#and feeling a lil weird about it while risking his neck as a career makes sense to me

[moonshynecybin]

it’s crazy how clearly vale doing car racing is like. somewhat of a compromise to allow himself to race and have children/a family at the same time. like he wouldn’t allow himself to do that and do motogp because it’s dangerous, but in car racing the risk is wholly different. like racing as a part of himself he can’t give up versus the instinct not to do that to his kids as a person who grew up with a dad who raced motorcycles

[tothewaterhq]

RONNI RUIZ // SCORE OF 6

"I didn't care much for putting one of our staff at such a risk, did you, Seneca? Perhaps a humbling score will teach him a little more respect.”

Seven tributes had gone into the training room, shown an array of skills of some sort, and gone out. Time, being a slippery mistress, caused the majority of the tributes to feel a sense of dread as they sat there and waited for their name to be called. The gamemakers, on the other hand, began to revel in their seats. There was only one career – except, perish the thought – the name would never be spoken aloud by men and women such as them. Remember, the idea of careers is only an illusion and does not exactly exist according to the Capitol – that was left to be judged. As the doors slid open, a few of them scooted to the edge of their seats to see the boy walk in. They shouldn’t have been surprised to see a boy run in at top speed, perform a cartwheel – followed by a well-executed backflip – and land on his feet. A whoop and a holler flew from his mouth as he raised two fingers to his forehead and saluted the gamemakers.

“’Sup!? I’m Ronni Ruiz, District Four, and you guys should be prepared to be amazed.”  

A wave of intrigued murmurs and suspicious whispers fell over the raised platform. Some, with cups of glorious liquor in their hands, chuckled to their neighbors. It seemed that this kid had gusto, that was for sure. Others, however, eyed him with wary in their hearts. He was a career, sure, but he was, as many would say, a little on the short side. One gamemaker actually let that little tidbit of information out publicly. “He’s a bit, uh, tiny to be a career, huh? Well, let’s see how he fares–”

“Huh?”

The treachery stopped. Ronni, having heard, stared at the platform – the one man who spoke, specifically – and felt a vein on his neck pulsate with quiet fury. He automatically assumed his go-to offended stance – arms crossed over his chest with a cocked hip – and felt himself stare at the dumbass who spoke. Suddenly, he remembered where he was. His eyes flickered away and he took in a deep breath to try and calm himself. Calm down, Ronni, calm down, he told himself. Turning his back to the gamemakers, he took a few steps. Calm down, calm down…

Then, before he could help himself, the spot on his neck practically burst. His teeth ground together and he took off into a sprint.

I’m not short, I’m not short, shut up, shut up… dumbass!

Ronni wasn’t the fastest in his class, but he certainly got the job done. He ran like a bull. It was reckless to say the least, but the strength at which he ran was incomparable. The muscles in his arms stood out and, with each resolute stomp of his foot, it was as if the earth shook. In a matter of seconds, Ronni had entered the beginning of the obstacle course.

The first trial, a series of balance beams laid out at different heights, was no easy task. The tribute that entered this section had to first jump onto the first beam, leap high enough to reach the second, and so on and so forth with varying levels of difficulty. A sound like thunder resonated through the room as Ronni slammed one foot onto the first beam as he leapt from below. Without skipping a beat, he used the momentum to fly forward onto each subsequent beam. After about six of them, he approached the last one – a balance beam that required the participant to leap a decently far distance forwards and downwards. Without breaking stride, Ronni jump, landed on both feet, and catapulted off into a front flip.

He landed with a holler reminiscent of the one he entered with. He wasn’t done yet, though. He glared at the same gamemaker that wronged him as he went towards the next phase of the obstacle course: a set of metallic tires (that required a series of quick, even paced jumps), a low set of barbed wires that he had to crawl underthat led immediately up to a rock-climbing wall. He maintained eye-contact with that gamemaker as he quickly sped through those obstacles and the rest of the course. By the time he had reached the top of the rock wall, about five or so minutes had passed. It was truly impressive and, as he went down the opposite side of the wall, Ronni couldn’t repel the crooked smile that crept onto his face.

Let that fat, pig of a man know that Ronni wasn’t to be underestimated. He would never say something like that out loud, of course, but all Ronni could think as his feet touched the ground was this: “fat pig, fat pig, fat pig!”

A roar of manliness erupted from his throat and, in true Ronni fashion, beat his chest as sweat cascaded off of his arms and forehead. He stood there for a moment and let his chest rise with each intake of breath he took. He looked around and surveyed the faces that were watching him. Some looked impressed while others looked as if they had seen it all before. Then, as his gaze crossed that of the trainer from the edible plants station, the hamster in Ronni’s head began to run as fast as it possible could. Though it was rare for someone like him, Ronni had just remembered something incredibly important – his strategy.

The usual smile crossed his lips again and, with a raised chin, he calmly walked towards one of the trainers stationed at the swords station. He whispered a few words to him (a call to spar, of course) and then, as he took his places, he grabbed a spear and a knife. “I see you guys don’t have any halberds here! That’s a pity, man, I gotta say.” He said confidently as he tightened his grip on the spear in his right hand and the hunting knife in his left. Though the halberd was his favorite weapon, he supposed he would have to make do with these.

“Come on, man. Let’s get this show on the road!” he said through a whoop as he ran towards the trainer. He was met with a defensive stance. Wimp, Ronni thought as he lunged forward with the spear. The trainer, obviously being an expert, blocked it easily. Then, in the same swift movement, slid Ronni’s spear away with the backside of the sword and closed the distance between the two. Ronni bit his lip in order to suppress another excited holler. That was much more like it. Ronni, with a smooth sidestep, countered with a forceful  parry of his own followed by a slam with the pole part of the spear. The trainer fell back as Ronni erased the distance the man had wanted to close with one fell swoop. He couldn’t help it then. Ronni, with a familiar sort of bloodlust that he felt when training, let out a giddy scream as he lunged forward again.

The two’s fight went on for a few more minutes. Ronni displayed prominence with the spear and used the hunting knife to protect himself when the trainer got too close. The weapons served the same function as the halberd. The pair danced with their weapons and, as time passed, it became apparent that Ronnie was the type to not only thrive under pressure, but he also seemed to get some sort of thrill from the fight itself. The gamemakers surely took note of the spectacle. It wasn’t unfamiliar to see a career with this mindset, though, so their admiration only went so far.

With a malicious glint in his eyes, Ronni lunged forward after seeing an opening in the trainers defenses. First, he dipped the knife into his pocket (a maneuver which seemed odd to all watching) and then slashed at the man’s side. It hit, causing a shallow scratch to open up. That was that, then. Once someone had been hit, the rules stated that the session must end. The pair backed up, gave a slight bow to each other and then–

Suddenly, the trainer began to shake. His eyes widened and he looked at the small wound that Ronni had made. For a moment, his mouth opened up as if he meant to say something then, before he could vocalize his shock, he fell to the ground. The gamemakers gasped and some even stood up from their seats. What was happening? Why was–

“Whew!”

Ronni looked over his shoulder and stared at the raised podium. A crazed look was in his eye – though he did not intend for there to be – and the gamemakers became unsettled at what they saw. “Damn, I’m so glad it worked. Could you imagine if the poison I made just like… was a dud?”

Poison?

One of the gamemakers stood up after staring at the paralyzed man with wide eyes. He sent out a screamed command to the peacekeepers. Ronni’s eyes widened in alarm and he looked at the door where peacekeepers were storming in.

“Woah, woah, woah!  Let’s not be hasty. I’m not done yet–”  But, it was too late. Two peacekeepers were marching over to apprehend Ronni. What the fuck, man, he thought? Were they really buggin’ out so hard? Jeez, it was like they thought he was dumb or something. With a frown, he quickly raised the knife with blood and… powder (some of the gamemakers saw the yellow stuff and tilted their heads) and licked the tip. Suddenly, realization dawned as Ronni threw open his arms and let out a cute lil’ “Tada!”

Ronni Ruiz had effectively poisoned a trainer and, now himself.

A wave of confusion and panic erupted from the podium. What were the gamemakers going to do. How had Ronni– When had he? Firstly, who was going to replace him? How were they going to explain this to the public. Oh, god, and President Snow–

“Can y’all like be quiet for five seconds? I said that I’m not done.” Silence swept over the room as the gamemakers looked on to see Ronni reach into his other pocket and pull out a little baggy. Inside was another weird colored powder. The boy dodged out of the way of the peacekeepers and ran over to the trainer. Without hesitating, he stuck his fingers in the bag, took them out, and then plunged them into the man’s mouth. Then, with another finger, he did the same but with his own mouth. Just as this happened, the peacekeepers snuck up behind Ronni and pinned him to the floor. He grunted and felt the need to lash out but knew that wasn’t exactly the uh, smartest decision right now.

A cluster of voices spoke out. Ronni Ruiz had just poisoned a trainer and himself. Nobody seemed to understand what he had done –  which irritated a very stricken looking Ronni – and as the peacekeepers brought him to his feet, he felt like screaming. God, why did everyone think he was dumb?

“Hey. Hey!” he called out and, again silenced the voices. One of the gamemakers was just about to lash out at the boy when a groan from nearby stilled his tongue. The trainer, who was now sitting up, looked at everybody. He was gasping for breath, sure, but he was very much alive. Come to think of it, Ronni, despite his arms behind held behind his back, was still alive, too. Again, everybody but Ronni in the room thought one thing: What the fuc–

“Do yall really not get it? Man, that’s so lame. It’s a poison!”

“We know!” came a cacophany of voices from the raised platform.

“Damn, okay, jeez… Well, anyway, lemme explain what’s going on…”  

So, in a rather weird and unexpected turn of events, Ronni explained the huge mess that he had caused. It all started back in Four. His personal hero – his father of course – told him that he needed to have more than just brawn if he wanted to make it as a career. He needed to have a secret weapon that nobody knew about. A lot of people chose to turn towards the careers that sold themselves as being intelligent killers. That stuff was boring and didn’t always work, claimed Ronni’s father. So, when he was training, he sought the help of a healing woman in Four. She had taught him how to make a deadly poison (and subsequently an antidote should the father ever need it) from that of common flowers and berries for a remarkably low price – every day, Ronni’s father would have to come to her house and sing to her while she sewed.

(As you read this, you might be thinking to yourself: Oswald, what? Well, the answer is simple…)

It was a weird request, but Ronni’s father obliged. The woman was notorious for being a bit batty and, so, after weeks of singing and keeping her company, she taught him how to make the poison. Upon being outdone by another career at the ripe age of 18, Ronni’s father… well… let’s just say that he was bitter about not being able to use what he had been taught. He didn’t take it out on anyone like a psychopath, though. Instead, he vowed to teach his future son/daughter the skills needed to become an accomplished career. And so he did.

So, as that section of the story came to an end, Ronni revealed to a gobsmacked set of gamemakers that during one of the regular days of training, he had gone over to the station and, while the trainer was helping another student, made the powder that his father had instilled in his brain. He secretly bagged it up, put it in his pocket, and then bided his time. It all came together – that was what he was doing when he placed his knife in his pocket. That was also why Ronni was able to stop the mess he had created with what was in the other bag – it was the antidote. As the story unfolded, Ronni told it all with a puffed up chest and a crooked smile. Even the peacekeepers, by this time, had lowered their guard. Ronni was… He was…

… Something else.

“I mean, come on guys, everything’s fine. Everybody’s gotta have an ace in the hole, right?”