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jsehungergamesau · 2 months

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Jameson Jackson, winner of the 26th Hunger Games

[Please check the pinned post on our blog for trigger warnings. This can be read as a stand-alone fic set in the same universe. Sorry in advance :) -Mod Oakley]

°○°○°○°

"Jameson Jackson!" Read the colorful woman from the Capitol.

The young man couldn't hold the gasp in the back of his throat at the sound of his name being called. All heads turned towards him and he looked around with bewildered eyes, but he took a deep breath and stepped out of the holding area for the 17 year olds. A pair of peacekeepers guided him to the stage but Jameson kept his head high and he.. smiled. Not only that but he hummed a familiar jaunty work tune as he neared the stage. He knew he couldn't let them all see his true emotions. No, Jameson was the one who always lifted the spirits through the hard work days, he couldn't let them see how terrified he truly was.

He might have been smiling, yet try as he might, his eyes betrayed him when he scanned the crowd. They were damp with unshed tears that caught the light of the warm summer's day sun. He looked from the crowd up to the treetops, one more time before being led away to the city hall clock tower.

Saying goodbye to his aunt Marry was filled with hugs and tears. Promises to take care of herself and to do what she needs to to survive. The older woman gave her nephew an iron locket with a small picture of his parents inside. A token to remember home while in the games. Jameson held it close to his heart and hugged her for as long as their time allowed, singing a quiet soothing song to Marry before being separated.

A few friends from the paper processing mill came and Jameson couldn't help but laugh, "Be sure to have a song written for me, would ya, lads?" He joked, playfully hitting one of their arms. Only a few of them smiled. "Buck up now, I've taught you all enough! You can lead the tune without me. Even if Jerry does sing like a broken water pipe." That got them laughing.

This is how he wanted to be remembered. Positive and joyful even in the face of the worst possible thing to ever happen to a young person in this country. He smiled goodbye until the doors closed.

Finally his best friend came to see him, and he let his mask slip. Maria was a slight girl with tanned skin and long frizzy blonde hair she kept up in a bun, and she hugged him tight enough to bruise. Maria was born without a voice in her lungs, so the two taught each other to sign from an old book when they were little. She loved when Jameson would sing and when they would dance together at the harvest close festivals.

Jameson had nicknamed her Maple from her love of the sweet syrup from the trees. They've only had the chance to taste it a few times because peacekeepers would punish them if they got caught dipping their fingers into the collection buckets. But it was Maria's absolute favorite. So the nickname stuck.

Neither of them ever saw each other romantically. They had shared a kiss once but almost immediately decided it didn't feel right. Yet they still remained thick as thieves. In his private thoughts, Jameson wouldn't have minded if they shared a home together. Perhaps not as husband and wife, but it would be theirs and they would be happy. Especially compared to the alternative that was his imminent fate now.

They stand with their foreheads pressed together in the quiet and Jameson quietly humming from his chest. There wasn't much to say, really. They said their goodbyes this morning when they split into their standing areas. So the two of them try to savor the other's company for all that it's worth.

She kissed his cheek, “Goodbye, Jamie.” She signed, and any idea or dream of a happy future with Maria was extinguished as soon as the heavy doors closed behind her.

°○°○°○°

Everything became a blur after that.

The train ride, speaking with his mentor and fellow tribute from 7, pulling up to the Capitol, the ridiculous outfits, the chariot ride. The whole time he smiled and waved and laughed- he felt unmoored. Floating in his own mind as he watched himself perform the jolly tribute from District 7 act for the entire country to see.

Jameson came back to himself while in the training center. A pair of identical faces had joined him at the camouflage station without him noticing, and upon realizing he wasn't actually going crosseyed he jumped.

Oh right, the twins from District 8. The brother, Tim, had volunteered as tribute to be with his sister, Tamery, who was reaped from the bowl. Neither of them could stand being separated, so they walked into the games together. Jameson wondered if either would walk out, and if one did, which?

"See, if you add a bit more of the raspberry juice you get a darker mixture." Tamery explained as she took the bowl Jameson was idly swirling around, smashing a few of the red berries into it and mixing it around with a stick. Dipping her fingers in, she painted a swatch on her arm to demonstrate, "See? It's almost black now. If you added some charcoal it would be easier but not everyone can make a fire."

Tamery then began mixing several things together as Tim leaned back on his hands, watching Jameson with a faint grin. When she was done, Tamery had made a color that when swatched on her own skin, basically disappeared. It matched her skintone perfectly.

"That's incredible! How did you learn to do that?" Jameson was impressed, looking from her arm back to their pale faces and ashy blonde hair. They must not have gotten a lot of sun working in the factories. Jameson could relate since his own complexion outed him for working in the paper press mills back home.

"We worked with the dyes back in 8." Tamery explained with a small shrug.

"We have to figure out how to make everything the exact shades of colors the customers want." Tim picked up from his sister, "Sure there's standard recipes for each color, but most of the time we have better results by eyeballing how much of each dye to use." He grinned, using some moss to paint a deep purple texture onto his arm that made it look bruised.

"Fascinating!" Jameson exclaimed, truly intrigued by the pair, "In the paper mill, we usually just make white, so we just bleach the tree pulp. But occasionally we use these powders to make colored stationary. It took weeks for the gaudy orange to wash off my skin."

The twins barked similar laughs to each other.

"Oh tell me about it! When we were dying a batch of red silk, it looked like we had bloody hands for ages!" Tim snorted. Nobody comments about how it might become a reality soon.

"Though seeing the Capitol folk walking around with dyed skin makes me think that they were inspired by us." Tamery rolls her eyes with a smirk. "It took the preps almost two hours to finally scrub us clean. I think they had to take some skin with 'em as a souvenir to make it work. To add insult to injury, one of them was dyed robin's egg blue."

Tim scoffs with a roll of his eyes as well and they all go back to painting, listening to the instructor on how to use stones and bark and other unconventional materials to hide themselves from plain sight. Jameson was okay at it, but when the new trio moved to the traps and snares station, Jameson picked up the skill quickly.

After learning the basics, the gears in Jameson's mind turned and he fashioned a tripwire that would drop a massive weight onto a test dummy. The weight crushed it's plastic skull and for a quick moment Jameson felt pleased with himself. Then he remembered he had an audience and scanned the room, several tributes had watched him and he could feel his cheeks burn. He was used to people watching him perform, but this was different. This was showing the others his skillset, even if it was new to him as well. Tim and Tamery clapped for him but they all quickly moved on to another station.

Jameson and the twins got on like a house on fire. They were all witty and laughed like the career pack at stupid jokes. And without saying anything, they all decided to team up in the arena. It made for better odds to be in an alliance than staking it out on your own.

It was a good thing too, because Jameson watched Tim wrestle his instructor to the ground and Tamery disarmed her knife wielding instructor in seconds. Jameson had tried to pick up a bow and a spear but they didn't feel right. He found some small throwing axes and hit the targets from a good distance away, but his mind kept going back to the hunting snares.

So while most of the other tributes took their lunch break, Jameson stayed behind a little longer to learn some more complicated traps. Whipping branches, pitfalls, small stone catapults, rope snares that left people dangling 20 feet up. He stuffed his brain with as much knowledge as he could until he was pulled away by the twins, one grabbing each of his arms and dragging him.

“C'mon, pull your own weight, James!” Tamery laughed.

Two days later while showing off their skills to the Game Makers, Jameson didnt hold back. Taking several minutes to construct an elaborate trap from rope and weights and netting.

When he used a spear to trip the wire, a cluster of ropes with small weights on the ends got flung a few inches off the ground and tangled around the ankles of a practice dummy. And before it could fall over, two weights dangling from ropes were released- and met in the middle to crush the dummy between them.

The people observing him gave a few impressed nods before dismissing him.

He scored a 10.

°○°○°○°

Jameson resisted wiping his hands on his sleek navy blue suit as he walked up the stage to meet Lucky Flickerman, shaking the weather man- turned host's hand firmly with a brilliant smile and having a seat.

"Jameson Jackson! What a very musical name you have!" Lucky proclaimed as an icebreaker, his copper powdered hair shiny and perfectly in place. Jameson quietly admired his mustache as he chuckled at the host's words. "Very bouncy and fun to say!" Lucky then repeats Jameson's name to a jazzy tune a few times that makes the audience giggle and clap.

"Yes well I am actually quite musical myself, according to my mates back home in 7. They can hardly get me to shut up sometimes." Jameson grins cheekily, causing the audience to laugh, "Though, those guys just call me JJ for short."

"JJ! Incredible! So you do sing? Did you put on any performances growing up?" Lucky asks, leaning forward as the crushed velvet of his blue suit shifts under the lights.

"Hah, maybe one or two when I was younger at school. But mostly I sing to pass the days in the paper mills. Keeps the spirits up, yaknow? If everyone is happy while working, then you know the paper you write your love letters on is made with love." Jameson has to resist rolling his eyes. That was corny even for him.

But the people love it, it makes the audience collectively aww and put their hands to their chests at the sentiment.

"Well you can't hold out on us, then! Would you like to sing a little something-something for the people?" Lucky looks to the audience conspiratorially, "What do you think, folks?"

The citizens of the Capitol roared with cheers and encouragement. And Jameson pretended to hide his face in one hand and wave them all off with the other, but this just seems to goad them on until Jameson sighs dramatically and stands, “Alright alright, you've swayed me!”

Lucky shushes the crowd and Jameson took a deep breath, singing from his stomach a tune from back home, his voice rich enough to fill the large room by himself. He thinks of Maria as the people hang on to every note that pours from his mouth.

Stay with me til dusk my dear,

Sway with me til morning comes.

Together we'll sing 'long with the breeze,

And here we'll sleep for eternity.

Stay with me, my dear, my love.

Stay with me,

Stay.

As he holds the final note the audience erupts into applause and Jameson humbly takes a bow with his hands clasped tightly together.

"We're almost out of time but Jameson, that was enchanting! Absolutely enchanting! Thank you so much, was that a song from your District?" Lucky Flickerman asks, his stark white teeth gleaming unnaturally under the studio lights.

"Yes it is. It's sung as a lullaby for many of the children." Jameson lies. Yes it is a lullaby, but its a song about two lovers seeking sanctuary in the forest. He didn't want them all to latch onto the wrong idea about him though.

"Incredible, absolutely incredible. Well, here's hoping that all of Panem won't lose your special gift so soon, James."

"Thank you, sir. I really appreciate that." Jameson smiles winningly.

Lucky gestures for him to take another bow as the timer dings for the next tribute to come on, "Jameson Jackson, ladies and gentleman!" The crowd cheers and applauses again, sending Jameson backstage where his face falls and he heaves a dramatic breath.

"That was a lot." Jameson chuckles faintly, hands on his knees as if he just ran a mile. He felt a pat on his back from Tamery as she passed him to go on stage.

"Thanks for the bode of confidence, James." She remarks, fluffy rainbow skirt bouncing around her hips as she walks on stage when her name is called.

Tim then helps Jameson stand again, his own suit colored in a bold gradient to match the sunset, “You blew us all away, JJ.” He pats Jameson on the opposite shoulder before lightly pushing to send him back to his team.

°○°○°○°

Jameson lied awake for a long time in his room the night before the games. He should have been sleeping, but his mind was like an angry trackerjacker hive. Staring up at the ceiling, gently rolling the grape sized locket in his fingers, he couldn't help but think of home. Occasionally bringing it up, he clicks the locket open to see the yellowed pictures inside.

He stared in the dark at the small hand drawn portraits of a husband and wife he never remembered meeting, but shared so many similarities to himself. His father's soft eyes, his mother's nose and faintly rounded cheeks. The same thick curly black hair. Jameson couldn't help but smile at his father's styled mustache. It curled in a funny way towards his nose that Jameson always assumed he must have greased it to keep its shape somehow. He remembers his Aunt Marry using the word “dapper” in a teasing tone to describe the unique look of her late brother.

To Jameson, Aunt Marry was his true mother in every way. But she insisted that she always wanted to be an aunt, so the title stuck like sap. She raised James by herself and never once complained- never complained around him, anyway. She taught him all the songs he knew and so much more about how to survive. How to live and how to smile despite the hardships. He wishes there was a picture of her in the locket, but there was barely room to fit his parents into the cramped space.

The surface of the locket had a relief of a maple seed- a "helicopter" as the older folks of District 7 had described them when they began to shower down in autumn. Twirling all the way down like dancers until they touched the ground safely. Jameson wasn't sure what the nickname for the seed was referring to, but he remembers picking up small handfuls of them and tossing them in the air so they spun back down into Maria's hair. Revenge was swift as Maria got back at him by shoving a handful of the seeds- and some dirt for good measure- down the back of his shirt. Jameson couldn't blame her, it was a nightmare trying to untangle the deceptively spiky seeds from her frizzy hair. The frizz always collected debris so easily when it was let down.

He absently ran his thumb over the polished gray metal as tears rolled down his cheeks. He missed District 7. He missed home so badly.

Exhaustion finally took over him at some point. The sound of his younger self's laugh and the crunching of leaves under Maria's shoes echoing in his dreams, before they slowly morphed into nightmares.

°○°○°○°

Jameson could hear the blood rushing in his ears as the metal platform slowly raised him up.

He made a plan with the District 8 twins on the last day of training that they would try to meet and stay as a group. Jameson told his fellow tribute from 7 that if she could find them she could join if she wanted to, but she just shrugged and told him maybe.

The cornucopia glared like a raging hot fire against the harsh sunlight, reflecting golden light into everyone's eyes. Jameson tried to get his bearings of the surrounding area but all he could see was white.

He understood quickly why his jacket was so thick and why his pants were lined with some kind of warm water proof material. He pulled his knitted hat more firmly over his ears as a harsh wind bit through his little exposed skin.

Snow.

The arena was a snow covered forest of pine trees nestled between three mountains. The sun was dazzling against the brilliant sparkling white of the snow and Jameson had seconds for his eyes to fully adjust- and take in what was directly in front of him.

“Let the 26th annual Hunger Games… BEGIN!” Announced the air before the bongs of the final countdown began.

Jameson knew he wouldn't stand a chance in the middle of the bloodbath, but he did see a small backpack not too far from him. And when the alarm rang out he bolted for it. About half the tributes slipped immediately and fell and Jameson nearly joined them. Catching himself on a knee before springing forward again.

He slid right past the backpack the first time because the entire ground around them was pristine glass-like ice, but he quickly scrambled back up- just in time to dodge a spear being thrown at him. He turned his torso just enough to avoid being stuck like a kebab as the spear stuck into the ice, sending a web of small cracks across the ground. Jameson didn't hesitate, he grabbed both the pale blue backpack and the spear sticking out of the ground. To say the least he was not great with a spear in training, but it was better than no weapon at all as he skated across the ice field- finally gaining traction in the snow at the edge of the field and sprinting for the treeline.

He didn't dare look back as he crashed through the naked brush. The echo of canons followed him the deeper into the sparse forest as he went. He knew he wouldn't be able to easily hide his footsteps, but neither could anybody else without great effort. So Jameson decided to get as much distance as he physically could and ignore the trail he blazed behind himself.

It took about an hour of traveling through ankle high powder before Jameson found a rock outcropping to hide under and take stock of his mystery supplies. He'd never been this exhausted in his entire life. Sure, he sometimes went and chopped up branches when they were too big for the wood chipper, but he worked in the paper mill. He wasn't a proper lumberjack. While he could climb trees and did so often, he was a shop kid who worked in the paper presses. He didn't have the same level of skill for scaling trees like a squirrel, or the stamina from long work days in the forests. Shaking the doubts in himself aside, he carefully started pulling everything out of the bag and laid it all in a neat row.

There wasn't much.

Thick dark tinted goggles, flint and steel, a shiny piece of plastic material that Jameson realized is a thermal blanket, a small pack of jerky, and an empty tin thermos that was already cold to the touch. And of course the spear, which looking at it now, Jameson saw it had something- someone's- blood on it already.

Okay. Horrifying. But he could work with this. Hell the silvery blanket was already way more than he could have prayed for in an environment like this.

He throughly cleaned the blood off the spear with snow- throwing some fresher powder over the stark red stain when he finished- and slipped the goggles on, already so thankful that he wasn't being blinded by the sparkling snow anymore. He was starting to get dark spots in his vision from looking at the blinding white for too long.

Jameson debated for a while after packing everything away if he should keep waiting for the twins here in the rocks or move on– when he heard the noise of snow crunching under foot.

Two sets of feet. But was it them?

Jameson tucked himself deep into the rocks, spear at the ready, he strained his ears to get an idea of who was here.

"Are you sure he went this way? I can barely see anything out here!" One person, a boy probably, whispered harshly. Jameson could hear his teeth chattering already from his hiding spot.

"Yes, I'm sure.” The second voice, probably a girl's, snapped. “Besides, we've followed the tracks this long. It's either JJ or somebody else. Let's just hope it's not that little boy from 10. He seemed like a sweetheart."

“Okay, but if they try to kill us I'm killing you again myself.”

The girl let out a snort for a laugh.

Jameson perked up at the familiar bickering and carefully peeked his head out from his hiding place. Immediately brightening when he saw the matching pair of friendly hazel eyes look in his direction when he called out.

As soon as they get into the outcropping Jameson says, "Are either of you hurt? Did you manage to grab anything before getting out of there?"

"Tim managed to get a few ice picks and some kind of spiked shoe cover things. I grabbed a bag of apples and some rope but that's it. Tim got into a bit of a scrape over the ice picks, but I shoved the girl off and we got away with only a few small cuts." Tamery said, vaguely waving to a thin slash going across her eyebrow and cheek but missing her eye entirely. Tim was sporting a few slashes in his jacket and a slightly bruised eye but that was about it. Jameson checked them over but there wasn't any deep gashes, so they should be fine. He gently pressed some clean snow to Tim's cheek and told Tamery to use clean snow and wash the blood off her eyebrow. They were all incredibly lucky.

Jameson wondered how long the luck would last.

It turned out, not even a day and a half.

The first night was horrible. Jameson and Tim wrapped themselves around Tamery as they all shared the thin thermal blanket. They had dug out a small burrow in the snow with their hands and ice picks, hiding themselves inside for the night. At least they weren't out in the wind or exposing themselves with a fire. Tim poked his head out like a rabbit when the projections of the dead tributes shone across the sky to the tune of the anthem.

When it finished, Tim snuggled back in, relaying the 5 tributes who were killed today in the bloodbath. He frowns and looks at Jameson, "I'm sorry, JJ, the girl from your District… she didn't make it..."

Jameson pales as Tamery hugs him tightly, he clings back and hides his face against her jacket, hoping the cameras couldn't see his tears while they were in the burrow.

No fire means no extra warmth, so the three huddle close and fitfully tried to sleep through the night.

As soon as the sun broke over the mountain the three went hunting. They had basic knowledge of snares from their training but not much in the way of hunting with weapons. Jameson took the rope from Tamery, unraveling it into thirds to make thinner cord and setting up some simple traps to hopefully catch some hares. Tim spotted the tracks for them so they crossed their fingers that it would work.

In the meantime they all debated the pros and cons of starting a fire.

It was daylight so it wouldn't be terribly noticeable like it would be at night, but the smoke could signal somebody to their location. However if they strayed from other tributes for too long the game makers would probably send something at them. Something far worse than getting jumped by a career pack.

They decided to risk it and built a small fire inside their burrow to conceal the smoke somewhat. Jameson shoved as much snow as he could into the cup of his thermos and set it on the coals to melt and hopefully boil. He repeated this several times while Tim kept watch. Tamery used the end of JJ's spear to slice into an apple and passed out slices to each of them.

It was quiet for the most part. They all decided to stick together and have nobody wander off. So when the trio went to go check on the snares for any rabbits, they were slightly more prepared to face off against the boy from District 4.

The fight was brutal, and Tamery thought her wrist was broken, but Tim got the final blow and used JJ's spear to finish off the other boy. The canon fired and Jameson immediately searched the boy's belongings for any food. Tamery debated shucking off his jacket, but Tim turned it down, queasy about the blood soaking through it. Instead he took the laces from the boy's boots and his gloves which were a little tight on Tim's hands but worked.

They watched the hovercraft carry away the body over the small mountain range and Jameson felt a little sick holding the new knife and small sack of bread. But what else could they have done? The boy was just as ready to kill them as they were. He swallowed back his tears and checked on the snares.

They decided to try and move uphill after making a splint out of branches and one of the boot laces for Tamery's wrist. Tim holds tightly to her other hand as Jameson leads them through the trees. It was when the sun was about to kiss the opposite mountain goodnight when a scream echoed up from deeper in the forest. Another canon sounded. Could have been anyone. They decided to make camp for the night.

About a quarter of the way up the mountain the next morning, they came across a pool of some kind. It was frozen over with a layer of powdered snow so they didn't have a good sight of what was under the ice. Tim tapped the glassy surface with his spear and it chimed like one of the crystal glasses at the dinner table back in the tribute's center. The hairs on the back of Jameson's neck stood up as he whipped his neck around. Something was off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

"Hey, Tim? Maybe lets leave the weird glass pond alone." He says slowly, trying to pinpoint what changed. The ringing of the ice still sang around them in a sweet tune. Carrying much longer than it should have.

"But nothings happening?" Tim replied uneasily but lifted the spear to tap the surface again.

"Well don't do it again!" Tamery hissed, grabbing the spear to stop it. The twins began to bicker then there it was.

A low rumbling coming from higher up on the mountain they were climbing. All three heads slowly turned up and in the distance they saw a massive rolling wall of snow. It was somewhat unclear if tapping the lake caused it or another tribute higher up did, but they did not stick around to debate. Sprinting as fast as they could back down the mountain as the avalanche chased them with accelerating speed and hunger.

The avalanche was louder than anything Jameson had ever heard in his life, and he had visited the giant dam in District 7. But this, it was roaring loud and deep unlike anything Jameson had ever known.

He and the twins were going as fast as they could, but Tamery slipped on a hidden patch of ice so Jameson had to double back and help her up before they all kept sprinting into the trees.

"CLIMB!" Jameson commands as they make it a few trees in, he boosted up Tamery and Tim first before scampering up behind them. Unlike District 7 kids who have an innate ability to scale, it seems that District 8 kids don't have the same climbing ability. But they are going as quick as they could as Jameson looked back to the too-close avalanche. "Hold on! Hold on!" He called, wrapping his arms tight around the trunk of the tree and the twins do the same. He thinks Tamery is screaming in fear but its drowned out by the crashing sounds of the snow rushing into the forest. Jameson is just praying the tree holds steady and the snow doesn't pile high enough to bury them from the ground up.

The tree they cling to as a lifeboat shudders and threatens to give way a few times. Jameson pressed his forehead to the trunk and thought he faintly could feel his fingers bleeding from gripping so tight to the bark as stray snow and ice chunks pelt his back.

Jameson was about to call up to the twins and see how they were holding up- but something hit the back of his head. His eyes rolled in his head and blacked out almost immediately. The last thing he was conscious of was feeling his grip slip from the bark.

Then nothing.

°○°○°○°

In his dreams he's looking up at the gold dappled light through the trees. The first warm winds of spring blowing through the branches and his hair. He looks to his right and finds Maria- his Maple- using her deft fingers to weave a crown from the fresh green grass they were laying in. He reached towards her but there was some kind of unseen barrier between them. He sits up and touched it again, the invisible surface rippling under his fingers and Maria did not seem to notice him at all. But she did turn her head in the opposite direction, and Jameson followed her gaze.

The trees beyond them were breaking and curling forward, as if they were snapping joints into place to create some kind of rooted mass of a beast. Giant spikes for teeth and claws, the approximation of where eyes would be; burning like hot coals. But Maria didn't move, simply staring at the monster that was coming to kill her.

Panic settled into his bones, he started pounding on the invisible separation, screaming her name to no avail. He couldn't even hear himself. Just the gentle rustling of the leaves over head and the gnarled snapping of trunks and branches barreling towards them.

Maria slowly stood up and turned to face Jameson, and he jumped back in horror. Her eyes were now deep black gouges where sockets should be, her jaw hinged and hung low on her head, broken. She was made entirely out of wood. She was a wooden puppet and suddenly Jameson could see the strings that held her up disappearing into the dark sky above- when did it become dark? He looked back to her in horror, but her empty eyes stared empty into his. A block of wood acting as her hand waved to him. Jameson goes to put his hand over hers but found his hand had also been transformed into timber. Looking down so has the rest of himself, it was all roughly carved into a mockery of a person's body. He wanted to scream but he felt his jaw unable to move. He uselessly paws at his face and found that he doesn't even have a mouth.

James suddenly snapped his head up as the howling tree monster barreled into them both, breaking whatever barrier was there and snapping strings, trampling them both bodies into sawdust and splinters. He could feel the arm-like logs crush every part of him, collapsing what was once his ribcage and knocking Maria's head from her body entirely.

He tried to scream again, but the only sound came from inside his own head, as if he was trapped inside a wooden casket with no hope of escaping.

°○°○°○°

He's not sure how long he was out for, but when Jameson's eyes fluttered open it's a herculean effort to not let them close again and go back to sleep. His head throbbed in pain, but more so than that, he was cold, and his body immediately began shivering. Which in turn did not help his pounding headache and he groaned low in his chest.

Tim was the first one to enter his vision and the boy from eight's smile was like a ray of sunlight, "Good morning, James. Thought we really lost you out there. Have a good nap?" He laughed shakily, tucking some of Jameson's hair back under his hat and pulled it more snugly over his ears.

When he managed to push through the pain in his head and ask how long he had been out, Tamery pipes in that it had been about a day. The twins took turns explaining what had happened up in that tree.

Jameson got knocked out by something- a chunk of flying ice- and Tim leaped down to catch him. Tamery held onto Tim as he held onto Jameson's dangling body over the rushing snow. It was a miracle the branch didn't snap while it held all three of them at once. They used some of the rope to tie everyone to the trunk and they both held onto Jameson, hoping he wasn't dead.

Eventually the avalanche did stop, and weirdly it seemed like the extra snow just distributed itself across the arena evenly. Must have been some weird game maker stuff. They didn't spend too long thinking about it. The twins worked together to lower Jameson's body down and they assessed the damage. The back of Jameson's head was bleeding sluggishly, but after cleaning as much blood as they could they found it wasn't that deep of a cut- but it still left him out cold.

They loaded Jameson onto Tim's back and they started walking away from the mountain, seeking shelter so they could take care of each other. Tamery's wrist is properly broken now after trying to catch Tim and was sporting a new splint. The twins managed to find a tight cluster of pine trees and Tim dug out another burrow. Tamery held onto Jameson so he wouldn't lose more body heat and Tim started a low fire just outside their burrow. They needed to keep Jameseon warm as best they could.

5 tributes were killed in the avalanche.

Evidently, the fire did attract another tribute, but Tim had finished them off quickly and drug the body away from camp for pick up.

Jameson felt a bit numb. Already Tim had killed 2 other tributes. He looked over to him and could now see the slight hollow look in his eyes despite his easy grin.

"Why didn't you let me go?" Jameson asked, "You could have just dropped my body and let the avalanche take me. Why did you risk your necks for me?"

Tim scoffed like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard, "Because we're a team. And I'm not the kind of man to let my friends go without a fight. You can't ditch us that easily, James.”

Friends. Jameson could feel both his stomach twist and his heart warm at the word. It was wonderful that the three of them had bonded, but then reality crashed back onto him like a dead tree.

Only one walks out. Only one person walks away from the arena alive.

He swallowed that down and pulled Tim into a hug the best he could while laying down. Faintly Jameson was aware they're on camera, so he reached his hand out to Tamery and pulled her into the hug as well.

That night, after they coaxed him into eating and drinking something, Jameson was squished between the twins. They had extinguished and buried the fire under snow, but Jameson still stayed awake for a while, listening to the world outside their little bubble.

There were no faces in the sky that night.

°○°○°○°

The next morning, they decided to stay hunkered down and give Jameson some time to recover.

Tamery checked to see if the coast was clear before collecting some sticks to build another small fire once the sun didn't cast the mountain's chilled shadow over their little sanctuary.

All things considered, they were doing okay. They had food and some water left, a small source of warmth and company.

"I didn't see any names last night. What about the night I was knocked out?" Jameson asked Tamery while Tim was out setting some more snares. They lost their original traps to the avalanche and the jerky and bread were gone.

Tamery hummed in thought as she set two apples next to the fire to roast them, "Girl from 12, and boy from 11 I think. I didn't really pay attention to all of them but I heard a few more canons during the avalanche so that's…" She paused to count in her head, "13 total? I think?"

Jameson nods slowly. 13 dead, and he would have been one of them if Tim's hand slipped. He's extremely grateful as he bites into his piece of the last frozen bread roll.

They spent about 2 days in this location. The trees provided cover and they had a good amount of food to ration thanks to the traps. The trio spoke quietly of their lives back home, the family and friends they miss dearly. They even swapped stories to pass the time and keep Jameson from focusing too much on his pain.

At some point, another canon fired in the distance, and some time later a silver parachute hangs itself neatly on a tree branch. Tim scampered quickly to get it and brought it back into the burrow.

They're not sure exactly who it was for, but inside was a steaming pot of hot chocolate. Little white puffs still floated around as steam lazily rose up. They each savored one large sip of the creamy drink before they decided to save the rest for later. For a special occasion.

The next morning Jameson decided he's well enough to move again. The twins shared a doubtful look with each other but they packed up camp anyway. The trio decided to head for the opposite mountain. Tamery pointed out that there wasn't snow at the top of one so maybe the rocks were warmer somehow? They didn't think too hard about it, the hot chocolate helped a little but the cold had been slowly getting to them. They needed to move.

Unfortunately they weren't the only ones who had this same idea about the rocks without snow.

When they got to the rock shelf up on the mountain they quickly realized it was occupied.

A fight broke out and everything happened so fast Jameson barely processed any of it at the moment.

Two larger tributes were cooking at a fire when the trio approached. They had a sword and an axe and they rushed the three of them. Tamery tried using her good hand to swing an ice pick but it was barely any good. Jameson tackled the girl with the axe and wrestled her for it, ripping it from her hands as Tim stabbed at the boy with the spear. Jameson rolled away from the girl and kicked some of the hot coals into the other boy's face- causing him to thrash wildly with the sword. It had cut Tim's arm deep enough for him to drop the spear and the other girl to nab it. Tamery came around behind her however and plunged an icepick into the girl's back. The other boy screamed and turned on Jameson, but Tim stepped in front of him as the sword plunged deep into Tim's side.

Jameson was in shock and couldn't move- watched Tim fall to his knees clutching his side. Tamery snarled and leaped at the bigger boy. Jameson didn't see what she did because he was focused on Tim, but soon enough two canons fired and Tamery limped back over. Covered in blood. Jameson was just quick to leap and catch Tim as he finally topped over.

Tamery's face broke as she fell to her knees with them and ripped her brother away from Jameson's hands to hold him close herself. She wailed into the quickly cooling night air and Jameson crawled over to be by them. Taking Tim's hand he whispered to him over and over again, "I'm sorry, Tim. I'm so sorry. Why would you do that-? You- I'm so sorry…"

Tamery tried her best to choke off her tears as she pressed her hand over the rapidly spreading red stain on her brother's light blue jacket.

Tim coughed faintly, his breathing was shallow but he looked up to the two above him. His lips cracked as he smiled again, "Mind.. mind singing me away, James? Better-" He coughs again, specks of blood spraying out. "Better to hear that than my dumb sister crying." He chuckled wetly.

Tamery smacked him, but it was barely a tap. She pressed her forehead to his and tried to swallow her tears and noises down.

Jameson quickly wiped his eyes and nodded quickly. He took a shaky breath and started to sing a gentle tune, never letting go of Tim's already cold hand. A song about the warmth of home and being surrounded by those who love you most. Jameson cursed himself for letting his voice shake, but Tim didn’t seem to mind. His hazel eyes drifted from his beloved twin back to Jameson and finally settled onto the sky. Strange lights of greens and blues and purples danced over their heads. Tim thought they are the most beautiful colors he had ever seen.

His hand went slack in Jameson's and the canon fired.

It took a long time to pull Tamery away from her brother's body after Jameson slipped the other tribute's and Tim's unneeded supplies into his own backpack.

"Tam, we have to go-"

"No! I'm not leaving him!"

"Tamery, it's not safe here- more people will be coming soon. We have to move!" He pleaded.

"Fuck you, James! Its your fault this happened! If you had just-"

"What could I have done?! We were both fighting and he stepped in front of me! So much was happening I-"

"YOU COULD HAVE NOT LET MY BROTHER DIE!" She screamed, her voice echoing across the arena. "IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU!" It felt like the whole mountain shook under the weight of her grief.

Jameson swallowed hard and set his mouth into a tight line. He knew deep down she was right. But there wasn't anything he could do. In that moment he swore he was going to get them off that fucking mountain. The easy way, or the hard way.

Turned out, to nobody's surprise, it was the hard way. Jameson had to pry Tamery away from her twin's body and practically drag her down the mountainside kicking and screaming. Which was impressive in its own right because she gained a massive gash in her leg to match her broken wrist during the fight.

It took about an hour for Jameson to find a cave and pull Tamery inside. She was exhausted at that point, refusing to look at JJ as he did his best to clean and wrap her injuries with the new medical kit he took. He handed her a cup of water from the thermus and some rabbit meat and sat against the opposite wall to her. She spent a long time just staring at the objects in her hands uncomprehendingly before she finally took a bite. When she did, Jameson suppressed a sigh of relief as he moved to make a small fire on the stone floor. They're deep enough in the cave he wasn't too worried about their light being spotted immediately.

Though upon lighting the small blaze he realized they're not a cave. What he thought was the back of the cave seemed to stretch further into total darkness. It was a tunnel. A tunnel that stretches past the pitiful light of the fire and down deep into the heart of the mountain. Jameson swallowed hard then suddenly hoped Tamery didn't notice. What could be in there?

Tamery didn't notice as she pulled her knees close to her chest and buried her face in her arms, effectively blocking out the world. Jameson's heart broke for her. He could not even begin to fathom what must have been going through her head. Losing a sibling was one thing, but your twin? The person you had literally spent your entire life with? That was something else entirely.

"Guess I'll take the first watch." He mumbled to himself half heartedly, warming his hands over the small fire and scanning back and forth. From the pitch black night at the mouth of the cave, back into the pitch black nothingness in the throat of the tunnel. The fire seemed to temporarily protect them from being swallowed with its small bubble of golden light.

He didn't dare to even hum to comfort himself, afraid that a tune would carry farther than he'd think and alert someone- or something, whatever- to their location.

Jameson watched the coals burn low and wondered to himself if he could have done anything to save Tim. Maybe it should have been Jameson that died on the mountainside with the twins watching over him instead. But no. He stepped in the way, and Jameson couldn't stop stubborn Tim even if he had a chance to try.

Jameson's head was dipping dangerously low when he decided he couldn't stay awake any longer. He got up and gently shook Tamery awake, but she wasn't asleep at all. Her gray eyes rimmed red and her cheeks were damp. Heavy purple bags rested under her eyes as tears quickly cooled her face. Jameson took Tim's- his glove off to wipe them away before they froze to her skin.

They stared at each other, grief and regret bouncing between them like a hall of never ending mirrors, until Tamery grabbed his jacket front and pulled, hugging Jameson tight. He did not hesitate to return it just as fiercely.

Backs against the cave wall, Jameson dozed on Tamery's shoulder with the thermal blanket wrapped around them both. They didn't utter a word to each other as the fire flickered out.

°○°○°○°

It was hard to tell what time Jameson was shaken awake. It was still dark outside the cave's mouth and Tamery looked panicked as she slapped her good hand over his mouth. Jameson was about to protest when there was the sound of something inside the tunnel.

Breathing. Low and slow. Sleeping.

Their eyes silently met and communicated. As fast as they dared, the two picked up their camp and carefully made their way to the mouth of the tunnel. Pausing every few steps to let the faint crunching sounds of their boots on rock settle back into harsh silence.

A shift and rumble of an unseen beast's body made them pause after a few more steps. Daring to look back, they saw a set of glowing yellow eyes illuminated in the darkness.

There was a beat of stillness.

Jameson and Tamery bolted, practically threw themselves out of the mouth of the tunnel and down the mountainside like two bullets shooting from a gun. All the while an enormous furred beast chased them with slobbering snarls and booming steps. When it roared, Jameson and Tamery couldn't stop their own screams of terror as they fled, half running and half rolling down the lower part of the snow covered mountain.

Adrenaline gave them the wings to fly through the ice-covered powder in the dim early morning light and Jameson's mind reeled.

Where could they even go?

There were very few places to hide, and there was no way Tamery could climb a tree fast enough with her leg. His head throbbed with the remnants of his lingering concussion.

Suddenly, an idea hit Jameson like a block of ice.

"Get to the cornucopia!" He yelled, turning on his heel as he threw the axe at the hulking white monster that was all dingy white fur and yellowed teeth. Some kind of muttation that Jameson vaguely figured was inspired by a bear of some kind. If the bear was built like a brick house and had two extra rows of shark teeth where its gums should be.

The axe struck the creature in the shoulder but it easily dislodged from its flesh, the weapon flying away in an arch before being lost to the powder immediately. But it bought Jameson enough time to catch up to Tamery who was limping as fast as she could. He managed to help drag her along and he forced himself to ignore her cries of pain. He yelled encouragingly at her to keep moving. Just keep running. They were almost there!

As soon as they broke through the trees that surrounded the golden cornucopia, the careers who made camp inside it immediately burst out with weapons drawn. When the beast shatters two trees in its rampage, however, the tribute's faces turn from a pack of dogs on a hunt, to a bunch of terrified children.

There was a flurry of confusion as Jameson and Tamery ran across the ice- the cleats on their boots gripping into the ice and allowed them to not slip on their asses. In fact, it allowed Jameson to shove Tamery out of the way as they split off, sending her skidding across the ice with a shout and allowing the giant beast- with no traction on the ice- to slide right into the career pack.

The sounds of screams and crunching bones filled the crisp morning air and Jameson froze for a moment to witness the carnage.

The stark contrast of bright red blood on the pristine white snow was dizzying. He could feel the meager dinner from last night churn in his stomach, but he had no time to throw up, as one of the careers from District Two tackled him to the ground. She was furious, yelling at Jameson and trying to plunge a massive hunting knife into his head. He dodged left and right before getting his spiked boots under her and kicking her off to go sliding- away from the beast.

A couple arrows stuck out from its matted fur but it barely seemed to notice as he was tearing into the stomach of the girl from 1. Jameson quickly scrambled to his feet and looked for Tamery in the confusion, spotting her darting into the mouth of the cornucopia. He quickly joined her and they both hid behind a black crate, splattered in the blood from the other tributes.

Tamery clutched her freshly bleeding leg. Teeth clenched so she wouldn't cry out when Jameson put pressure on her reopened wound with a cloth. They both listened for an agonizingly long time as the beast tore the small career pack to shreds. The wet sounds of meat being torn from bone and whimpers of agony ringing out into the air as snow began to fall. Snowflakes immediately melting into the warm pools of blood.

Jameson located a small handheld crossbow among the piles of supplies located inside their hiding place. He loaded it as quietly as he could. He knew it wouldn't do much against that creature, but if a tribute came in there all it would take is one shot to the head…

The sound of the three booming canon shots seemed to scare the beast back to its cave, grunting and huffing with every step to keep its balance on the ice.

Jameson and Tamery stayed where they were, not wanting to expose themselves to survivors or draw the attention of the monster back.

They waited and listened as the hovercrafts retrieved the dead before they let out matching sighs of relief. Jameson handed the crossbow to Tamery before moving to check on her leg. The torn cloth bandage was soaked through so Jameson turned his back to look for a medical kit, “They have to have some proper bandages stashed somewhere in h-”

He froze in place when he heard the click of the safety being flicked off of the crossbow. Horrified, Jameson didn't need to turn around to know that Tamery had the bolt trained on Jameson's back. He slowly lifted his hands in surrender and turned around to face the stand-alone twin.

Jameson searched her face and could barely get the whisper out around the knot in his throat, "Why?"

Tamery just shook her head, face hard set with tears cutting through the smudges of grime and blood on her face. "Get. Out." She spat through her teeth. Jameson felt himself shaking.

Confused and still pumped with adrenaline. He shook his head and went to speak again but she cut him off, "Get out, Jameson Jackson! I don't want anything more to do with you!" Her voice was rough, it starkly contrasted the anguished scream from last night with a coldness that cut through Jameson's bones. "You have put me and my brother into so much danger. It was your idea to climb that mountain and it was your idea to lead that THING into the careers! How long until you get me killed with your stupid plans! Just like Tim!" Her eyes narrowed, “Was that your game plan from the start? Make us trust you then get us all murdered?”

“No! Tamery I would never-”

“Bullshit! One one of us walks out of here Jameson Jackson and it shouldn't be you.”

"Then why don't you pull the trigger?" Jameson asked, his chest twisted into a harsh knot. This is probably the first time in his life he has truly felt betrayal.

Tamery hesitated. Jameson could see her hand shaking the small crossbow, "Because," she took a deep breath, her hazel eyes once holding glimmers of a rainbow, now were dark like a raging thunderstorm, "Because Tim would be so disappointed in me."

For the second time in 24 hours, Jameson's heart shattered.

“Tamery-”

“Go.” She growled, baring her teeth with a cornered animal.

Jameson swallowed hard and slowly stood up, never turning his back on the crossbow trained on him as he grabbed a sack of random supplies. He wanted to say goodbye, but something from the treeline startled him. He took off running as soon as left the mouth of the cornucopia.

He swore he could feel his heart bleeding in his ribcage.

This was the nature of the games. It was better this way. Better than having your friend kill you at the end of the line. He held in a sob.

Jameson ran deep into the forest before scaling a tree, wrapping his arms around the trunk and allowing himself to break. Just a little. Hastily wiping the tears from his cheeks before they could freeze to his skin. Taking deep shaky breaths he tried to center himself again. But the images of Tim dying and Tamery's fury flashed in his mind and the tears started up all over again.

He had to get it together. Tamery had half of the supplies when they escaped the cave so Jameson maybe had a day or two left of food if he rationed. She took the flint and steel as well as his silver thermal blanket. Upon searching the sack of supplies he hastily grabbed, all he could find was more rope, a knife, and some sort of.. wheels? He picked one out of the bag and realized it was a pulley. There were only a few of them but the rope threaded into them perfectly.

Gears turned in Jameson's mind and he started formulating a plan. Afterall, there were only so many of them left.

Going back to their old camp in the cluster of trees, Jameson began using his ice pick to dig a new burrow. But he wouldn't be sleeping in there. No, under a layer of snow, Jameson carefully laid out a rope snare that led back to the highest tree in the cluster. Carefully weighted with a heavy branch, all Jameson had to do was wait for someone to go inside and investigate and the trap would go off.

He built a fire, not caring that it gave away his position in the quickly setting light. That was the point. He toasted the last apple, boiled more snow into water, and sipped the hot chocolate. The sweet creaminess of it felt bitter in Jameson's stomach now, but it was warm and filling. He threw some green pine branches onto the fire, immediately making it more smoky, before he traced his own steps in the snow towards the big tree. Jameson had made sure to thoroughly stomp around the area so his tracks would be harder to follow to his hiding place. He shook some of the lower branches free of their snow, just for added measure.

Then he hunkered down in a high up branch and waited.

This was by far his worst night in the games.

Without Tim and Tamery's body heat or the protection of the thermal blanket, Jameson could feel his body heat being leached out of him with every gust of frigid wind. He tried to see it as a blessing when the snowflakes started coming down in larger globs. The fact that it was snowing at all meant it was technically warmer than a cloudless night sky. And feeling the snow pile against his back, he convinced himself it would add more cover from the wind. Jameson pulled the hood of his jacket tight over his face and tried to stay upright.

His head was pounding from his concussion and the exertion of the day. Between that and the bitter cold he wanted so badly to just sleep. He didn't feel the cold as much when he slept, but he knew it would be a bad idea.

Catching himself dozing, Jameson began to wrap some extra rope around himself and the trunk of the tree when he heard it.

Snap!

Jameson tried not to jump, instead freezing in place and listening carefully to the movements below.

In the distance he heard a canon fire.

Who was that? Tamery? Jameson thought to himself before getting thrown back into his own situation.

He looked down and saw a tribute, cautiously walking into his fake camp like a nervous rabbit, ready to bolt at any moment. It was hard to tell who it was- they were bundled so much in a long blue scarf that Jameson couldn't see much of their face. But it didn't matter.

Setting his resolve, Jameson put a hand on the log weight attached to his trap and watched as the tribute approached the fire. He watched the tribute take their thin gloves off to warm their hands- Jameson could see from his place in the tree that their fingers were blue. Almost touching the licking flames with seemingly no fear of being burned.

They did this for a minute, giving up as they turned to the burrow, carefully crawling inside hoping to seek shelter from the wind.

There was pressure on the rope.

With a heaving push, Jameson shoved the heavy log out of its wedge and the rope snapped tight, ensnaring whoever was inside by their ankles as it dragged them out. The burrow collapsed on top of them before their body got ripped across the firepit. They let out a scream as the hot coals caught on their clothes and started to burn almost immediately. But the rope and pulley system Jameson rigged wasn't finished in its trajectory. Jameson must have miscalculated- because it practically flung the tribute into the air before gravity clutched them in its fist and slammed them back down onto the frozen earth. It looked as though something invisible grabbed the tribute's chest and tried to drag their heart directly into the ground.

There was a sickening thud and crunch, but no canon fire. Jameson scuttled down his tree with his knife in his teeth. He didn't want whoever that was to suffer- so without even registering their frostbitten face, he plunged the knife down. Through their scarf, and into their throat.

The canon sang.

This was the first person Jameson had directly killed. Sure, he led the beast to the career pack, but before that it was Tim and then Tamery who had actual blood on their hands. This was the first time it properly stained his now-gray gloves.

Red oozed from the tribute's neck, seeping deep into the pristine white snow. Globs of snowflakes were already working hard to try and cover the red as Jameson cut the tribute's ankles free and backed away into the shadow of the falling sun's light.

As soon as the craft crested back over the mountain out of sight, the Panem anthem began to play, displaying the faces of those who had fallen that day.

Three out of four members of the career pack, someone Jameson barely recognized from the training center, and the little boy from 10. The one Tamery wished would join their party if they ever found him. Was he the one Jameson just killed?

He immediately discarded the thought, knowing it to be true deep down but if he let it, the thought would break him.

No, that person was too big to be the boy. He remembered the twelve year old being so much smaller. It couldn't have been him. But he was so much lighter than Jameson expected for any of the older tributes…

He slammed the lid shut on that train of thought before it could go any further. He screwed it tight and hid it away deep in his mind. He couldn't afford to lose his grip now.

Only one walks out.

It shouldn't have been Jameson.

It should have been that little boy.

What did they all think of him now back home in District 7?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jameson carefully took apart his trap and stashed everything in his backpack. Sparing a glance to the blood stain in the snow before turning harshly and walking out of the ring of trees.

He couldn't stay here and let the guilt swallow him whole.

°○°○°○°

Trudging through the snow was difficult when it had gotten to knee-height and he could barely see in front of his own face. Jameson forced himself to keep moving, steering clear of the hollow areas under the trees where no snow collected.

He remembered his aunt warning him and Maria never to play in them when they were children. Yes, it looked like a perfect place to build a fort, but Marry grabbed one of the branches and gave the whole tree a harsh shake. It sent pounds of snow crashing down through the branches and filled the gap almost instantly.

"You would be buried under there and suffocate in the snow. Nobody would be able to find your tiny bodies until spring when it all melts away."

Maria had burst into tears at the scary thought, but they both got the message loud and clear.

Still, the patches of dry-ish earth under the canopy of a pine tree looked extremely inviting. A shelter ready and waiting to keep someone trapped forever. Maybe one of the faces in the sky had tried that already.

How many of them were left now? Jameson thought to himself, shivering with each step he took. He counted in his head as he wrapped his arms around himself.

He had to stop when he realized.

Killing that other tribute meant that Jameson was now in the top three. Everything was happening so fast in the games he barely registered that they had made it that far.

It was him. Tamery. And the career girl from District 2.

Jameson immediately scaled up a tree to hide, a new shot of adrenaline heating him from his core. Surely the game makers wanted a grand show for the finale. So what on earth could it be?

It took about an hour of him clinging to the tree, the cold slowly tempting him to doze off when he got his answer.

The mountain with no snow on its top, it wasn't a mountain at all.

It was a volcano.

The top of it burst into a shower of orange fire and rock. All Jameson could do was watch in horror as the lava rapidly spewed out like a giant canopy, sending burning rock and magma across the entire arena.

But after the first spew, Jameson watched helplessly as the main river of lava flowed directly towards the cornucopia. Replacing the ice field with boiling magma. The steam from rapidly melting snow connecting with the unrelenting lava blocked out any visibility in a barrier of white. Jameson couldn't see what was happening down there but all he could think about was Tamery.

All of the lava seemed to flood directly into the ice field, but burning hunks of rock still flew across the entire arena, catching some patches of the forest on fire in an instant. Jameson knew he had to move, but where could he go?

Even if he did try to run away, the game makers would try to either flush him back towards the others or lead them to him. He was paralyzed with indecision until he heard the canon fire. Jameson snapped his head up to the sky to see the image of Tamery, his friend from District Eight, blaze across.

“Tamery…” Jameson whispered, willing himself not to let it come out as a cry.

Something inside of him shifted. It was like he was drawn back into his own mind as his body moved without his input.

Jameson climbed down the tree, ignoring how the top had caught alight.

He couldn't fully comprehend what he was doing or what was happening around himself. His hands moved independently from his mind.

Tying knots, looping rope around branches, a small ball of fire whizzing past his cheek-

He chased the ball of fire to where it landed. It had melted a deep hole through the snow and partway into the ground. He followed it with his ice pick and started to dig.

By god did he dig.

His icepick moved fast but rhythmically down, down, down into the earth as the world around him began to glow brighter.

At some point he found himself grunting with effort to climb out of the hole he had made.

How had he dug that so fast? It didn't matter.

Jameson watched his stiff hands as they set up a very similar snare to the one he made earlier that morning. The one that killed the small boy from District 10. Only someone so small could have flown so high.

Jameson found himself wishing that this trap would actually work on someone bigger than a scrawny twelve year old.

It didn't matter. His mind blurred as he finished his project, not fully sure what this thing would do but he covered the pit with a layer of pine branches and snow.

Jameson climbed a tree that wasn't on fire and waited.

Naturally, the game makers didn't want this going on forever, so it wasn't long until Jameson heard crashing footsteps and unhinged laughter from the woods. The girl from District 2 staggered into view from below, and Jameson felt nothing.

Dancing flames licked at the trees behind her as she called into the night air in a sing-song voice, “Jaaaamesooonnn,” She sang and Jameson became an ice statue.

“Jamie-son, Jamie-son, Jamie-son JACK-son!” The girl sang in the same jaunty tune that Lucky Flickerman had playfully done at the interview. He could see her now through the branches, half of her body was covered in cuts and burns, her snow clothes flaked away from her in chunks of ash. “Come on out, little songbird.” She mocked in a cooing tone, another cackle seemed to rip from her throat unbidden, “COME ON OUT!” She yelled, arms throwing her loaded bow around with an arrow nocked into place.

Between the cave beast attack and the volcano, she must have completely lost her mind. Her voice dipped low as she scanned the trees around her, singing quietly in a haunting tone, “Come out, come out wherever you are…” She giggled as if this was a child's game of hide and seek.

Jameson felt himself slipping, so he carefully tried to shift his weight to get a better hold onto the tree-

The branch snapped under his hand in betrayal. As quickly as it broke the girl from 2 let an arrow fly, striking him directly in the knee.

A cry rips from Jameson as he feels his entire kneecap shatter on impact. One hand shook as it hovered over the arrow sticking out of his body and he debated if he should pull it or not.

Jameson's gaze locks onto the girl just as she shot another arrow at him like he was an unsuspecting squirrel clinging to the bark. His hand flew up instinctively to try and catch the bolt as it lodged right into his throat.

He tried to gasp as Jameson fell from the tree like a bird shot from the air. His leg with the arrow through it slammed against a branch on his way down before he fell onto his side in a pile of snow. He was choking on his own blood as he tried to grip the arrow in his neck, too in shock to pull it out or do anything at all except struggle to breathe through the blood.

As he desperately struggled to breathe, the girl from two couldn't stop laughing. Her cackle ringing like scrapes on a chalkboard through the air. He looked at her with one eye that wasn't full of snow and just watched her, unable to do anything else.

Her arms were clutched over her stomach, her laugh howled like one of those hyena muttations Jameson had seen the year prior. She dropped her bow and stumbled around in circles, smiling wide at the sky, “Ladies and gentlemen!” She called, the cloud of her breath easily seen as she stepped backwards towards Jameson, “Your winner… of the HUNGER G-”

Her words were cut short as she stepped back, directly into the hole that Jameson had dug.

Her weight broke through the thin layer of branches that concealed the pit and her body dropped down like a bag of stones. She screamed before the rope caught around her throat- cutting off her windpipe and quickly snapping her neck thanks to the extra height of the short drop.

Jameson lied there, dumbfounded and drowning in his own blood when he heard the canon fire.

It was like a dream when a disembodied voice spoke like a fading radio in Jameson's ear, “Ladies and gentlemen, our winner for the 26th Hunger Games!”

Jameson allowed himself to close his eyes as the fire blazed around him. He finally felt warm even as the snow tried to blanket him in white.

°○°○°○°

They told him it was two days later when he woke up.

For what felt like a short eternity, floating in the darkness of his own head, Jameson Jackson was certain that he was dead.

He was certain that if he kept searching this void he was in, eventually he would find his parents and maybe the twins somewhere. But no.

When his eyes fluttered open, he knew immediately he was alive because everything hurt.

His head was pounding, he couldn't move his leg, and his throat felt like he swallowed some of that lava directly. When he cried out in pain his voice sounded gargled, completely unrecognizable. It had even hurt to whisper.

Very quickly the doctors ordered him not to speak as they injected morphling into his system. The drug dulled the pain almost instantly, and all other emotions that tried surface as well, allowing him to float on a pink cotton cloud of blissful nothingness.

He was very lucky, so they told him. It was hard to believe anything when his mind felt like cloud soup.

They said they were quick to extract him from the arena. That they were able to save his leg for the most part though he would probably walk with a limp. And they said they managed to drain the blood that had collected in his lungs. But there was something else.

A doctor with a soothing voice, one that was kind and had a soft face full of sympathy, gently told Jameson that they weren't so lucky with his vocal cords.

It was a miracle in itself; the chin of his locket had caught the arrow just enough so it wouldn't fully enter his throat. It was that small amount of extra resistance that saved his life. But he was still pierced in just the right way. The woman held his hand and told him he would probably never speak clearly again.

These words didn't sink in until they weaned him off the morphling two weeks later. Then it came to him all at once like a crushing wave.

Jameson Jackson would never speak again.

Jameson Jackson… would never sing again.

He followed the doctor's orders and did not even so much as hum. They gave him a wheelchair that his mentor used to push him onto the stage to meet Lucky Flickerman again. The show host obviously carried the conversation after a joke about him being quieter than an avox as they went over the two hour highlight reel of the games.

The world around Jameson was completely gray. Eyes not able to focus on anything as everyone's words sounded like his head was completely underwater.

He felt hollowed out, like an empty puppet getting moved across a stage without any of the strings in his own hands.

At some point, Jameson registered that he was finally home, back in District 7, but it wasn't his original house. No, they carted him directly to one of the houses in the Victor's Village where his Aunt Marry had already begun moving some of their belongings into it.

For a long time Jameson just stayed curled up on the couch. Staring off into space or gazing into the fire with a heavy pile of blankets over him. He vaguely understood when people came to see him, but none of the pairs of legs or blurred faces registered in his brain. The gentle fingers that ran through his hair were unfamiliar as they lulled him into fitful nights of sleep.

He didn't really know when he came back to himself. But one day, Jameson found himself sitting in front of the fireplace as it was burning low with glowing embers and.. wood shavings?

Jameson looked down, confused, at his hands and was surprised to find a whittling knife in one and a piece of wood in the other. The wood didn't have a defined shape, not really. He slowly turned it in his hands trying to decipher what it was he was making with curiosity. It looked vaguely like an oval. All the corners and edges were rounded, but nothing else remarkable aside from the texture.

Looking down at himself again, he found his lap full of wood shavings, some shifted as he lifted his arms in mild bewilderment. There was way more than what should have accounted for the wood piece currently in his hand.

He blinked, unsure how he got here, but tentatively resumed adding to the pile. The glide of the small sharp knife steadying his mind.

Some of the wood shavings flew off into the fire as he worked and Jameson realized that's probably why he was sat here. To get as many pieces as he could into the fire and then mostly likely sweep the rest in afterwards.

But he didn't remember where he got these things. He didn't remember moving from the couch. How long had be been sat here?

Upon registering that he did, in fact, have a body, his leg screamed.

Jameson tried to scream too, but it came out sounding horrible. Choked off and gnarled and like it's still full of pine smoke. Jameson dropped his tool and gripped his leg tight, trying desperately to stop the shooting pain that traveled from his knee to his ankle and all the way back up to his hip and spine. Every movement felt like knives in his bones as hot tears rolled down his face as he let out strangled sobs.

This seemed to alert someone nearby because Aunt Marry quickly came around the doorway, completely in shock. But it passed as she rushed to him with someone Jameson couldn't see behind her in tow.

When they got Jameson back to the couch and brushed off most of the wood shavings, they carefully helped to prop his leg up on a stool. He kept his eyes screwed shut as the waves of pain rolled through him. A hand found his own and he squeezed.

A minute later when the pain finally subsided, Jameson opened his eyes to see tanned hands holding out a small plate of food and a cup of water. He takes the cup and plate in shaky hands as he finally looked to his Aunt beside him, and up at the girl before him.

Maria. His Maple. She was here and smiling down at Jameson with barely contained joy.

“Map-” He tried to say, but his throat felt like it caught fire again, sending him into a coughing fit. He felt soothing hands on his back and heard Marry gently encourage him to drink the water.

He did and it's the most refreshing cup of water he has ever had in his life- downing the rest of the cup quickly.

Maria pulls one of the plush chairs over and sits in front of Jameson as his aunt sits close at his side, an arm wrapped around his shoulders protectively.

Maria begins to sign, “I… We thought you were gone for good, Jamie.”

It takes a second for Jameson's brain to click back into place to remember how to sign, but tentatively he does so back, “I think I was. For a little while.”

Maria's honey brown eyes sparkled with tears, “But you're back. You're home.”

For the first time, it actually hit him.

Jameson Jackson had won the Hunger Games.

He had won and now he was home again. Home with his aunt and his best friend and his District. He felt a lump form in his throat trying not to cry. He just opened his arms out to Maria.

She didn't hesitate as she threw herself from the chair into his arms, both of them clinging to each other like either of them would disappear if they let go. Aunt Marry wrapped her arms around both of them and they sat quietly like that for a very long time, bodies shaking from time to time with tears of relief.

°○°○°○°

The flashbacks had become part of Jameson's new normal. Alongside with his leg occasionally giving out from under him and needing a cane to walk, and almost exclusively using sign language to communicate, the flashbacks and nightmares have become part of his routine.

He does pick up the lumberjack's woodpecker code for easier translation around town- tapping out small phrases against his cane fashioned from an off cut oak branch- but he doesn't get much of a chance to use it when something reminds him of the games. A sound of breaking bone from the butcher, a particular cackling laugh, the first cold wind of winter- his mind slipped back into the arena.

Most often it just makes Jameson freeze, mind drifting off and becoming unresponsive. But on more than one occasion now, Jameson has snapped back into himself when a large pair of peacekeeper arms hoisted him into the air. He quickly took stock and realized he attacked another person in the middle of the square. The people around him looked a mixture of angry and terrified.

Another part of his new normal, for obvious reasons, was the people of District 7 began to avoid Jameson. Either from politeness, a fear of awkward conversation, wariness due to his actions outside the games, or even to avoid their own sadness of never hearing him sing again. It didn't matter.

They kept their distance. And in turn so did Jameson.

He would only leave his house to purchase food or more off cuts of timber, then go back to his house as quickly as his leg would allow. No friendly waves. No lingering. No small talk. Keeping everyone at arm's length so he wouldn't reach for them when his mind replaced their faces with the boy's who killed Tim.

°○°○°○°

The Victor's Village was left mostly untouched for a long time in 7, having only been built a handful of years ago along with Snow's changes of the entire proceedings of how the games were conducted.

The houses were a bit gaudy in Jameson's opinion. Though, he did enjoy the extra privacy being separated from the rest of the District gave. But he knew Aunt Marry wasn't as thrilled about it.

Before going on his Victory Tour, Aunt Marry told Jameson that she had decided to move back into their old home over their small general goods store. Jameson tried not to take it personally, he knew Marry's knees weren't like they used to be and the shop was on the opposite side of town. He told her it was alright and pulled his childhood wagon that carried her things.

The camera crew came a week before he was set to board the train, and Jameson gave them a tour of his new home. Showing off a small collection of the creations he has whittled since being home again.

It was a new thing the Capital was trying along with many other ideas. The victor of the Quarter Quell, a girl named Marvin from District 4, was so fascinating to the citizens of the Capital that they wanted to see more of her after her victory. So they sent a crew to her home and interviewed her. She showed off the hobby she picked up to spend her free time and the people adored it. Marvin's pastime was tying overly intricate, decorative nets- weaving beads and crystals and colorful pieces of coral into some. So because of this popular concept, Jameson was advised to do something similar to show to the people of Panem on television what the heck he's been up to. Minus the nightmares, the flashbacks, the crippling anxiety, and the chronic pain he now dealt with.

So he stuck with wood carving.

He whittled a myriad of things by that point. Mostly animals he would see running around their forests. Figurines of squirrels, birds, little bears. He also tried creating more complicated things. Spinning tops, perfectly smooth spheres, pipes. And… dolls.

The camera crew actually flinched when Jameson first pulled them out.

Little dolls with linked-together limbs, they could be moved about by strings from above. Jameson had made a little under a dozen wooden marionettes that were carefully carved and painted to resemble tributes from his games.

The girl from District Two who shot him. The little boy from District Ten he killed with the trap. The three careers that were killed by the snow beast mutt. The two larger tributes up on the mountain that killed Tim. Tamery and Tim. And finally, one of himself. That one wasn't as carefully made as the others, Jameson's stylist pointed out, “I think the leg on this one is broken. And there's some kind of scratch here on the neck.” Jameson pretended not to hear the comment.

“I plan to carve all the other tributes,” Aunt Marry translated Jameson's sign for the cameras when they started rolling. “I may not have interacted with many of them personally, but it's my way of trying to honor their memory.” That collected a round of heart-warmed coos from the crew, despite their obvious discomfort of how creepy the whole hobby seemed to them.

“The faces freak me out, JJ!” One of the members of his prep team had cried when he first saw them, “They almost look dead!”

“They are.” He signed and Marry translated uneasily.

They stopped making comments about the puppets after that and tried to wrap up filming quickly. Good. He wanted them all out of his house.

Yes, Jameson did want to honor the fallen in some way of his own. But in reality, this strange hobby was one of the only ways for him to stop seeing the dead in his nightmares.

He would lock himself away in the attic of the house and spend days, sometimes even weeks on a single marionette. Carving and painting away in hopes that the subject's ghost would stop haunting him in his dreams. But they would always come back eventually.

The completion of each project gave ease for a few days, not showing up in Jamesons dreams at all. But a new face would take their place. The previous ghost would come back occasionally, but they were no longer screaming.

Each stroke of the knife dug the tribute out from a prison of wood, revealing their features so they were no longer trapped in an awful, dark place. The only time his hands didn't tremble was when he painted them.

°○°○°○°

Returning from the Victory Tour around the entire country, Jameson was exhausted.

Smiling for the cameras and standing in the center of the stage signing to the families of the fallen tributes. He didn't try to say anything other than what was written on the cards. Jameson found out quickly when trying to say more to the parents of Tim and Tamery in District 8, that his Capital escort did not actually know sign language, so she was completely lost as a “translator” if he went off script. He tried not to be too upset, it wasn't her fault, but he felt completely silenced by the restraints. There were so many apologies and pleads for forgiveness that the lone standing parents would never get to hear. Jameson just prayed that they could see all the anguish in his eyes and hoped it would be enough. I would never be enough.

The only positive thing out of the entire trip was that he got to meet a handful of the Victors from previous games.

Marvin from District 4, and Henrik from District 3 connected with Jameson quickly and he really liked them. He made pleasant conversation with them once he had acquired a small notepad and pen.

Marvin was clever and playful in that almost sharp cat-like way. She laughed easily and was liberal with any shreds of gossip she heard from her time in the Capital. Jameson was surprised somebody so vicious and cold in the arena could act like this afterwards. But then again, he knew all too well how strong certain masks could be.

She put Jameson at ease immediately when she glared daggers at the host behind the camera. The young hotshot made a joke about Jameson needing to speak up, and if they weren't being broadcast live, Jameson was sure Marvin would have ripped the host's throat out for good measure. She gave him a hug and told him to write and not be a stranger. Jameson hugged back tightly and promised he would try.

Jameson was genuinely surprised that Henrik was the last Victor in the original arena based in the Capital. A broken down gladiator-inspired theater that once upon a time hosted events like the circus. But was transformed into the death ring it was inspired by originally to host the Hunger Games. Henrik lived in terrible conditions before the games even began and it was remarkable that he didn't die from exposure or infection before entering the arena.

President Snow changed the proceedings of everything for the 25th Hunger Games. Henrik, for better or for worse, had just missed the change in management.

He was still lanky and thin, but not quite the sickly skeleton he was when he stepped in the ring. Henrik was very intelligent and curious, asking Jameson almost endless questions about sign language and how he learned it.

Jameson decided he liked Henrik when he started taking notes on his palm for an idea, “I lost hearing in my right ear during my games.” Henrik explained, “Learning sign language could prove to be very helpful. Though not many know it in Three… I think I might have an idea.”

Jameson really did try to follow along with Henrik's techno-babble, but the drinks had started getting to him by that point so he just listened to the soothing tones of his voice without much comprehension.

Jameson wished he could have spoken more privately to both of them, about their experiences in the games and how they try to cope with it all. But the cameras never left his back on the tour, so neither did Jameson's pleasant mask.

He entered the attic almost as soon as he returned home, planning to lose himself into a new project before the ghosts could even try to find him. Stepping inside his now familiar space, his small haven, he stopped in his tracks.

By his work desk, surrounded by piles of wood shavings he never bothered to sweep up, stood Maria. Her frizzy golden hair acted as a halo against the gray snowy backdrop of the window. In her hands she held one of the wooden dolls Jameson had started making before leaving for the tour.

She turned, revealing to Jameson what he already knew, and his cheeks burned with shame. It was the beginnings of a carving of Maria.

Maria ever so gently set the wooden version of herself back onto the work table, supporting the head as if it were an infant, and turned to fully face Jameson, “Do you see me as dead too, Jamie?” She signed, face trying not to twist in hurt but failing.

“It's not like that, Maple,” Jameson signed back quickly. The only sound in the room was the winter breeze trying to push its claws into the cracks of the house. He repressed a shiver and pushed forward, “I don't make these just for the dead. I make them because I don't want to-”

“What? Not to lose me?” She snapped, knowing Jameson too well, “Jamie- you're the one who is pushing away from you! Your friends at the paper mill have only seen your face a handful of times since you've come home!”

“They don't look at me the same anymore! They treat me differently.” He tried to reason.

“Because you can't be their personal radio anymore?” She rolled her eyes with a bitter laugh.

“Because I've killed people, Maple!”

Jameson and Maria had fought only a small handful of times before. Words choked Jameson's throat when he was upset, so they both signed in rapid fire at each other. He remembers once Maria's father had broken them up by saying “Stop yelling!” And it made them all burst into giggles. But in the attic space, they were alone.

Jameson frowned deeply, “I killed innocent people! Children! It doesn't matter that it was the games, I still have their blood on my hands and it can never be washed clean. And since I can't tell anybody what actually happened in my own words, they see me as a murderer. I can't tell them! They think I'm a monster so now they treat me like I'm- Like I am a-”

“A freak?” Maria finished for him, a scowl deep in her features.

Jameson flinched, immediately realizing what he said and his anger flowing out of him in an instant, “Maple-”

“You think they see you as a freak because you can't speak anymore?” She scoffed, “Jamie, they see you differently because you are different now. When you came home from the games you were catatonic for days! Barely able to move or show you were still alive in your brain! When you did start moving around, all you did was carve. Not even making anything, you just shaved blocks of wood into kindling. And when you did finally wake up you started avoiding everybody like they were going to stab you in the back!”

“Can you blame me for that?!”

“No! I understand that! But I do blame you for pushing us all away when all we want to do is help you, Jamie! You have barely spoken to me at all since you've come back!”

“Not like I can speak anymore!”

Maria laughed, bitter and a hint of self-deprecating, “I wonder what that's like!”

Jameson growled in his chest, he didn't care that it burned, “I don't want to hurt you! I've attacked people!”

“You can't control-”

“I don't want to hurt others-”

“I don't want you to hurt yourself!” Maria hiccuped, roughly scrubbing her eyes with the back of her hand and glaring at Jameson, eyes damp but not allowing tears to fall.

They stand in the silence. A cold draft danced by Jameson and he instinctively wrapped his arms around himself with a harsh shiver. He hated the cold now. When the first snow of the year came he rarely left the warmth of the fireplace for anything. The first draft he felt sent him into a panic attack.

Maria sniffed loudly, signing slower, “You don't take care of yourself when you lock yourself away up here.” She looked around the room, it was still somewhat empty, but a shelf held a collection of small statues, and the marionettes of the fallen tributes hung from the rafters. “You ignore me when I knock and throw pebbles at your window, and you don't eat the food Aunt Marry brings you. You… You disappear, Jamie. And it scares us so badly. We think that you won't come back again every time.”

Jameson was stunned. He didn't realize he got so engrossed in his work. He looked to his side and seemingly for the first time, noticed a small stack of plates next to the door, untouched. He looked back to Maria and didn't know what to say. His hands fluttered, stumbling over his words and unsure how to respond.

“Let me stay.” Maria said suddenly.

Jameson was completely bewildered, “What? Why?”

“So you don't have to be alone anymore. So someone can be there to take care of you.”

“No I don't-”

“Why?” She asked quickly, “Why do you so badly want to push me away, Jamie?”

“I don't want to hurt you!”

“You could never hurt me, you're so kind and gentle-”

“I hurt Aunt Marry!” He burst out and that made Maria stop. Jameson took a slow breath, not meeting her eyes for a moment in complete shame. Once he gained the courage again, he looked her in the eye, “Once when I was…” He laughed bitterly, “Gone. She tried to bring me back by touching my shoulder. I must have been back in the arena because I lashed out at her. I wasn't in control of myself, I didn't know what was really happening.” Jameson took a deep breath, “But I hurt her… and if you stay, I could hurt you too. I could kill you, Maple.”

Maria closed her eyes, hiccuping again before wiping her cheeks of the tears that managed to escape.

He tried to step forward, tried to go comfort her, but his leg screamed, sending daggers from his knee outward. He didn't have his cane so he reluctantly froze in place, putting his body weight onto his other leg with a hiss.

When she opened her again, she looked at Jameson with a hardness of finality that sent an icicle through his heart. He immediately regretted his words and wanted nothing more than to take them all back.

“Maple, wait-” He reached for her.

“I can't do this.” She started to walk towards him, moving to the door behind him. “I'm not standing by and watching as you push me away. I-” Maria shakes her head and throws her hands down in frustration, trying to shove past Jameson but he catches her in his arms.

Maria struggled for a moment before they both lock eyes. Maria's honey brown steady and wet, and Jameson's pale blue desperately searching for… what? A sign that she was joking? No, it was obvious that she was very serious about not wanting to stand by and watch him destroy himself. Perhaps he was looking for a second chance? Again, nothing. Jameson's shoulders slowly slumped in defeat as he forced his eyes not to water.

Maria scanned his face and sighed, standing slightly on her toes to kiss his cheek so lightly he almost didn't feel the whisper of her lips, “Goodbye, Jamie.” And she stepped back slowly, Jameson released his grip, and she left.

Just like that she was gone. Jameson stood still, frozen in time until he heard the front door open and close downstairs. He tried to tell himself that this was for the best for the best, that Maria would be safer and happier away from him.

His resolve crumbled as another draft of cold wind swept through the room, cutting through to his bones. He finally let his leg give out and he crashed to the floor on his hands and knees. When the pain stabbed him again he rolled onto his side on the floor and hugged his knees to his chest. He tried in vain to curl so tightly into a ball that he would completely disappear. Fold in on himself enough times he would become a speck of dust and fly far, far away from here. But he didn't turn into a speck of insignificant dust. He laid curled on the floor, ignored the splinters from the stray wood shavings, and screamed.

It took over three weeks for him to finish the doll of Maria.

°○°○°○°

As the years go on, Jameson is expected to be the mentor for the tributes of the reaped District 7 children. Every year he sternly told himself to not get attached or grow actual bonds with any of these children. It would be harder to let them go if he let them find places in his heart. He never followed his own instructions. Because for the next 5 years, he watched over, cared for, and witnessed the death of 10 children from his district. Every time the canon fired for one of his own, it shattered his heart like the arrow shattered his knee. Even though he knew that he did everything he could by treating these children with kindness and encouragement and empathy, it felt as crushing as Tim's death each and every time.

He had marionettes of them all, alongside several others now.

Capital people that taunted and gawked at Jameson like he was an animal at the zoo, filler for his nightmares, they looked more like actual colorful puppets with their ribbons and feathers. You would think that they weren't real people at first glance, with all of their bright colors and painted faces. But they were. And they were discarded into a corner of the room when he was finished. It felt satisfying in a way, throwing them aside like they did to him when his novelty ran out.

Among the colorful cabinet of Capitals, there was also one marionette that was made to look like the young President Snow. A small silk flower acted as the signature rose on his lapel, and Jameson had added the detail of painting the president's hands red. He thought about Tim telling him about the red dye and how it stained his skin to look like blood. Jameson added some gloss to the red on Snow's hands to sell the effect better.

This one, this likeness to the president of Panem, had its strings knotted beyond hope of untangling and wrapped tightly around the puppet's throat. It was thrown harshly into a dark corner of Jameson's workshop, broken and almost buried in the wood shavings that carpeted the attic space up to Jameson's ankles now in certain piles.

This year, like all the others, Jameson put on his clean shirt and favorite blue vest. Carefully doing up the buttons with clever hands and adjusting his simple black bowtie snugly around his throat to hide the scar. He trimmed his mustache and brushed away the remaining wood shavings off his black slacks. Grabbed his cane, and made his cryptid-sighting appearance on the stage.

His knee always ached worse on Reaping day, but he tried to stand and smile at the blurry faces of his District. He forced himself not to search for Maria in the crowd, again, as he took his seat and waited as the tribute's names were drawn. He forced his hand to not grip and wrinkle his pants against his bad leg.

Ivy Cinders, and Chase Brody. This year's District 7 tributes for the 32nd Hunger Games. And Jameson's new wards.

Seeing the young woman in the crowd, who was obviously pregnant, crying her eyes out for the boy on the stage made Jameson's heart twist in a strange way. And he knew right then and there that he would be breaking his own rule to not get attached for the sixth year in a row.

#jse fanfic #jameson jackson #writersofjack #jse hunger games au #hunger games au #mod oakley #septicartparty #as a treat #I wrote most of this in the span of 3 days because JJ from this universe possessed me /j

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parkswritessometimes · 7 months

Text

Drinks and Fights

Egotober Day 4: Drink

Egotober by: @tracobuttons

“Chase, are you sure you want another one?” Connor asks from behind the counter, fake concern lacing every word. “That will be your fourth whiskey tonight.”

“I got money, you have- you have the liquor, I don’t see an issue,” Chase replies, fingers tracing the rim of the empty glass.

“The issue is that you’re getting drunk off your ass and I don’t feel like calling an ambulance tonight. ”

“‘m not going to get alcohol poisoning, Connor. I know my limits. Whiskey, please.” Chase can tell that his words are starting to slur together. The beautiful, sweet, poison starting to take effect. His thoughts and emotions transforming into that familiar distant fuzzy feeling. The sounds of crying and laughter, yelling and whispers all merge into one. People around him break into formless shapes.

“Alright man, I just worry about you,” Connor says as he shrugs and starts to pour another glass of his favorite whiskey.

The poison was sweet on his lips and warm in his stomach. The mix of vanilla and grapefruit stayed on his tongue as he came up for air. Chase stared down at the drink, willing his own reflection would appear and not one of the monsters. Blank dull eyes stared back at him. God, is this what he had become? A hollowed out husk whose only use was to be filled with alcohol?

This is what his life had become? Not-so-secret trips to bars and clubs. Hiding in his room while the world spins and moves on without him. Hearing Marvin and Jackie’s muffled laughter through the paper-thin walls and wishing he could join but being too hungover to even move. Skipping breakfast and lunch just so alcohol would hit harder and faster? Was his life slipping through his clenched fingers like grains of sand? Was he going to die in this bar?

“You okay over there man?” Conner asked, ripping Chase out of his drunken spiral.

“Yeah-Yeah, just need some…some air. Can you watch my drink for me?”

“Chase, I got a packed bar and I’m down a bartender. I can’t just drop everything to watch your drink.”

“Oh, uh, right.” Chase’s hands shake as he pulls the plastic card out from his wallet handing it over to Connor. “Close out my tab then. Think I need to go home.”

“Do you want me to call someone for you?” Chase shakes his cotton-filled head no, causing the sweet drink to creep up his throat.

“Just- I’ll just text my brother.” Chase stands up from the bar stool and makes his way to the door. He keeps his head down, eyes on the floor, and walks outside.

Fresh air hits him hard and fast. The chill of winter settling into his old bones. He grabbed his phone from his back pocket, the numbers on the screen all seeming to blur together. The numbers shake, once, twice, before he finally was met with his home screen. He can’t bring himself to fully look at the happy people staring back at him and pushes down on the green messaging app as fast as his drunk body would let him. He clicks the top message knowing it was the only person who would tolerate him in a state like this.

“At Conner’s Place. Can you pick me up?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t do anything stupid until then.”

Chase’s hand brushes up against something as he pockets his phone. Something plastic with a hint of metal and a small cardboard box. He wraps his hands around the familiar objects and pulls them out. The smell of nicotine itself made Chase’s body crawl with anticipation. He flicks open the box and pulls the very last stick out. He brings the flame up to the end of the cigarette and inhales the relief. He presses his back against the side of the building, letting the cool bricks soothe his forming headache.

Whispers of Stacy’s complaints bounce in his head as he continues to inhale the stick of toxin. “Were you smoking again? You know that smell gives me migraines.” “Are those bruises? Where did you get those?” “I can’t talk to you while you smell like this. Go take a shower then we can talk.”

A swift kick to his thigh jolts him back to the real world. A group of twenty-somethings surround him, their angry drunk eyes staring down at him.

"Didn't you hear me?" One of them slurs.

“Fuck off.” Chase manages to grumble out to the group.

“Hey, I just want a cigarette! No need to be so fucking rude.”

“Don’t have anymore.” Chase pushes himself up, his head throbbing as the world spins around him. He forces his feet to walk through the group of kids. He feels a hand pull him back and shove him against the wall. The group laughs as Chase lets out a small grunt, the force sending hot bile to his throat.

“I was talkin’ to you! Don’t be fucking rude!”

“I don’t have anymore.” Chase can feel the vitriol, the anger, the hatred he had been smothering for years bubble up in his chest. The stranger's fist misses his face by just a few centimeters. He could feel the anger spread like fire from his chest to his arm, his fist. Every enemy, from doctors to cops, to lawyers, to fucking Anti, seemed to merge into the man in front of him.

“Hey!” A familiar voice shouts out as a car door slams, snapping Chase out of his rage. “Get the fuck away from him or I’ll call the fucking cops!”

The stranger looks back at Chaser, a drunken scowl on his face as he takes a step away from Chase. His hands in the air, faking any sort of innocence.

Chase watches as a clearly exhausted Marvin seems to skip through time. Coming closer at clumps at a time. His power replacing any anger or confidence Chase’s attackers once had. Chase can’t tell if this was a drunken hallucination or if Marvin was just that angry but, Marvin’s body was surrounded by a beautiful green aura.

“If I ever see any of your faces again,” Marvin warns as he slips his soft hand into Chase’s. “I’ll fucking destroy you.” Chase leans against his friend letting him drag him back to the car. The door slams behind him, rattling the entire vehicle. Chase leans up against the window and closes his eyes. Thank fuck for Marvin.

“Just…rest up okay, Chaser,” Marvin says starting up the car. “I’ll getcha home safe.”

“Okay. Thanks, Marv.”

“Of course. Just…rest up.”

--------

Prequels are hard to write. Don't recommend.

This is (kinda?) prequel to this

Have a good day

-----

#jacksepticeye #writers of jack #writersofjack #chase brody #marvin the magnificent #egotober 2023 #tw: smoking #tw: bars #tw: drinking #tw: drunk

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lostcybertronian · 6 months

Text

Egotober - Day 15

Prompt: Strong

Prompts by @tracobuttons

---

He tried. He put all of himself— his speed, his strength, everything— into this fight and he still failed.

What kind of hero am I? He thought to himself as he slid to the damp, grimy ground, the hard ridges of brick wall digging into his back. His breaths came in hard gasps that fogged up the chilly night in front of him. He clutched at his probably broken ribs and tried to muster up something, anything, but only managed a few weak snaps of green electricity around his hands and elbows. A warm wetness coated his cheeks; he couldn’t tell if it was tears or blood.

Explosions shook the near distance, occasionally bathing his filthy back alley refuge in red-orange light. It was the only way he was able to see the girl, crouching by the overflowing dumpster jutting from the wall to his right, the hem of her dress soaking in a puddle. Her pale, oval face floated in the gloom.

He would’ve jumped three feet if his battered body had let him. As it was, his hands began to shake from the adrenaline dump.

“Please get up.” She said in a tiny voice.

“You need to get out of here.” He said, and she shuffled closer. Another burst of light revealed a flower-print dress and long, blond hair combed too neatly to belong to the back alley; she must have followed him here. “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know.” She whispered, her eyes bright with fear. “I need you to save them.”

He groaned and tilted his head back, resting it to the hard, cold brick. “I don’t rescue missing parents.”

“Please, Jackieboy Man!” The force of her tone took him aback. “You’re the strongest superhero in the world. If you can’t save my mommy and daddy-” she trailed off, beginning to cry, deep heaving sobs that shook her small form. “You have to get up. You have to save them.”

So Jackieboy Man got up. Even with his healing factor starting to take effect, his body hurt like hell. He watched the little girl’s eyes widen. Saw her stumble back a step, trip, and fall on her butt.

He bent and helped her up. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But you need to promise me you’ll get somewhere safe.”

She looked up at him with something like awe, then nodded her head rapidly.

“Good. Shoo.” He waited until she disappeared into the shadows, then took off at a dead sprint toward the source of the explosions, becoming nothing more than a red-blue blur, electricity crackling up and down his arms and legs. If the girl’s parents were anywhere, they’d be there. Might as well knock out a villain while he was at it.

#egotober2023 #jackieboy man #jse egos #jacksepticeye egos #writersofjack #fanfiction #lostandwandering #lost writing tag #action #hurt/comfort #q

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the9645archives · 10 months

Text

ReBlog Relay (A JSE Writers Experiment!)

Hello all!

I’ve thought of this idea if anyone is interested; what if we did a community wide writing event where someone starts a story and left it unfinished for other writers to add it? Creating a story together?

If you’re reading this, that means YOU can be part of this experiment! From a whole chapter to a piece of dialogue!

If this is something the intrigues you, even just a little, gimme a ✏️ in the comments or reblog (to combat spam bots, likes won’t be counted).

Hope to hear back from Ego writers and fanfic enthusiasts soon!

(Ps. Which is a better name? Finish-The-Fic or Reblog Relay [writersofjack edition])

- 9 (nine)

#non fanfic reblog #i have spoken #writersofjack #jacksepticeyefanfiction #jacksepticeye #jse egos

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florenceisfalling · 1 year

Note

15 and 18 someone taking a weapon away from someone else?? :O any boys please

from this list

hi this ask is so old that you don't even go here anymore. but i'm trying to clean out my ancient asks so :"D gonna do this with my mermaid au bc fuck it <3 i’m sure it was supposed to be whumpy but it is not. tw animal death and a knife tho

“You shouldn’t have that!” + “Just let me help you.”

The sky is clear enough to feel so much higher than usual, the frosted glassy dome of clouds lifted away to let the sunlight properly in for the first time in a while. The frigid water laps at the edge of the boat with little frothy bubbles, breathing and hungry for something to swallow whole.

Chase zips his coat up higher and wraps his arms around his knees, though the sunlight on the back of his neck lets at least a little warmth trickle down his spine. He checks the depth and fish finder at the front of the boat, and the 30 meter mark makes him shudder even more at the thought of the water taking him. He used to never be so worried, and yet.

As if summoned by the fearful thought, a glimmer of something silvery-blue breaches the water, and the fish finder beeps while a large clump of pixels gather on the screen. Chase yelps and turns fast enough to nearly tip one side of the boat into the sea, and scrabbles for a fishing knife that’s no longer there.

Familiar, torn fins rise from the water like sails on a warship, and Chase raises to his wobbly feet to get a better view of the sea’s surface. Two wide, mismatched eyes stare back at him from below, paired with a sharp row of shiny teeth.

“Will you fuck off?” Chase shouts, his voice far more startled than commanding, like someone’s replaced the sunlight on his neck by pouring ice water down the back of his shirt.

Anti finally emerges from the water, the gills against his throat and ribs closing as he begins to breathe through his grinning mouth. He leans against the barnacle-encrusted edge of the motorboat, tail flicking lazily in the water, claws tracing the edge of Chase’s knife. “Hmm... no.”

“You shouldn’t have that, I need it!” Chase pleads, as a little more frustration finally bleeds into his voice.

“For what, exactly? I’ve been watching you for half an hour and you haven’t even tried to catch anything.”

In the same timing, they both cast a glance at Chase's neglected fishing pole, hook lacking a lure or even a worm for bait. Chase opens his mouth to protest, but instead finds himself just uselessly moving his empty jaw like, quite fittingly, a fish trying to breathe out of water.

“Just let me help you, Chaser. Watch!”

The siren flips the stolen knife in his hand. A splash, and he’s far under the surface of the water again, gliding effortlessly out of sight; Chase briefly considers starting the boat and leaving while he has the chance, but he doesn’t trust Anti not to catch up and tear his throat out for being impolite. Which is a good choice- his opportunity quickly is revealed to be a lot less promising when Anti emerges at the other side of the boat, unceremoniously tossing a dead sea bass on board. The knife is stuck through to the hilt. “Picked this one ‘cause it sorta looks like you.”

Scales and bladetip scrape against the boat as the bloody fish rocks inside. It’s at least a little over the minimum catch size, though not by much. Chase doesn't see the resemblance, but he can imagine its bloody mouth bobbing open and shut in confusion the way his own mouth once again does.

“I could get you more fish, easy,” Anti brags. The glee plastered across his face looks like a child winding up to beat a piñata to a mess of sugary entrails. “Time me!”

Anti lunges up and across the deck, aiming for the knife with hands so pale and cold they seem almost purple in the light. Chase is more prepared this time, and slams his heel down on the fish, the toe of his boot precariously pinning Anti’s wrist in place before he can get creative with the knife. The siren doesn’t yelp or gasp, only throws him an offended glare. “You should be grateful for this, you never help me with my food.”

Chase kicks the fish back toward himself and the knife with it. “That’s because you tried to eat me last time!” he sputters.

Anti rolls his rarely-blinking, ever-watching eyes, then slowly pulls his hand away from Chase’s personal space. “If I’m being honest,” he drawls, “the original intention was actually to eat your wife. But I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re not gonna get anything! Let me fish in peace!”

Brows furrowed, Chase makes a show of hateful eye contact while he slowly leans down to retrieve the knife from its current target. All his attention remains on making sure the weapon doesn’t get snatched by the monster and promptly stabbed into his gut.

“Fishing might be a little tricky,” Anti warns.

Before Chase can even ask why, knife still clutched to his chest, Anti sinks his claws into the top of the hull, lifts his weight up against it, and shoves the boat as close down to the water as he can. It doesn’t tip, but the dead fish slides back to the rightful catcher - along with Chase’s currently untouched fishing pole. Which, of course, Anti steals as he makes a break for it, leaving Chase too unbalanced to try to grab it back or fight.

#its rusty but it'll do #writersofjack #antisepticeye #chase brody #jse egos #mermaid egos #siren anti #my writing #my fics #fic requests #my ego posts

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seaswalllow · 2 years

Text

where the angels weep.

warnings for: emotional manipulation, psychological manipulation. anti and chase should not be in the same room. ask to tag further.

golden hour, they call it. the sun sinks, honey-slow, beneath the horizon, steel and concrete glowing in her last hurrah.

it's beautiful, he thinks, as he slides into a pew warm from its time in the sun, close as it is to the windows that soar overhead.

rainbows scatter across the wooden floor, the last gift of the stained windows he pointedly avoids staring at. he knows them all by name, now; mother mary and her sweet little babe, swaddled in her arms, agrippina of… something. mineo, he thinks he remembers the little carved plaque under her window being.

his mouth twists against the sudden bitterness in the back of his mouth, and he twists back to the front, resting his arms on his knees. there’s nobody here to see him suck in shaking breath after shaking breath; nobody except the cold glass windows, and all they ever do is watch anyways.

he sits like that for longer than he cares to remember. long enough for the candles closest to the door to start to gutter out, the great hall dimming one pinprick at a time. long enough that the cool pew pricks at him as he shifts, the night-air heavy and metallic.

it doesn’t offer any more clarity than it has for the last two months.

swallowing back the bitter words that swell to his tongue, he braces a hand against the back of the pew, knees cracking like a gunshot in the silence, and turns. he turns—

and he startles as he comes eye to eye with his reflection.

well. reflection.

the jawline’s all wrong. harsher, in the shadows. stronger. there’s no dark circles, no unkempt beard. who he could’ve been.

the bitterness in his gut knots painfully, and it grins at him, leaning against the back of the pew, lazily assured as it ever is.

“you look like shit,” anti informs him, still grinning, and he would roll his eyes if he weren’t worried about taking his eyes off of it. he still thinks, very hard, about it.

“i’ll file the complaint with HR,” he tells it- snaps at it, more like. his last nerve is fraying, thread by thread, and anti’s presence rubs against it like a fucking cheese grater. “that, and the request for- oh, i don’t know. my fucking life back.”

anti waves a hand at him, and he steps clear of the wide arc. “you’re free, aren’t you?”

he scoffs, because if he doesn’t laugh, he’s going to scream, and then he’s really going to have to deal with the fucking cops. “i’m a wanted fucking man. what part of that says free?”

it shrugs again, following him out of the pews. step forward, step back. he doesn’t see anti’s knife, but he’s learnt it doesn’t need it. “it could be worse. you could still be in there, scratching at the walls like a good little lab rat.”

it comes to a stop by the last row of the pews, and he takes one more step back for good measure. he’s nowhere near the door right now; he’s still trapped.

“what do you want?”

by the faint flickering of the closest candles, he can see anti smirk.

(four years and five months ago, he stands in the doorway, flickering flame cupped in his hand, and the last thing he sees before the red lights wash everything out is its smile.)

(four years and five months later, they wind their way back to the start, his heart hammering out the same panicked tempo.)

his palms sting, and he blinks, breaking eye contact. his knuckles ache, and slowly, he forces his fingers to uncurl from the pale crescents he’s dug them into. anti snickers again.

“a hello would be nice. some gratitude.”

his tone dips, dangerously frosty, and chase hates that it makes his breath stutter and freeze in his throat. there are windows off to his side, the door is behind anti. the pistol at his hip is a comforting weight. (he could unload the entire clip and anti will only keep laughing.)

“oh, yeah,” he drawls, instead. anti arches an eyebrow as his voice cracks. “let me just thank the guy who is the reason my face is now on the five o’clock news each evening. i haven’t seen my family in four fucking years and he wants me to say "yes anti, thank you for committing mass murder while wearing my face- without my consent!"”

brave, brave, be brave, chase. you are alone and you are more scared these days than you have been for the first half of your life, and there will be nobody to rub your back once the worst of your fear has been heaved up, but at least you will have lived that far.

he is not a brave man, as far as it goes. he’s pretty chickenshit about horror movies, and he spooks, and can’t see his own blood. he’s just some guy, he’s not meant to be facing down his fucking demon incarnate.

yet here anti lopes around the edge of the pew with a snort. static shrills in his ears, move, move, move, and he stumbles back, grasping at the edge of the nearest candle tray.

the last ones flicker out, washing the church in cool, near-complete darkness. shreds of moonlight press their way through the stained windows; anti’s eyes glow, two sharp points of light, and chase bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood as anti skirts the last few meters.

chase is familiar with how thin reality can be, stretched cellophane-tight and ready to tear. sometimes, the cellophane tears; sometimes, it clouds, his breath fogging up. this late, the shadows erasing the edges of the altar and the moonlight softening the saint’s cold eyes, it feels like one exceptionally shitty dream.

anti’s shadow, in contrast, is painfully sharp, superimposed atop the gauzy midnight hour. there is nowhere to look but anti. he doesn't think he could've looked away even if the fucking sun was in his eyes.

“you could’ve been another nameless face,” anti says softly, so softly his voice doesn’t echo off of the vaulted ceilings. “you would’ve been another number, rotting away in a shitty little room with a shitty little tennis ball and a metal chair, and nobody could’ve cared less if you wasted the last few years of your life being interrogated like you were worth less than a warm body.”

chase has nowhere to go, back against the windowsill. anti stands before him, and for all that they feel like they should be the same height- anti towers, burning as the angel silhouetted behind him never does even at the peak of day.

saint michael the archangel, he thinks, half hysterically. protector, protector, protector. his hand finds the hilt of his pistol, warm where it rests against his holster, eases it free, inch by inch. off goes the safety.

“i gave you your life back,” anti says, voice barely above a hiss. “tore you out of hell.”

burning, burning, he’s burning in the waning moonlight, haloed in saint michael’s gold, wings stretching not for the skies, outwards, towards him. judgement and sinner; victim and executioner. terrible in his vengeance, glorious in his purpose, wasn’t that what they said about the angels?

saint michael’s blade flashes, a silver arc, and chase throws himself backwards, three quick pops shattering the silence. the first two go wide; one embeds itself in a pew, another splinters anti’s halo into a shower of gold sparks; the last one sends his angel to his knees.

(fallen, his mind supplies, hysterically again, and he really wants to get off of this shitty metaphor now. he wants to disembark this fucking train. not michael, never michael- lucifer, maybe, beautiful in his lies. he never wanted him.)

“you,” he says- whispers- “destroyed it. you tore out everything i had to call a home.”

anti’s eyes bleed red as he climbs back to his feet, back popping in ways that chase thinks would send him to the emergency room. perfect twins to the bloated corpse of a moon that hangs outside the shattered window.

he’s smiling, chase realizes with a jolt, and the hair rises on the back of his neck. anti is smirking, sharp and wide, heedless of the glass that he leaves in his wake like beads of blood. the church rattles in his ears, heaving for breath.

“you did half the work,” it coos at him, and lunges; his back slams into the little ledge beneath the window and he wheezes, driving his knee into whatever he can reach to roll anti’s slimmer frame off of him. he ends up unbalancing them, slamming into the ground with anti first beneath him; then a leg wraps around his hips and flips them.

he keeps ahold of his pistol by sheer force of will, and is about to raise it-

the tip of a knife digs in, just below his throat. he freezes, painfully aware of how he heaves for breath, the blade pricking with each gasp. anti stares down at him, seemingly unbothered, but taut as a bowstring.

“you did half the work,” he repeats again, voice harder. the moon hangs, rotting and red, behind him, smearing what little features chase can make out in the hazy light. fallen angel, fallen halo. “your children, your wife- i never touched a hair on them, chase. you’re just as good as me at ruining your own lives, if not better. would you like to see, chase? would you like to see how stacy herds her younglings to school day after day, and carefully tells them how papa was sick, papa was sick enough that he has to get better first before he can see them again?”

chase’s breath stutters as the knife presses in. above them, he can make out the window he was trapped against; saint jude, jude of thaddeus, patron saint of one chase brody, stares down at them, eyes mournful in the bloody light, the stained glass weeping in a way that chase knows isn’t right and still flinches at when it drips next to him.

“all i have ever done for you,” anti murmurs, false breath rustling his hair, “is set you free.”

they stay like that, dangling on a knife’s edge, anti pressing a knee to chase’s chest and chase resting the barrel of his gun on anti’s chest.

chase is, on some level, aware of anti’s weight pressing him into the ground. there’s glass digging into his back, into his shoulders- that’s real enough, isn’t it? there’s no heat to anti’s weight, saint jude’s tears don’t leave a trace in the fading shade of the eclipse, but the knife to his throat is painfully, painfully real.

nothing makes sense, here.

he tears his eyes away from the weeping saint, from mary’s little lamb with his pretty little smile of red, and lets both of his hands thump gently to the floor.

(saint jude, patron of the lost, weeping for a cause so lost he doesn’t even know which way is up, anymore.)

“you killed people,” he accuses softly. there’s but a sliver of moon left, like anti had taken his knife to the heavens and carved a furious red slit in between the stars. “you lie, as easy as you breathe.”

anti laughs at him, and pulls back the knife; chase sucks in another breath, but all anti does is pry the gun out of his hand, curling his fingers around the hilt of the knife instead. the grip fits like a glove, like it had been made for him and him alone.

it pauses, for just a moment; when chase looks over, anti is staring at his hand. at the band of silver that wraps around his finger, worn from years of fiddling and stained from blood that never washed off right.

he can't make out its expression.

then it turns its head, teeth catching the dim midnight light, one hand tightly wrapped around his. around the hilt of the knife, the band of metal digging into the leather of the hilt. it hurts. he doesn't let up his grip.

(he can't. he can't let go.)

cold, his mind wants to supplement- but there's no heat. darkness is an absence of light, cold is an absence of heat- but that implies anti was ever capable of warmth.

“your hands, chase." anti is talking like he never stopped. "your heart pumping, your neurons firing to coordinate all of those unwieldy muscles. was it me? or was it you? what do you think the world would say?”

his face, still. his voice, laughing in the screaming halls. chase shuts his eyes against the furious pricking in his eyes.

he wants- to wake up. to go home. for this to be over. to stop screaming.

“why,” he whispers, “won’t you leave me alone?”

anti hums again, a buzz of static that raises goosebumps. he shivers. a hand threads through his hair, just harsh enough to make him wince; he doesn’t pull away.

“if you want to be alone so bad,” anti murmurs, “why do you keep turning back to look for me?”

#antisepticeye #chase brody #considering if this needs to be tagging for egoshipping/antiaverage because it can be read either way #ill just wait and see i guess #tw emotional manipulation #kit writes #jacksepticegos #writersofjack #....do we use the jacksepticeye tag for ego writing? i forget tagging these days LOL

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fruitycasket · 1 year

Text

Still Here

Jack is still kickin’ around in his body, believe it or not; even though Anti’s taken it for himself.

Word Count: 723

Notes: A goofy silly idea. Also up on Ao3, but I don’t feel like linking anything right now just look for name RottenFruitz if you want to see it there, instead.

It was nighttime when Jack finally surfaced from the depths of Anti. He had no idea how much time had passed, whether it had been a few hours or several days, or even longer—moments where he could fight his way out of the jail cell it smashed him into were extremely far and few between. Mostly, he slipped out when it was relaxed, not bothering to hold him back. This was one of those times. He squeezed himself to the forefront of the creature’s consciousness until he could feel again, then hear, then see. It let him stay. For a second his body roared in his ears, he could hear the blood pulsing in his veins and his heart beating, the swell and contraction of his lungs, the rumble of his stomach, the soft noises of his tongue as it flicked over his teeth. There was blood in his veins that was a degree hotter than his own.

(At least, he assumed it was blood.)

When the sounds and sensations finally quieted, the monster spoke, its voice drilling right into his brain rather than being spoken out loud.

“Behave, or you go back.”

Jack looked down. He was sitting on the coffee table, his body casting a shadow over Chase as he slept on the couch. The TV was on behind him, bathing the room in blue-ish light and inaudible chatter. “You behave. Creep.”

The monster made a noise, so deep and rumbling he almost didn’t register it as laughter. “I’m only looking this time. It isn’t your business, anyway.”

" Your business? It's my body!"

"Is it?" the monster asked.

The question was genuine. He could feel it, uncomfortably close and pressing so hard into his consciousness that it might have come from his own brain.

It asked again, "Is it?"

"It is," Jack tried to sound venomous but ended up unsure, "That's my face, my everything ! You took it from me."

"But is it yours now ? I’ve changed it. Everything about it I made to suit me . If I gave you control you would be useless in this flesh. It isn't yours anymore, and even if it was, when was the last time you controlled a body at all?"

There was a long silence. The monster's content filled Jack's head.

Jack retreated, his senses dulled. Anti was right, even if his body was his own, would he be able to use it after spending so long in… whatever this was? Some weird, dream-like place of shapes, emotions, where senses and physical things didn't exist? He could barely remember the first days he’d been stuffed down there, it had been hellish, nauseating. Now it was less so. Now when he came back up, he had to adjust a little, get used to feeling again. It was fast, only a minute or so, but what would he do if that time steadily got longer? If one day he couldn't readjust?

It really would be Anti’s body, then.

When he returned, he only had one request. "Just… don't hurt him, please.”

In that moment they stared at Chase's sleeping form and felt a shared sense of sympathy, which Jack had not been expecting. Of course, it was different; their thoughts had yet to ever truly sync and he didn't ever want them to. Jack saw Chase as a friend, an equal, and his desire to protect him came from compassion, not possession. Anti only saw a…

"Pet," the monster used his hand—at least, he called them his, he hoped they still were his—to pet Chase's hair.

"Toy, more like," Jack told it.

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes."

Anti felt, or saw…? However it worked, it understood the image Jack conjured up in his head and felt his disgust. Jack received amusement in return. "Either way, it's mine."

"He, not it."

"Whatever. Be quiet or go away."

Jack considered his options. He didn't want to go back down again, he decided, not while there was nothing horrific happening he needed to hide from. Anti's question had given him a newfound fear of losing himself inside the monster's mass, whether that meant becoming a part of it or simply forgetting how to be human, he didn't want that to happen. He'd stay as long as he was allowed.

He'd stay here, with Chase.

#writersofjack #chase brody #antisepticeye #fanfic #ask for whatever else to tag #ill add the Ao3 tags tho just in case #possession #possessive behavior #(maybe?)#mild body horror #very mild

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solaneceae · 2 years

Text

amhrán na farraige

Henrik has a good life. He's a surgeon, and a damn good one at that; he's got a loving partner, a house, everything a man could possibly want.

But there's a huge chasm in his past. He can hear people sing, even when their mouth is closed. And the smell of sea salt and brine follows him no matter where he goes.

(cw: ego shipping, schneeplebro/docaverage)

Read on ao3

---------/

Henrik has a good life.

He’s a surgeon, a healer — he fixes people, and gets money and gratitude for it.

Sometimes their heart stops and never beats again, right there on his operating table. He knows death is part of the job, that he always does the best he can. But he can’t stop himself from heaving and curling up on the hospital bathroom floor afterwards, because that was a life, that was a life he felt slip away between his fingers. Long, slender fingers, steady hands, yet bloodied.

(A life stops, a song stops. He always hears music, always, harmony and discord as people pass him by. Everyone always sings, even with their mouth closed, even as they sleep. Always.)

***

Henrik has a loving partner. Chase, sweet, amazing Chase, who pushed past his prickly exterior. Chase, who makes him laugh with his ridiculous jokes and antics. Chase, who trusted him with his heart, battered and bleeding, who let him hold him after he nearly drank himself into a coma and cried in the doctor’s arms, because he couldn’t see a way out of the darkness.

Chase, who had been so scared to love someone like that again. Yet one night, as their bodies sung in shared pleasure and their breaths mingled, beads of exertion glinting like dew on their skin, Chase had told Henrik he loved him. It hadn’t been clear, trapped between a moan and a sob, but he’d said it again and again as they both unraveled.

(Chase’s song is complex, melancholy and regret meeting cautious hope and naive sweetness. Henrik stays up to listen, gently cradling his boyfriend’s sleeping face and thumbing over each of his features. Henrik’s bedroom smells of him — chamomile and wheat and a musk that’s so distinctly Chase. It smells of him, of cooling lust, and the ever-present sea salt and foam in the doctor’s nostrils.)

***

Henrik has blemishes. Dots and patches of discolored skin, pale grey or white on his fair complexion. They’ve always been there, just like the silver and white strands scattered in his short brown hair. Left every dermatologist he’s ever seen stumped. But they don’t move, they don’t spread, and Henrik isn’t sick. They’re just another part of him.

(Chase likes to count them, to kiss each and every one of them as he worships Henrik’s body, so gentle and reverent and loving it makes the doctor want to cry. His tears taste like the ocean, salt and brine, always salt and brine.)

***

Henrik is a lot of things. A surgeon, a lover, an estranged husband and father.

And there’s a hole in his past. A chasm.

He remembers drowning. Pain and panic, the freezing, tight embrace of the water like a stillwomb. The salt burning his eyes and throat, water in his lungs. Darkness engulfing him as the ocean pulls at him, refusing to let him go.

Then he wakes in a hospital. He’s young, no older than twenty, maybe even less. He has nothing but his name, memories stolen by the water who tried to steal his life. Trauma-based memory loss, the doctors kept saying, although it didn’t mean much to Henrik.

A name and a blinding fear of the ocean — the ocean who clings to him no matter how far he moves away from it, the scent of it ever-present. That’s all Henrik starts his life with, years and years of it forever out of his reach. Spots on his skin and seafoam in his nose.

And a grey, white-speckled coat he locks into a chest and forgets about.

He knows something is missing, even as he busies himself building a life. As he throws himself into his studies, into short and meaningless flings, then into a marriage that makes him feel like he’s drowning all over again. There’s a hole in his memories, a hole in his very soul, and nothing ever fills it.

He tries alcohol first, but hates the person he becomes when under its influence. Weed has interesting results, but it dulls his senses and mind, and it scares him. Nicotine becomes his go-to for a while, before he meets Chase. Now, it’s caffeine, only caffeine. His hands, skilled and steady hands tremble when he has too much, and Chase kisses his knuckles soothingly as he pours the rest of the pot into the drain.

(It’s better with Chase, pretty, kind Chase. He’s doing better, they both are. The hole is still there, the longing for something Henrik can’t identify, just as great as it ever was. But he learns to ignore it better.)

***

One day, Chase finds something in his attic. Henrik never goes up there, because it’s nothing but old junk and dust, but Chase stumbles on an old wooden chest there as he searches for something completely unrelated. It’s perfectly ordinary, without a proper lock, and the vlogger can’t help but take a peek inside.

When he comes back down, holding a beautiful, ample coat of white-pattered grey fur, Henrik breaks. He takes a step back, then another, until his back hits the kitchen counter. He’s breathing fast, too fast, even as Chase rushes up to him. Henrik doesn’t hear his pleas to calm down, it’s okay, what’s wrong? Nor does he see Chase’s panicked face, his grey-blue eyes set on the coat in the other man’s hands like it’s death itself coming to take him.

He knows what this is he doesn’t know what this is.

He wants to take it back he wants to run away.

Chase, Chase has it, he touched it, wrong, wrong! Stolen, taken! He wants it back he doesn’t want it he wants it he doesn't want—

Henrik lets out a pitiful whine and sinks down to the cold tiled floor, rocking and whimpering and pulling at his hair as his lover tries desperately to understand, to help. And Henrik doesn’t start to calm down until the coat is hidden out of sight, out of mind, out of mind, out of mind.

In the end, the mysterious coat goes back in the attic, and Henrik spends the rest of the evening curled up in Chase’s lap, the vlogger gently petting his hair and whispering apologies. But there’s nothing to forgive, Henrik thinks. Chase hasn’t done anything wrong.

Then why? Why had he felt the burn of seawater in his throat, in his lungs, longing and terror alike tearing his carefully stiched-together self apart?

***

That night, Henrik has a strange dream. As his lover holds him and the rain pours outside his window, he dreams he hasn’t always been human.

***

Things don’t get back to normal. Henrik can’t sleep, dream-memories of watery darkness and weightlessness making him wake up with the gasps of a drowning man. He zones out, his hands keep shaking even though he’s cut the caffeine. His coworkers look at him with barely disguised concern, and it drives him up the wall.

(A box has been opened. A wooden chest. And the latter might have been closed, but the former hasn’t.)

He almost botches an open-heart surgery. His boss makes him take the week off. Everything he’s built for himself is falling apart, because of a goddamn piece of fur that doesn’t even look like a proper coat.

He spends the first few days despondent on the couch, exhausted yet unable to sleep. Whenever he closes his eyes, all he can see are tiny, tiny silver bubbles of air escaping his mouth and nose as life leaves his lungs. He can hear the waves, louder and louder in his ears. The smell of salt and brine has become so pungent he can taste it in everything he eats, everything he drinks.

He must be going mad. And it’s taking a toll on Chase too, stubborn, self-sacrificial Chase who’s trying so hard to keep him fed and hydrated, keep him sane, keep him together.

(He’s selfish. He's supposed to be the other man’s support, not the other way around.)

He’s scared. Gott, he’s so scared. “Chase,” he croaks out on the fourth day, after many, many hours of silence. His boyfriend is at his side instantly, catching his hand and squeezing it gently. “Yeah?” Chase asks quietly, smiling down at him. He looks so tired. “What’s up, big man? Do you need something?”

Henrik plants his own dull, grey eyes into pools of blue. He can see flickers of gold and silver in the vlogger’s eyes, quick shadows swimming through like fish. He blinks, and they’re gone.

The allure. It’s never been this strong, slowly overtaking his fear. His whole body is singing, so loud he can barely hear anything else, not even the waves. It’s discordant, it needs, it wants. “Take me to the sea,” he murmurs. The waves in his ears crash with a thunderous noise.

***

It’s not a short trip. And despite Henrik’s frantic demands that they leave now, quickly, Chase insists they pack up properly and book a hotel first. Henrik barely takes anything, and what little he shoves into his suitcase is more to appease Chase than anything else. He doesn’t need any clothes, or toiletries, or anything. He just needs to go. He has to see it.

(Without really realizing it, he climbs up into the attic while Chase loads up his things and takes the coat. It feels impossibly soft against his skin, like it was made just for him.)

They take Chase’s car, because the doctor is nowhere functional enough to drive even a bumper kart at a local fair. They live pretty far off the nearest coast, so it’s a fairly long drive that takes up most of the next day. The low drone of the engine and rocking motions lull Henrik into an uneasy sleep on the passenger seat — the bags under his eyes are so dark, his face so gaunt and pale and hollow, it makes Chase’s heart lurch. But he keeps driving, keeps forcing water and snacks into his boyfriend at each pit stop, because he’s not fucking giving up on the man he loves.

The more they approach the seafront, the more frantic Henrik seems to get. Dull grey eyes gain back some shine, a fevered kind of glint that’s almost more concerning. His hands fiddle with the strings of his borrowed hoodie, the one he likes to wear when he’s anxious. It smells like Chase, and it’s comforting enough.

The first spot they reach, thanks to Henrik’s insistence, is not a beach you’d see on a postcard. It’s remote, right under a jagged cliffside, which makes it tricky to climb down to. Grey and black rocks sinking under the tide instead of white sand. And it’s early November, which means it’s cold, a humid, freezing cold only made worse by the grey drizzle of rain. Nobody sensible is around this time of year.

It’s perfect, Henrik thinks.

He can smell it, actually smell it — the salt, the foam, the brine. No longer a phantom scent clinging to him, but tangible, real, surrounding him. Chase helps him down the last boulder, and his shoes hit the rocky beach with a dull crunch. “It’s kind of pretty,” the vlogger comments, shivering a little within the confines of his parka. “Wild.”

Henrik doesn’t respond. The bundle on his back almost burns through his clothes. The wind whips at his face and hands harshly, but he no longer feels the cold.

The sea is restless, grey, reflecting the troubled skies. Foam forms within the creases of the crashing waves. Definitely unsafe.

“Think there’s an undertow somewhere,” Chase squints as his lover sits down on the rocks, protecting his eyes from the pale light of the setting winter sun. “No wonder there’s no easy path down there, place is a death trap.”

Still, he sits down next to the older man, wrapping an arm around him. Henrik lets him, his head falling against Chase’s shoulder as they both gaze out at the horizon. The drizzle has stopped, for now.

Chase takes a deep breath — the seabreeze enters his lungs, fresh and invigorating after weeks of rough nights and silent anxiety. Seaspray mixes with the remaining rainwater on his cheeks, cold, leaving little white salt patches on his skin. Now he and Henrik are twins.

It really is pretty out there, even though it’s cold and the rocks are digging into his ass uncomfortably. “I’ll go get the blanket,” he decides, rubbing Henrik’s arm as he presses a kiss to his temple. “You stay right here, I’ll be right back.”

Henrik nods, slowly, like he’s not quite all there. His fingers dig into the bundle at his side as Chase gets up and walks away, beginning his ascension back to the car.

When the rocky beach comes back into view as the vlogger climbs back down with a bag, he almost trips and falls into a chasm.

Henrik is no longer there. His clothes lay discarded where Chase left him, and the fabric bag he was carrying is empty among them. The vlogger feels a cold, sharp panic claw at his heart before he spots the other man, standing further away, and Chase understands that something is really, really off.

Henrik stands there, naked as the day he was born, wrapping that coat around himself — the one from the attic, the one thing that had started his partner’s downward spiral in the first place. It falls around the doctor’s wiry frame like a thick layer of foam, shapeless but somehow perfectly fitted.

His naked feet are in the water. He’s too close, too close, and the raging waves are right there. “Henrik!” Chase calls out, his voice going up a few octaves as he scrambles faster down the rocks. “What are you doing?! Get back, it’s — shit, it’s dangerous!”

Henrik turns back to look at him. Chase can’t make out his expression from that distance, but he can tell he’s no longer wearing his glasses. Henrik never takes off his glasses, not even in the bath even though they alway get fogged up, because his eyesight is that terrible.

He stares. Then he pulls the hood of that coat over his head, blue eyes disappearing beneath grey and white fur, and he takes a step forward.

“No!” Chase screeches, missing the last few steps and falling over the edge with a startled yelp. He hits the rocks with a pained wheeze, not even taking the time to check his throbbing shoulder before he scrambles to his feet. “Henrik!”

The other is knee-deep already, and he’s not stopping. Chase grits his teeth and starts running, calling the other’s name in a desperate attempt to get him to stop, come back, Hen, please!

But Henrik doesn’t hear him. All he hears is the song, that song that’s been drilling in his ears ever since he first woke up in that hospital, always droning in the background. Now it’s loud, like a siren’s song, and he can no longer resist it.

Even now, he’s scared. He doesn’t know if he’s heading for his death, or something different he doesn’t understand yet. But he doesn’t stop, not even when Chase skids to a stop at the edge of the water and begs him to come back. Not even when Chase grits his teeth and jumps in after him, his jeans quickly soaked and waterlogged. Not even when the vlogger realizes how stupid of an idea this is when a wave knocks him off his feet and the current almost drags him away at frightening speed.

Henrik walks. The water’s cold, but it doesn’t bother him. The coat is warm, soft, and sticking to him like a second skin. His fear gets quiet. He takes a deep, deep breath. And he sinks under the surface, letting the current carry him far, far away as the coat and his body become one.

It’s peaceful. It’s grey and blue, blue, blue.

Henrik forgets.

***

Chase coughs, soaked and freezing, choking out mouthfuls of seawater on the rocky beach. And when he has no more water left to heave, he screams.

*** The ocean is infinite.

He sinks, as the fear and doubts boil inside his veins.

Strikes of bright silver, the seals fly by his sides.

Their song is so beautiful, he can’t remember if he’s swimming in water or in the harmonious chords of their perfect trills.

They weave a web of light and life around him. Inside him.

Trapped by the threads, the doubts and fear dissolve as he becomes ocean.

And always, that song. The song of the sea.

This is home. I’m home.

***

Chase sobs. He’s cold, so cold, fingers digging like claws at the rocks beneath him.

Henrik’s gone. He’s lost him. It’s been almost an hour since he’s sunk under the surface, and nobody could survive this long underwater. Chase knows this.

Yet, even as the hours pass and the night paints the sky in ink and stars, something keeps him here, sitting on that beach, his blanket wrapped tightly around himself, soaked clothes discarded to the side. Waiting for the impossible.

***

The world is a song. The song of the sea.

Every perfect note binds existence and matter, water and dream, desire and change.

Quick chase and playful tumbles, sweet daydreams rocked by the waves. Dives in forgotten darkness, iridescent bubbles of calm exhales or boiling rush of foam, the song drapes the world in harmony.

The drifting, translucent icebergs are drums, drums drifting towards their doom.

The shimmer of silver fish fleeing in vain in front of him, a chorus of chimes, light and beautiful.

Harmony of the purest kind, marrying the darkness of the abyss to the light of the surface. His fins cut through the sea, through the song.

There is only one false note — a splash of sunny yellow in the endless blue.

A face. Cherished.

***

Chase’s body shivers. His eyelashes flutter in the breeze, hands faintly twitching and curling around the blanket as he sleeps fitfully, knocked out by the exhaustion.

***

He has a strange dream.

As the moon bathes the world in silver and unstoppable waves rock his slumber, he dreams he hasn’t always been part of the sea.

A face. A smile, dimples, freckles, a nose scrunching up. Soft, baby blue eyes. I love you, Hen.

The blue-eyed harbor seal remembers.

***

Chase wakes, sluggishly, like he’s being pulled out of a quagmire. He’s not sure what woke up him at first, the sky still dark, the sea now quiet and at peace. But when his eyes flutter open, crusty with sleep and salt, he makes out a shape kneeling next to him.

He gasps, the last cobwebs of drowsiness burned away to nothing. Because Henrik is back, his hair plastered to his forehead by the seawater. He’s still wrapped up in that coat, shaking him gently with a look of pure worry.

Chase tackles him and the doctor yelps, the coat absorbing most of the impact as his back hits the rocks. “Henrik Von Schneeplestein, you fucking idiot!” Chase seethes and Henrik winces, because oh, his boyfriend is mad. “What the hell?! I thought— I thought—”

Chase whimpers, his rage fading into relief, so overwhelming he can’t form words. He embraces Henrik through his thick, fluffy coat, suppressing a sob because he’s so tired of crying. Hen’s back. He’s alive. He’s alive.

Henrik’s eyes soften. His arms slowly emerge from the furs, the coat falling back to reveal his very alive, very human upper body. He wraps his arms around the younger man, closing his eyes and letting the other cry silently into his neck. They hold each other for a while, no more words needed.

“Fuck, Hen,” Chase finally breaks the silence after many, many long minutes. He breathes out in a shuttering exhale. “I thought— you were—”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I thought I lost you.”

“I know. I thought I lost myself, too.”

Chase clings to him like a mussel to its rock, like he’s scared Henrik will dissipate into foam if he lets go. But he does eventually, letting Henrik cradle his tear-stricken face. Everything tastes of salt, everything. “Häschen,” the German murmurs, stroking over the other’s cheeks to wipe the tears away. “It’s alright. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, not again. I promise.”

Chase sniffles, burying his face into the other’s chest. Henrik pets his uncovered curls soothingly, the iconic snapback lost somewhere near the cliff. “...I’m not human,” he breathes out. Not lamenting, or awestruck, just… stating a fact. Like a piece of his universe righting itself. He looks healthier than he’s ever been, Chase notices when he pulls away again — his eyes are bright, no longer grey and dull, and the dark rings around them are all but gone, color returned to his previously ashen skin.

He looks… peaceful. Radiant. But a hint of worry twists the corners of his mouth down. “You… you don’t…” Henrik tries, visibly bracing himself for some form or rejection, or fear. Chase lets out a wheezy, wet bout of laughter. “Hen, c’mon. You could be a fucking dragon for all I care. I love you, and—”

He presses his lips against the other man’s, fiercely, like he’s trying to convey every ounce of trust, affection and devotion he has. He pulls away to breathe, leaving Henrik a little dizzy and lovestruck. “I love you so much,” the vlogger continues, holding his lover even tighter. “If this is who you are— if this,” he gestures at the wide expanse of ocean in front of them, “Is what you’ve been needing all this time… then we’ll figure it out. Okay? Together.”

Chase kisses his forehead, his nose, his mouth. Gentle. Loving. Chase is human, he’s warm, and Henrik loves him, has loved him way before he ever laid his hands on his precious coat, his other skin.

He leans into his love, letting him lay his head down on his thigh. He trusted Chase with his life, had for a long time. And now, he was trusting him with his skin. Selkie skin, his mind provides, finally remembering the word, the old stories.

Gott. He was a selkie. That made so much sense. Now he felt like a fool — the answer had been right under his nose this whole time, locked away in an attic, gathering dust. “I’m tired,” he mumbles, because he is. Gone is the fear, the unknown that kept him up at night. His mind is quiet, save for the song, back to a comforting background noise.

Chase hums. “I can imagine. What were you doing in there?” he asks, trying to light up the mood. “Your breath smells like fish.”

Henrik laughs. It feels good. “Chase, mein Gott. And you tell me this after you kissed me silly. Several times.”

“Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

“Dummkopf,” the German slurs, already struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Love you too, doc. Fuck, so much for that hotel room…”

They grow quiet again, Chase laying down to pull Henrik against him, pressing his forehead against his boyfriend’s. Henrik smiles sleepily, both of their songs intertwining in perfect harmony as the sun rises over the horizon.

Henrik sleeps, and dreams of nothing.

#henrik von schneeplestein #chase brody #jse egos #ego shipping #schneeplebro #docaverage #chenrik #selkie!henrik #my writing #if any of yall havent seen song of the sea please do #its a masterpiece of a movie #writersofjack

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focailmarbh · 10 months

Text

Want to info dump about my egos and Anti’s little ‘family’ (gaggle of kidnapped people) in that AU

Jackie/Hoodie and Sheep/Henrik are kept separate from Sunny/Chase and Carver/JJ, usually spread out in the living room of the mansion Anti hijacked. Kitten/Marvin is definitely the worse off one though, they’re stashed away in a spare room upstairs since Anti’s hypnosis doesn’t work on them. Can’t have them ‘infecting’ the others with ideas when they’re so obedient!

Carver and Kitten were the first ones he snatched up, as you can read in the stories I’ve written. They were living in a stolen house in Japan to hide, but Jackie was lured in to save them, and he actually did manage to grab Marvin and run. Anti caught them the minute they hit the nearest city, and literally dragged them back after a scuffle where Jackie was stabbed. Jackie was kept in a spare room, chained up and beaten within an inch of his life. Without his antipsychotic and under constant influence of hypnosis, he was incredibly easy to turn into Hoodie.

Hoodie was allowed to take care of the pets in the beginning, patching their wounds and getting them fed and clean. Anti dangles the threat of taking his antipsychotics away over his head to keep him obedient. Anti blots out cameras and just steals the ziprasidone for him.

Eventually, in fact before Jackie was fully Hoodie even, Anti packed them on a flight while hypnotizing all three of them and took them to the Netherlands. The hypnosis was so straining on him that he collapsed while they were getting through the airport. To his shock, the three of them gathered around him worriedly, and Hoodie took him to the hotel on his back while Kitten and Carver simpered worriedly beside them. Hoodie laid him in bed to recover, and for the first time Hoodie told Anti he loved him, pledging loyalty while crying. This is where he started liking the idea of having them all as a family.

Chase was taken next. Hoodie was forced to help with the process of breaking him in. Torture, hypnosis, and the destroyed image of his eldest brother made the already meek Chase easy to make into Sunny. Anti likes him, he’s always liked him, so he and Carver were made to live in a separated room as the favourites. They are the ones showered in presents and they’re given larger portions of food. Anti makes it clear to Hoodie and Kitten that if they don’t ‘prove’ themselves as loyal and obedient they won’t be fed.

Henrik was caught last, while Chase was still being tortured and brainwashed. Watching Chase and his brothers act like the demon was their family was frustrating and stopped Henrik from becoming Sheep for a long while. Chase was moved on to the main house and Henrik was still being tortured. He was broken down and his brain was so scrambled that he became quiet, meek, and incredibly jumpy. He curls into a ball and freezes every time any danger appears - this gets him called useless very often. He’s meant to be the little doctor for the group, and he tries as hard as he can to please Anti by doing so.

Anti moves everyone to Germany using a large SUV that he made Hoodie kill the owners of. Hoodie now cannot leave, he would be immediately caught for murder without Anti’s protection.

In Germany they set up home in an abandoned mansion, and there they stay. Hoodie and Sheep live on the bottom floor, having roam of the whole of it. They also run errands and have a deal of freedom compared to the others. Kitten is kept in a spare room alone, being visited by Anti for either affection or torture depending on Anti’s mood. Kitten is utterly hopeless, not able to be brainwashed yet trapped and abused by his own family.

Sunny and Carver are the favourite little darlings. They wear nice, clean clothes and eat well enough for Sunny to be chubby. Sunny has retreated into his mind a bit, acting very childlike and foggy due to the hypnosis and abuse. Carver is aware - painfully aware. He’s belonged to Anti ever since he was born, and despite the hypnosis he knows very well that this is abuse - he knows how wrong it all is. This is not the way the story is meant to be. But, powerless against his brothers, all he can do is watch.

#writersofjack #writers of jack #jacksepticeye egos #jacksepticeye AU #torture tw #abuse tw #hypnosis tw #brainwashing tw #whump #whump writing #fandom whump #tw captivity #captivity whump #whumpee #multiple whumpees

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egopocalypse · 2 years

Text

ALTR 1013: Audio_Log_001

Thought I’d try a new format for fun! This is just a little celebratory nod to the Project IRIS teaser as well as my return to the JSE community. I’ve missed you guys, and I’ve missed these characters. It’s time to rain hell on Chase Brody once again. /hj Hope you enjoy!

The following is part of a series of audio logs conducted under supervision between Dr. Lewis Hopkins and ALTR 1013. All records require Clearance Level Six. Any IRIS associates found accessing these records below Clearance Level Six will be terminated immediately.

Dr. Lewis Hopkins: Hello, [REDACTED]. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today.

ALTR 1013: I didn't agree to anything. Your guards attacked me and brought me here. I don't even know who the fuck you are.

Hopkins: As a reminder, [REDACTED], you are on camera. Anything you say or do is being recorded and can be turned over to the police at any time. You consented to this when you signed the waiver.

1013: I didn't sign anything! You guys grabbed me and stuck me in this cell!

Hopkins: Let the record show that [REDACTED] is showing direct hostility. If further disturbance continues, I will be forced to reassess threat and containment levels.

1013: Are you threatening me?

Hopkins: It's not a threat; I'm merely making you aware of the steps I am able to take should I feel unsafe as we speak.

1013: And what about me? What can I do if I feel threatened by you?

Hopkins: [REDACTED], you agreed to this. We do not appreciate any attempts to revise the fact, especially when we have the proper documents filed with your signature.

1013: ...I want a lawyer. This sounds like something I need a lawyer for.

Hopkins: We aren't the police. A lawyer isn't required, nor are we able to charge you. However, should we deem it necessary, we can and will call the cops at any time.

(A chair scrapes along the floor.)

Hopkins: Personally, I've heard you've been made into quite the news story. A [REDACTED] that murdered his wife and family? The media's out for blood. If the cops do find you, you'll never see the light of day again. Or, on the off-chance you are released early, your trial would be so publicized that your name would be tainted forever. No one would want to hire you, and from what I've heard, you've had a hard time paying the bills as it is.

1013: (quiet) How long have you been watching me?

Hopkins: That's classified information.

(Papers shuffle. A pen clicks.)

Hopkins: Now that we've established the parameters, what can you tell me about the day you murdered your family?

The rest of the transcript is redacted. For an unredacted copy, IRIS associates with Clearance Level Eight may contact Director [REDACTED]. Any associates below Clearance Level Eight requesting this information will be terminated.

@seaswalllow @skyewardlight @fear-is-nameless

#jacksepticeye #chase brody #project iris #writersofjack #River's Writing #manipulation tw #Please let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist!

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pxppet · 6 months

Text

"Tell me, and do be honest. For what purpose did you steal me?" Elliot points the fingers of his touching hands at the scientist like a stereotypical Sherlock, a contemplative grin on his face.

They look up from the papers they had been shredding across the room, turning in their rolling chair to face the ALTR. "I told you, and while I don't mind telling you again, I wish it'd sink in: I saved you from that awful place. You lived a long, dreadful life and- and you're only 19, yet. It's not- I needed to-" They sigh, massaging their temple to knot out the stress.

Elliot picks at the sleeves of his sweater, distant. His entire right hand is bandaged in gauze from an 'incident' during his transport. But Elliot is used to incidents, particularly ones where he is the culprit. "Where did the clothes you dress me in come from," he tests, immediately getting his answer as the scientist stiffens and turns their chair away slightly, half going back to destroying documents, half considering if Elliot even needs verbal confirmation.

"From the store, Elliot. Remember the store, the big store I went into and you had to hide in the car?"

"Store," Elliot tries out the word on his tongue, giving a hum of approval. "So, doctor, was it a spouse or a chil-"

The scientist slaps their own leg in shock and turns around to look at him with eyes that shut him up immediately. When they see him shrink under the blankets with his wide, orange eyes, they immediately untense and correct themselves. "Im sorry, it's okay. It's- it's not polite to ask certain questions. I know the testers don't... hold back on you ALTRs, but out here, people don't ask such personal things."

"Have you ever experienced a terrible occurrence that impacted you significantly," Elliot mumbles under a breath, almost too faint to be heard. The colour is gone from his face, and he suddenly lies back down, quieted by being startled.

The scientist licks their lips, brow creasing with pity. "I have supplies for burritos tonight. It's something you've never tried before. It has meat. You'll like it." They turn back around and gnaw at their lip with guilt as they resume their tasks of covering up Elliot's vanishing.

"Doctor," he calls softly over the whirring of the shredder. "Thank you for letting me wear your child's sweater." He yawns, seemingly exhausted into frail sleep yet again. "I think it is the only clothing I've ever enjoyed. I will get no blood on it."

The blunt confession is the first outright thanks they've received so far, and their hands clench shakily around the papers. They blink away tears. What do you even respond to that with? What could possibly addendum such a genuine thanks?

They turn back to face him, mouth already forming words, but when they see him, he has gone back to sleep. They sigh. They will shred papers. Then they will make burritos. Then they will care for this strange and wild little ALTR as much as they can. No matter what.

#Late night early morning - I was immediately thinking of them #Elliot reading them like a book due to only having social exposer to testers and scientist is really funny to me #altr elliot #irisona #iris sona #iris oc #jse iris #writersofjack #writers of jack #whump #whumpee #parental caretaker #caretaker #whump caretaker #science whump #rescue whump

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jsehungergamesau · 4 months

Text

Against All Odds

CHAPTER 1

Chase can't help the goofy smile that takes up his entire face.

"What are you smiling at?" Stacy asked with a fond laugh. The early rays of morning sunlight shone through her brown hair, lighting it up into a rich auburn color that matched the oak trees in fall.

"You," Chase replied simply with a soft look in his pale blue eyes, scooting closer to his girlfriend as they lay together in her bed.

The young woman laughed and pretended to push him away, "You're being incredibly cheesy for how early in the morning it is, Mr. Brody." She let out a squeak when her boyfriend practically engulfed her in a bear hug, trapping her in his arms as he nuzzled into the junction between her neck and shoulder.

"I can't help that you're so incredibly beautiful this early in the morning, Miss. Wells!" Chase teased her before blowing a light raspberry into her skin, making Stacy squeal again.

She pushed his face away as Chase laughed to himself. He could practically hear her roll her eyes when she said, "Cut it out! You're gonna upset her."

"I'm still suspicious of how you're so sure that it's gonna be a girl." Chase mused, taking Stacy's hand from his face and tenderly kissing the back of it on top of a freckle.

Stacy scoffed lightly, "I thought you said you wanted a girl."

"I do!" He defends himself, placing a hand over his heart, "And I'd be happy either way! I just.. wonder how you're so certain."

Her deep brown eyes sparkle, and Chase smiles while listening intently, "My mother has this trick that she learned from Granny when she had me." Stacy gently rolls onto her back and places Chase's hand on her stomach. Chase immediately starts to gently stroke his thumb over her shirt as he listens. "You take a wedding ring- eer or a ring you wear a lot- and tie it to a strand of your hair. You hold it steady over your tummy, and if it swings back and forth, it's a boy, but if it swings in a circle, it's a girl."

"A wedding ring, huh?" Chase grins, catching his girlfriend's hint immediately, but watches as she shrugs with a sad smile on her face as she places her hand over Chase's.

"We used my Granny's ring the first time, and it swung in a circle." Stacy smiles warmly down at their hands, and Chase weaves their fingers together. Stacy's hands were callused but remained soft, whereas Chase's hands had already grown somewhat leathery due to his work of handling an axe and climbing trees nearly every day. But it didn't matter to the two young lovers, they fit together perfectly.

Chase Brody had known and loved Stacy Wells since they were little kids. She was a year older than him, but they naturally gravitated toward each other, spending their free time wandering the streets of District 7 and enjoying each other's company. The peacekeepers kept a pretty tight leash on the people they watched over, but very rarely, the pair managed to slip by them and hide in the outskirts of the forests. On more than one occasion they were caught and Chase took the brunt of the punishment. But when they did manage a clean slip, they followed ancient deer trails to the river and would climb their favorite tree to spend the afternoon in peace.

But more recently, the two of them have been much more cautious since reality has smacked them in the face.

Stacy was pregnant.

It was terrifying for her when Stacy first told Chase. She said she was so worried about how he would react and if he would leave her on the spot. But it was immediately clear that Chase was over the moon. He was so excited that he picked Stacy up and spun her around her family's small kitchen before peppering her face with a million kisses. Stacy was so relieved she wanted to cry as Chase turned his brain to making plans for their future together.

Chase would go on and on about how he would build them a house near the outskirts of town where they could see the river- with Stacy gently reminding him that housing was assigned at marriage. He went on to say how he would work and trade to support them both- she already makes her fair share by mending the climbing ropes and helping her mothers in the apothecary, but wasn't upset about the prospect of a combined income. And Chase would very seriously tell her how he would do anything for her and their future child. He swore to protect and take care of them. It warmed Stacy's heart like a soft flame.

But in the quiet moments, there was an obvious undercurrent of anxiety. Not only were there going to be incredible challenges with raising this child- their child- at such a young age, but in the back of Chase's mind there was another looming fear.

Stacy was already 19, she has aged out of The Reaping. But Chase was 18. This was his last year of having his name in the pool for the Hunger Games. And since he realized his child would be coming one way or another, with or without him, he needed to get extra tesserae for both him and his family, including Stacy.

He has entered his name 21 times. 7 for his age, and 14 more for the grain and oil rations. He had to do it for his family to get by, but in the back of Chase's mind, he knows the odds were slightly more in his favor. He has the terrible thought that, unfortunately, he has friends with much larger families than him. So they must have more name slips in that glass bubble than he does… Chase always feels a wash of shame whenever the idea crosses his mind. Anybody but me.

Today was Reaping Day, and Chase was content to pretend like it was a rare day off. Just another Sunday with no work and no school. Soaking in the warmth and love of his girlfriend as much as he could. Avoiding the growing anxiety in his chest about the Reaping. It's just one more year. He thought to himself, I've slipped by 7 years already, maybe it will be okay. What's one more year?

Though he dared not say this out loud, instead opting for, "Well, if you didn't use a wedding ring, then how do you know if it was accurate?"

Stacy scoffed, voice warm but tinged with sadness, "It's not like I have one of my own, Chase…"

Chase leaned up and tenderly kissed her forehead, "Starlight…" He gently squeezed her hand and reached into his back pants pocket with the other.

Stacy gasped at the sight of the palm-sized wooden box. It was small but clearly made by Chase himself, his craftsmanship is unmistakable. It was carved with delicate swirls and blueberries, stained a deep brown-caramel color, and embellished with blue ink on the berries. The polish alone must have cost him a fortune, let alone the paint, but when he opened the box Stacy covered her mouth with a hand.

Inside was a ring. It was somewhat simple, being made of a polished gray metal of some kind, but in the center was set a small yet beautiful chip of golden amber, bracketed by thinner metal swirls to keep it secure.

Chase smiled sheepishly, "Working with metal isn't my strong suit, but I hope this will do." He forged the ring (and a matching band for himself) out of a heavy broken bolt used for securing climbing gear to the trees. He had to smuggle it out and then asked his father for help at his small forge. It came out somewhat rough but he hoped the intention was there to see.

Chase took much more pride in the wood carvings. His father had shown him the box that he had made for Chase's mother when he decided to marry her. And it was truly inspiring for Chase- burned designs of delicate flowers and detailed acorns. It was a tradition in District 7 to give your love a ring in a box that you created yourself. Chase worked hours into the night trying to sand everything perfectly smooth and ensure the varnish was evenly coated.

When Stacy didn't say anything immediately, Chase took a deep breath and tried again, "I don't know what's going to happen today…" He starts, voice low so only the two of them can hear, "But I know I want this. With you. I-I know I'm not the brightest man in the world, or the quickest with a saw, or talented in anything besides using my hands… But I know that I want to be with you, no matter what might come. When I'm with you it feels… It feels right. Like I'm coming home to something worthwhile." There is a pause, and Chase looks into Stacy's eyes which are brimming with tears. "You mean the world to me, Starlight. You're brave and creative and sharp as a thorn. You inspire me every day to fight for something, to get out of bed every day because there is someone worth loving and protecting." Chase sees tears rolling down her rosy cheeks and his smile wavers just slightly, "So… hah, what do you say, Miss. Wells? Will you be mine? Do you want to marry me, Stacy?"

Stacy barks a wet laugh and Chase can feel his heart sinking. But she nods her head quickly, hand falling away from her mouth to reveal her huge, brilliant smile, "Yes." She replies, tears warbling her voice, "Yes, yes I do."

A smile breaks across Chase's face like a blinding flare in the night sky. As they both move to hold each other close, Chase kisses her like he needs air as she holds his face in her hands like he is the world.

When the two finally pull away, Chase takes the ring from the box and delicately slides it onto her finger, gently rubbing his thumb over the gem to try and shine it while holding her hand. He gives her the box as well and Stacy takes a moment to admire both gifts and then Chase's face again.

Stacy was about to say something when they froze at the sound of the old clock tower. 9 AM. One hour until the Reaping ceremony. Stacy shakes as anxiety fills her, looking from the window back to Chase before throwing herself into his tight embrace. He quietly tries to calm her while rocking them back and forth.

Running fingers through her short hair Chase tries to comfort her, "It's okay. It's going to be alright, I promise you, Starlight. I promise it will be okay." He whispered into her hair as he held her head close to his heart.

"But what if-?" She started but stopped herself. "I can't do this alone, Chase. I can't-"

"You won't." He says more firmly than he believes himself, holding her impossibility closer. "You are not going to be alone, I promise. I promise you won't be alone…" Not again, he thinks to himself.

The two young lovers hold each other tight for a minute more before Chase forces himself to pull himself away. He stands up and quickly puts his work shirt on before leaning down over the bed again, gently brushing hair from Stacy's face and using his thumb to wipe her tear-streaked cheeks.

"Hey, I'll see you later, okay?" He tries to smile, praying his eyes don't show his true fear to her.

Stacy nods and smiles unevenly, "Okay." She whispers, then Chase kisses her forehead and quietly leaves out the back door, waving to Stacy's mom, Lilly, who gives him a sad smile as he goes. Shrugging on his thick, sap-stained gray flannel, Chase heads towards his home in the Seam to prepare for what's to come.

As soon as he enters the small home, Chase's father looks up from the table. The two men have a silent conversation with just their eyes and subtle gestures in their heads.

Did you ask her?

Yes.

Did she say yes?

Yeah, she did. I'm so happy she did.

I'm happy for you. Go clean up.

Yes, sir.

And just like that Chase went to the small bathroom and used the tub of lukewarm water to scrub himself clean. Picking splinters out of his thick skin and dunking his entire head underwater to wash his hair. He took extra care to trim his close-cropped beard so it was even and tried his best to smooth out the wrinkles of his father's hand-me-down pale orange button-up shirt. Stacy told him that the color made his eyes pop but never really saw the difference himself. Dark brown slacks, polished leather shoes with an unseen hole in the bottom, and clean socks- also with unseen holes. There was a small stain on the collar of his shirt, but there wasn't much either of the men could do about it so Chase just tried to pretend like it didn't exist.

Like he was pretending the Reaping wasn't going to happen today. Instead, he pretended he was going for a nice walk with Stacy, his fiancée, around the square.

But his delusion barely took root when he heard the half-hour chime and felt his skin grow cold.

Chase's father came in without a word and helped his son with his hair. A quiet, somber air about them as the larger man carefully brushed and styled back his son's unruly dark blonde hair. It used to be lighter when he was a baby, but it's grown dark as the years have passed. When his father is finished, Chase stands and they look at each other quietly. Chase's father nods, and Chase pulls on his gray flannel and leaves. It was way too hot for it, but he needed the comfort today.

Much sooner than he'd like, Chase was heading to the town square.

°○°○°○°

It's the same proceedings as every year. Get in line for your age, check in with a finger prick and blood sample, stand in a roped-off area for your age bracket, listen to how the rebels are the reason for the games, draw names, and go home. Everyone would celebrate their children not being reaped except for two families. All of the kids stood in the front near the stage while the rest of the district stood behind them to watch.

It's mandatory to watch.

Chase remembers how his classmate's older brother tried to skip it a few years back and the peacekeepers dragged him from his house kicking and hollering, only shutting up when they pointed a gun at him.

The square was decorated with harvest-colored banners that paled in comparison to the actual trees in the fall. They did look nice Chase supposed. All things considered, anyway. The buildings were normally blank, the Justice building being the only one made entirely of concrete in stark contrast to all of the wooden ones that made up the rest of the town square. Storefronts, mostly. But in the center was the clock tower and city hall. There was talk of the clock being torn down to make way for the Justice building way back in the day, but to everyone's amazement, it stayed erect.

The young man scanned the crowd behind him looking for his love. So many somber faces but Chase couldn't find the one with a birthmark just below her ear and nose dusted with freckles. His attention was quickly drawn back forward to the center stage that sat in front of the mostly unused Justice building.

Chase holds his breath as the national anthem starts to play, his fingers playing with the stray threads at the bottom of his flannel. Just one last time. Someone, anyone besides him had to be picked. There had to be what, five maybe six hundred other slips of paper in that bowl, he would be fine. He’s lasted this long.

One more year then he'd be free from the games.

He watches as the previous victor, a man named Jameson Jackson, drags his shoes back and forth on the stage while leaning heavily on a cane.

Chase remembers that year well, Jameson managed to use traps and hide in the trees until the girl from District 2 shot him down. An arrow to his leg, and an arrow to his throat. The entire district grieved thinking that was it, District 2 would win again. But when the final canon went off, Jameson was still alive. The girl had wandered into one of his traps, making the mistake of not finishing him off right then and there, then falling into a carefully covered pit. At least she broke her neck in a way that she died almost instantly. Jameson lost his voice to the arrow but, miraculously, never seemed to lose that cheery exterior.

Chase would hear about him buying loaves of bread for the kids whose parents died in the forest while cutting trees down. Giving his coal rations to the parents who needed them most. Hell, he's even heard that he carved wooden toys for the kids who live in the Seam and couldn't afford such frivolous items. Chase still has no idea how someone seemingly so kind could have won the games.

The Capital woman came out wearing a gown even more lavish than last year's. Pink lace draped off of her hips making her look like a cupcake and her body the candle, with her orange and red hair being the flame. Every inch of her was covered in a layer of glitter that was flaking off with every movement. The mayor and the previous victor sit down in their chairs when she reaches the microphone, waiting for this to be over with. To Jameson's credit, he did try to put on a smile. But Chase could see it was strained.

“Happy Hunger Games!” The bubbly woman exclaims into the microphone, her shrill Capitol voice echoing throughout the town square from the old speakers and spotless TV screens. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.” She brightly nods her head and another cascade of golden glitter falls from her hair.

Chase took in one last deep breath as he waited for the names to be called.

“Why don’t we start with the ladies?” Her heels click as she moves across the stage. Chase watches as her white-gloved hand dips into the bowl plucking a white slip out from the bottom. She moves back to the microphone, opening the slip with minor difficulty thanks to the gloves, prolonging the announcement of someone’s worst nightmare. The square is silent until it is cut through with a crisp reading of a name. “Ivy Cinder.”

Chase feels his stomach twist as he hears a former classmate of his scream out in agony. As if someone had already killed her. The crowd around her backs away as if she were poison- as if her fate was contagious.

Peacekeepers in bright white uniforms grab her arms, dragging her to the stage as she tries to thrash out. Chase licks his lips and grabs the ends of his flannel. All things considered, she could do well in the games. Well-built, and good with an axe as far as he knows, she could be a force to be reckoned with. Well, if she wasn’t so kind. Chase knows that poor girl won’t last ten minutes, she couldn’t take a life, and she’d probably step off the platform and save the other tributes the trouble. He remembers her crying over a dead bird once in school. Her choked sobs were heard through the speakers and everyone tried to ignore them.

“Any volunteers?” The Capitol woman says, voice far too enthusiastic. The crowd remains silent, except for a few stray sniffles from her friends and family. “No? Well then, onto the boys!”

Chase bites his lip as his body freezes like it has every other year since he was twelve years old. He watches as she plucks a name right from the top, fumbling a little while unfolding the slip. The districts don't really practice religion anymore. Believing in a God gave people hope, and that was a very dangerous thing. Still, Chase slipped his metal band onto his finger and prayed. To whom? He had no idea. But it didn't matter. It's obvious he wasn't heard.

“Chase Brody,” she says right into the microphone. His name echoes through the air like the breeze was trying to carry it away into the trees.

--------

Tag list:

@brokentimewatch

#jse fanfic #jse egos #jse hunger games au #hunger games au #chase brody #jameson jackson #original character #ivy cinder #stacy brody #stacy goes by #stacy wells #for most of this fic #We hope yall enjoy!#Mod Jelly #jacksepticeye #writersofjack

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