#t:d1

[hazeldubois-blog]

snitches get stitches ◯ first-aid

To imagine having an open, festering wound on my body, where flesh is torn at the seams, is an entirely revolting thought.

And I will not stand for it. To have an open wound is to leave my body vulnerable to disease, infection. I shall not be careless with my body. I shall not disregard my appearance in the arena. I shall not permit flies to buzz about my dirty body as though a rotting corpse.

I must hold myself to higher standards than the typical citizen. There is so much to ridicule already, and I shall not provide any more reasons for people to find fault with me. I am an easy target, as an avox. But I shall not be the catalyst for my own downfall.

That is pathetic. That is shameful.

Never shall I be pathetic. Never shall I be shameful. I renounce such qualities.

Threading stitches is not at all much different than sewing together a ripped seam. Flesh is almost as penetrable, I find, for it doesn’t require me much effort to push the needle through than it does for me to push it through a swatch of cloth.

I soon master the skill and I find no reason to further pursue it, for that would be quite a waste of time. I have much more to improve upon, and it would wound my heart to insinuate that my sewing skills are less than excellent by continuing to bind together this synthetic flesh.

I bid first aid adieu, with not much ceremony.

[kiyacrow-blog]

northward ◯ kiya + north ◯ melee weapons

I stroll through the many racks of gleaming silver weaponry, running my fingers along the lethal objects, but not picking them up. I’m not interested in the swords, or the hammers, or clubs, or anything like that. They seem too heavy-the types of weapons that the Crow family has never used. I know that papa has used tomahawks, spears, and a bow and arrow. Lakota learned how to use a bow and arrow at the shooting station, although she never used it in the arena, I don’t think. Our family has only ever used weapons that are on the lighter side to subdue an attacker. Not so much in Panem, but before the nation was formed. 

I’m not very sure if I want to use any of the weapons here. They seem much to aggressive, much too offensive. I know that I must learn to protect myself in the arena, but I don’t feel comfortable with such enormous weapons that are clearly there to deal very painful blows to competitors. 

Though as I’m leaving, a shield stands out to me. It’s a defensive weapon, although I imagine it can be used on the offensive as well. I lift it up, holding the silver shield in my hand. I weave my way out of the racks, coming to a clearing in the station where a man stands. 

He seems to have a pleasant aura about him. At least, one that is much purer than that of Rex. He was just very angry, with a tough exterior. I hope he is alright. Approaching the melee weapons trainer, I hold the shield at my side. “Hi, I’m Kiya,” I introduce, looking into his kind eyes. 

[kiyacrow-blog]

peace out girl scout  ◯ kiya + dahlia  ◯ knots & traps

I remember that I found a bear trap in the forest near my home once. When I was running, I stumbled on the chain, which led me to it. It had a Capitol logo on it. Sometimes, the bears will attack the lumberjacks in the forest if they feel threatened. Papa, when he worked for the conservation department, never used traps to deal with the animals. Instead, he tranquilized and relocated them. I don’t think that it’s very fair to injure an animal when it hasn’t done anything, although I can’t expect the Capitol to do what is fair when they haven’t ever lived with the land like I have. 

I don’t imagine that it would be enjoyable to get caught in a trap. I wouldn’t like to lose my freedom. Approaching the traps station, I begin to look around at the supplies. I’ve never set a trap, neither has Papa. I’m not really sure how to go about doing so. 

I reach for a spool of silvery wire, winding it around my arm as I look around for any instructions or for a trainer. Noticing a very small girl, I look to her shoulder to see which district she is from, though I see the Capitol seal instead. “I’m Kiya,” I introduce myself as I unwind the wire, taking a tuft of my hair and beginning to braid it. Papa says that it’s a bad habit-it makes people think that I am not interested in what they have to offer. But he just doesn’t understand sometimes, that my spirit is not as tied down as his is. “You’re very young to be a trainer. How old are you?” I ask. I don’t mind her age, that does not really matter at all to me. 

[kiyacrow-blog]

politics ◯ kiya + scylla ◯ pole weapons

I wrap my fingers around a spear. The ones that Papa and I made, we made from wooden branches in the forest. And we fashioned the spearheads from shards of rock. I remember that I attached a few feathers that I found in the forest to the end of the spear for decoration. I put them in my hair too. Mama said that I looked just like Papa’s mother. She says that a lot. I smile as I brush my hand against the cool shaft, gingerly lifting up the light, though long weapon. 

There is a hand on my shoulder, a strong grip. And then a booming voice is in my ear. “I’m Vaughn! Have any experience with these pretty little things?” a man asks. I carefully turn, making sure not to hit him with the weapon, even though the point of learning how to use it is to kill. 

His hair is long, almost as long as Papa’s. Most men don’t have such flowing hair. He’s very large too, with broad shoulders that could hold up the sky. “Yes, I’ve used them for spear fishing before, with my father,” I answer him, reminiscing about the day in the mountains at the river. I remember everything about that day. The shape of the rocks, the number of fish we caught. Papa tells me it’s because I have a photographic memory, he has one too. It isn’t something I inherited genetically, it’s just the way Papa raised me: to pay close attention to everything. But I know Lakota was better at that. She was good at focusing. 

Vaughn begins to speak to me about thrusting with the spear. He seems very vulgar, but that’s alright. I think that he has a good heart. I look away when I see a tall woman approaching, just as tall as I am. She exudes a sense of power and importance. “Hi, I’m Kiya!” I say with a smile. 

[thelolaliu-blog]

connection

What’s my favorite quality about myself? Wow. That’s a really difficult question to answer. I mean there’s just so much to love, from my constant sickness to my uncontrollable sarcasm to the fact that I’m always being bitter with my parents for no reason at all. I really don’t even know what to choose. It’s overwhelming. But, I think my favorite would have to be my weakness, and the fact that I would probably struggle to slap somebody. Obviously, that’s the only thing I want to do in the arena. Oh, you want to eviscerate me and leave my entrails in a bouquet arrangement around my corpse? I guess I’ll just weakly and unsuccessfully slap you and then be done with it. Yeah, I think that will definitely earn me a lot of respect from everyone who watches me die on television. I just hope I don’t do something embarrassing, like burp. That would be a great way to be remembered. Lola Liu: the girl who burped while she was brutally slaughtered in the first ever Hunger Games.

So basically now I’m formulating my training plan based on me not wanting to be laughed at while I die on television. (But that the same time maybe I have that character trope where I’m the secret genius under all of my cynicism. I should get out more.) I mope around the hand-to-hand combat station for a little bit, examining the trainers and the other tributes there before I enter. Soon, the tributes depart from the station and I move in, feeling more comfortable with none of my competition in the vicinity, watching me for the mistakes I make, which is probably going to be every single one of my actions at this station. A trainer spots me as I move around, an air of unease surrounding my person, and calls out to me, saying, “Hey, pink-haired girl, get over here!”

I instinctively reach for a lock of my fluorescent hair and tuck it behind my ear as I approach the seemingly hardcore woman with a long, jagged scar running down her face. Clearly someone did not know how to do a simple interrupted stitch. “Come,” she beckons, drawing me closer to the mat that looks like an ocean with never ending depths. “Catch,” she orders as the tosses a hair tie in my direction. I flinch and it lands on the ground in front of me. Great, I look really cool right now. “If you just made an effort, you would be able to catch it. I know agility when I see it,” she remarks. I haven’t been agile since I was a youngster, full of life, running around the hospital. She throws another one and it hits my face. I really love this station right now. I turn around, but something catches my eye and I reach out a quick hand for it, my fingers enclosing around the mystery item. I open my palm and it reveals another hair tie. Probably just luck. I put my hair in a ponytail anyways and turn back around towards the trainer.

Her eyes scan over my body like an MRI machine. I love feeling so exposed and vulnerable. Wonderful experience. “You’re long, lanky, lean. Clearly bony, but thin and nimble. A wiry frame. Gangly. I can work with this,” she murmurs to nobody in particular, tapping her chin where the scar comes to an end. “Walk for me,” she states.

I walk, turning away from her. I’d rather not have her eyes on me as I do so. “Good. Now stop,” she says. I halt and mechanically move around. “You lead with your legs. You have control over them, which is necessary for Tae Kwon Do. And your arms, you keep them still. You don’t like to move them as you walk. You like to control them as well, which is more useful for general Muay Thai. But I want you well versed, so Jiu Jitsu is in order as well,” she rattles off.

All of that scares me. How exciting. “I haven’t really had any single tributes here yet, so you can be my protege. You’re clearly smart enough to reap the benefits of what I’m offering, so I’ll be doing my job to help you successfully defeat opponents,” the trainer adds. I don’t know if I want such a committed relationship with her right now, especially when I’m about to die. Oh well. I’ll roll with it. “Arms up, fists. One leg forth, one back,” she commands. I lazily, awkwardly raise my fists up against my chest, spreading my legs out.

“No,” she states and just like that she shoves me and I stumble onto the mat. Cool. “Fists have to be higher, up at the face. We aren’t looking to punch, we’re looking to protect. And don’t spread your legs out like that. We want balance and mobility,” she explains. I raise my fists higher and close up my stance a bit. I guess girl with pink hair fighting like a super cool person is a look anyways.

“Notice how I stand far away from you. The object is not to engage in close quarter punching, it’s to stay far enough or way or get close enough, depending on the situation,” she teaches me as she reaches out an arm, proving that we are two arms lengths apart. She throws a punch and it doesn’t come close to reaching me. And then, all of a sudden, she comes charging towards me. I begin to cover my head, backing up. “No! Don’t back up. That gives your opponent the advantage,” she shouts. Help me.

The trainer explains that I am to move towards the opponent as they move towards me, all while covering my pink little head. Then I’m supposed to wrap my arms around her torso, lower myself and forcibly push her onto the ground, followed by me mounting. We practice a few times with the trainer defeating me mostly (and my prevailing sometimes, go Lola) before I think I actually understand how to keep my weight on top of an opponent. I guess we’ll see in the arena. I can’t wait. (The anticipation is eating away at me.) But I like that I have the shock agility factor. Nobody would think sick bitch can do anything.

It’s a blur as I’m taught strikes with my arms and legs, and other stances and ways to block and protect my body, because I don’t know if I even want to win. I’m probably just wasting my time. So that’s helpful. The trainer tells me to come back later on. We’ll see. You never know with me.

[thelolaliu-blog]

apricaught | track and field | lola + apricot

I feel a little less like death now. Only a little though. My sickness is fading. I still look a sickly shade of yellow, as though I am a small baby (who does nothing for society, only taking and never giving; babies are useless) with jaundice. I suppose it could be considered a look. I mean, since the Capitol citizens sometimes dye their flesh yellow, that obviously means it looks really good. I know I love looking like a decaying fish 24/7. The flu always comes and goes quickly, ravaging my fragile little immune system and then leaving it a bit of a mess. Thanks, flu. At least you’re consistent. Looking around the training center, I spot somewhere that isn’t populated by people I already know I hate. I would side eye them right now but I can’t actually find them, so that’s nice. The world working against me. Anyways I, the sick bitch (as I’ve been called by Violetta, very touching), slide over to the track station and tie my hair back, only to spot some sort of entity manifesting as it nears me. I peek to the side and spot Apricot. I look away, trying to find someone-I don’t even have to know them, please just give me someone-to lock eyes with and share a knowing glance about what I’m about to go through with the hyperactive fruit child, like they do in soap operas (I had a lot of free time, don’t judge). Of course there’s nobody (thanks) so I turn back to Apricot and look at her for a moment before averting my eyes. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to apricots anyways. Either that or they don’t agree with me. Now is when I give a preview of what is to come and say something witty yet ominous and maybe a little bit threatening depending on the mood. So anyways, will I react to Apricot the same way I react to apricots? With gagging and hives? Stay tuned. 

[genesisroux-blog]

↳clementine leone | it’s clementime (pool)

↳This hoe called me dull, but I managed not to rip her head off. Go me, honestly. The bitch is supposed to be making me a flower crown for my beautiful bald ass head. I’m waiting, Tangerine. 

↳valour delarosa | genesis + valour

↳I stumbled upon Valour and gave her my best, although I did have to manipulate my personality a bit so that it would fit her preferences. I wish I cared about acting fake, but I don’t. That’s the life of a beautiful creature.

↳revelation | first-aid

↳A bitch learned how to sew a bitch back up when a bitch gets fucked up by another bitch. So now a bitch can have not disgusting scars when a bitch exits the arena. Good. 

[genesisroux-blog]

revelation | first-aid

Chatting with Valour was an interesting experience. And by interesting, I mean that the energy it took to keep myself composed almost threatened to drain my entire soul from my body. Acting like I think beauty isn’t only on the surface was probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. I really don’t deserve this. Can I just live? Can a bitch just live? Whatever, Valour doesn’t know that I’m a superficial, materialistic, egotistical bitch. And she will not be finding out. Sponsors choose based on what is presented to them, not based on what’s inside.

I wish I could cut a hoe, or burn a hoe right now, but tragically that would result in a) Valour finding out that I’m not a loving person and b) I would get a fucked up punishment. So yeah, I’ll be refraining from that shit. I’ll let all the dumb bitches do that, so they can be messes when it comes to the arena, and I’m still as perfect and pristine as I’ve always been and always will be.

Afraid that I’ll come for someone after all the hardship I’ve been through today, I avoid the stations that are occupied by others. I’ll visit them tomorrow, but now is not the time. The first-aid station is completely empty, and so I confidently make my way over there even though I’m like ten-thousand percent sure that I have zero idea how to treat any type of wound imaginable. I shouldn’t even be expected to do this dirty work. Fucked up, honestly.

I begin to learn how to do sutures. It’s therapeutic, because at least I get to hypothetically cut a bitch. I’m slightly relaxed now. Also, I know that this shit is important. If I don’t know how to do this in the arena, I’ll get some nasty ass pus-filled infection that eats the flesh off my face and leaves me with a scar as jagged as my morals. Another thing which I have absolutely zero time for.

I learn some shit about paralysis, which is interesting and cute. Treating burns, which I might have to do if I decide to rise into my full-fledged form as a pyromaniac. I bounce once I learn all the basics, because I need beauty sleep. There’s no way Valour will be sponsoring me if I look like some saggy-eyed mess that woke up .2 seconds ago. Fuck no.