Take It into Town! [Caritas D10's Private Training Session]
Jul 29, 2013 21:50:11 GMT -5
Post by Raeoki on Jul 29, 2013 21:50:11 GMT -5
The second most important of tomorrows had begun. The harbinger of the MOST most important of all tomorrows. The day of evaluation; the day where chances are margined, where sponsors ready their bills for the highest that ranks. And Caritas knew that they would not sponsor him; that the Gamemakers would not give him a twelve or a nine or even a five - for all he would be doing for his private training session was nothing. He knew that it would be arrogant of him, to show off whatever supposed "talents" as the tributes sitting beside him would. No; he refused to prove himself worthy to the Gamemakers in such a way. Instead, Caritas would prove to them his superiority, and do absolutely nothing. For then, in this upcoming, unselfish performance of his, he would give to another more selfish, unworthier being a chance to be the best in the private training scores.
So shall it be, Caritas thought, and his mouth turned up into a small, pleased grin; for not only was he proud of himself for his return to hyper-altruism, but he had always wanted to find an adequate context that would permit him to utter (whether to himself or no) the phrase "so shall it be". He wondered if he would ever get another chance; but he promptly forced all thoughts of that out of his mind, for he remembered that he was preferring that particular phrase over all the other phrases.
A cynic might have said that Caritas truly decided to do nothing because he was tired and had gained very little rest that following night. The cynic would have been only partially right; for Caritas was quite tired, and he had gotten very little sleep last night. Very bad thoughts had entered his mind whilst he had lain in bed; thoughts of survival, thoughts of his father, thoughts of altruism. For the first time in his life, Caritas felt as if he was a traitor - to himself, to the collective, to the utopia that was Panem. For he had considered all of the thoughts that had ravaged his altruism prior to his attending the fishing station; he had not wanted to - he had done all he could, to escape those horrible thoughts of self-preservation, of seeing his silly father and stopping him from poisoning the utopia after Caritas's assured death. He had tried to fight them; try to assure himself that the likelihood of his father dismantling the utopia was unlikely, that he just had to forget, forget, stop thinking, about himself, about the past, about the other tributes. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking. That had been the mantra that had eased him into a sleep that only lasted a few hours, for the escort woke up him later. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking. That was all it took to run with the pack. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking.
The mantra had followed him through breakfast, whilst his mentors talked with him about the session and he had to force himself to look like he was paying attention, now that he sat in the long, slender, steel bench beside Amelia, only a new phrase had slit into the repeated stanzas, discreetly and politely. Don't think, don't move, don't think, don't move...
From a cleverly hidden speaker, a feminine, bit clearly mechanical voice breathed: "Cari-tas Dev-hish." Promptly, without thought, without feeling, his face still and blank, Caritas lifted himself from the bench, and proceeded away, without giving Amelia a glance goodbye. He plodded up to the door, which had some strange, weight-activated sensor placed before it, that, when Caritas stepped onto it, the door suddenly slid into the wall with a whir and a whoosh. There were many doors like that in the Capitol, and initially, Caritas had always jumped up whenever he stepped up to one, but not this time; instead, he remained as still as a statue, and he moved through the opening with his legs moving stiffly, with his body held rigid, with his arms very straight at his sides and his hands curled into fists. And as he entered the bleach scented training floor, and all the Gamemakers turned from what they were devouring and looked at him, they saw not the boy, but a faceless, lifeless soldier, born and built for the country's benefit, to be just another blank face in a parade of blank faces. His footsteps were heavy and loud; Caritas could feel his heart throb within him, and he could hear it beat; and to it's rhythm went the mantra: Don' THINK - don' MOVE - don' THINK - don' MOVE - don' THINK - don' MOVE...
Caritas did not halt his marching till he stood before the platform that the Gamemakers ate their fill on, where he tapped his heels together and he stood before them, body stiff and erect and his little chest puffed outwards and his arms folded behind his back. "Caritas Devhish," he declared, and his voice was as mechanical and lifeless as the computerized female that had called him in, "District 10 tribute." (And the only reason he announced his presence was because his mentors had ordered him to do so the night prior.)
The Gamemakers promptly showed their attention by turning their backs completely on their meal in unison, and one of them nodded his head as a cue to begin. As he had planned, Caritas made no movement; he remained expressionless and his stiff, his body fixed into that erect, militaristic stance, impenetrable to the expectant gazes of the Gamemakers. Yet, despite his cold expression, he felt very warm inside, and his heart palpitated eagerly and he could excitement tingle within it; for he was showing to those insignificant, immoral Gamemakers the epitome of altruism: himself; and the key to altruism: becoming nothingness. And not once had Caritas been so proud of himself as then.
But, gradually, with each passing second, the pride and euphoria that tingled within him began to ebb into a sense of discomfort; he proceeded to feel the gazes of the Gamemakers sear into his flesh, and his stiff, invulnerable, unmovable stance then began to become compromised, for he who had been so proud to assume the position earlier was now wiggling and fidgeting as if he was embarrassed of himself (which Caritas actually wasn't; at that point, he was more uncomfortable than anything else). He noticed various Gamemakers proceed to fidget also, and a few who had looked at him with such unmoving attention proceed to glance around and scowl, and he saw some lean over to whoever was closest, and mumble something to the other, who would either shrug or mumble back. There was one who happened to not understand the importance of keeping quiet, and when one of his cohorts nudged him and whispered something, this particular Gamemaker - with his voice maintaining a volume that was not exactly brass but still loud enough for Caritas for to hear - replied: "No - no - I've seen that one train all throughout. He's been at the archery station; I noticed him there, once. So - so, yeah, he's been doing what he's supposed to." The unquiet Gamemaker shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what's up with him today."
Caritas's face then felt as if it had been put int a heated oven, and the skin on his face was as red as the blood that flowed beneath it. He flinched backwards, and his arms unfolded and swung forward, till they were before him, and his elbows bent a little and his fingers spread apart, so it rather looked like he was typing on an invisible typewriter. His heart lurched in pain, for he had been insulted; his poised arms shuddered slightly, for they had enraged him. How could they be so blind to his altruism?! How could they be so stupid?! They were Gamemakers, and thus - as they were appointed by the president - they had to have some level of intelligence that was higher than the majority of the other Capitolites, for that would be what separated them as Gamemakers from the silly pets of the president! (Plus, for the most part, they were actually quite conservative in dress and mundane in physicality, when compared to the normal Capitolites, so that compounded Caritas's doubt that they were pets.) So how could they be so damnably stupid?!
The young tribute was sputtering with rage; he threw his suspended arms downward, and he curled his hands into fists that trembled. Caritas knew the hatred that he had felt for Melpomene when he had overheard her confide her doubt in him and Amelia to Thalia, but soon, this abhorrence exceeded the original; the last time he felt hatred, he had been able to control it, but in a moment's time, this disgust for certain human beings became too powerful to be quelled, and it seized him, and wrapped around his muscles and took possession of his body. He did not think; the only emotion Caritas knew in that moment was an animalistic urge to murder, and he gave into it willingly. It made him dart away from the Gamemakers, and head over to the archery station, for that was the weapon station he was the most familiar with. He streaked over to a small stand that held a shortbow and where a quintet of arrows were propped upon, and his hands shot outward, and he snatched a bow and an arrow from the stand. Caritas's body bent forward, and he knocked the arrow to the bowstring; but before he could lift his body upward and pull the arrow back, his body suddenly became stationary and stiff, as if it had then underwent transmogrification and became a stone statue. For his altruism - right when he needed it the most - had freed itself from the dark clutches of the hatred that had filled his body and mind and heart, and reminded him of his subservience to them as people chosen by the president, and that he must not touch such people in a belligerent manner. However, though his mind was free, his heart and body were still chained to his hatred for their ignorance and stupidity; so, he pulled his body back, doing the same with the arrow in the same motion, and whipped his body around, and the projectile was released!
Now, Caritas was not one of compromising aim; he was not worthy of the tile of sniper exactly, nor was he one to be snubbed at, either. Back in his childhood, before he had known Absolute Altruism, when his friends and he tossed hackeysacks, one could have been assured that he would be the one who had gotten the most sacks through the most holes, no matter how far off the target was (which was never exceedingly far, but sometimes he would order the target to be farther off than most people would set their hackeysack targets, for the sake of showing off). Also, he had proven that he was quite sturdy enough to handle a bow, though he was, naturally, a lanky and slender young boy, but his life on the family's chicken farm had caused him to be strong and adequate in archery performance. Thus, in the short time he had even known that archery existed, he had become quite adequate in the art.
There was a quick thunk noise as arrow met humanoid target, landing an inch beneath the heart. The Gamemakers all had their attentions fixed onto the target for some time, some having eyes that betrayed surprise, others confusion as they attempted to understand Caritas's reasoning for not shooting the arrow in the first place. Then, gradually, as one, their gazes slid from the target, and then to the archer, who stood there with his head ducked and his face still very red and his eyes dark as he looked at them. Caritas knew immediately that he had gotten their attention, and as an acknowledgement to this, he thrust his bow into the air, and (not really knowing why) he roared: "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!!"
Now, the Gamemakers knew not how to respond to this. They glanced at each other with their peripherals, and raised eyebrows at him, each one wondering if he ought to answer the boy, and if so, if he ought to affirm his amusement or deny it. Only one came to a conclusion, and it was the unquiet Gamemaker whose question had added to Caritas's anger, and in a polite, gentle, soothing voice, he piped up: "Do you want us to be...?"
Caritas made no response; he threw his bow downward, and it clattered to the floor noisily. He then stomped away from the archery station, his teeth gnashed and he made a loud, guttural growl through, and his body was bent slightly, as if he was on the lookout for prey. Though his altruism's presence was still noticeable enough for him to forego any decisions to return to the long range station and take fire upon the Gamemakers, it was not strong enough to withhold the hatred that still made his body move, and this time, towards the hand to hand combat station. As he stomped and growled, he proceeded to spit at intervals: "Oh, oh, I'll give you somethin' that'll really entertain yah, yeah, yeah, an' you'll all be so goddarn entertained you'll be rollin' all over the floor an' just dyin' cause you'll be laughin' so hard and..and...and..."
He stopped spitting maniacally when he came unto the fisticuffs station. There, his mouth suddenly stilled, and with only his heavy feet making any noises on his part, he crossed over to a dummy that had appendages that could detach, should enough pressure be applied to the mechanical "bones" that kept the head and limbs attached to the main body; for it was a dummy meant to simulate combat in which the tribute had to put enough force to snap an arm or a neck. (Now, Caritas had not actually gone to the fisticuffs station during the three-day training period, but he had passed it by once, and had overheard a trainer explaining the dummy's purpose to one of the tributes.) He marched around it, and came up behind it, and lifted his long arms upward; he snatched it by the neck, and without a grunt or a pause, his hands twisted it, just as his father had taught him to do to chickens way back when, and in an instant, the head popped off the main body. His palms felt the movement, and he released the neck; immediately, the head tilted forward, and then fell from its perch; there was a very slight thud as it landed at the dummy's feet.
The moment he heard the thump, Caritas whirled around, and leaned forward, and put his palms on his hips, and glared at the Gamemakers with dark, icy eyes. He did not take long to examine his faces, but in the moment that he had stood looking at them, Caritas saw that one had his eyebrows lifted a little, and one was nodding his head rather thoughtfully. This meant nothing to Caritas, however, for he was too angry and too dull to think any of these expressions of emotions meaningful, and he spat at them: "Are you entertained now?!" (Though he really didn't know why he made the Gamemakers' entertainment so important.)
There was a very slight pause, in which both tribute and Gamemakers were still and silent. Then, in a very kindly voice, the unquiet Gamemaker spoke up again: "Yeah. Yeah, I think we're good."
Caritas wrinkled the bridge of his nose, and lifted his lip upward into a snarl; he whirled away, and proceeded to stomp towards the entrance, and his disgust towards their ignorance contorted his young features. Before his feet landed on the weight-sensitive sensor that was hidden beneath the floor before the door, however, Caritas felt his altruism give him a small, metaphysical tap on the shoulder. He flinched at its touch, but it yielded to it immediately; he turned around sharply, and in the movement, his twisted face suddenly leapt into a kindly, bright, smooth, pleasant smile, and with a smile he said brightly: "Oh, and thank you for having me!" And he left them wearing that expression.
(ooc: Sorry that Cari gets kinda bipolar at the end. X( )
____________________________________________________
Water Closet: 2,738
So shall it be, Caritas thought, and his mouth turned up into a small, pleased grin; for not only was he proud of himself for his return to hyper-altruism, but he had always wanted to find an adequate context that would permit him to utter (whether to himself or no) the phrase "so shall it be". He wondered if he would ever get another chance; but he promptly forced all thoughts of that out of his mind, for he remembered that he was preferring that particular phrase over all the other phrases.
A cynic might have said that Caritas truly decided to do nothing because he was tired and had gained very little rest that following night. The cynic would have been only partially right; for Caritas was quite tired, and he had gotten very little sleep last night. Very bad thoughts had entered his mind whilst he had lain in bed; thoughts of survival, thoughts of his father, thoughts of altruism. For the first time in his life, Caritas felt as if he was a traitor - to himself, to the collective, to the utopia that was Panem. For he had considered all of the thoughts that had ravaged his altruism prior to his attending the fishing station; he had not wanted to - he had done all he could, to escape those horrible thoughts of self-preservation, of seeing his silly father and stopping him from poisoning the utopia after Caritas's assured death. He had tried to fight them; try to assure himself that the likelihood of his father dismantling the utopia was unlikely, that he just had to forget, forget, stop thinking, about himself, about the past, about the other tributes. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking. That had been the mantra that had eased him into a sleep that only lasted a few hours, for the escort woke up him later. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking. That was all it took to run with the pack. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking.
The mantra had followed him through breakfast, whilst his mentors talked with him about the session and he had to force himself to look like he was paying attention, now that he sat in the long, slender, steel bench beside Amelia, only a new phrase had slit into the repeated stanzas, discreetly and politely. Don't think, don't move, don't think, don't move...
From a cleverly hidden speaker, a feminine, bit clearly mechanical voice breathed: "Cari-tas Dev-hish." Promptly, without thought, without feeling, his face still and blank, Caritas lifted himself from the bench, and proceeded away, without giving Amelia a glance goodbye. He plodded up to the door, which had some strange, weight-activated sensor placed before it, that, when Caritas stepped onto it, the door suddenly slid into the wall with a whir and a whoosh. There were many doors like that in the Capitol, and initially, Caritas had always jumped up whenever he stepped up to one, but not this time; instead, he remained as still as a statue, and he moved through the opening with his legs moving stiffly, with his body held rigid, with his arms very straight at his sides and his hands curled into fists. And as he entered the bleach scented training floor, and all the Gamemakers turned from what they were devouring and looked at him, they saw not the boy, but a faceless, lifeless soldier, born and built for the country's benefit, to be just another blank face in a parade of blank faces. His footsteps were heavy and loud; Caritas could feel his heart throb within him, and he could hear it beat; and to it's rhythm went the mantra: Don' THINK - don' MOVE - don' THINK - don' MOVE - don' THINK - don' MOVE...
Caritas did not halt his marching till he stood before the platform that the Gamemakers ate their fill on, where he tapped his heels together and he stood before them, body stiff and erect and his little chest puffed outwards and his arms folded behind his back. "Caritas Devhish," he declared, and his voice was as mechanical and lifeless as the computerized female that had called him in, "District 10 tribute." (And the only reason he announced his presence was because his mentors had ordered him to do so the night prior.)
The Gamemakers promptly showed their attention by turning their backs completely on their meal in unison, and one of them nodded his head as a cue to begin. As he had planned, Caritas made no movement; he remained expressionless and his stiff, his body fixed into that erect, militaristic stance, impenetrable to the expectant gazes of the Gamemakers. Yet, despite his cold expression, he felt very warm inside, and his heart palpitated eagerly and he could excitement tingle within it; for he was showing to those insignificant, immoral Gamemakers the epitome of altruism: himself; and the key to altruism: becoming nothingness. And not once had Caritas been so proud of himself as then.
But, gradually, with each passing second, the pride and euphoria that tingled within him began to ebb into a sense of discomfort; he proceeded to feel the gazes of the Gamemakers sear into his flesh, and his stiff, invulnerable, unmovable stance then began to become compromised, for he who had been so proud to assume the position earlier was now wiggling and fidgeting as if he was embarrassed of himself (which Caritas actually wasn't; at that point, he was more uncomfortable than anything else). He noticed various Gamemakers proceed to fidget also, and a few who had looked at him with such unmoving attention proceed to glance around and scowl, and he saw some lean over to whoever was closest, and mumble something to the other, who would either shrug or mumble back. There was one who happened to not understand the importance of keeping quiet, and when one of his cohorts nudged him and whispered something, this particular Gamemaker - with his voice maintaining a volume that was not exactly brass but still loud enough for Caritas for to hear - replied: "No - no - I've seen that one train all throughout. He's been at the archery station; I noticed him there, once. So - so, yeah, he's been doing what he's supposed to." The unquiet Gamemaker shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what's up with him today."
Caritas's face then felt as if it had been put int a heated oven, and the skin on his face was as red as the blood that flowed beneath it. He flinched backwards, and his arms unfolded and swung forward, till they were before him, and his elbows bent a little and his fingers spread apart, so it rather looked like he was typing on an invisible typewriter. His heart lurched in pain, for he had been insulted; his poised arms shuddered slightly, for they had enraged him. How could they be so blind to his altruism?! How could they be so stupid?! They were Gamemakers, and thus - as they were appointed by the president - they had to have some level of intelligence that was higher than the majority of the other Capitolites, for that would be what separated them as Gamemakers from the silly pets of the president! (Plus, for the most part, they were actually quite conservative in dress and mundane in physicality, when compared to the normal Capitolites, so that compounded Caritas's doubt that they were pets.) So how could they be so damnably stupid?!
The young tribute was sputtering with rage; he threw his suspended arms downward, and he curled his hands into fists that trembled. Caritas knew the hatred that he had felt for Melpomene when he had overheard her confide her doubt in him and Amelia to Thalia, but soon, this abhorrence exceeded the original; the last time he felt hatred, he had been able to control it, but in a moment's time, this disgust for certain human beings became too powerful to be quelled, and it seized him, and wrapped around his muscles and took possession of his body. He did not think; the only emotion Caritas knew in that moment was an animalistic urge to murder, and he gave into it willingly. It made him dart away from the Gamemakers, and head over to the archery station, for that was the weapon station he was the most familiar with. He streaked over to a small stand that held a shortbow and where a quintet of arrows were propped upon, and his hands shot outward, and he snatched a bow and an arrow from the stand. Caritas's body bent forward, and he knocked the arrow to the bowstring; but before he could lift his body upward and pull the arrow back, his body suddenly became stationary and stiff, as if it had then underwent transmogrification and became a stone statue. For his altruism - right when he needed it the most - had freed itself from the dark clutches of the hatred that had filled his body and mind and heart, and reminded him of his subservience to them as people chosen by the president, and that he must not touch such people in a belligerent manner. However, though his mind was free, his heart and body were still chained to his hatred for their ignorance and stupidity; so, he pulled his body back, doing the same with the arrow in the same motion, and whipped his body around, and the projectile was released!
Now, Caritas was not one of compromising aim; he was not worthy of the tile of sniper exactly, nor was he one to be snubbed at, either. Back in his childhood, before he had known Absolute Altruism, when his friends and he tossed hackeysacks, one could have been assured that he would be the one who had gotten the most sacks through the most holes, no matter how far off the target was (which was never exceedingly far, but sometimes he would order the target to be farther off than most people would set their hackeysack targets, for the sake of showing off). Also, he had proven that he was quite sturdy enough to handle a bow, though he was, naturally, a lanky and slender young boy, but his life on the family's chicken farm had caused him to be strong and adequate in archery performance. Thus, in the short time he had even known that archery existed, he had become quite adequate in the art.
There was a quick thunk noise as arrow met humanoid target, landing an inch beneath the heart. The Gamemakers all had their attentions fixed onto the target for some time, some having eyes that betrayed surprise, others confusion as they attempted to understand Caritas's reasoning for not shooting the arrow in the first place. Then, gradually, as one, their gazes slid from the target, and then to the archer, who stood there with his head ducked and his face still very red and his eyes dark as he looked at them. Caritas knew immediately that he had gotten their attention, and as an acknowledgement to this, he thrust his bow into the air, and (not really knowing why) he roared: "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!!"
Now, the Gamemakers knew not how to respond to this. They glanced at each other with their peripherals, and raised eyebrows at him, each one wondering if he ought to answer the boy, and if so, if he ought to affirm his amusement or deny it. Only one came to a conclusion, and it was the unquiet Gamemaker whose question had added to Caritas's anger, and in a polite, gentle, soothing voice, he piped up: "Do you want us to be...?"
Caritas made no response; he threw his bow downward, and it clattered to the floor noisily. He then stomped away from the archery station, his teeth gnashed and he made a loud, guttural growl through, and his body was bent slightly, as if he was on the lookout for prey. Though his altruism's presence was still noticeable enough for him to forego any decisions to return to the long range station and take fire upon the Gamemakers, it was not strong enough to withhold the hatred that still made his body move, and this time, towards the hand to hand combat station. As he stomped and growled, he proceeded to spit at intervals: "Oh, oh, I'll give you somethin' that'll really entertain yah, yeah, yeah, an' you'll all be so goddarn entertained you'll be rollin' all over the floor an' just dyin' cause you'll be laughin' so hard and..and...and..."
He stopped spitting maniacally when he came unto the fisticuffs station. There, his mouth suddenly stilled, and with only his heavy feet making any noises on his part, he crossed over to a dummy that had appendages that could detach, should enough pressure be applied to the mechanical "bones" that kept the head and limbs attached to the main body; for it was a dummy meant to simulate combat in which the tribute had to put enough force to snap an arm or a neck. (Now, Caritas had not actually gone to the fisticuffs station during the three-day training period, but he had passed it by once, and had overheard a trainer explaining the dummy's purpose to one of the tributes.) He marched around it, and came up behind it, and lifted his long arms upward; he snatched it by the neck, and without a grunt or a pause, his hands twisted it, just as his father had taught him to do to chickens way back when, and in an instant, the head popped off the main body. His palms felt the movement, and he released the neck; immediately, the head tilted forward, and then fell from its perch; there was a very slight thud as it landed at the dummy's feet.
The moment he heard the thump, Caritas whirled around, and leaned forward, and put his palms on his hips, and glared at the Gamemakers with dark, icy eyes. He did not take long to examine his faces, but in the moment that he had stood looking at them, Caritas saw that one had his eyebrows lifted a little, and one was nodding his head rather thoughtfully. This meant nothing to Caritas, however, for he was too angry and too dull to think any of these expressions of emotions meaningful, and he spat at them: "Are you entertained now?!" (Though he really didn't know why he made the Gamemakers' entertainment so important.)
There was a very slight pause, in which both tribute and Gamemakers were still and silent. Then, in a very kindly voice, the unquiet Gamemaker spoke up again: "Yeah. Yeah, I think we're good."
Caritas wrinkled the bridge of his nose, and lifted his lip upward into a snarl; he whirled away, and proceeded to stomp towards the entrance, and his disgust towards their ignorance contorted his young features. Before his feet landed on the weight-sensitive sensor that was hidden beneath the floor before the door, however, Caritas felt his altruism give him a small, metaphysical tap on the shoulder. He flinched at its touch, but it yielded to it immediately; he turned around sharply, and in the movement, his twisted face suddenly leapt into a kindly, bright, smooth, pleasant smile, and with a smile he said brightly: "Oh, and thank you for having me!" And he left them wearing that expression.
(ooc: Sorry that Cari gets kinda bipolar at the end. X( )
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Water Closet: 2,738
