burr-sting - Tumblr blog

[burr-sting]

An attractive man around his own age was not what Damien expected to see among all the twenty-something former victors in the training center - Damien suspected the Capitol liked to let the older guard out to pasture, to keep the aesthetic pristine for any Capitolite observers. Not that Damien was complaining, either about the attractive young folks or about the man in front of him. Damien's knee, however, very much was.

"Excuse me, I was told there was a nurse around here somewhere," he said. "Do you know where I might find them?" It was safer, he presumed, to ask the question of a man who no doubt had his own joint pains, rather than a youth who might see his pain as their advantage.

@cowpokecole

[burr-sting]

Damien had always wanted to use a sword. So noble and dashing in those books his mother had tried to keep him from reading - a distraction, according to her, but now quite clearly about to come in handy. He grinned as he picked one up, then nearly fell over at the weight. He hadn't expected to need two hands, and Damien looked around quickly to make sure no one had seen. Luckily, it seemed everyone was off doing their own thing. Damien was on his own. He gave a few quick lunges, though he wasn't sure if he was making any impact or progress, so he made his way over to a training dummy, and a trainer.

"I'd like to use that, if you don't mind?" he asked, pointing to the dummy. "Do I need to check it out, like a book at a library, or can I just have at it?"

@coralcovestarlight

[burr-sting]

Damien squinted. Trying to help? Damien had assumed as much, but he couldn't grasp why Alder was looking at him so nervously. They weren't in the Games yet. As of right now, as far as Damien knew, they were on the same team.

"Alcohol helps, so you've succeeded," he said, hoping to mollify Alder. "Care to accompany me? Share a glass? Or the bottle. Dealer's choice." Damien wondered idly if the liquor would be a bottle that had passed through his hands back in Nine.

"No," he replied, a little on-edge at the way he was checking in and out of the conversation so fluidly. He was offering up a smile to Alder, but there was something else behind it that he couldn't pin down, like he was annoyed by his advice.

"I'm just-- I'm just trying to help," he then added on, not liking the feeling, wanting to resolve the tension. While he didn't think he'd survive, he wasn't exactly in the business of earning people's ill will, either. "It sucks in general around here, there isn't a whole lot that actually makes it any better."

[burr-sting]

Ah, right to it, then.

"Avoid it as in, we're allies, or avoid it as in you'd like me to surrender myself quietly to death by your gentle hands?" Damien asked. He didn't even pause afterward before there was whiskey down his throat, and he gulped until the ice clacked against his teeth.

"I also feel like shit about it" Abel laughed because they were clearly in the same boat here, at least they could be friendly, for now anyways. "Listen, I'll be straight with you, I don't plan on doing much fighting in there, so if we can avoid all that, that'd be perfect"

[burr-sting]

Damien laughed. What an odd question. "I feel like shit about it," he said bluntly, taking another swig of his drink. "How do you feel about it?" He supposed it was as good a time as any to start assessing each other. At some point they'd have to decide if they were going to be allies or not.

Abel nodded, he couldn’t quite relate— having known just how many times his name had likely been in the bowl, he knew there was a fat chance he’d be picked at some stage, he just thought maybe he’d have a few more years to live, but even when his name was called out that first time at the age of fourteen, he wasn’t all that surprised.

“How do you feel about it now?” He asked, trying to gage where Damien might be at, even in all his messy state, there was a tiny bit of room for strategising, even only if it was due to habit.

[burr-sting]

"Plants, cabinets, got it. Thanks," Damien told Alder. He didn't add that the places Alder had listed were a bit obvious. These mentors had each survived a week long battle royale to the death - you'd think they'd hide their alcohol somewhere more clever. At least under a floorboard or something. Or maybe surviving was what lead them to be so careless - a god complex in which they assumed they'd never get caught.

Damien had certainly assumed he'd never get caught. He wondered once more who had sold him out, and what they had gotten in exchange. He wasn't even a high player in the Vox, as far as he was aware. He did what he was told, same as he'd done with all his illicit dealings. There was always someone higher up to pin the blame on if need be. He'd ensured it.

Damien realized he was lost in his own thoughts, and hummed, briefly, before saying, "Sorry, did you say something else? My mind wandered. Prospect of good booze did the trick, I suppose." He gave Alder a sly grin.

His instinct was to think of the other man as a fellow mentor, and there was a moment of panic as he cast around for a name of a Victor he'd somehow forgotten. It, of course, resolved a moment later when he reminded himself of reality. Another tribute. Someone older than him, someone who might kill him in a few days' time.

He supposed there was no harm in giving him recommendations on alcohol, though. "Go to the mentor's lounge, if you look through some of the spots you'd hide good alcohol if you could. In plants, above cabinets, behind coffee filters, that sort of thing. Not sure whose it is, but it does the job."

[burr-sting]

All of a sudden. It was good, Damien supposed, that even someone like Abel, who knew if not of the rebel side of things certainly of his other illicit dealings, would think it was random chance.

"If we're being honest, and I figure we may as well, given the circumstances, I never gave much thought to the Games when I was up to be Reaped the first time around," Damien admitted. "Too busy trying to make my mother proud, I suppose. This was the first time I ever really felt nervous about the whole ordeal." And what a first time it had been. Last time, too, most likely. He took a large swig of his drink.

Abel just smiled and poured two very full glasses out for each of them, walking slowly over to Damien so he didn't spill before he handed it over.

"It must be extra shitty for you, thinking you were out of this race a long time ago, and now all of a sudden your name gets pulled?"

[burr-sting]

Damien had managed to convince his fashion police that he didn't need to shave, that his stubble made him look rugged and thus would intrigue the masses - truthfully, he didn't care about that. He just hated being clean shaven. It made him feel like a fake version of himself. And he couldn't have that, especially not when he was about to die.

As he wandered down the hallway and out of the stylists' wing, he decided the stylists would likely try again tomorrow, so he pulled a flask out of his jacket. He noticed someone else who likely had just experienced the same strange appointment he'd had.

"They don't pay me enough for this," he told the man, a victor named Alder Reid, tipping back the flask. "Well, they don't pay me anything, and they're trying to kill me, but you'd think they'd at least give me better booze."

@alder-reid

[burr-sting]

Damein looked over at Abel, and studied him. He knew the man of course, both in reputation and in passing, as Abel took a particular interest in Damien's line of trade. Still, it was strange. Damien didn't know how to act around him, which wasn't a feeling that he encountered often. He didn't like it.

"On ice. Two fingers," he said after a moment, then reconsidered when he saw Abel's pour. "You know, scratch that. Or at least, double it."

“I guess we should share a drink before we have to share a fight?” Abel offered in the confines of the ninth floor, twisting the glass lid of the fancy decanter the most expensive whiskey sat in— meant for mentors, which is what he had been all these years, so who was to tell him to stop?

“Do you like a chaser, or is straight good for you too?” He asked, pouring himself a full glass while he waited for an answer.

@burr-sting

[burr-sting]

Damien Burr (he/him). District 9 Tribute. 50. Alexander Siddig.

Money had always made Damien’s world go round. He’d grown up in his business, since it was his mother’s business first. She always said that working him was better than selling him, and he had a good head for numbers and strategy. He was seven when he was taught the business of turning wheat into something far, far more lucrative.

They’d started him in the stills, with other boys his age. It was hard work, and the youthful energy was to the operation’s advantage. But he was too curious for his own good, asked too many of the right questions, and the next thing he knew, Damien was assigned to shadow the fences as they met with buyers. They’d sometimes him along when deals were being struck for a skim of the grain that the Capitol wouldn’t miss come harvest time. He was a charmer of a kid, and he proved himself useful. Damien decided early that he wouldn’t ask what his mother had done to get him here instead of killed when he got too clever, but he would make her sacrifice worth it.  He’d had all the trade routes memorized by the time he was twelve, so they moved him to smuggling.

Damien wasn’t just nimble, he was reckless. He could get across the District and back in record time if only because he took the risks no one else dared to. He never missed a Reaping Day, or his mother’s birthday. He was even the one tasked with training other kids like him, from time to time, the ones who were too smart, too clever, too quick. When he outgrew the reapings, and when his mother died, Damien forced himself to stand taller. His place was here. This organization was his family. He’d prove it.

If he were being honest, Damien had never thought much about the Hunger Games. It was a risk, a near guarantee that you’d die if your name was drawn. But Damien made money and had never needed to add his name in the reaping bowl more than was necessary. The way he figured it, there was nothing more dangerous about the Hunger Games than there was any of the illegal activities that made up his life. He’d be killed if he was caught, if not by a Peacekeeper then by one of his own to keep him quiet. The only main difference between organized crime and the Hunger Games, as far as he could tell, was that the Hunger Games were televised. He’d never worried when he was of reaping age, and then he’d aged out, and there was never reason to give it any thought unless it was on a screen in front of him.

But everything changed when the Vox Populi attacked.

At first, his orders had been simply to not bother the Vox. They were doing their own thing against the wishes of the Capitol, same as Damien’s organization. Then, his orders had been to turn a blind eye at what was being included in the shipments he was smuggling. Then he found himself turning a blind eye to members of his own team. Then the Vox declared Free Eleven, at least in small part, and he looked directly at it. 

Damien lived a good life and made good money. He learned early on to pay off the right people so that he’d never had to worry about anything. But he’d spent years working alongside those who had a different tale to tell. He’d spent his livelihood in defiance of the Capitol. There was never any way his story would play out that didn’t see him join the most powerful rebel force that Panem had ever seen.

It was different once he got involved. He read their literature and believed in their fight, and it made him care about things he hadn’t otherwise. He was forced to recognize every horror inflicted on the people of Panem. And it wasn’t guilt, necessarily - he hadn’t done anything wrong and had spent his entire life refusing to lick the boots of the government - but a twist in his guts at the horrors drove him to pick up a glass, and then another, and then another.

He had a handle on it, he was sure. Maybe he was a touch more cynical than usual, less charming, but he was effective. He still did his job. And the drinking made it easier to be reckless, to take the risks and prove that he was the best at what he did.

When the rules changed, and everyone Damien knew was eligible for reaping, he briefly considered making a run for it, making his way to Free Eleven and…and then what? That was the rub. His world revolved around money and a big middle finger to the Capitol. What would he do in a country where there was no established economy or trade, and nothing to fight over? No, Damien would remain with the Vox, and keep fighting the good fight. 

He knew the odds. Organized crime and Reaping Day were no different in chances of getting caught. It was up to fate. But the odds weren’t just out of his favor, they were stacked against him. Damien’s name was read aloud, and as he was taken to the stage, he saw a signal - he’d been sold out, and the Games would be his reckoning.

Positive: strategic, friendly, brave

Negative: cynical, reckless, calculating

Token: he doesn't have one

PENNED BY: GRETA

[burr-sting]

/DUNE/ FANCAST

Alexander Siddig as Liet Kynes

[burr-sting]

Lemon Laflechedor (she/her). Tribute. District Six. Twenty-one. Maya Hawke.

(Tw: parent death, mention of drug use)

In Lemon’s experience, people in District Six didn’t tend to live long. She wasn’t sure if the district had the lowest life expectancy in Panem, but it had to be up there among the top of the list. In a district filled with poverty and drug addiction, Lemon was far from the only kid abandoned when her parents overdosed on morphling. She would grow to see a lot of bodies in her time, but the vision of her parents in their living room, unmoving, their skin pale gray and bloated, would stick with her the most. She was six years old.

Lemon was moved to a new neighborhood with nice new parents and an irritating new brother who would pull her hair and hurl insults at her lowly background. She doesn’t remember their names, just the deep, soul-crushing knowledge that all she was, all she would ever be, was someone’s charity case. So Lemon ran. 

She went back to the city with all of its poverty and death, because it was the only home she had ever known. Lemon doesn’t remember much from that indiscernible length of time, just the fear and hunger, right up until the day that the Captain found her.

The Captain was a good man, the best, in Lemon’s opinion. He was an honorable man, though the government might not think so. He lived by a code, and he kept his crew safe. And Lemon wasn’t even allowed to officially join the crew at first - the Captain insisted she get at least a little bit of a childhood. He made sure she was protected, and when he and the crew went out in raiding parties they called ships (in honor of the pirates that came before them, the pirates of old, of the sea), Lemon stayed with another family in their small, man made island community in the middle of the lake. She played with other kids and they all nearly always had enough food to eat.

Lemon was allowed to join the Captain’s crew when she was twelve years old, right after her first Reaping Day. The Captain had taken her to land and paid off a Peacekeeper to hide one of the small boats he and the crew used to get from their island into District Six proper. Then the two of them got onto a motorbike - the Captain told her if she survived her first Reaping, she would get one too - and they traveled back to a city that Lemon hadn’t seen in many years.

The Captain introduced himself as Lemon’s guardian when they got there, and stood by her side until the Reaping was over, promising to find her when they released the kids who weren’t selected. Then he took her to a deserted path far outside of town, where his whole crew was waiting. They had a celebration for Lemon’s success and, true to his word, the Captain gave Lemon a motorbike of her own. There was even cake.

Since then, the life of a road pirate is all that Lemon has ever known. Short stays back on the island followed by weeks on the open road, staking out deserted highways and waiting to stop and raid shipping trucks or hunt Peacekeeper brigades, and then they’d head to the District Six borders and trade with thieves of other districts for the most beneficial profits they could. Lemon learned that her crew’s ship was called the Ice Witch, in honor of Nerisa Snow herself, and they largely controlled the highways. Different ships had different areas in which they could hunt, areas that were paid for with blood, fights between ships often ending in death. Lemon had had a good life on the island, but it was a hard life on the road. Her crew were her family, and they took care of her, but Lemon had to learn difficult lessons quickly, and some of them on her own. And then, every six months, she had to stop what she was doing and go with the Captain to the heart of District Six, where she would wait to be called to die.

The Hunger Games themselves didn’t scare Lemon once she grew accustomed to the pirate life. Death was inevitable. Like the rest of District Six, pirates didn’t have a long life expectancy, though for different reasons. The Captain was older than most, only living because he’d earned too much respect for anyone to attempt a proper murder, but he had more than his fair share of scars and long-since-healed wounds for the trouble. Lemon worried about him more than she worried about Reaping. A pirate’s death would take him from her before the Capitol could take her from him, she was certain.

But neither eventuality, in the end, divided father and daughter. No, it was ideology that would be their undoing. The Captain always argued that the youth of Panem were reckless, that a full scale rebellion would do nothing. The youth weren’t alive yet when the rebellion in 75 resulted in twice the Reapings, twice the Games, and an extended age range to further scare those in their early 20s, those deemed most likely to fight, into submission. It wasn’t worth it, the Captain would tell her. He’d lived as long as he had because he made peace with the way that Panem was. There was no changing the horrors, only adapting to them, and making the best life for oneself. And that’s what he’d done, what everyone on their ship had done. And didn’t they have a good life? Didn’t they have freedom? They’d beaten the system, escaped it, so why spend any time trying to overthrow it? But Lemon disagreed.

Jay had been only a few years older than Lemon on the crew of the Nightlock, a ship that spent most of their time raiding trains. During their teenage years, she and Lemon had gotten…especially close. The romantic relationship hadn’t worked out, but a bond remained enough that when the first anti-Capitol zines made their way into District Six, it was with Lemon that Jay shared them. To the two of them, the zines were a wake up call. What was the point in defying the government if they didn’t defy the government? Conditions were worsening in all of the districts, even the rich ones. People were starving and dying, forgotten by the leaders that were supposed to be taking care of them. It wasn’t enough to live apart from the rest of Panem. It wasn’t enough to hunt Peacekeepers and government convoys for their own gain. Theirs was a selfish life. They needed to fight for others, just as the Captain had originally fought for her, because the rest of Panem didn’t have a Captain or a crew.

Originally, the Captain thought Lemon’s convictions were flights of fancy, nothing more, but as she grew more serious, and they began to snap at each other more often, he began to treat Lemon with increasing disdain. She was sure he no longer respected her, or thought her a foolish child. Their arguments became louder and longer, until the Vox Populi took over District Eleven, and Lemon wanted to go. That was the breaking point. The rest of the crew sided with the Captain. Lemon couldn’t blame them - she would have, had she been in their place. He was their Captain. He’d saved her, protected her. But not anymore.

Jay’s captain offered Lemon a place with the Nightlock, but Lemon refused - it was more likely she’d been given the offer as a way to stick it to her Captain than because Lemon was a valuable enough asset, and she was tired of being someone’s pet project. She found herself as honest a job as she could on the island, and helped transport goods from the district shores to their constructed home. She learned the conversions from their barter system to Panem’s actual economy, and helped acquire the legal goods that the people of the island needed to survive. Along the way, Lemon also learned to acquire and distribute illicit goods, to serve a rebellion her people insisted on ignoring. 

When the Ice Witch came back from their raids, she’d toast them from across the pub. She missed them. Her heart ached for her family. But she didn’t go back to them. She couldn’t. There were more important things to fight for now. All of Panem was at stake. Lemon listened to her radio and read her zines and did what she was told to do to fight the government instead of just inconvenience it, and she knew deep in her heart that the Captain, the one person she loved more than any other, would never understand. So Lemon had to give him up.

It was only her second Reaping without him. It was the luck of the draw. 

Lemon Laflechedor, printed in black ink on a little strip of paper.

An orphan. A pirate. A rebel. And, now, a tribute of District Six. 

+ Passionate, loyal, resourceful

- Combative, idealistic, stubborn

PENNED BY: GRETA

[burr-sting]

ﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠmaya hawke girlfriend material. 3 >

ﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠﾠlike/reblog if u save.

[burr-sting]

Augie wasn't sure if she should be relieved or upset that Mason didn't try to argue, that he believed her. Instead she felt comfort. Of course Mason would believe her. He'd always been there for her. Still sniffling, Augie let herself be led into a tight hug that she desperately returned. She buried her face in his neck as his fingers threaded through her hair. She memorized the moment, and then lifted her head to kiss Mason's cheek as they pulled back. "I love you too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, not wanting Caspian to overhear. "You need to win. Get back to Miller and to s'mores and to your home." He deserved it more than anyone.

Taking a shuddering breath, Augie stepped away from Mason and watched him, trying her best to look encouraging. It wouldn't hurt, she thought. Mason would make it as painless as possible. And then he dropped his sword, and Augie bit back a sob. She hated how much this was hurting him, but they needed to do this to save him. She was dead anyway. When Mason asked for help over her shoulder, Augie nodded at him. "It'll be okay," she promised. "Goodbye, Mason."

Augie turned around to face Caspian, and in the moments before her body fell to the ground to rest next to Io, pressed the heel of her hand against the napkin tucked into the hem of her sleeve with the pre-Arena timetable that Link had drawn up for her on the train.

She'd done everything she could.

Mason also squeezed her hand, letting her know he was here. He so badly wanted to help her.. to save her.. And he would do literally anything to make that possible. To make the bite mark go away and whatever else was happening to her disappear. But she seemed so sure that that was impossible and in all honestly, Mason didn't even know where to even start. He looked at her bite mark and winced at how bad it looked. "I-I love you, Augie." Mason said quickly, pulling the girl into a tight hug. He held her for a moment, even gently ran his fingers through her hair before slowly pulling away.

Taking a step back, he took in a deep breath and pointed his sword towards the girl. His eyes began to tear up as his hands trembled. The whole sword was shaking as he was unable to hold it steady. Letting out a sigh, he quickly dropped the sword. "I-I can't." He whispered before turning to Caspian. "C-can you? P-please?" He asked his other ally. "Gently." Mason wanted to be sure this wasn't a Career kill but a mercy kill.

[burr-sting]

Augie's smile widened just a fraction, imagining for a split second no Games around them, just her going through books with a boy with kind eyes and a contagious smile.

She squeezed Mason's hand. "Gamemakers had to invent them from somewhere," she explained. She didn't want to let go of his hand, so instead she used her teeth to pull up the sleeve of her other arm, showing the bite mark, with clear signs of infection spreading out from bright pink and blood. "If I turn, I'm going to hurt you," she said, tears finally spilling onto her cheeks. "I can't hurt you. I won't. So I need you to kill me." With the words out of her mouth, Augie had damned herself.

"I-I'm holding you to that." He said softly, even though he knew that would never happen. Maybe in another life Mason and Augie had met in a library and not the Tribute Tower.

"What?" Mason asked, instantly feeling his heart drop as the girl answered his question. "But, but that is all pretend. F-fiction like you said. That doesn't mean that's the solution here. W-we can figure this out." Mason panicked, taking another step closer to the girl. "That's not happening."

[burr-sting]

"Yeah?" Augie asked with a half of a laugh and a small smile. She could see him in a library, reading reprints of pre-Dark Days works or local comic books. "I'll take you sometime," she added, and her voice cracked. She took another step forward, and took Mason's hand again. "Two shots -" she tried, and her voice cracked again. She took a deep breath, shuddered, and looked up into Mason's eyes as tears threatened the corners of her own. "Two shots to the head, to keep me from turning into one of them," she whispered. "But we don't have a gun."

"I-it sounds like a great time to me, actually." Mason quickly added, still staring at the bite mark on her arm. He would've loved to spend more time at the library instead he had been forced to spend his days at the Academy. "Read a lot of fiction.." Mason repeated, trying his best to follow along with the story as he silently panicked. "Zombies." He also repeated before finally looking at Augie. "We can fix bad. N-no problem. What do they do in your fiction books? What happens with the bites? W-what do we do to fix it?" His questions poured out with a trembling voice.

[burr-sting]

Augie wanted more than anything to believe him, but after a moment she finally glanced at the bite in her arm. It had begun to throb, and Augie knew in her heart that it wasn't nothing, and it wouldn't be fine. Holding back tears, she took a step closer to Mason. "I used to sneak into the library for fun," she said, trying to keep her voice casual and steady and failing miserably. "That probably doesn't sound fun to you. Also this has a point, I promise." For the first time since she'd sat with Mason on the fire escape after the reaping, Augie really, truly believed that she was going to die. "But it was my happy place. So on days when I didn't feel like learning to code on the shitty computer, I'd stay anyway, and I'd read. I read a lot of fiction?" She admitted, her voice asking if she should be embarrassed but not waiting for an answer. "So I probably know just as much about zombies as any Gamemaker." Augie swallowed. "Mason, this is bad."

Mason stayed back with his sword drawn. He had it pointed towards 'Io' but it seemed Augie was able to handle it since she had been the closest. As he watched the mutt fall to the floor, Mason smiled brightly at Augie. "Great job!" He congratulated her before putting his arms out to the girl about to pull her into a hug. Though he froze as soon as the girl winced and he saw it. His arms dropped to his side and he looked from the bite, to Augie's face, back to the bite. "You're fine." He quickly told the girl. "I-It's nothing." He tried to convince not only Augie but himself as well.