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[LOCKED TO MENTORS]
Jun. 30th, 2013 04:45 amI
GOT
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE
GOT
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE
[UNRECORDED]
Jun. 22nd, 2013 03:05 pmIt's really surprising how little alone time Walter's had since this years pre-Games insanity began. Even before the Reaping there was that whole unpleasant 'Let's clean up Sullivan' business he'd fought and lost against. Every time a new team comes on, it's the same thing: fix him up. Get rid of the scruff. Cut his hair. Get rid of the scars.
Well, he's just going to have to do something about it, isn't he? Which is why he sorely needs that alone time. Weapons and things that could be weapons are severely restricted around tributes, for obvious reasons. He knows the kitchen has choice cutlery but getting one of their knives was potentially more trouble than it was worth. So he'd done with obvious thing: improvised. That took a little doing.
The first night in the apartment he found a glass sculpture of something that was suitable enough and broke the fucking thing. Before he could finish shaping the choicest bit into something good enough to accurate carve flesh and actually begin on that, he'd been stuck attending breakfast. (Admittedly he could have worked more after but then drinking and napping happened.)
Now that the rest of the team is off dealing with these stupid blog things, though, he's got the time. He steals a few of Weyoun's towels though before slipping off to his room to do the thing. If he manages to get this done uninterrupted Weyoun can expect a gift of bloody towels and a nice note saying DON'T FUCKING DO THAT TO ME AGAIN.
Well, he's just going to have to do something about it, isn't he? Which is why he sorely needs that alone time. Weapons and things that could be weapons are severely restricted around tributes, for obvious reasons. He knows the kitchen has choice cutlery but getting one of their knives was potentially more trouble than it was worth. So he'd done with obvious thing: improvised. That took a little doing.
The first night in the apartment he found a glass sculpture of something that was suitable enough and broke the fucking thing. Before he could finish shaping the choicest bit into something good enough to accurate carve flesh and actually begin on that, he'd been stuck attending breakfast. (Admittedly he could have worked more after but then drinking and napping happened.)
Now that the rest of the team is off dealing with these stupid blog things, though, he's got the time. He steals a few of Weyoun's towels though before slipping off to his room to do the thing. If he manages to get this done uninterrupted Weyoun can expect a gift of bloody towels and a nice note saying DON'T FUCKING DO THAT TO ME AGAIN.
[locked to mentors]
Jun. 20th, 2013 11:09 pmwell so fucking much for that nap
are you assholes still here
are you assholes still here
[UNRECORDED]
Jun. 15th, 2013 06:28 pmIt probably comes as a surprise to no one Walter doesn't exactly greet the morning or the man who woke him up with much in the way of good will. The previous night's events had ended with his annual Hunger Games tradition of drinking himself into a stupor while the previous year's highlights played. The sort of blackout drunk sleep that, well... Weyoun had some difficulty rousing him, to say the least. The solution was dumping a bucket of icewater on his face. While it did work, it also ended with Weyoun getting tossed bodily from the cabin and Walter shouting about GOING BACK TO FUCKING BED NOW YOU ASSHOLE.
Despite the yelling, a few minutes later he's in the dining car and settling irritably into breakfast still vaguely damp-haired and in his bathrobe still because fuck you, Weyoun. Zopf is all too eager to attempt to quiz him on survival tips as soon as he possibly can. Frankly, it's too early, Walter's too hungover, and this kid is seriously getting on his nerves.
"Could you maybe... shut up for a while, cupcake." He rubs at his eyes wearily, wishing he could throw something without dealing with Weyoun's condescending scolding. Not that scolding is particularly threatening, he just really can't deal with the noise. "You people aren't usually so enthusiastic."
Despite the yelling, a few minutes later he's in the dining car and settling irritably into breakfast still vaguely damp-haired and in his bathrobe still because fuck you, Weyoun. Zopf is all too eager to attempt to quiz him on survival tips as soon as he possibly can. Frankly, it's too early, Walter's too hungover, and this kid is seriously getting on his nerves.
"Could you maybe... shut up for a while, cupcake." He rubs at his eyes wearily, wishing he could throw something without dealing with Weyoun's condescending scolding. Not that scolding is particularly threatening, he just really can't deal with the noise. "You people aren't usually so enthusiastic."
[50th annual Hunger Games: District 12]
Jun. 25th, 2012 01:26 amWalter Sullivan knows he’s going to hear his name called out long before it is, before the Escort runs through the usual speech and video segment, before they talk about how special the second Quarter Quell is going to be. He already knows it’s going to be special, the Order told him: twice as many Tributes going to the Arena and twice as many chances for it to be their year, at long last.
He’s not sure why he’s so certain of it, exactly. Even with the amount of times his name is already in the running for the Reaping (once for every other orphan in the Wish House) he’s still only just 12. There’s still plenty more years ahead of him where he will, inevitably, have better odds of getting picked as District 12 Tribute. He doesn’t want it to happen, despite the years of training, teaching, preparing for that very thing. But he knows it’s going to. It’s supposed to, that’s what Miss Gillespie says, it’s what you’re here for, Walter. Go recite the Descent of the Holy Mother and prepare. Your time will come soon.
He’s been training to fight and kill for as long as he can remember. Since he could hold a knife Mr. Stone taught him how to use it, how to hunt and hide; how to find food and survive in the arena, though that’s always been secondary to everything else. Winning is ideal but not wholly necessary. Completion of the task is the most important thing, even if it means death. Walter’s afraid of death. He really doesn’t want to die yet.
All he can do is stare at his shoes and ponder the worn-out bits while they start picking names from the lottery. He hopes he does not look half as scared or dizzy as he feels.
He recognizes the names of the two girls called up to the stage. Cynthia and Maysilee, townies , older than him by a few years. The former is notable mostly for her general cruelty towards him, and the latter notable for the lack of it. He can’t say he feels terribly bad that either have been picked. It’s supposed to be an honor, isn’t it? That’s what the adults at the Wish House tell him. It’s an honor to get the chance to do your District proud, Walter, feel good about it. Mostly, he feels nothing but anxiety. It’s a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach that only grows as he watches the clownishly-painted Capitol Escort pluck another name from the glass ball. The first name is not his, but another he doesn’t recognize, but the kid looks like he’s from the Seam, like he is. The boy’s much older and much taller, compared to his rather scrawny self. He hopes that maybe next year is his year instead.
It’s not.
When the Escort plucks another slip of paper from the ball and cheerfully calls out Walter Sullivan, he freezes in place. For a moment, he can’t breathe, he can’t hear past the pulse in his ears. It takes an insistent nudge or two from a Peacekeeper to get him moving towards the stage, and he walks in the most mechanical fashion, staring at his feet. He doesn’t want to see the other children’s expressions. He’s one of the Wish House kids; he knows how little that makes him worth. At 12, he knows precisely how completely disposable he is. He doesn’t need to be reminded of it anyway. The only one he does look at is their sole Victor, Alessa, as he passes her on the stage to stand next to the other Tributes. She’s severe looking and thin, dark-haired, pretty despite the heavy burn scarring from her own Games a only few short years back. The Wish House kids know she’s wounded in ways not even the Capitol’s best can pretty over, so they give her a wide berth. Walter thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen her up close before. He’s never heard her speak.
She keeps her eyes on him, though, and it makes him uneasy in ways he doesn’t quite have the ability to articulate. She’s Miss Gillespie’s daughter. She’d been meant to be picked, like he was and she won. But Walter doesn’t think she actually survived the arena, not really. Her eyes are far too dead for that.
He gets a brief glimpse of the other Wish House kids, of Miss Gillespie, Mr. Stone, and Mr. Rosten, then he’s ushered away for the wait before the train ride to the Capitol. They vanish when the doors of the Justice building slam shut. He's fairly certain he won't be seeing them again.
No one visits him before he leaves. No one cares to. He never expected anyone too, anyway, so he spends his time reciting the Descent of the Holy Mother and trying to remember everything Mr. Stone taught him. Depths needed for stab wounds to be fatal and not just wounding, locations of major arteries, how much trauma a human body can take. People are both incredibly fragile and bizarrely resilient. He tries not to think of how much of that he could survive.
He’s not sure why he’s so certain of it, exactly. Even with the amount of times his name is already in the running for the Reaping (once for every other orphan in the Wish House) he’s still only just 12. There’s still plenty more years ahead of him where he will, inevitably, have better odds of getting picked as District 12 Tribute. He doesn’t want it to happen, despite the years of training, teaching, preparing for that very thing. But he knows it’s going to. It’s supposed to, that’s what Miss Gillespie says, it’s what you’re here for, Walter. Go recite the Descent of the Holy Mother and prepare. Your time will come soon.
He’s been training to fight and kill for as long as he can remember. Since he could hold a knife Mr. Stone taught him how to use it, how to hunt and hide; how to find food and survive in the arena, though that’s always been secondary to everything else. Winning is ideal but not wholly necessary. Completion of the task is the most important thing, even if it means death. Walter’s afraid of death. He really doesn’t want to die yet.
All he can do is stare at his shoes and ponder the worn-out bits while they start picking names from the lottery. He hopes he does not look half as scared or dizzy as he feels.
He recognizes the names of the two girls called up to the stage. Cynthia and Maysilee, townies , older than him by a few years. The former is notable mostly for her general cruelty towards him, and the latter notable for the lack of it. He can’t say he feels terribly bad that either have been picked. It’s supposed to be an honor, isn’t it? That’s what the adults at the Wish House tell him. It’s an honor to get the chance to do your District proud, Walter, feel good about it. Mostly, he feels nothing but anxiety. It’s a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach that only grows as he watches the clownishly-painted Capitol Escort pluck another name from the glass ball. The first name is not his, but another he doesn’t recognize, but the kid looks like he’s from the Seam, like he is. The boy’s much older and much taller, compared to his rather scrawny self. He hopes that maybe next year is his year instead.
It’s not.
When the Escort plucks another slip of paper from the ball and cheerfully calls out Walter Sullivan, he freezes in place. For a moment, he can’t breathe, he can’t hear past the pulse in his ears. It takes an insistent nudge or two from a Peacekeeper to get him moving towards the stage, and he walks in the most mechanical fashion, staring at his feet. He doesn’t want to see the other children’s expressions. He’s one of the Wish House kids; he knows how little that makes him worth. At 12, he knows precisely how completely disposable he is. He doesn’t need to be reminded of it anyway. The only one he does look at is their sole Victor, Alessa, as he passes her on the stage to stand next to the other Tributes. She’s severe looking and thin, dark-haired, pretty despite the heavy burn scarring from her own Games a only few short years back. The Wish House kids know she’s wounded in ways not even the Capitol’s best can pretty over, so they give her a wide berth. Walter thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen her up close before. He’s never heard her speak.
She keeps her eyes on him, though, and it makes him uneasy in ways he doesn’t quite have the ability to articulate. She’s Miss Gillespie’s daughter. She’d been meant to be picked, like he was and she won. But Walter doesn’t think she actually survived the arena, not really. Her eyes are far too dead for that.
He gets a brief glimpse of the other Wish House kids, of Miss Gillespie, Mr. Stone, and Mr. Rosten, then he’s ushered away for the wait before the train ride to the Capitol. They vanish when the doors of the Justice building slam shut. He's fairly certain he won't be seeing them again.
No one visits him before he leaves. No one cares to. He never expected anyone too, anyway, so he spends his time reciting the Descent of the Holy Mother and trying to remember everything Mr. Stone taught him. Depths needed for stab wounds to be fatal and not just wounding, locations of major arteries, how much trauma a human body can take. People are both incredibly fragile and bizarrely resilient. He tries not to think of how much of that he could survive.
