‘And he imagined he could taste the storm in himself, the battering winds of desperation and frustration that met his own tides, blow for blow.’
Name: Ian Lightfoot Age: 19 District: Four Magic?: Telekinesis (moderate level) Occupation: Netmaker Opinion on the Games: Against; losing nearly everything has burrowed that hatred into his mind, but carefully concealed. Biography: TW: Death mention They never stopped talking, Ian just stopped listening to the words at some point. Stopped letting it bleed into him; the way most of District Four cast eyes and shook their heads; it didn’t seem too very fair, did it? What happened to the Lightfoots? But maybe they brought it on themselves, maybe luck just did run in the favor of power; maybe they were the cautionary tale.
Ian didn’t need the communities’ curiosity when they murmured, he didn’t really need anything more than what they offered from a distance. Every chance at a connection would one day be a broken thread added to the tangle like a tattered net inside him, already suffocating, and he couldn’t face that sort of loss anymore.
Not after the father he can barely remember never came home from his terrifying attempts to challenge the Capitol with magic, or when the sea turned angry and stole his mother away forever as she worked tirelessly to keep her family alive.
Not when the ghost of knowing the older brother who was left to safeguard the family after the loss of their parents threw himself into Ian’s place in the slaughter of the Games the year before still lingers in the places Barley should have been. When he left the twins behind, alone, he never returned either. And his death became another demon rooted so firmly into the back of Ian’s mind; one that felt like his own fault. Ian didn’t need to add more graves to the cemetery inside his chest.
What he needed was a plan, because his faith in luck was spent; there was only one light left to burn out in his world. Thankfully, the one thing Ian had always been was intelligent, had set himself to learning what he could to help the family survive with an obsessive focus from the earliest days he could recall because when it was left to only the three of them there was simply no other way. And when Barley died it became resoundingly clear that the Games would only continue to devour everyone those greedy claws could hook into; he had to study everything his home could teach and hope planning made any shred of difference if it came to the worst. He would never have the advantages of some with more of the world resting at their feet, but he would try.
When the time came, the voice speaking names he had known his whole life in a tone snarling like the hungry ocean, Ian’s plan suddenly had to shift with that tide; there was no reason to stay behind once Eilonwy was chosen. His voice only barely managed not to shake when he volunteered. He knew what it meant, where the cost of trying to save what family he still had would leave him.
They’re stronger together, he has faith in that; they always have been. Strong enough to make certain, in the end, that the sea welcomes her home again.
Strengths: Survival Skills (Botanical study [researched] and trap crafting [from work and taught by Shere]), Stealth Weaknesses: Naïve (weak stomach for violence), Weapon Weakness (close range specific weaponry) Specialty: They were bored of him, Ian was well aware, in the sparse few moments he had been the subject of their scrutiny their expressions had turned disinterested as he watched his quiet stride to the base of the fabricated tree, the cultivated grass; the judges had seen this trick dozens of times before. Simple as breathing, wasn’t it? Loop the tripwire, wind it tight across his shoulder to steady, spread the net and smooth it down. He fumbled purposely there, fingers catching at the knots, at setting the pegs; earning another dismissive murmur before he stood and glanced upward at the low branches.
His mind was split between the moment and the spectre of touch, the memory of Eilonwy’s grasp, the trail of her eyes haunting him as they both had stared down the towering doorway what only felt like moments before. The slip of connection broken, she was gone in a few short steps and the tiniest flicker of panic. It wasn’t forever. It wasn’t for good; it was just on the other side of steel doors that yawned like a gaping mawed animal.
His fingers slid over the wire, reflex, looped wire across his palm and feeling it dig in as he planted a boot against the trunk, up in a smooth motion, anchor to a branch. He didn’t need to be honed; too much at stake, too much planned in that balance, he couldn’t be that good.
But he couldn’t fall under the curve either; too many flashes in the back of his mind like a film reel. Collected with rapt attention, noted, the video feeds that trickled into the Districts told lies; never make yourself too much of a threat. They had seen this trick before, Ian knew. Easy as breathing.
The judges barely bothered to note his step back on the ground, slide of fingers over the smooth curve of the weapon, one step, two steps, eyes narrowed, blowgun lifted; silent, a flicker of motion and a streak of smooth black stone. The trigger snapped, splinters scattering with the fling of the net upward. And when it tore they started to dismiss him, had seen this before; but he was placing his strategy in what they hadn’t seen.
The carefully unraveled knots caught and jerked, tangled together with a vicious lash forward, loosely secured pegs deceptively sharp in the arch that flew across the room with; cutting neat little holes straight through the center of the dummies clustered aside. A single stray projectile dropped free and spun slowly on the ground at the feet of the faceless form.
Surprise was brief, barely a glimmer across stern expressions, just there enough to satisfy Ian as he turned his eyes back to the door, silent; he didn’t need to break the mold, he just had to be enough.
