the demonstration live? Fair combat. A real life sample?” he challenged the Capitol’s most dangerous men, looking innocent howsoever. None of the men moved a finger. He typed again. “Too well. Silence is another way to fight back. I should know. We’ll do it the old way. You’ll like this. But too much time wasted on chitchat,” he typed and tossed the expensive toy somewhere in the corner, remaining only him and his hands. How to start a fire? He knew dozens of ways, but it wasn’t going to have any impact. Hunter looked up to them, giving a sarcastic nod. They were at least fifteen meters above him and probably guarded by some invisible shield. There was no way of getting to them. 

He just grabbed the gum wrapper in his pocket and put it between his teeth as he took the batteries from a flashlight in the supplies corner. He tore apart the wrapper into two and gave them an approximative hourglass shape before touching the foil side to the bottom of the battery, then the other end to the top of the battery. The narrow part in the middle caught fire almost instantly, but it was nothing but a small flame. There was no statement in that. Fire was his signature, but not impressive that one time. Luckily, he thought quickly about what to do next. He took a deep breath of air and shoved it down the hanging dummy’s throat. The soft plastic seemed to catch fire easily, and suddenly, the dummy turned into a human shaped torch. 

Beautiful. Still not enough, howsoever. He stopped thinking as he let his hand slip into the fire and tore off a burning arm of the dummy’s. It stung everywhere and his instant impulse was to drop it on the floor because he could feel his skin melting and it made tears appear at the corners of his eyes, but he suffered more before. He went through worse. He recalled the last thing he felt with his tongue - the iron taste of the sharp knife - and the electrocutions as punishments of the first year and the last as an avox. Hunter summoned every memory, every scream of every family member he’d witnessed die, and suddenly, pain became a concept. He was showing off his endurance. With the burning hand in his hand (although holding it superficially by an only warmed up surface that wasn’t turning into ashes yet), he climbed clumsily - almost falling three times - on the nets they’ve put up for the climbers to show them their talents until he reached a decent level. He was only three meters beneath the game makers and if he looked down, he could feel his knees get weak and fall, but he wasn’t the kind of person who looked down. Instead, he looked up at them and threw the hand the best he could in their direction. 

Luck seemed to be on his side. For a moment, the hand lingered on the invisible shield before their eyes, almost melting something before falling on the ground. Hunter then climbed the net down, reluctantly, but proud that his throw hit its target. As he reached the floor, he felt dizzier than ever, but it was a nice feeling. Like getting drunk. He then ran straight to his touch voice and typed, so the robot voice would conclude his presentation. “I don’t need matches.” He looked coldly at the burning dummy and kicked him to the ground, but the floor was too metallic to catch fire. It didn’t matter. He made his point. He didn’t even look back as he exited the room without further comments.

[huntedhunter]

Wearing shame like a crown | task

The girl next to him was shaking, but Hunter didn't stop to ask her if she was okay or even to wonder why. He would have probably been shaking too if he was that close to imminent death. He was dressed in clothes that were supposed to be shameful, but he enjoyed every last minute of his crown of thorns. He wouldn't have liked a golden one to take its place. It was so fitting, so glorious in its shameful nature that he was wearing it with his chin raised to the sky, proud to be mocked that way. For years, he hadn't even been allowed to raise his eyes to see the chariots and now he was in the spotlight, wearing a transparent curtain and red paint all over his body, and he felt better than ever. Everything bad that ever happened to him seemed to be worth it for that moment of complete defiance. He was a survivor. He raised from the lowest avox underground floor to the big square and, more than ever, he was deathless. Defying the Capitol, defying death itself, defying everything in the world. His usual smirk spread across his face as the horses started moving through the big golden gate. The robe he was wearing was hitting against the breeze, sticking to his body and, feeling the slight coldness and the applause, he finally saw the appeal of the Games. It was unfair, he knew that and he resented himself for feeling good in the chariot that brought Addison premature death, but he couldn't help but grin at the audience regardless. After all, he was supposed to be good to them until they got him out of the arena. Only afterwards would he afford to raise hell and glare instead of grin. He wasn't waving the way he was seeing most of the other tributes greet their sponsors and fans. No, he wasn't desperate and it wasn't the sort of impression that he wanted to give of himself. Hunter was just emanating confidence through his attitude - the sideways smart smile that told his life story by its spiteful, yet victorious curve, the look ahead as if he had nothing left to lose, as if he didn't have a God, as if he felt like one himself. Washing himself in applause and drum beats, he was now eyeing crowd members particularly. The woman with the dark purple hair shaved on top, the man painted entirely in magenta, the in betweener with a wing taking form of a heart and red long robe looking almost religious. He wanted to remember their faces and make them all suffer. Suddenly, he felt angry to have enjoyed the ride so far but he knew he couldn't take it back or turn his attitude around now. He wanted to kill them, but after making sure they wouldn't kill him first. It was a survivor's move, and surviving seemed to be his greatest talent lately. So he only smiled, wondering how much the corners of his face would hurt after that day. Not that it mattered. He wanted it to hurt because he was being unfair, feigning enthusiasm and friendliness. He was betraying mother, father, his brothers, Eleanor, Addison and especially Jeannie who was still around to see him. And more importantly (due to his selfish ways), he was betraying himself and his values.

[huntedhunter]

Task one | so devoid of color he don’t know what it means

They were using different methods to put out his fire now - they let him stay in Eight under supervision, as a convenience, because he was the first to guess it had more to do with the fact that there was no place for him back in the Tower or anywhere near their precious Capitol. It was true that they could have just offered him a hand of gold and the opportunity to spend time with the sister he never weighed on much before to tame him - but even their twisted minds had to know by now that wouldn’t happen peacefully. The peacekeepers were checking up on him daily, often passing by the provisory shelter in the making he was managing to arrange for Jeannie more than once to see if the hammer work wasn’t something deeper, something that would have ultimately hurt the Capitol. 

Jeannie didn’t recognize him, but she has heard stories. In fact, nobody recognized them, or at least they didn’t want to admit it, as being affiliated with a moribund rebel tribute and former avox wasn’t ideal in any district, let alone Eight, who was mainly at peace with dying slowly every year. But, unlike the rest of the world, Jeannie accepted him, and wanted to get to know him, with the crystal clear curiosity of a little bird. She was living in the orphanage, and it was ideal, because they weren’t yet ready to set a whole building of children on fire to take revenge on him, a single person with fire thumbs. Yet, Hunter knew that she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life there and decided to build her a house. A house, despite how easily they burned. He wasn’t surprised to see she was afraid at the thought, but he didn’t push it. It was a ‘just in case’ gift from him. Nothing could have made them even - he did her too much harm to, but the house building was good for his soul and even worked as some sort of training, for the effort made him stronger than he used to be carrying suitcases to the eighth level of the Tower. The house only had one level and three rooms, without a floor and with a light, easy to sweep off roof - but it was better than nothing. He wanted to consume all the kindness he had left in him for his sister: he showed her what Addison didn’t of sewing, he gave her dance lessons, both tripping and trying a laughter. He was being, for the last time in his life and even then artificially, a big brother. 

The Reaping was the most boring moment of his staying in Eight, probably. They didn’t ask of him to pretend to volunteer for the second time because they knew he wouldn’t simulate it for their screens. They only welcomed it on the stage and gave him a chair to sit on. Now, all he could think was that Jeannie was going to be reaped, and emotion flooded his chest for a moment, but the escort called out a different name, and he caught his breath and went back to looking made of stone. He rolled his eyes after a stupid but brave child volunteered, but didn’t care as long as it wasn’t his stupid but brave child. Then, they simply announced that the male tribute would be him. He waved twice at the crowd and chuckled for himself when he thought about words to say outloud. He didn’t have a speech, or a tongue, for that matter.

Leaving Jeannie was the heaviest part of him attending the Games. She had to watch her second sibling go into the Games and most likely become alone in the world in a week. Hunter couldn’t fathom how hard it must have been for her, but he knew she knew it was the best solution and that he was dead anyway even if he didn’t volunteer. She understood without talking about it, just like him. The man has never been good at good-byes and didn’t want to give the girl a reason to weep that night, so he kept their final meeting in the Hall to jokes and gave her an envelope. He wrote a letter for her like he wrote a letter for Addie when she had entered the Games. It was only fair. It was his duty. In return, Jeannie gave him Addison’s token that came back to her with her sister’s corpse: a cufflink from her father’s only suit who made it out of the fire. If the cufflink did it, Hunter had no excuse not to become a phoenix himself. 

[huntedhunter]

Task three | Impressions

What was your first thought when you arrived at the Capitol?

What a brand new place I’ve never seen before. Wow, what are those people wandering around in white without tongues? So interesting. The Capitol is such a cheerful place. I love it here. 

Where is your favorite place in the Capitol?

The avox basement. It’s a shame it’s not an official tourist attraction. People would love it down there. Even rats do. I know it for a fact.

What is your favorite thing about the Capitol?

The fact that they’re all such kind people. I think it’s really inspiring. It makes me take on their attitude.

Least favorite thing?

Not a thing. The Capitol is everybody’s favorite and without flaws, is it not? They’ve made me type that with a gun to my head, for the record.

What is the biggest difference between the Capitol and your district?

No differences. Everything burns the same.

Would you live in the Capitol if you had the chance to?

Been there, done that. Maybe let’s not repeat ever in my life, yeah?

[huntedhunter]

Skills | Task two

Machete

Although not outstanding when it comes to the offensive bits of surviving in the arena, he has the attitude and temperament for it to work and machetes in particular are the kind of sharp blades that he is set on using in the arena, since one of them put an end to Addison’s life last year. In spite of his searches for the certain weapon, he couldn’t find it, but still looked everywhere for one, because during his short time spent in Eight he didn’t only want to establish a future for Jeannie and try to make up one bit for the hell he had put everybody he loved into - those in flames and those left to pick up the ashes - but also to train for the arena actions and be as prepared as he could be, given his health state. Yet, he has dreamed about it enough to think he had got it and fantasizing about being good at something eventually makes it partially true, not to mention that he is crazy enough to pick the weapon up anyway and pray that what he cuts isn’t his own flesh. Hunter has also done plenty of research and asked an older victor about the weapon, so he knows the theory.  

Navigation

Hunter spent the last six years in his life memorizing hallways that looked just the same, trying to find fault in the spotless white and guide himself through a building where order and minimalism were top concepts. For that, he developed an instinctive sense of direction, but he isn’t counting too much on it, knowing the Capitol too well to assume they would let him get away with it and move into an arena smoothly just because his eye was used to seeing the details that made all the difference between two very similar spots. Arenas have changed before during the Games, and they would do all they can to confuse and make them lose it, especially if they think about how navigation is the key word to being an avox in the Tower. 

Weapon making

Sure, it isn’t that he, per se, ever made a living out of building and constructing weapons, but he made his own slingshot at twelve and knew how to use a pocket knife to carve the shape of a wood into something sharp enough to make it bleed. Although lacking any abilities that allow him to aim correctly or press the pointy end with the necessary strength, Hunter at least is capable of making something that could save his life out of supposedly nothing. And although he hasn’t tried in years, he can feel how easy the pocket knife was sliding across the harsh surface of the wood he had stolen from the chimney. After all, his weapon making was some sort of fire as well and the wood wouldn’t go to complete waste.

Hand to hand

As a boy with a temper and the decency not to pretend otherwise, he had gone through several encounters and street fights, although never truly serious. For that, however, Hunter learned the basics in punching a person and could do well in hand to hand combat, even though his level of preparation never exceeded amateur superficial dirty duels that lasted moments before one of the involved people got blood on their shirt. Despite that, Hunter was never the person to back down from more if needed, and he knew that he wouldn’t stop at three drops of blood this time, if given the opportunity. He had strong knuckles and an almost thirst for getting his hands red, it seemed.

Endurance

It took him a while to learn that pain knocked on your door and waited for you to welcome it in and that, avoiding and dismissing it, you became untouchable. He still hasn’t completely learned that lesson, but it’s for sure that he can survive in unfortunate conditions for a long time. As an avox, he wasn’t always well fed and lived in the best conditions a human can live in and the pain that made him so vulnerable and so human before, as flames were dancing inside his home with his family inside, found its way into a mix with the pain that made him a emotionless robot, therefore, becoming less affected by both and unimpressed with most torturing techniques only because he has probably seen it before. There were perks to being traumatized, after all, and he knew how to benefit from the darkness of his past. He didn’t always have bread to chew on - no matter how fortified - and water to calm down his thirst and he learned to not think about them when lacking them. He learned to fool himself into temporarily not caring about his growling guts or dry throat. 

[huntedhunter]

let this fire inside me turn me to ash | dated a month before the Reapings | self para

“We have given you chance after chance, Hunter, but we are afraid you are incurable,” she simpered, wearing white and allowing him to have the fantasy of seeing that robe blooded or burned to dark brown. Revenge was comforting and the thought of it was the only breeze he could afford. 

The accent was the worst, and he was forced, without any form of fight back, to listen to it ten hours a day without even being close enough to spit in their mouth. They were talking to him as if he were a lost cause and he knew what was coming next. The only response he was free to give was a sharp edged smile that looked caustic and probably, considering the setting, unsettling altogether. And they were right, after all; he was a lost cause. In the last days, he had experienced everything. The pills were making his head explode, he realized and couldn’t scream back at them about it or at least scream to himself so the pain would be breathed out, even if partially. He saw Addison again, and she wasn’t doing well. Her wrists were rotting and there was an endless black hole in her throat that he wanted to fill with promises - but his own throat was incomplete. He didn’t see mother, father, Eleanor, Taylor and Fred, because he can’t even remember their chins and shape of face, but he heard their screams at night and he guessed they must be burning, even now. After all, he was too. Jeannie didn’t even bother with a whisper, but that’s how he knew, deep down in his heart, that she was still breathing. He had to go after her, but it was by far more likely for him to go after the rest of his family at that point. 

He didn’t even have strength to sigh. They didn’t tell him anything and he didn’t wonder. He already knew what they weren’t saying - as if there were many alternatives like that one. They didn’t let him know even as he was transported elsewhere, away from the pale, isolated room they locked him in. He was just saying for the irony of being asked if he had any last words. Hunter knew it was impossible and uncharacteristic, but he prayed to every God that was now a stranger to him that they would burn him at stake, so he’d taste it too. It was a masochistic thought, but he liked symmetry too much to let it slide. He wanted it to end in flames. 

Surprise didn’t overwhelm him as they tied his eyes. To go into oblivion missing two senses instead of just one wasn’t that different. He was okay with anything. He was okay with the darkness. But minutes turned into hours and nobody was talking. He could feel a movement - a gentle, almost unnoticeable to those who still had things to lose and didn’t have to analyze every last thing the enemy would be giving them - and a soft scratching noise that he didn’t connect the dots of until they untied him, and he was back in Eight. 

Surprise overwhelmed him as he thought of the worst. Last time he saw the dust, they made sure to make it holy with a flame. He was wrong. He wanted back. He regretted everything. No, no, no. He had something to lose, but he reckoned that not for long. They don’t take trips for pleasure, and they know what makes him responsive to torture and what torture works best. They’ve done it before. They were finishing the job they started six years and a bit ago, not finishing him. It was sweet, innocent Jeannie they were going after. He wanted to scream at them - again malleable, again flexible, again willing to cooperate as if nothing happened. He was at peace with dying. There was no point in involving a child he didn’t even know well. For a moment, he almost wanted to make them believe nothing but his own life mattered to him, just so they would potentially spare her. He was ready to lower his weapons, his pride, his dignity and beg - because yes, he was already guilty of too much and one more death wouldn’t have mattered in his own redemption arc, but it was the poor, faultless child who would suffer because of his sins. That wasn’t unfair. It was supposed to be his punishment, not hers. Not theirs. Not Addison’s. 

Yet, Jeannie was nowhere, and he was being escorted to the Hall of Justice - he knew, even now, the way there by heart. The heat was insufferable, but he ignored it since every bone in his body was shuddering at the thought that he’d lock eyes with the only Twill still living aside from him - though he didn’t deserve that name anyway anymore - and watch her falter away from the world publicly, in some twisted manner. And everybody would watch - from there, from heaven, from tv screens - and know it was his fault. When he was the one that walked on stage, not his sister, the thought softened up in his mind, though he was still tense, wary, waiting for their official announcement. Nothing was safe in doubt. 

He spotted a younger version of Addison in the front row down the stage and his heart sank because he knew. She didn’t look like she was about to face any danger - which was half relieving - but he didn’t want to smile too soon. The state of uncertainty and thirst, combined with the cruel, unforgiving sun, was making him want to throw up, but he stood there tall, chin raised impertinently even when he was on the edge of the cliff. Only then did he dare to look behind him, unable to move anything but his neck, and saw the hallow. He wanted to laugh, but only didn’t because he was still on thin ice and knew it. Jeannie was in the audience. They had quick access to her. He tried not to stare, but it was so impossible. She stared back, of course, and Hunter started wondering how much of it she understood of what was happening. She looked so fragile, so small, and all he wanted to do was hug her and reassure her that it’s going to be okay even though he has always been the first one to say nothing is ever okay. Yet, he seemed to have found his weakness for a moment. The small, happy girl with nobody in the world to look after her. He wanted to live. He wanted to set them on fire and live and not be a sacrifice to uncertainty. 

As they put the rope around his neck and started reading his sins ( each sounding even more terrible in their mouth than in his nightmares, each turning him depressed and making him feel like he deserved it, even if just for a flash of a second before glancing at his sister to gather motivation, with eyes tightly closed in expectation ), to assure their final act of destruction that complemented his, Hunter knew there were seconds of him left in that world and didn’t particularly enjoy the thought. He had to think fast. Raising a finger calmly, but with precise, firm gestures, to tell them to wait, he stopped the speech. “What, Hunter Twill? Want to say something?” the tough, thick man orchestrating his death inquired with a skeptical look melted on his face. Hunter hated the face and the look on it, but ignored it out of convenience. Instead, he nodded to his arms, caught in the straitjacket, and in a moment of ‘legendary Capitol mercy’, two men behind him took it off, leaving him only handcuffed. 

When he saw his hands somewhat free, somewhat again flexible, he sighed with relief and mimed writing with his thumb and index finger. Naturally, they accepted to make the moribund man’s wish come true and brought him paper and a blunt pencil, so he couldn’t harm anything and anybody with it. Hunter apologized to himself as he picked it up and wrote only two words on it.

I volunteer.

Not immediate death. That was all he could think of for himself. They had played those reportages about the rebels he wanted to meet and shake hands with respectfully for something, hadn’t they? They let him see the change of rules and brought him back to his origins, giving him access to that information. Sure, they would have loved nothing more than a more mediatized, meaningful death for a rebel like him. 

Finally, the smirk invaded his face, proud and defying them. He was going into the arena; they were considering it. He just claimed his spot in the Games early. All he could see was black. He was ready to make everybody scream as he wasn’t able to. Addison was human, she was rational, but he? Hunter had the rawness it took to win. He was ready to undress morals to the core and show them. 

[huntedhunter]

ready, aim, fire | backdated to the end of the 108th Games | self para

He looked down at the money Anastasia stole for him as the screen turned red with his sister’s blood. The loudest canon, shaking every bone in his body and turning him yellow. He heard it again and again, and all he wanted was to scream, but the machete in Addison’s throat felt sharp in his and he could no longer breathe. Hunter’s eyes were widened on the money he was about to use to send her a little something to help, but didn’t move as they fell on the ground. His knees felt soft under the thought of one more Twill killed because he wasn’t fast enough. 

Although the screen has moved to the District Four boy, he could still see and hear it, sharper than any machete or tongue cutting knife, and nothing made sense anymore. Addison refusing to kill the boy - Addison refusing to turn into a monster because she was too kind and human to step over that line, even after having killed tributes herself. Addison trying - trying to hard and so heroically to keep breathing even when she was inches away from the danger and his own breathing stopped with anxiety. Addison apologizing through tears as red was pouring out of her - apologizing to the last moment and telling them that they love them and feeling guilty for the mess that he made because it was his fault Jeannie wasn’t held by mother and her eyes weren’t covered by Eleanor as her older sister was being cut holes into by some random country boy Hunter couldn’t even gather strength to hate on. Addison never singing again, not even in heaven with their parents. Everybody that he truly loved was dead. He had killed them all, so naturally, the first impulse was to wish to turn around to face those that he hated and finish them too. If he was ending one person at a time, watching them perish from existence, watching the life drain out of their eyes with last apologies still glued on their face, he had to move on to people who deserved it. He didn’t have any tears left to give, but his insides were burning by a fire he put out ages ago for nothing. What did he solve, listening to them, dancing to whatever tune they were playing? What was the outcome apart from another dead sister to add on the list because he’d been helping the rotten system take twenty-four children every year indirectly, because he’d stopped trying to ruin them, because the Tower hasn’t seen a fire in six years?

He watched her sister die because she was too pure, too human, and purse her eyelids one against the other gently, as if going to sleep, with a blade in her throat while he was wearing their avox ties and cleaning up their desks without flinching with hesitation once. The Twill house was on fire again, but he didn’t feel powerless in front of the flames. He wanted them to swallow everything, because nothing mattered. They cut his tongue, they burned his family, they slaughtered his sister and tamed him - all in six years. He was done giving them satisfaction. From that moment on, every breath that he would take would be to spite them, to the point where air turns to flame and he has matches in his hands again. He couldn’t think because his veins were burning and something inside his brain was hissing for revenge, taking over. For a moment, he didn’t feel weakened, as if the hit of watching Addison bleed out without being able to change anything - even after breaking the rules and stealing money to send her a little something helpful, a little too late - didn’t throw him on his back but woke him up. As if he needed his sister to die to fuel the fire again. She was the gas; now watch the Capitol all burst into flames. What once seemed unattainable, because one single person couldn’t make a difference and because they’ve undressed him of his bravado after setting fire to every Twill with the misfortune of being home at the moment, suddenly could be reached if only he stretched out his arm. The impossible already looked half done as he stared into the void. Maybe he wasn’t able to pull it off without losing his life in the meantime, but maybe he wasn’t meant to live for longer. Maybe it was better to burn out brightly and turn as much as you can into ashes than to fade away. Maybe going gently was the mistake he was only now truly getting punished for. Being soft and doing right brought him no good. People like him were meant to grin wicked and spite with every moving muscle in every possible way.

Nothing mattered anymore as everything in his head became clear as crystal and quiet, peaceful as he was finally going home - and he was, in a way, as he picked up every bottle of alcohol on the Eight floor and took them all to the rooftop. In a way, pouring liters of alcohol around the top of the building that brought him so much sorrow and lighting the match that would turn it into a torch felt more like coming home than District Eight ever would. Again did he realize that everything in his life was inflammable. And all of the Capitol was welcome to enjoy his show. He probably would never change the world or make a difference, but in that purple evening, everybody would smell smoke, everybody would see bright red and orange and indirectly, somehow, think of him. And it didn’t feel like enough as he walked away, wearing a relieved smile and being ready for the fire to catch, but the weight on his chest turned to cinders as well. He was back to being himself, and that made the terrible feeling in his guts falter away in front of the greater light. He found comfort in the flames, even though eight minutes later, as firemen struggled to save what he’d deliberately destroyed - because destruction was always most beautiful when on purpose and he missed that feeling - they found him too and immediately dressed him in a straitjacket. The Capitol was burning again. He found his purpose. His eyes, no longer lifeless, were now melted hazel from the heat and, even taken in custody, he hadn’t felt so free in ages. 

[huntedhunter]

Task eight | Family portrait

Jeanine ‘Jeannie’ Twill (aged 12)

FC: Maisy Stella

The youngest Twill child, Jeannie always had a kind heart. She always saw the best in people, and in the world. She grew up shy, fairly sheltered by her five older siblings. She was always friendly to everyone she met, and curious to no fault, wanting to get to know everyone, and explore everywhere. Even after losing a majority of her family, Jeannie managed to maintain her jovial spirit, even when Addison started seeing the worst in the world. She’s always managed to remain innocent and kind, even when life seemed at its bleakest.

Addison ‘Addie’ Twill (aged 15)

FC: Lennon Stella

Addison Twill, the second youngest of the Twill children, grew up with a passion for learning. She grew up a fairly optimistic child, much like her younger sister. However, after Hunter’s act of rebellion, causing the death of almost their entire family, Addie lost this optimism. Her life became about survival, with the only thing she really cared about being her younger sister, who was now her responsibility. Addison soon discovered she would do anything for Jeannie, and has been living the past few years trying to look after her sister as best she can, not really caring about anything else.

Fred Twill (died aged 12)

FC: Corey Fogelmanis

Fred Twill was the epitome of innocence. Growing up as the middle child of five, one would assume that he’d felt overlooked, but he never felt this way in his family. He always dreamed of becoming a pilot, though this was more a profession of the past, and loved all different kinds of planes, making models out of twigs, and reading about them all day at school. He always looked up to his oldest brother, Hunter, and aspired to be just like him when he grew up, even to the point of dropping out of school to go work with him at a factory. He died in the Twill house fire, six years ago, and would have been 18 this year.

Taylor Twill (died aged 14)

FC: Gijs Blom

Taylor Twill, to put it lightly, never gave a damn about anything in the world. He grew up with undiagnosed ADHD, and never did well in school. He saw himself as a disappointment, and so stopped caring what others thought about him, instead planning to quit school and do something better with his life. He dropped out of school at twelve, beginning work in the factory almost straight away, although he saw that kind of work as worse than school. He was closest to his younger brother, Fred, due to their small age gap. Ironically, he also had pyrophobia, or a phobia of fire. He died in the Twill house fire six years ago, and would have been 20 this year.

Eleanor 'Lennie’ Twill (died aged 17)

FC: Zoey Deutch

Eleanor Twill was a straight A student during her brief time at school, also managing to be one of the most popular girls there. She was extremely beautiful, and had tons of boyfriends over the years, dating them for a while before deciding she was bored, then moving on to the next new thing. She acted like a mother hen to her younger siblings, always trying to put them first, before anything. She had an amazing sense of fashion, and always dreamed of becoming a stylist for the games, despite having to work at the factory with her family during the meantime. She constantly fought with her older brother, Hunter, which, in the end, turned out to be smart. She died during the Twill house fire six years ago, and would have been 23 this year.

Hunter Twill (aged 24)

FC: Max Irons

Hunter was expecting to be a reliance to his parents when they got older, but instead, he became their downfall. His impulsive behavior and fear of nothing, fed by an eagerness to defy all authorities and mean something in a cause he wasn’t even aware of, had ruined his life as well as his family’s. After setting the factory on fire in an outburst, he was made avox, but the rebellious attitude only ended alongside the Twill household. Though a hard-working and resourceful boy, wherever he went, trouble followed like plague. An unlucky lad with two left feet and a big mouth, always ready to talk back and argue, he was now left hopeless and mute and, eventually, everything faltered, even the spark in his eyes.

Hunter Twill Sr. (died aged 36)

FC: Matt Damon

In his children’s eyes, Hunter Twill, Sr. was the greatest father in the world. He had a jovial personality, constantly telling dad jokes, and a never-ceasing optimism about the world. He was loved by all who knew him, and known as hardworking, and trustworthy. He was a good and decent man, and an amazing father. He is probably the reason Addison and Jeanine didn’t end up on the streets, people took pity on them because of their father, who had been kind to all in District Eight. He died in the Twill house fire, six years ago, and would have been 52 this year.

Celia Twill, neè Sash (died aged 36)

FC: Nicole Kidman

Celia Sash was born to one of the wealthier families in District Eight, and was expected to marry a boy from another rich family, but instead fell for Hunter Twill, a poor factory worker. They married in secret, entirely too young, which caused her parents to disown her entirely. However, Celia didn’t care, she was with the man she loved, and they were going to start a family together. She had her first child, Hunter Jr. at the age of 18, and she and her husband decided to raise their children with love, support, and open minds, a nonconformist way of doing things. They were never very wealthy, so Celia had to work in the factory with her husband on and off. She built a family out of nothing, and nothing she ended up being. Celia Twill died in the Twill house fire, six years ago, and would have been 52 this year.

@addisontwill