This here’s TheCrossoverWriter15: a movie enthusiast, self proclaimed author, artist and a geeked out fan of ROTTMNT, Arcane, Star Wars and other genres of film/television!
Guys idk if you’re all privy to the newly discovered thriving celebrity raccoon from Seattle named Jimothy with short spine syndrome but he is precious to me and I had to draw Rocket and him meeting lmao ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ if you haven’t been blessed with videos of him u have to look him up ok he’s magical LOL
Hi @daboyau! I absolutely LOVE your Rise Hunger Games Au and as I was reading, I wanted to know: what were Raph’s games like? He had expressed his trauma of being unable to turn off his humanity in the arena to Donnie which intrigued me. Did something happen in the arena?
Ah!! Hello!!! This was a pleasant surprise to get in my inbox today. :)
@thecrossoverwriter15
So basically. You know how Raph goes sort of feral when he’s left alone? It’s like that in a way, except it really only happens in the arena when he’s killing other tributes. So my thought is that he is brutally beating these other kids to death, not really able to control it even though some part of him in the back of his mind is thinking he could just walk away from the fight because the other tribute isn’t a threat anymore, but something just won’t let him. Then he comes back to himself, covered in the blood of another child, and all those emotions that were stifled when he was in that state come rushing back in and he is absolutely horrified and sickened by what he’s done.
so that’s got a lot to do with why he told Donnie to just separate himself and turn the emotions off if he can. He got to experience both sides of the coin, and he wishes so so desperately that he could go back to not feeling anything at all about what he did. It was so much better to just kill without remorse. It only hurt when he felt what he’d done.
I’m not sure if this is quite what you were wanting/asking, so if you want any further clarification just let me know!
As a treat, here’s something I wrote two(?!?!) years ago about Raph’s game. :)
When his name had been called, and after the initial rush of shockhorrorgriefpleaseno was over, all Raph could feel was relief that it was him and not any of them. When he gathered his brothers together in his arms after the Reaping and held them close, feeling Leo’s trembling, hearing Mikey’s weeping, seeing Donnie’s blank stare, all he could think over and over and over again was thank you and I love you and I’m glad it was me and not you.
“Take care of them,” he’d said, hands heavy on their dad’s shoulders, more a command than a plea. He had stared back, eyes rimmed with red but cheeks dry. The scars had wrinkled and creased as his face crumpled with the attempt to continue holding back his tears. There was a frightening emptiness to his gaze, eyes unfocusing and focusing again, over and over. He’d seen it before, on days that something would remind pops of his own games and he’d end up disappearing for days or locking himself in his bedroom until he could pull himself back together. Raph swallowed down his own tears, the scream that was building in his chest, and dug his fingers into his dad’s shoulders until he felt the bones beneath shift and creak. Pops winced and blinked rapidly. Raph met his eyes and held his gaze until he was sure he was back enough to hear his words. “You have to be here for them. Promise me you will be, no matter what happens.”
Pops was shaking, and he raised a hand to rest on Raph’s. A tear slid down his cheek, its path jagged and shifting as it got caught in the divots and old gauges on his face. He nodded, and there was a determination in his eyes that eased some of the pressure inside Raph’s chest. He pulled him close, wrapped him tight, whispered he loved him, and was secretly glad that it wasn’t pops’ year to be the tributes’ mentor. He’d be able to stay home with Mikey and Leo and Donnie and April. He’d have their support and they’d have his. It was something good, at least.
The girl from his district was 17. She was a stranger to him, just as he was to her. She seemed to prefer it that way, snubbing every attempt he made to talk to her and refusing to look his way any time they found themselves in the same room. He got the feeling she hated him. He didn’t blame her for it. After all, she was pushed aside over and over, all the interviews and the sponsors focused only on the son of a victor. They were all hoping for a continuation of the legacy of the Capitol’s sweetheart.
Maybe that’s why she’d been able to do what she did once they were in the arena. She hadn’t hesitated, even when she had him on his back, helpless and unarmed. The knife had missed his throat by centimeters, digging into the soft ground beside his head. He had whimpered, soft and sad. Her eyes were hard as she stared down at him, panting from the chase and the exertion of their scuffle.
It was only the first night. He’d been hoping that he could get through at least a few days without a confrontation. He’d even dared to hope that he could win like a few lucky others had; by just waiting the games out and hiding himself away until he was the only one left standing. Even though he was the youngest tribute this year, he’d made a point of showing off his size and strength during training, hoping desperately that by doing so he’d be able to make his theoretical attackers reconsider coming after him since they would know he’d have a fighting chance against them. If they hesitated, he’d have a chance to run and get through this nightmare in a way he could live with.
The girl from his district didn’t give him a chance to even try.
It shouldn’t have felt like as much of a betrayal as it did.
Raph screamed as he rolled away from another attack. Her eyes shone as she swung the silver knife at him. It glinted in the fake light of the arena’s pre-dawn as she snarled, “Hold still! Don’t make this worse than it has to be!”
“Stop!” Raph cried, scrambling to his feet. She hesitated, fear flashing across her face even though he stayed hunched, trying his best to look small. He was two years younger than her, but almost a full foot taller. “Stop. Please. We can work together, or we can just walk away. You don’t have to do this!”
“I’m not gonna die in here,” she hissed, advancing another step closer. Raph backed away, stumbling over the twisting vines that surrounded them. “I’m not gonna let you kill me.”
“I don’t want to!” he shouted, and his voice cracked as tears burned in his eyes. She was smiling, but it wasn’t a happy one. It wasn’t even a mean one. She looked like she was going to start crying, too, and the stretch of her lips was all she could do to keep from breaking down.
He didn’t have any weapons. All he’d grabbed when he fled the Bloodbath was a half-empty backpack, abandoned on the edge of the Cornucopia’s clearing by someone else. His fingers twitched, closing around empty air as he wracked his brain for something to do. He was taller; he could just knock her down and outrun her, right? A shove or a kick. He was still crouched, still shaky from adrenaline, but if he could just—
But it was too late. She surged forward before he could do anything, driving her weight into him, and the vines twisting around his ankles kept him from catching his balance. He grunted as he hit the ground, head bouncing off something hard hidden beneath the crawling vines. The knife grazed his arm as she fell on top of him, a line of sharp pain and a hot rush of blood soaking into the surrounding fabric of his bodysuit. His head was spinning, pounding like war-drums where it had hit the ground.
“Don’t do this,” he whimpered. He was trembling. Tears were running freely down his cheeks. He tasted the salt of them on his tongue, mixing with the taste of blood. “Please, don’t!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “—but your family will be fine without you. Mine won’t survive without me.”
Maybe she thought it would garner sympathy; maybe it was meant to be a plea for his forgiveness. Maybe she was just telling the truth. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered, because that was when it clicked that if she succeeded, he’d never see his family again.
He would never get to hold Mikey’s hand when he’s watching the gathering stormclouds and feeling scared, or sing with him to block out the sound of the thunder.
Donnie would never settle down next to him after days of being caught up in his own thoughts, bubbling over with excitement and plans for an invention he’ll never have the resources to build but desperate to share his thoughts anyway.
Leo would never beg him to do his makeup, or to help him sew an outfit he’d dreamed up, or come to him to complain when things got hard at school.
If he lost here, he’d never see them again. That thought scared him more than dying did; more than killing did.
With a strength and a speed he didn’t know he possessed, Raph surged upwards to grab her hand before she could plunge the knife into his chest. She froze, wide eyed with shock, then wincing with pain as he squeezed until her fingers spasmed and the knife went clattering to the concrete ground, lost amongst the vines.
She cried out in pain as her bones creaked and groaned beneath the strength of his grip. Her voice echoed in the air around them, sending a flock of rainbow speckled birds scattering, their iridescent feathers glittering in the pale light.
Raph didn’t waste any more time. He pulled her down, sending her sprawling, before getting to his own feet.
“You stupid bastard!” she spat, clutching at her hand, which had been left twisted and broken.
There were people waiting for him at home. Donnie. Leo. Mikey. April. Pops. The names repeated in his mind, over and over and over again. He had to get back to him. They were all that mattered. That was all his world had become.
Raph snarled, and in one smooth motion he grabbed the side of her head as she made to lunge again and slammed it against the ground. She cried out, clutching at his hand, clawing at the skin in a desperate attempt to get him to release her. Despite the long lines of blood, his grip didn’t loosen.
He repeated the motion. Again.
She flailed, screaming, desperate. She grabbed for his face, fingers searching for an eye socket. Her shook his head, snarled when she kept it up, and bit down. Hard.
Again.
The taste of blood filled his mouth. He bit down harder, teeth grinding against bone. He felt the muscles tear away as she tried to jerk away.
Again.
She gurgled, and her blood was in both their mouths now. It dribbled past her broken teeth and split lips, deep red and pearly white glinting in the dim light. Her eyes were brown. Remind him of April. Pretty, except for the way they were bulging and full of burst blood vessels. She gurgled again, twisted and horrible. There was no medical help in the Arena.
Again.
His stomach hurts. He twists his head. Can’t look. Won’t look. He swallows.
Again.
Even if he got up and walked away right now, she wouldn’t recover from this. He could leave. He could pretend his hands were still clean.
He doesn’t stop.
Over and over, even after she’d stopped moving. Blood was slowly seeping into the ground, the faint glow of it seeming almost black despite the silvery glow of the fake dawn that filtered between the towering facades of buildings. The splatters of it across his face and hands were already beginning to cool in the chilly air. Raph’s breaths came in quick, heaving gasps.
He dropped her body. It crumpled with a small thunk of flesh on concrete. The vines rustled, creeping slowly over her fingertips.
“Hey,” he croaked. He cleared his throat. Tasted the blood again. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I didn’t want to—“
He cut himself off, a low moan escaping unbidden from deep in his throat. His eyes burned, and the blades of the hovercraft above beat in time to his thundering pulse.
(Raph cries through his entire games. The tears started when the girl from district 12 stepped off her pedestal a second too early and was blasted sky high. He cried when he watched the bloodbath in the cornucopia, and he cried when he killed his first and second and fifth and eighth opponents. He cried when he laid their bodies gently to rest, hands folded over their bellies and eyes closed, with whatever he could find nearby draped around them like blankets. He cried when he was announced the winner, blood dripping from every inch of him, and he cried when the victors’ crown was placed upon his brow. The stylists liked him in red. It did look good, and the blood-dark shade of his lapels hid the teardrops as they splashed down upon them.)
