Amaranthus
Hopelessness
Azrael Asterin, District Five Male, Eighteen
Various people go to work in the morning. Those that work in the markets, those that teach, and those that work to keep the whole of Panem alive. Every person a cog in the big machine that is district Five. However, there are those that consider to ruin the status quo, spanners that wedge themselves into the machine purposefully without a care in the world.
Enter Azrael Asterin, kicking a stray pebble on the cracked pavements of the district. Hands in his pockets as he feels that warming sun on his pale face. His dark hair, long obscuring unassuming grey eyes.
The boy had barely started his day and he's already roaming the grounds of Five, looking at the rundown buildings, the outskirts of the district a stark contrast to the inner circles. He follows the cracked pavements all the way through to the black markets.
Malachi tails behind him, giving a huge yawn as he stretches his hands to the cloudless skies. It's warming up and they can both feel it. Azrael can hear him complain about how early it is telling him that this better be worth it.
"You know I wanted to spend the last days before the Reapings doing nothing, right?" Malachi yawns once again. "I don't even know why we're here, it's not like we have a job here today…"
His last Reapings.
Azrael ignores the boy, continuing to stride towards the busy market. He looks forward, jaw clenched in a quiet rage. It may be the last time he would ever have to stand in that dreadful pen, amongst the scared and the terrified. Those crying out for their parents, to which he scoffs at, clenching his jaw tighter.
He might as well have been the one to be Reaped this year. His life, the thing he has been working towards the last sixteen years had been for nought. Something he was promised had not come to fruition, and for that he had been upset; the hurt still lingers having found out only a few months ago.
"Az, slow down, will you?" He hears his friend shout behind him, trying to catch up with the angry boy.
"You're just slow." He looks towards his left at Malachi with a scoff, watching the other boy roll his eyes.
"You're in one of those moods." He says to Az and the dark haired boy flashes him a malicious glare.
"So what if I am?"
"Nothing, just…" Malachi sighs walking forwards ahead of him and stopping in front of Az, forcing the boy to stop also. "Just look for me when you're done with whatever it is you're about to do."
Malachi pats the boy on the shoulder, and with that he heads towards the beginning of the market vanishing amongst the busybodies. Azrael releases an exasperated sigh as he too dives into the marketplace.
He tuts at Malachi's lax attitude. Pulling his grey coat closer to his body as he blends amongst the drab attire of Five. The noises filling his ears, those shouting over each other, loud talking. He can feel people bump into him, their smells a mixture of sweat and metal, enough to drive the most mundane to go mad at the overload of their senses.
Azrael is used to it by now, the flow of people, the sounds, the smells, everything feels like second nature to him as he cracks his knuckles one by one. He needs to do a couple of jobs to prove his worth to Cozbin, and as he thinks of a plan he smiles, a devil's grin touching upon his face.
He wants to do the jobs, but he wants to do them his own way, an enjoyable way. He wants to release the tension he had been feeling the last couple of months. Malachi's words of encouragement did not really help him in the slightest.
He wanders deeper into the markets. His head down low, avoiding the gaze stray Peacekeepers, those corrupt enough to gander at the markets themselves; looking for someone to arrest and make an example to the populace. He grins at las couple of times that he himself have been that example on more than a few occasions.
He passes another Peacekeeper and then some of the peddlers as the crowd thins a little. Azrael rounds a corner into his usual haunt. The crowd even thinner still in this place, a quieter spot in the markets. The sun not shining as much, as if it knows to avoid this street of peddlers.
He finds the stall, the one subject to his fun standing in various shades of black and grey. Contrasting the colourful stalls at either side of it. He keeps his head down as he walks slowly towards it, he passes by strong looking men, not paying them any attention as he reaches the stall.
He reaches out a hand for one of the items for sale, the stall seems to specialise in throwable wares; smoke bombs, some geared towards practical jokes but there are some that suit various tiers of severity. He fingers one of the higher tier items.
He looks around, the person that owns the stall seems to be away at present, leaving its care to their neighbours who are far too busy with their own customers. Taking a last look at the vicinity he moves his hands quickly, taking one of the smoke bombs and pocketing it with such ease.
Azrael then walks by, head down once again as he plays with the bomb in his pocket. He knows exactly where he's heading with this one. He can't wait, in fact, for the chance to use it. He heads towards a lone stall at the edge of the markets, he knows the man that owns the stall. He deals in highly illegal items, and he has not been keeping up with payments.
"Azrael Asterin." The portly man says, arms outstretched in a welcoming tone. "To what do I owe the pleasure in this fine morning?"
"I'm here on behalf of The Organization." He says coolly with the same devilish smirk. "Payment is due, old man."
He narrows his eyes slightly, daring the man to do something, anything to make pulling the smoke bomb in his pocket more satisfying. He keeps his hands in his pocket, playing with it some more with, expecting to release it at any moment.
Instead he hears the man laugh at his face.
"Funny you say that." The man in front of Azrael narrows his eyes, and just as he says those words two strong looking men appear in his peripheral vision. "I don't think I'll be paying your so called 'Organization' this week, or for anymore weeks as a matter of fact."
"Is that so?" He challenges the man one last time, who only narrows his eyes in response.
"Sadly, it is."
"I was hoping you'd say that." He says, and just as the burly men go to grab at his shoulders, he fishes the bomb from his pocket and slamming it down on the ground with great force.
The loud bang rings his ears as black smoke obscures his vision, the smell of burning filling his nostrils hearing the two men behind him cough. The sounds of screams starting, the commotion starting a chain reaction.
Azrael jumps into action, he had the stall memorised by now, after years of coming here. He knows everything about this man's stall; where the money is stored, where the high-ticket items are, anything and everything.
He lunges forward, pushing the silhouette of the man behind the stall over. He goes to grab at where the tin of money is normally kept. His hands colliding with the metal box. He grabs at it quickly, clutching it close to himself as he begins to plan his escape.
"He's getting away!" He can hear the man shout in between coughs, but at this point Azrael is out of the instant smoke he had created.
He pushes past the gathering crowd. Keeping his head down as he rounds corners going the opposite direction of the flow of the busy market flow. He slows down looking back to see if he is still being chased but that's when someone grips his shoulders.
He looks forward again to find one of the men had caught up with him. He can feel the grip on his shoulder tighten as he narrows his eyes at Azrael. The boy just glares back, grip tight on the red tin holding all the money. "You don't want to do that."
He didn't give the man a chance to retort, using the metal box in his hand to smash it against the man's face. He stumbles back, Azrael already running away from the man as a crowd gathers around him, checking the man for injuries that he surely has.
Somehow that brings a smile to his face, feeling the adrenaline pump around his veins. He looks back once more, watching the man recover and push past the collection of people. This time Azrael doesn't keep his gaze long ducking into the crowds, disappearing without a trace.
His running slows to a slow jog as he looks at the buildings, looking for a specific one, the smile on his face never leaving. He stops when he finds a particularly dilapidated building. Dusting off the smoke from his shirt and trousers, he takes a deep breath in before walking through the door.
"You went to Mr. Euler?" Malachi stops from counting the money asking Azrael.
"Yes." He says showing him the metal tin of money.
"You stole the whole thing? Why am I not surprised…" He says as he accepts the box, opening it to find all the money that man had earned throughout the whole week.
Azrael just stands by the door now, watching as Peacekeepers walk past their dilapidated building, he can hear the static and voices of their intercom system. Malachi sighs from behind him and he flashes him another look.
"Well now what are you going to do?" He says to him, and before Azrael can answer Malachi adds: "You've caused all these ruckus, and it's not even lunchtime yet, you do realise they're going to be looking for you for the entire day now?"
He just shrugs his shoulders, that's for him to enjoy as he walks out of the building. Hands back in his pocket, basking in the morning sun rays. He traverses the pavement once more, kicking a stray pebble, a smile on his face as he returns to where he needs, wants, to be.
He has more jobs to do.
Domitian March, District Two Male, Eighteen
In the district of Two lie an abandoned village. The once largely populated village have been evacuated due to a gas leak a few decades ago and remained derelict since then. That was until Leroy Ramnes and Ajax Craik, victors of Two, bought the land and started building what would be Gladius Academy.
Within Gladius, they train children, often street urchins and the unwanted into volunteers for the Games. They work closely with the mayoral office of Two, under the guise that setting up the district with volunteers would prevent younger children from being Reaped for the Games and would create prosperity should they bring back victors.
Rumours circulating about the Academy, however, are that the trainers would rule over the trainees with complete totalitarian regimes: morning drills, never ending exercises, in-house fighting rings.
Those are just rumours though and have yet to be proven.
Domitian March doesn't believe in such rumours. If there is something that he always liked, it's the morning drills. The feeling of the wind hitting your face as you run without a care in the world, escaping reality at the same time. The feeling of pure elation at breaking your earlier records, and then striving to beat them again.
He loves training, he truly did, because he got away from his home life, away from those that would cause him so much grief and into the arms of those that actually cared for him. He likes exercise, the mundanity of it all makes him calm, the repetitiveness and structure keeps him calm.
He finishes the morning run, one of the first trainees to do so, entering the gymnasium. The smell of arduous work mixed with sweat fills his nostrils. He wanted to get those last few hours of training done before the Reapings tomorrow. The fated day fast approaching, as he steadies his breathing.
He manoeuvres himself to one of the training stations, sweat dripping from his forehead, cooling him down from the morning sun that dares to peek through the high windows of the gym hall. He tentatively reaches out for one of the swords, seeing it glint slightly.
He must get in that last minute practice. He didn't get chosen for the male volunteer this year for slacking after all. He feels the familiar weight of the sword as he grabs the hilt doing a couple of slices in the air to practice, hearing the blade, blunt as it may be, whistle. It is a ritual he does by himself before he trains, finding it difficult to train if he doesn't do it.
He can spot the rest of the tribute hopefuls filing in and a few of those that didn't join the morning run training already. Most of them using their preferred weapons, and others just resting and watching others and their form, learning from them.
Domitian can feel the gaze on him as he takes the sword to one of the training dummies. He grips on the sword tightly with calloused fingers. The eyes unnerve him slightly, feeling those stares at the back of his head.
He begins to strike at the wooden mannequin with such ease. The blunt blade causing marks throughout its whole body. His muscles flex as he goes for another and then another. He does it so effortlessly, his best weapon being a sword, the metal blade engraining countless slices on the familiar dummy.
He continues the routine, firstly at the stomach, then at the legs and then moving onto the head. The blade wedging itself into it's neck, feeling it get stuck, but Domitian pulls it out with no difficulty. He sighs out of relief, forgetting about the stares at that moment, until he turns around to a round of applause.
He smiles widely at the man clapping for him who then stops and walks towards him. The gazes of the other trainees have since faded, most of them going back to what they are doing before, others leaving to go for their morning drills. Domitian puts the sword down on the floor as he shakes hands with the man.
"I believe a congratulations are in order?" Luther, the man with strikingly rough features, pulls away from the handshake with Domitian.
Once a tribute hopeful, he didn't manage to impress the victors to become the volunteer, but he stuck around and became an instructor in the Academy. He had been away for business in the other side of the district during Domitian's announcement as the tribute for this year's Games.
"Thanks." Domitian says, the smile lingering. "When did you get back?"
"Just last night, I heard the minute I got here early this morning." He looks at Domitian up and down, furrowed eyebrows appear and disappear quickly. "Is it too late for me to convince you not to go?"
Domitian sighs, the smile faltering slightly as he thinks about those words, wondering quickly, the feeling of panic and paranoia kicking in as his mind begins to wonder about who would say such things.
"Why? What have you heard?" He says stepping forward, picking up the sword from the ground and gripping the hilt tightly once again.
"Nothing!" Luther puts his hands up in defence. "I just don't want to see you go, that's all."
"I-I need this…" He stops himself momentarily before thinking of the next words carefully. "…for my father…"
Domitian watches the older man not say anything else, instead he opts to pat the boy on the shoulder, gripping it tight before giving him a smile of encouragement. He can see the sadness in the instructor's green eyes.
The sword feels heavier in his hand all of a sudden turning back around to strike the wooden mannequin some more. His focus is off this time as he hears Luther leave his vicinity. His ears attuned to other trainees and the gossip circulating.
The talk of the district is still Leroy Ramnes, the founder of their Academy, and how he has not been seen since his arrest more than a month ago now. He strikes at the mannequin harder this time at the intrusive thought in his head.
His mind worries about that sort of thing. His head projecting possible outcomes in the future for when he is crowned victor. Thinking if he would be, one day, captured, like Leroy, and then disappear. He strikes again at the dummy with force.
He feels the vibration from the recoil, travelling from the metal all the way to the hilt. The feeling lingering in his skin as he drops the sword, the loud clanging echoing within the large hall. A few gasps from the nearby stations is heard, and he can see the eyes train on him.
He looks around, every eye staring at him. He can feel that fear bubbling in the pit of his stomach, threatening to escape in the form of his breakfast. He can feel every eye, each one burning his skin and before he can do something regretful a hand grabs his own pulling him outside.
The person that grabbed his hand takes him to somewhere secluded, his eyes closed as they shove him against the wall, watching as Domitian slide down to the ground, hands over his face now. They stay with him, watching over him and shooing anyone that even comes close to the two.
Once the feeling in his stomach settles, he opens his eyes and at once he relaxes at the sight of his friend, Aelia, arms crossed and a small glare on her face, which fades quickly to her neutral face. She sighs as Domitian stands.
"Thank you." He says looking away, he feels bashful all of a sudden, thinking about how much of a coward those trainees must think of him, as he stares into space.
"Dom. Focus!" She says and he stops his staring to look at her. He gives her a reassured smile; her tough love method always helps him calm down. "It's too early to be doing that don't you think?"
"Doing what?" He asks, not knowing what she is talking about. "I genuinely don't know what you're talking about."
"It doesn't matter." She says shaking her head. "I saw Luther earlier. Did he come by and say hi?"
"Yeah, then he told me to stay here instead of going to the Games." He says confused, the root of his near panic attack earlier still circling his head. "Why would he say that? He knows how hard I worked for this, and my father was so proud and-"
"When will you realise that your father's approval is not the only thing in the world?" Aelia tells him, a bit louder than her normal voice.
He knows this, of course. However, he could not be the best of the best without his father. Despite the pain and suffering he is dealt from him; his anger coming in waves, always verbal and never physical. Domitian has his father to thank for such discipline, because without it he would be a mess, a nervous wreck, he would not have been able to cope by himself as he does now. The words from his father echoing in his head.
'Failing is not an option in the March household.'
He knows he is better off without them, but a sense of security stays there whenever he thinks of running away to Aelia's own family. Domitian could never leave his family. Despite the hardships, there is this rope that is tying him back to his family.
Tullio Escobedas, District Eight Male, Thirteen
A near permanent grey sky covers the district, bringing with it the gloomy appearance of its buildings and citizens. However, there are times where the sky clears and makes way for endless blue skies and sparse wisps of white clouds gather above district Eight.
Today is one of those days.
Tullio Escobedas looks directly at the sky, in awe at the vastness of blue, shades he has only ever seen in the books in school. He can feel the warmth of the morning sun touch upon his almond coloured skin, feeling it dance across his skin in an embrace.
He almost forgets where he is until his sister pushes him along. His daydreaming disrupted by her as he looks back at her with slight annoyance before softening his features. He could never argue back to her, it wouldn't end well for him.
He moves forward once more, ignoring the questions his sister is asking her. Thinking about the skies once more, he wants to keep the colours he sees into his mind. The pleasant blue almost calming, but before he can engrain the colour he is pushed once more by his sister.
"Pay attention. Please." She says to him pointing straight ahead.
They stand where the Justice Building stands, imposing and scary. The district officials taking names for tesserae before the big Reapings tomorrow. He sighs as he steps forward, his sister, Pina, following him.
He shoves his hands in his pockets staring directly ahead now, the blessed sky above him a mere afterthought, as deep brown eyes scan the scaffolding growing from the edges of the district square. He can feel the tension as he steps closer to Peacekeeper at the end of the line.
The metal scaffolding feeling like a cage for Tullio, fiddling with a stray stitch on his shirt. He avoids the gazes of the unlit lights moving forward once again, the sight of Peacekeepers in their white uniforms and ivory guns marches past him making him feel tense.
Tullio steps forward again, hating the feeling he gets from the pit of his stomach. The same feeling he had felt last year when he had to do it for the first time. His other sister, Ramie, growing out of the Reapings, and therefore no longer eligible for tesserae, means that he has to take over, unless he wants his family to starve.
He misses Ramie, having left the family to be a Peacekeeper so that she can supply a little more money for the Escobedas home. He never really recovered from her decision to leave Eight, she was the person he turned to for anything, and now she's gone leaving him to deal with Pina.
"It's your turn," Pina suddenly whispers in his ear. "Hurry up."
He moves forward, the stoic looking secretary sit on a white plastic chair, a black pen in hand. She eyes him up and down, a bored expression on her face. She picks up a piece of paper, handing it over to Tullio along with another pen.
"Name here." She says pointing at a line. "State the last name clearly and where you live so that we can deliver tesserae accordingly."
"Th-thanks." He says as he reluctantly accepts the pen, signing his name and where he lives.
Tullio wonders if his life will ever be any different to what it is now, adding more of his name to the glass bowl, increasing his chances of death. He closes his eyes as he gives the paper and pen back to the woman and promptly stepping aside waiting for Pina.
He wants to help his family, he really does, even if it means sacrificing yourself for the Hunger Games. His sister had done it, so the chances shouldn't be too bad. The line is long and there are many more children that look older than him too lining up for tesserae.
Still, he wishes that his life is different sometimes.
If it is different then he wouldn't have to wander aimlessly in life, taking out extra tesserae every year or wasting away at a job he hated. Not to mention nearly dying from that same part-time job. He feels overwhelmed at times, his hand going back to pull at the loose thread as his sister approaches him with a not so concerned look.
"Chin up, this is your life now." She says as she pushes him forward back to the long straight street.
He wants to argue his place, that this shouldn't be the only thing they do for the rest of their lives, but he can't seem to form the word in his mouth, and when he does find that word he just stutters until he goes quiet once again.
Tullio thinks of Ramie once again, she would offer better advice than what Pina says to him. He stays at the back of her head; dark long hair in a ponytail swishing side to side as they walk back to the street that leads to their home.
They pass by several tailor shops Tullio still behind her as she stops by one of them. She looks at him with a hardened expression. Tullio could never read her, despite living with her his whole life. He looks at her with envy, she's managed to escape the bowels of factory work.
"Remember to tell mother and father about the tesserae." She says before going inside the shop, the sound of the bells ringing in his ear before falling silent.
He stands still in front of the window of the shop, watching as Pina puts on a fake smile as she greets the owner of the tailor shop. She puts on an apron, looking back at him and shooing him away. He sighs, putting hands back inside his pockets as he makes his way home.
It's a day off from school so he doesn't have anything to do for the rest of the day. The factory he works in doesn't accept children of Reaping age to work a week before the Reapings, just in case something happens to those kids.
Tullio finds this a blessing, but it is as much as a curse. Not working for this week means he doesn't have money, and unfortunately the whole of Panem runs on money. His family struggles day by day already, he cannot afford to miss a couple of days let alone a week, despite not liking work.
He wants to look up at the skies again, but the clouds have obscured everything again, the warmth of the sun no longer embracing him as he walks down the straight roads, leading to rows of houses, some cracked, others derelict as he moves away from the central district.
Closing in on his home, he stops when he manages to spot Oliver. His friend, actually only friend, is waiting for him and once he spots him he smiles and rushes over to Tullio. He regards him with a smile, still shocked that one of the popular people in his class has become his friend; he was always the quiet one, especially from a family of outspoken people.
"Did you do it?" He asks Tullio and the boy can only nod his head, a frown appearing on his face. "Come on, it's not too bad, if your sister escaped the Reapings then so can you."
"You always know what to say." He says to Oliver.
"Yep, that's right!" He says playfully punching his friend's shoulder.
He likes how he can always pull him out of bad feelings. Oliver has been the best friend he never thought he would have. They help each other in the bleakness of life that Eight brings. Despite being both young, they have such an outlook on life, one bleak and the other hopeful, they balance each other in a way.
"What would you like to do for the rest of the day then?" Tullio asks, watching as Oliver begins to think, Tullio already thinking of what shenanigans he would have to pull the boy out of this time.
"Why don't we just stay in your room?" He suggests, which shocks Tullio suddenly but only nods. "We haven't done that in a while."
Tullio leads the way, up concrete steps into the cracked tenement homes of Eight. They traverse a few flights of steps before entering the Escobedas household. He switches on the light of the small three bedroom home, lightly furnished but mostly bare, most of their money being spent on food rather than other things.
Oliver follows Tullio to his room, it's as bare as the living room they have to walk through save for the books from school and the one or two that his father and mother would give him for birthdays. His friend rushes over to the bed, jumping on the neatly made bed, whilst Tullio sits by his desk looking out the open window at the streets he was just on.
"Do you ever think our life will get better than this?" Oliver asks him after a few minutes of silence.
"I hope so." Tullio pries his eyes away from the roads looking at Oliver again and after a few minutes of thought he speaks again. "It can't be this dreary all the time."
They think about it for a while, Oliver looing up at the ceiling. It is morbid that they are already thinking of this, two children, barely adults. The harsh reality denying them that feeling of being young, forcing them to think such thoughts.
With each coming year coming brings with it the fear of being chosen for death. Then they turn nineteen, and for what? To waste the rest of their lives until he is buried far into the ground. He finds the world against him, slumping down on the chair.
Oliver looks at him, and they make eye contact. His friend smiles apologetically standing up from the now messy bed and towards the window looking at the sky, the blue coming back out from the clouds.
"On second thought," He starts and looks at Tullio. "Why don't we go out? We should start living more like our age and play on the dirt, we don't get days off often."
Tullio can only nod, although his thoughts on the matter will never seize. It's in his head now; not even the skies above can take him out of his thoughts.
Rohn Sapote, District Eleven Male, Thirteen
Mornings in the district is hot.
The feeling of sweating from head to toe without the help of some form of shade is prevalent, and many become unwell under such heat. The populace of Eleven still work, however, gathering fruit from the high orchard trees, harvesting vegetables on the plot of lands, and picking cotton to make clothes for those far richer than them.
The people of Eleven is so full of contempt for the Capitol yet they still work for them, because anything is better than death, even if you get just a morsel of food on your plate at the end of the day. Still, many people try their best to rebel against such regime, a few vocal minority that often violently end no matter what difference they try to make for the district.
Rohn Sapote calls them fools. He shakes his head as he hears another cracking of the black whip from the distance. The cries of a man, or woman he couldn't tell, echoes amongst the branches of the trees.
He hides upon the trees, climbing the highest branches, feeling what small breeze that dare traipse their way through the forest of fruits. He sighs watching the sea of green with his dark eyes. He has had a trying morning already, and it's not even close to lunch time.
Rohn has been in the orchard a good two or so hours now and all he's picked are a handful of apples. The very establishment of working for those that oppress you is not appealing him in this moment. He works hard at times and other times, such as this one sweltering day, he stops and just hide away from the world.
The majestic apple tree he had climbed sways against the gentle breeze once again, he closes his eyes feeling the cold chill travel through his dark skin. He decides to look down, the Peacekeepers wandering the grounds shouting at the children all working too slow, threatening them with the whip.
Disgusting.
He contemplates the life he had been given as he sits away from view of the Peacekeepers climbing higher, carrying the basket with him to the higher branches, strong enough to support his small frame. He reaches for another apple, seeing the bruises on his arm and he stops, hiding it behind his sleeves again.
Yesterday had not been a good day for him at all. In a way he can truly say that he had hit some form of rock bottom. The bruises seem to alarm him as it pulses from the pain. He winces thinking about the fiasco with a few school bullies back at school.
He was not at fault; he is never at fault. All he did was walk out of the school to go and walk home with some of his friends, those that truly understood him for who he was. He was having a fun time until he collided with that brute of a boy, Fraser, which then resulted in some name calling from said brute.
He scoffs at the way he had called him poor and ugly as if he had not looked at the mirror himself. Rohn had had enough of the name calling and decided to call him an 'airhead' which resulted in a physical altercation between the two of them.
He nurses the bruise on his arm once more as he goes to pick some of the apples in the higher branches. Rohn firmly believes that Fraser is an airhead, just some dumb, big idiot. He wanted to say that to him, but nothing came out, and now he paid the price.
Nevertheless, he knows that bursting into a fit of rage is never the answer, he knows that solving things rationally is always the best thing. He sighs as he goes back to sitting on the branch. He's quite high up now, seeing the other children his age work away become as small as ants.
He looks up at the sky, the clouds obscuring the sun in some form, insulating the entire district in this humidity. He would be sweating profusely by now if it had not been for the breeze that come by now and again.
Rohn wouldn't admit it, but he likes being up in the branches, high above where no one can touch him, people like Fraser, out of view. A place where he can daydream and escape the realities of his situation.
He takes one of the apples from the basket. Despite being picked it still shines as if it's just been polished. If he looks hard enough he can see his tired face through the red sheen. He licks his lips, contemplating about eating one, ultimately deciding against it.
His father says that the higher the apple is on the tree the sweeter it tastes, and he had any a dream where he would eat such a fruit and taste the sweetness. He hums as he continues to hold it high up, watching it shine through the sun that peeks through the clouds. He puts the apple back after a few minutes.
One day.
One day he would taste such an apple, one where he can confidently boast that he had the sweetest fruit in the whole of Panem. He sighs. That's just a very distant dream as he looks back at the sky, wishing for it once again.
It's not the first time for him to dream in such opulence. The luxurious life he so desires have been denied from him, but that doesn't mean he is going to give up on such a thing, in fact he uses that as a driving force to escape the cards he had been dealt with. The dream of escaping the poverty his family have stayed in is a dream that had been in the forefront of his mind.
He wants to succeed in life and receive the praises that comes with it. He's smart, intelligent, his grades are good, better than most of the people in his school. He has potential, or so says his teachers, as well as his brother in fact.
"What are you thinking about?" Rohn snaps from his idyllic fantasies to look behind him, the fear dissolving quickly at the person that's hanging on the other strong branch of this tree.
"Gregory." He remarks looking him in the eye, dark eyes meeting lighter brown. "If you must know, I was thinking about a better life."
He watches as the boy contemplates his answer before shrugging. "The world is fucked up, Rohn, the sooner you realise it the better for your sanity."
Rohn looks away from the boy, he knows the world is in tatters; he's not oblivious in the slightest of the inner workings of Panem. Although he doesn't disregard Gregory's world views, he knows that the boy had experienced the cruelty of the world first-hand.
His friend, now acquaintance, has been on a road of self-destruction since a member of his family had died through the Hunger Games. Rohn thinks that the person in front of him became reckless and stupid; driven by emotions.
What a fool
He scoffs to himself, thinking of Gregory's last words. Emotions are not his best suit, he knows that. He thinks it makes people more susceptible to do stupid things. Rationality is what he strives for, however, there is a slight murmur in his head that wants to tell Gregory this, but he ties that down.
He goes back to look at the boy just as he hears a crunch. The boy looks at the other in shock horror as the apple juices runs down Gregory's mouth to his chin. He smiles at him, daring Rohn to join him but the boy just shakes his head.
"Gregory you fool!" He sighs out loud before beginning to climb down the tree, watching the boy from way above the branches shaking his head once more before leaving with his basket of apples.
He can feel the crunch of his shoes on the scorched earth. He's still cursing the stupid boy for doing such foolish things. He walks far away from the apple tree, towards the central hub of the orchard to deliver his pickings.
He hears idle chattering on the way, past some trees bearing oranges. He looks down the row to see his life long friend, Eustace, speaking nonchalantly to one of the other workers. He seems to be smiling, even though the heat is intense on the ground.
"Eustace." He says calmly and the boy turns, a sheen of sweat, from the morning sun, appears on his forehead. "Gregory is acting stupid, once again."
"Just leave him be." He says to him as he moves to stand beside Rohn, his basket filled to the brim with oranges. "You know it's a tough time for him, this is how he chose his life now."
"A stupid way to live, if you ask me." He scoffs and he can hear Gregory behind him cough.
"Gregory…" Eustace starts putting his basket down on the ground and going to comfort the boy, but the other boy just steps back.
"No, Eustace." He says to him before looking at Rohn, who stares him straight in the eye. "No one asked you, so why don't you just piss off."
A/N - And now this is the part where I welcome you all back to Tarot. The second introductions are here and introduces boys this time. I will admit I did struggle for a few months thinking of how I can bring characters to life, but as I slowly begin to read their forms again, and taking a long ass break, I am back. I actually enjoyed writing this intro, it might be rusty as anything, cut me some slack ToT
I don't know how frequent I'll be uploading but I at leas want to get the introductions out of the way. My process for writing has not changed hence the slowness of everything.
Still, a very big thank you to runewhisperer for Azrael; TheRaichuinRavenclaw for Domitian; daydreamer626 for Tullio and consulting marauder for Rohn. Sorry it took too long for them to be written ORZ
I hope they all live up to their forms.
((I dedicate this chapter to Enhypen, stan Enhypen, also to the soundtrack of The Crown, that slaps yo))
Cheers!
~Alec