#[ task 1 ]

[very-uncorrect]

I hope to have a queer and faggy 2024

[tejvirani]

Task 1: Crystal Bracelet

Black Opal A rare, precious, and fiery stone that gets its name from the Sanskrit word upala. Black opals are often called 'the king of opals' and the most valuable variety of this type of stone. A dark yet bright stone that incorporates light energy in the dark void.

The shape is the same as shown. Not one that can be categorized exactly but the bracelet accommodates. The opal reminds Tej of a piece of discarded glass he salvaged years ago in London, and used ever since as his favorite palette for paints.

[wrxthbornx]

task 1 - diários de um semideus por Daphne Gracewood

CAMADA 1: BÁSICO E PESSOAL

Nome: Daphne Gracewood

Idade: 22 anos

Gênero: Feminino, cisgênero

Pronomes: ela/dela

Altura: 1 metro e 52 centímetros

Parente divino e número do chalé: Ares, chalé 5

CAMADA 2: CONHECENDO OS SEMIDEUSES

Idade que chegou ao Acampamento: Com apenas alguns dias de vida

Quem te trouxe até aqui? Pelo que eu percebi foi minha querida mãe, mas quem sabe? Até pode ter sido um cachorro ou um guaxini.

Seu parente divino te reclamou de imediato ou você ficou um pouco no chalé de Hermes sem saber a quem pertencia? Não tenho a certeza de quanto tempo demorou, ou sequer onde fiquei visto que basicamente nasci no acampamento, mas se me lembro do que Quíron me disse, eu devia já ter quase um ano.

Após descobrir sobre o Acampamento, ainda voltou para o mundo dos mortais ou ficou apenas entre os semideuses? Se você ficou no Acampamento, sente falta de sua vida anterior? E se a resposta for que saiu algumas vezes, como você agia entre os mortais? Apenas saí, e continuo, a sair em missões. Sem ser aí nunca tive qualquer vida no mundo dos mortais por isso não me faz qualquer sentido começar uma nova vida sem o acampamento.

Se você pudesse possuir um item mágico do mundo mitológico, qual escolheria e por quê? Talvez a pele do leão de Nemeia, conta como item mágico?

Existe alguma profecia ou visão do futuro que o assombra ou guia suas escolhas? Neste momento? A que paira sobre nós.

CAMADA 3: PODERES, HABILIDADES E ARMAS

Fale um pouco sobre seus poderes: Meu poder é transfiguração de armas, basicamente qualquer objeto que eu pegar posso transformar em uma arma à minha escolha, em qualquer momento. Um galho pode virar uma espada, ou até um brinco virar um escudo.

Quais suas habilidades e como elas te ajudam no dia a dia: Força sobre-humana e durabilidade sobre-humana, qualquer uma das duas é bastante útil, força por razões óbvias, com o meu tamanho sempre é bom ter uma força fora do comum e a durabilidade é bastante útil em combate, sempre dá para puxar um pouquinho mais.

Você lembra qual foi o primeiro momento em que usou seus poderes? Se não me engano eu tinha uns cinco anos, não me recordo muito bem mas Quíron me falou que me tinha dado um cavalo de madeira para a mão e ele se transformou em uma adaga.

Qual a parte negativa de seu poder: Não conseguir afetar o inimigo indiretamente. Neste caso eu sempre dependo de mim e de minhas habilidades com as armas para o ferir, por isso que treinei para me tornar proficiente com todas as armas possíveis.

E qual a parte positiva: Não estar dependente de andar sempre armada, qualquer coisa vira o recurso que necessito naquele momento.

Você tem uma arma preferida? Se sim, qual? Sim, o machado em qualquer ocasião.

Acredito que tenha uma arma pessoal, como a conseguiu? Meu machado de dupla lâmina, ou lábris. Foi meu pai que mo deu como recompensa depois de minha primeira missão.

Qual arma você não consegue dominar de jeito algum e qual sua maior dificuldade no manuseio desta? Chicote, não entendo como alguém consegue lutar apenas com ele, mas para mim é impensável, evito a todos os custos.

CAMADA 4: MISSÕES

Qual foi a primeira que saiu? Foi quando eu tinha catorze anos e a missão era apenas devolver um pacote a Atena, até hoje estou curiosa com o que estava nesse pacote.

Qual a missão mais difícil? Provavelmente uma em que fomos apanhados desprevenidos por um minotauro e quase nos matou aos três, mas conseguimos escapar, a muito custo.

Qual a missão mais fácil? A primeira.

Em alguma você sentiu que não conseguiria escapar, mas por sorte o fez? Sim, nessa do minotauro e outra em que fomos presseguidos por uma quimera.

Já teve que enfrentar a ira de algum deus? Se sim, teve consequências? Graças aos deuses que não.

CAMADA 5: BENÇÃO OU MALDIÇÃO

-

CAMADA 6: DEUSES

Qual divindade você acha mais legal, mais interessante? Ares, obviamente, não iria escolher mais ninguém além de meu pai.

Qual você desgosta mais? Não tenho desagrado por nenhum em especial, mas talvez Eros é o que menos me diz algo pessoalmente.

Se pudesse ser filhe de outro deus, qual seria? Duvido que houvesse outro que eu gostaria de ser filha, mas sinto que me encaixava bem como filha de Hefesto, se Ares não existisse.

Já teve contato com algum deus? Se sim, qual? Como foi? Se não, quem você desejaria conhecer? Já com alguns, não me lembro de todos os momentos detalhadamente, mas o que mais me marcou foi com Ares, quando me feri a meio de uma missão.

Faz oferendas para algum deus?Tirando seu parente divino. Se sim, para qual? E por qual motivo? Não costumo, não me lembro de ter feito alguma oferenda sem ser para Ares.

CAMADA 7: MONSTROS

Qual monstro você acha mais difícil matar e por qual motivo? Foi sem dúvida o minotauro, é grande mas é rápido, e forte claro.

Qual o pior monstro que teve que enfrentar em sua vida? Houveram vários mas talvez o basílico foi o que deu mais luta.

Dos monstros que você ainda não enfrentou, qual você acha que seria o mais difícil e que teria mais receio de lidar? Echidna.

CAMADA 8: ESCOLHAS

Caçar monstros em trio ( ) OU Caçar monstros sozinho ( x )

Capture a bandeira ( x ) OU Corrida com Pégasos ( )

Ser respeitado pelos deuses ( x ) OU Viver em paz, mas no anonimato ( )

Hidra ( x ) OU Dracaenae ( )

CAMADA 9: LIDERANÇA E SACRIFÍCIOS

Estaria disposto a liderar uma missão suicida com duas outras pessoas, sabendo que nenhum dos três retornaria com vida mas que essa missão salvaria todos os outros semideuses do acampamento? Claro.

Que sacrifícios faria pelo bem maior? Daria minha vida, acho que esse é o maior sacrifício que alguém pode fazer.

Como gostaria de ser lembrado? Como alguém que sempre deu o seu melhor pelo acampamento, e como uma das melhores gueirreiras obviamente.

CAMADA 10: ACAMPAMENTO

Local favorito do acampamento: Arena de treinamento

Local menos favorito: Provavelmente a estufa.

Lugar perfeito para encontros dentro do acampamento: Talvez o lago? Não sei, nunca fui em muitos.

Atividade favorita para se fazer: Caça a bandeira conta como atividade?

[thelcser]

TASK I — o que? Modã? To foraaaa queridã!

O guarda-roupa de Calloway é bem simples: uma calça larga, uma camiseta de algum anime que ela esteja assistindo no momento e uma blusa xadrez. O cabelo sempre bagunçado e os olhos cheios de olheiras, pra mostrar o quanto ficou acordada na noite anterior, jogando e gritando com todo mundo.

Fora do seu dia-a-dia, Malina é mais "arrumada" quando o assunto é fazer seus cosplays. É só nesses momentos em que a garota mostra ter uma incrível habilidade com maquiagem e costura, já que muitas das roupas são desenhadas e costuradas pela própria cosplayer. Tem também uma quantidade infinita de perucas para combinar com cada personagem que ela imita/cria.

[m-entities]

task oo1. the reaping

It was tradition, every six months. Or, at least, it felt like one. A ritual. A ritual before he Ritual. Oxford would run. With his bare feet on the ground, he found it was the only way he'd make it through the day.

He'd do it in the afternoon, the day before the Reaping, every time. His mother would start to get that look in her eyes, and her shoulders would droop in just that way. The way she remembered the last time they had a family dinner all together. Ox couldn't take that kind of responsibility. It wasn't his, but he felt it. When his mother remembered, the others were good to her. Comforted her. His father, and siblings, and extended family were all so good to his mother on the eve of the Reaping, and he could not be. And so he ran.

It wasn't a far escape, from his family home to the burned out barn a plot over. But it put enough distance both physically and emotionally that Oxford could be alone with his thoughts. There was always something to discover; sometimes there were stray cats with litters of kittens, sometimes glass ground into shimmery dust from parties, sometimes discarded toys from other vagabonds who had to ditch at the last moment their trinkets and trophies.

Today's discovery was a new hole in the roof of the structure, with the large wooden pillar that held it up dashed on the floor below. Ox carefully navigated across it, not trusting his weight to it's support. He found an open space and sat with his back against the aging wall, and looked through the new porthole to the darkening sky above. Winter always brought shortened days to the District, increasing the threat of the Games. Acidic bile bubbled in his stomach, his chest, his throat, but he swallowed it down. It only fomented there, though, in the hollow of his body, and threatened to bubble up again at any moment. Somehow, though, the new glimpse of sky helped soothe it. As if the small view out to ultimate freedom helped quell the disgust in his stomach.

He tried to scream, to pound his fist against the ground, to tear at the air with his hands, but he couldn't find the energy to do so. Tears wouldn't even fall, no matter how much he bid them. It was all stone as he tried to express the rage in his heart. So instead he sat still, feeling the dirt under him, feeling the scratchy wood against his back, and watched as the sky gradually darkened more and more. Until he knew it was time to return.

So back to his home he jogged, just as his mother was poking her head out of the door of their house to call him in. He entered, the last one of the family to arrive at the ritual. All were at the dinner table: his father, his mother, his brother, his sister-in-law, his nieces, his sister. No one spoke as he took his seat, still not wearing shoes and clearly dirty from his escape. There remained one other chair, still empty.

Quietly, the family took each other's hands in a circle, with Baley and Buxley placing their hands on the table astride the empty chair. Brinny looked around at her gathered family, and began speaking with tears already in her eyes.

"Let us give thanks, this evening, for the family we have built together." She squeezed her husband's hand, who brought his gaze to meet hers. He, too, was teary eyed. "First, let us celebrate those who have passed the age of danger - Buxley, Leander, Brinny." She smiled at her oldest son, her husband, and then bowed her own head. "Let us give thanks that there are those who have not yet reached the age: Ursula, Gia, and Heather." A small giggle passed through Oxford's nieces, as they were too young yet to quite grasp the depth of the ritual.

"Let's give our good wishes to those of us who will be facing the bowls tomorrow. Oxford," his mother gave his hand a squeeze. "Baley," he passed it to his sister. "And Stella." His brother gave a grim smile to his wife, who would be facing her final Reaping tomorrow.

"And let us not forget those who have lost their lives to the Games." Brinny's voice immediately began to close up. "Stella's uncle, Shulk, who was lost in the 94th Games. And our... our..." Her voice choked out, tears blocking her speech.

Leander jumped in gently, holding her hand firm. "And our Flor, who was lost in the 114th Games. May their memories live on, and may they never be forgotten."

There were murmured "never forgotten"s across and around the table. No one dared look up first. There was a palpable silence that hung like a mantle above their heads, united in the communal grief of their circumstances. It pulled on Oxford's shoulders, forcing them down, hunched over in his seat. Somehow, despite being the tallest at the table, he felt the smallest of all.

But all silences must break, and it was once again the matriarch who took command. Brinny squeezed her husband's hand to release it, and took the inhale that the family was waiting for. "Well," she said simply, her voice still small. "Let's eat, then." She forced her head to raise, looking at each of her children in turn. A sad smile slowly found its way to her lips. They had survived the Games once. It wouldn't - couldn't - happen again. In that, they could take solace.

There were small conversations around the table. Leander asked how the girls were doing in school - well enough. Stella asked how the crops were coming in - slowly, Ox answered. Grain lice and Peacekeeper oversight, especially when the solution was to burn infested crops to protect the clean. A tense moment when Stella mentioned a friend of a cousin in Twelve, unsure of their whereabouts. A worried glance at the required television, which Brinny was certain contained a microphone and camera as much as a screen.

No conversation could effectively pop the bubble, however. No laughter truly arose, outside of the immature giggles of the young girls who didn't yet have the vocabulary to describe the discomfort they were feeling. The meal concluded, everyone washed their own dishes, and gentle but fierce hugs were exchanged. Buxley and Stella took their girls and left, but not without an extra squeeze for Stella from everyone.

The sun was gone, and Oxford found his way to his bed. Across the room, Baley laid, her breaths audible and shaky in contrast to his carefully measured ones. Eventually, he couldn't take the tension.

"It'll be fine." His voice was deep and hollow.

"Will it?"

"It always has been."

"That's not true and you know it."

He quieted at that. She was right. "I miss her too."

"What do we do if -"

"It won't."

"It might."

"It won't." His voice turned stern, defensive.

"But what if -"

"Then." He took a breath in, suddenly aware of how much shakiness he, too, had in his lungs. "Then. Then we."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Oxford rolled onto his side, facing the wall. "It's not going to happen, Baley. And if it does, we do what we've always done."

"But Ox..." he hated hearing the pain in his sister's voice. "If it happens again... there will be no 'we.'"

Oxford fell quiet again. This one lasted longer than the others. "Just go to sleep, Baley." He made a point to pull the blanket up over his shoulder, indicating his end to the conversation. It didn't, however, block out the small, shuddering sobs that Baley couldn't stop as she unsuccessfully tried to get to sleep. Ox noted they lasted all night and into the morning, as he also couldn't fall asleep with the weight of the Reaping upon him.

The morning seeped into their room, early and gray. Both Baley and Ox knew the other hadn't slept, but they held that in confidence as each got ready for the day ahead. Breakfast was light, though no one at the table would be able to eat anything. Grim looks that masqueraded as smiles were exchanged, dishes were washed, and gentle touches were given.

From there, it was tradition - or, perhaps ritual. A short walk as a family minus one to the Capitol square, the final hugs and kisses before Oxford and Baley were pricked and separated to their respective age groups. Ox took his place between the same two who he had grown to know by name and face over the past ten years: Neb Whitman to his left, and Daniela Wicker to his right. Despite how low he kept his head bowed, he still stood nearly a foot taller than the two of them.

There was the video, the silent figures on the stage, and the overmade Escort who simply couldn't be happier to be there, despite being the only person who could claim that. Then there was the collective inhale as the first name was drawn, and the collective half-exhale as the first name wasn't their own.

Only something was different this time. Whereas usually Neb and Daniela would follow his lead and keep their heads downcast, they had today changed the tradition, broken the ritual. Instead, their faces were upturned and staring at Oxford. He made eye contact with Neb, which prompted him to quickly avert his eyes, but when Ox found Daniela's eyes, he knew something was different. He raised his own head, only to hear over the microphone:

"Is there an Oxford Wichita?"

A haze fell across his eyes and his vision went blurry. For an embarrassing moment, Ox thought he would faint. His focus snapped back, however, when the Escort, clearly annoyed, cleared his throat again into the microphone, and Daniela shifted to allow him access to the aisle with an apology in her eyes that he could feel. Slowly, Ox made his way up to the stage, feeling like it had become an endless walk. Being at the back of the crowd only meant he had to walk past each and every row of 22 year olds, then onward until he briefly caught the crying eyes of Baley. His jaw tightened and he ascended the stairs.

"Ah, there we go. A round of applause for Oxford. And now, let's see who our second Tribute will be."

There was a second collective inhale, and then a name was read. Ox couldn't stop the muscle memory of the collective exhale as he heard a name he didn't recognize. It wasn't Baley. It wasn't Stella. It wasn't him.

His breath caught in his chest. It was him. The ritual would continue.

[ciananbalor]

What is your character's name and occupation? My name is Cianan Balor, and let's just say my specialty is locating and sourcing items of supernatural importance for paying clientele. What brings them to Saintes? After the announcement things went to shit wouldn't you say? I mean it could've been a grand shift in paradigm, but instead, the system managed to do what it always does. Turn each other on one another. What can we expect next from your character? Cianan was exhausted by a century of constant vigilance and thought Saintes made sense. It would be a place where his talents could be useful to so many. The longer he spends in the town the more thawing and shedding away of old beliefs will occur as he meets others who challenge his past ideas. I think alliances will be formed that weren't in the realm of possibility before, and he'll finally allow some growth and (dare I say) some warmth may come into his life.

[connorchen-saddog8]

String - sculpture and installation idea

Some photos of street signs. I want to cover these in fabric and string. but since they are in higher traffic areas I dont think i could get away with it. I might look for some around uni where they arent super important so i don't go to jail.

[starlitvega]

late night shitposting

based off of a TikTok which I will link below ^^

[hinamie]

alongside someone like you

[theriverbeyond]

crafters. in front of you is a pair of scissors. above you is an anvil. your task, should you choose to accept it, is to keep track of these scissors for 8 consecutive crafting hours. you are not allowed to lose the scissors, misplace the scissors, give up and purchase new scissors, or use a kitchen knife, boxcutter, or exacto knife in desperation. if you fail, the anvil will fall on you. your time begins now

[courtney-ganhador]

task oo1. the reaping

The animals didn't care that it was the day of the Reaping. The chickens still had eggs to collect, the cows and horses still needed their hay and their water, and the cats still meowed and wanted to rub their bodies against the coarse denim of Courtney's jeans. In particular, Barny - aptly named by little brother Brooks based on where the cat was discovered - was especially needy. The little tuxedo weaved in and out of Courtney's steps as he trudged across the dying grass towards the stables.

"Get outta here, Barny," he grumbled, but the cat was relentless. He hooked a claw into the hem of Courtney's jeans and flopped over, forcing Courtney into a decision: continue on and drag the cat behind him, or stop and pay him the requisite attention. With a sigh, Court stopped to reach down to the animal. Barny immediately sprung up and, in three quick bounds, climbed Court's arm to settle on his shoulder. Courtney gasped at the claws against his skin, but was quickly muted as Barny smushed his face into the slight prickle of his beard.

Courtney gently kissed the cat's nose, who responded with a contented chirp. "What is up with you?" he mumbled, continuing on his way. "You're never like this." Barny, for his part, pressed his face against the side of Court's head. But hey - as long as he was on a shoulder, he was out of the way.

The horses were lazy in the morning, but Courtney loved them in the early mist. He winced slightly as Barny leapt from his shoulder to greet both of their favorite mare - a thoroughbred called Maisie. With a soft smile on his face, Courtney took a moment to stroke her long nose. Barny nuzzled into her, causing her to blink slowly. After checking the horses, he went to leave the stables. He glanced over his shoulder, slightly unnerved by the image of Barny, sitting on the gate next to Maisie, the two of them watching him go.

The sun was just starting to think about rising when he pushed the door open to enter the home. He was greeted with a mix of smells and emotions. Scrambled eggs with extra cheese, fresh bacon, and the special coffee that Pa had brought back from District Seven, with hints of hazelnut. It was the very specific breakfast that Ma made every Reaping day - twice a year for the past thirteen years. The day made his stomach churn, but the ritualistic good-luck meal always settled it. He passed his mother, Marti, hunched over the stovetop. He pecked her on the cheek and shooed her away, taking over the cooking of the bacon.

"Court, no, I can -"

"Ma, you're pregnant. Sit down."

She swatted his arm in defiance, but took a seat at the long table in the center of the room. "When are you going to change?"

"I think I look fine."

"You look like you live on a ranch."

"I do live on a ranch. And I don't think that's a bad look." He flipped the bacon strip by strip, grinning at the hiss.

"Will you please just wear the shirt we got you? You need to look nice for." She paused.

"Okay." He glanced over his shoulder to give her a tense smile. He caught her staring, eyes welling up already. "Ma..." She got to her feet to put her arms around his waist, hugging into his back as he cooked.

"Your last one, my baby. And Neena's first."

"Don't say it like that, Ma. She's only in there once."

"And you're in there -"

"Don't do the math. None of us took tessarae. And your lucky meal always works." He snatched a piece of bacon off the pan with his fingers, flinching as he handed it over to her. She waved it in the air before crunching into it. She smiled and nodded her approval. There was a sound of shuffle from the back of the home, and Tomas entered the kitchen. He patted Courtney on the shoulder as he went to kiss his wife.

"Last one, Court," he grunted. "It's a good day."

One by one, the rest of the Ganhadors filed in. The second born, Lobo, with his hair wild and frizzy in the dry Ten heat; the twins, Irina and Grant, who couldn't be more different in looks or personality; Neena, already dressed and with nervous tears in her eyes; and then finally, the youngest boy, Brooks, who only knew these days as a morning of great food and then a few minutes of standing protected between his parents.

There was a tension in the mood: veiled and tempered excitement that Courtney was about to finish his eligibility pulling against the empathetic worry for Neena, who was starting hers. For the most part, the Reaping was discussed as a chore, something to go into town to finish up. It was good timing, they said to themselves; they needed a new part for the family truck anyway, and Lobo was due for a new pair of dress slacks for school. After all that was done, they could get back to the ranch with plenty of time for Courtney to teach the twins (particularly Irina) the proper way to coil a rope. Don’t worry, Neena, they all said. The pinprick hurts no more than a chicken taking food from your hand.

As always, breakfast was ended with the family holding hands, thanking Ma (and, at her insistence, Courtney) for the meal. Maybe Courtney imagined it, but it seemed like they all held on slightly longer than usual. Then, like clockwork, each of the children stood and deposited their plates in the kitchen before having a few moments to themselves. Courtney took the time to change into the chestnut brown shirt his parents had picked out for him last time they had gone into Hoostin. He smiled as he ran a thumb over the material.

Courtney had a few moments with each of his siblings, as always, reaffirming the dedication they made to each other. If one of them was Reaped, the others would not Volunteer. The only thing worse than being Reaped would be for a sibling to be sent in their place. And after what happened to the Durums in Nine last Games, there was no guarantee that Volunteering would even save the Reaped Ganhador. It was decided and reaffirmed every six months: you do not Volunteer in place of another Ganhador. Each would face their fate as it was written, and the others would be needed to support those still in Ten.

Of course, for Courtney, it was all a lie. If any Ganhador was Reaped, it would be him going into the Arena.

The short drive into the capital, Hoostin, was a bit chaotic as always. The whole family still technically fit in the truck, with the twins in the pickup in the back and with younger siblings sitting in the laps of Lobo and Courtney, but it was apparent they'd soon outgrow this mode of transport, especially with another kid on the way. Then it was time. Pinpricks all around, small drops of blood offered up. Courtney barely felt his at this point. Twenty eight pinpricks, from age twelve to twenty five. He was turning twenty six in a few months. Neena, finding a bravery they hadn't expected, taking her first pinprick like a champion, biting deep into her lip to brace herself. A brief moment where the siblings had only one chance to take a hand or pat a shoulder before they were ushered off to their age groups.

Courtney joined the rest of the folks in his age group, nodding tense acknowledgement to the ones he recognized. Farragut Tyre, who he served with in the same firefighting brigade. Dmitry Aire, who he had gone to school with. Hilary Jinson, who had a crush on him back in the day but who he hadn't ever noticed. Rebeccander Polacki, whose little sister had been Reaped a few years ago and not returned. All of them, now twenty five and on the brink of freedom.

It was a privilege, being in the oldest group. About half of the twenty five year olds were on their final draw, and the energy, while somber, was electric. This was the group also against the outer side of the assembly, so Courtney was able to easily pick out his parents, each with a hand on Brooks' shoulders. The two locked eyes, and a bright smile flashed onto the young boy's face as he waved. Court gave a tense smile and a small reply wave, but more contact was cut off by the start of the ceremony.

Courtney probably could have recited the entire event by rote. The names of the Tributes and Escort would change, but Greer would still be there - the lonesome Victor from their District. He wondered how she could stand there, stoic and strong, year after year, knowing that her own name was still in that bowl. How shaken she must have been by Sawyer Bell last Games.

The typical rabble was raised as it was every six months - some people would spit on the ground anytime Nerissa Snow was mentioned, some would purposefully and unabashedly stare at the big blue sky the entire time. Courtney, though, joined most people in his own sanctuary - forgetting to breathe and retreating into his own mind.

It was meant to be an easy ceremony. Just one more day, one more release of breath. The overdressed Capitolite escort stepped up to the doomsday bowl, sweating even though it was a mild day in Ten. Their hand dipped in, and plucked out the unlucky name. Courtney tried to force his breath out - it wouldn't be any of his siblings. It wouldn't be -

"Courtney Ganhador!"

The sky wasn't big enough. He felt it grab him, pulling him into the air as if he would never walk again. It ripped the air from his lungs and the warmth from his blood, and in one moment he was crushed by the eyes of everyone around him - and most of all his parents and Brooks.

In that instant he knew no Volunteer would come. As well there shouldn't. Each Ganhador would face their fate as written, and the others would be there to help the ones left in Ten. Without prompting from his conscious mind, his feet began walking. A pathway of disappointed, despondent freemen opened in front of him. One or two put hands out to steady him on his way. The stage seemed as far away as the sky, but that was the trick - he was already soaring through the clouds and so before he could recognize where he was, he was on stage, overwhelmed by the perfume of the Escort. Citrus. Acidic lemon - something he so rarely smelled.

As if highlighted by lightning, he instantly saw all the Ganhadors in the crowd. Lobo, with his hair still frizzy. The twins, with Irina sobbing into Grant's shoulder. And then Neena, paler than the dress she had on, cheeks sparkling with tears that hadn't stopped since the morning.

The nameless Escort's smile was duller up close than Courtney would have expected. Nothing was shiny, after all. He followed the prompts without thought, shaking their hand and standing beside them. But something in the back of his mind was still churning. His shoulders rolled back and his chest puffed out. His jaw squared and his eyebrows furrowed. He would not be viewed as small, defeated, or weak.

"Prairie Fire Quartz!"

Courtney didn't register the name or face of the second Tribute. His eyes were drawn to the group of twenty five year olds, about half of whom were crying, smiling, celebrating. Thirteen years - over half of their lives - this threat had loomed over them. And now they were free of it. Farragut, Dmitry, Hilary, Rebeccander, and so many others had done it. They could start their lives, thanks to Prairie and Courtney. And over their shoulders, Marti and Tomas Ganhador, barely able to support each other, with Brooks burying his face in their legs.

He made sure to keep his steps measured and proud as he was escorted by the elbow into the capital building. The building was opulent in the way District Ten was seen by the Capitol. Black and brown leather, cowhide rugs, and animal skulls - polished to an unnaturally bright white. Was this to be his last memory of Ten: a rich-washed, false version of his home?

No. No. No. He'd be back. He had to.

The silence in the room was broken by the opening of a door and the influx of Ganhadors. In typical chaotic fashion, each of them grabbed him, hugged him, watered his shirt with their tears. Words failed them all, and were mostly made up of Courtney muttering platitudes like, "It's gonna be okay," and "You gotta stay strong for Ma."

It was his father who finally found his voice to speak. He pulled Courtney into a tight hug, then pushed him out to arms length to put his hands on either side of his son's face. "You're gonna come back, you hear me?" he grunted.

Courtney nodded, eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Yeah, I know, I -"

"You listen to me. You know how to do this. The rest of 'em? They are just animals on the ranch, okay?"

"Tomas - " Marti tried to interrupt.

"No, no. Listen to me. They are young bucks who need to be broken. Just like you know how to do. They are lame horses who need to be put down. Hogs that need to be prepped for slaughter. Nothing you haven't done before."

"That's not -"

"Yes it is, Marti. It has to be. Courtney, you listen to me good. All of them are just animals on the farm that you know how to deal with. Some of them are snakes that you can leave alone but will have to kill eventually. Some of them are the runts of kitten litters that can be nice to keep around for a while, but will get picked off by hawks. And when the hawk is feasting? You can snare it and break it's neck. And some of them will look and feel like people you know. And that will be hard. But Courtney - it's you or them. And the people you do know need you back here. So they are all animals on the ranch. Watch out for the angry bulls, but they'll twist their ankles eventually. Watch out for the loud birds who make a big fuss, but they'll draw attention to themselves in bad ways. Watch out for the foxes who look harmless and are stealing your chickens' eggs, but they always get too clever for their own good. Just do your job. Like you always do."

Courtney couldn't control the tears falling from his eyes, and he had no reason to try. He simply nodded, then nodded again, then again. Then he pressed forward to hug his dad tighter than he had in his whole life.

The Peacekeepers in the room were growing more antsy the longer this large crowd of people were there, so there was a final round of hugs from his family before Brooks stepped forward and pressed something into his hand. "Just so you won't forget us," he said, his voice small and mousy.

"I'd never forget you, Brooks," Courtney replied, with a slight smile amidst the tears.

"Well just in case." And then he was gone, shepherded out with the rest of the Ganhadors. Courtney's breath caught in his stomach, and then again in his chest, and yet again in his throat as he tried to force air into his lungs. With a final effort, it connected, and he felt his knees buckle. Luckily there was a bench just behind him as he collapsed, his head rolling back and a guttural, primal roar thundering out of his throat.

When his voice was exhausted, he opened his hand. Inside it was a small piece of wood, crudely chiseled out in the shape of a fox head. There was a clear attempt at ears, at eyes, at a pointed snout and whiskers.

He barely had time to shove it into his pocket before the demonic Escort was back with their less-than-shiny smile. Their head was tilted at a stilted angle, their eyes nearly unseeable under the makeup and false eyelashes. Everything about them seemed wrong, unnatural, not of this Earth. And yet they were here. With a gesture, they ushered Prairie and Courtney out the back door. With an escort of Peacekeepers behind them and only the Escort ahead, Courtney did the only thing he could: he followed them onto the train.

It was time to bring District Ten to the Capitol.

[temeyes]

tf141 (but they're genderbent)

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

🏎️🏁 It's F1 Season! 🏁🏎️

(Sgt Kyle Gaz Garrick + Sir Lewis Hamilton)

Bahrain GP is on the horizon! Have a combination of my two current brain rots 😭 I think it's been a running joke among the CoD community that Gaz (played by Elliot Knight the king himself) looks like Lewis Hamilton!

Drawing these two has been so fun! Here's to an exciting F1 season! 🏎️🏁

[sleepy-frog-lady]

I would be so powerful if even one of my executives functioned. Just. Even a single one of them. Please. Please .

[zeeth-scribbles]

average bad kids study session

[m-entities]

task oo1. the reaping

Mercuria kept her eyes closed. She didn't want to wake up. But her father was once again having a coughing fit, so it wasn't like she was going to be able to fall back asleep anyway. With a small sigh of resignation, she threw her feet over the side of her cot and stood to greet the gray day.

"It's okay, Pa," she murmured, using a dying lighter to reignite the stove from yesterday evening's charcoal. Once it took, she ladled a small serving of water into the kettle before setting it on top of the small fire. "Don't worry, it's comin'." The morning chores were easy enough, the same as they ever were. While the water boiled, she took a derelict broom, which desperately needed restrawing, and scraped track marks into the dust near the entrance. The "sweeping" done, she moved on to making her bed - putting the thin blanket on top of her cot so that it didn't pick up any dust from the floor.

The next hour flew by in routine monotony. Pour hot water for Pa, coach him on how to choke it down without coughing it back up. Use the water to rehydrate the stew from last night, eat a few spoonfuls before giving the rest to Pa. It wasn't until she saw out the small window the crowds of people that she realized: today was the Reaping.

A gasp caught in her throat. It was a miracle she had forgotten, of course, but it happened so irregularly that she couldn't possibly fault herself. She hurried to the back of their home, slipping easily into the one piece of clothing she had that could be considered "nice:" a hand-woven skirt her father had made. Her father noticed from across the room. "No, Mercuria - no..."

She rushed to his side and cupped his face in her hands. "It's just a few hours, Pa. Then I'll be back. We're jus' lucky I don't hafta travel for it."

She exited before she could hear any more of his stuttered protestations. The ceremony was a blur of monotony until something different happened: a Tribute was announced. Not pulled, not Reaped... announced. Some might even say presented. And as he was revealed, Mercuria's breath caught in her throat.

Slate Flint - years of work flashed past Mercuria's eyes in an instant. From the first time she heard him speak, cramped in a back room of a bar, through the pamphlets she saw passed around Twelve, to the chatter over the radios that only a select few people knew how to find. The work of a generation, the work of the future. All up there, waiting to be sent to die. No.

No.

No.

She couldn't allow it. Not after he had given her so much. So much hope, so much inspiration. So many promises that they would prevail and that they would come out on top. Slate needed to see it through. Someone had to stop this. Someone had to help.

"I volunteer!" The words were out of her mouth a split second before she registered the idea. But as soon as they were out, she knew. She was set. This was the moment. Since she had met Slate, she hadn't been able to help the cause. She wasn't able to move contraband, she wasn't a public speaker, she wasn't even that much of a fighter. So mostly she had sat back, listening in awe, as the revolution formed around her. She had always been in the background.

Now was her time to step in and make a difference.

The Escort looked out at the crowd. "Oh, how lovely. We have our second Tribute. Thank you all for attending."

Peacekeepers grabbed her by the elbows, and others started immediately shepherding the crowd away. What? No - she was taking his place. The Tributes would be her and another, drawn. They hadn't even asked her name. She struggled the slightest bit, and one of the Peacekeepers threw a fist into the back of her head. She stumbled forward, but they effortlessly swept her up by the arms, paying no attention as her feet bounced painfully against the stairs.

Everyone was being moved into the Capitol building. There were no bowls of names, there was no ending video. The Escort hadn't even bothered to stay out on stage long enough to greet her. She threw one last look backwards, over her shoulder, to see the crowd dispersing.

Hopefully someone would tell her father.