#both of the fics mentioned are. very heavy on the paranoia... they are just drenched in my paranoid Dread and its interesting to me

[pyrriax]

hi utopia :] hrrmm what can i ask you. what’s your favorite fic you’ve ever written

hi scooter!! thats a tough question, ooo.....

in terms of true fanfic, i'd have to say thats asomatous . that fic absolutely reconstructed how i go about writing, since it really just turned out Right.

but, if i bend it a little to include some of my more. original-but-still-inherently-fannish works, then i mean. i have to point to where the dust settles (which i swear im working on its not abandoned ive just been plagued by terralith)

[tomfoolsery]

carry that weight -- an aftg chapter fic

hunger games au pairing: neil / andrew chapter: 1/?

summary: The 75th Annual Hunger Games have arrived. For years, Neil Josten managed to dodge the reaping by being meticulously careful and as invisible as possible. With only one more reaping until he ages out of the process, he makes a plan to escape the Districts (and his father's henchmen) once and for all. But when he realizes he's been plucked from the masses to partake in this year's Quarter Quell, his plans for escape are dashed. Being reaped for the Games only magnifies the target on his back, and District 12 has never had good luck in the arena. It will take every survival instinct Neil has to make it out alive.

trigger warnings for this chapter: past child abuse, torture, suicide mention.

read on ao3 or here!

The first game that Neil remembered watching was the 66th. The potency of the memory seemed to taint everything else that followed in his life, painting it in that shade for better or worse.

The Games were all about survival. A tribute could train for years, as most of the Career Districts did, but still not be guaranteed a victory. It wasn’t the strongest that always won the Games. Oftentimes, it was the most clever. The one who knew the dark places a human could go in order to ensure survival. The one who was willing to sink to those depths before anyone else could reach them.

The 66th Hunger Games was won by a 15 year old named Hugo. He didn’t look like much to begin with, and most of the commentators throughout the game assumed he would be an early victim at the Cornucopia bloodbath. Hugo’s scores hadn’t even been noteworthy prior to arriving at the arena. For all intents and purposes, he was an easy kill that could be taken care of at a later date. It was that oversight that cost the vast majority of the tributes their lives.

Neil could remember watching Hugo on the television broadcast, all but blending into the shadows that the densely populated forest arena afforded him. His footsteps were always silent, allowing him to traverse wherever he pleased without being caught. It meant he could hunt easier and sustain himself physically, and it meant that he could watch his opponents from afar, always a step ahead. The people watching from the Capitol ate it up.

In years past, the Gamemakers would generally speed things along, forcing tributes to encounter one another and spill enough blood to bring the Game to an end. Any wise Gamemaker would want to maintain a captive audience in the Capitol — lest they be punished for an underwhelming Hunger Games.

An avalanche would bring the tributes to one spot together, or an offer of food, water, or medicine would lure in the desperate to the Cornucopia. Everyone knew what an event like that meant, but most still attended. The alternative was certain death. At least if they attempted it, a chance at survival still existed.

In Hugo’s year, the Gamemakers barely had to lift a finger. The tribute was a master at setting traps and snares, using them to catch both his dinner and his opponents. His methods weren’t grotesque or violent, like past tributes had been. He was sneaky and practical.

On the surface, Hugo didn’t look like a killer or a terrifying figure. What made him scary was his behavior when the tributes were narrowed down to two: him and a Career Pack boy named Palus — who, ironically enough, was an initial standout with the Capitol sponsors. The tables turned once Palus injured his left leg, the bone nearly exposed after falling down a steep cliff. With no way to mend it himself, Palus carried on as best as he could, hoping that the elements or stupidity would do Hugo in so he wouldn’t have to attack first.

Instead of earning a simple, perhaps even cheap victory, Hugo opted to stalk Palus throughout the arena. The cover of night was his weapon, as well as mounting dehydration and starvation on Palus’ part. He was able to instill paranoia in the other tribute, lingering close enough to impart terror but far enough not to be noticed. It was a mental hell that even the Gamemakers couldn’t have dreamt up. Worse yet was the knowledge that Hugo was very much enjoying the unfair game of cat and mouse. Watching Palus’ sanity deteriorate was a decadent feast for him. He would draw this out for as long as allowed, ensuring that Palus’ last moments of life were drenched in nearly psychotic terror.

After a full twelve hours of this treatment, Palus took a drastic turn for the worst and, in an attempt to rid himself of the constant feeling of being stalked, wound up taking his own life. He’d already lost too much blood by the time the Gamemakers realized what was happening, too late to intervene. All the while, Hugo waited in the wings and watched the grisly scene play out.

During his victory tour and first interview with Seneca Crane, Hugo would come to admit that he would have happily continued tormenting Palus had he not killed himself. He was unashamed in his insistence that he survived because out of all the tributes, he was the only one with a thick enough mental-skin to endure the challenges of the game.

Hugo’s ruthlessness sent chills down Neil’s spine even when he was just thinking back on it. But he also knew that if he were ever dropped in the arena himself, he would have to embody those same traits. Neil felt admiration and horror toward Hugo in equal parts.

When it came down to it, he would do whatever it took to get out of the arena alive.

---

On reaping day, the district came alive with the hustle and bustle of business. Though District 12 was far from the most affluent, the heightened presence of Peacekeepers and Capitol attendees stirred up local merchants. The citizens were split down the middle in terms of disposition.

For families, this was a day of dread. Many households had to request tesserae multiple times, making their likelihood of being reaped that much higher. From those families, Neil could see the dread hanging off them like a heavy cloak, shrinking their already slouched shoulders and diminishing their hope. Many were dressed in the best clothes they owned, as was expected for such a day.

For Neil, dressing up meant finding an ill-fitting pair of slacks and a baggy button-down from the local seamstress — an outfit he stole when no one was paying attention. There was no way he could afford even the most tattered of clothes with what little money he had. Neil had perfected the art of pickpocketing and petty theft, a skill created out of necessity. By the time anyone realized their merchandise was missing, he would be long gone.

In some parts of the district where the more unruly folk flocked, bets were taking place regarding who would wind up being reaped. Neil tried to hide his grimace as he overheard an older man estimating how many tesserae one particular family had taken out. He couldn’t help flinching when he heard him say “that kid of theirs is as good as dead.”

As much as Neil wanted to believe that he was above that kind of cruel self-interest, he didn’t have much to say in the way of a defense. He wouldn’t bet on someone’s life, but he himself was hoping that literally anyone in the world would get reaped instead of him. He was on the brink of turning eighteen — after that, he would no longer be in the pool for the Games. Just a month longer and he could follow through with his escape plan. Given the fact that Neil had never taken out tesserae in his life, he figured his odds of getting reaped were extremely slim. Still, they existed at all, and Neil couldn’t shake the enormity of that fact.

He could hear his mom’s words echoing in his ears every time he fought the rising panic.

“What if I get reaped?” he would fret, imagining the countless scenarios that could play out.

Her reply would always be punctuated by a tight yank of his hair or a smack to the back of his head:

“Make sure you don’t.”

---

With the entire District gathered in the square, Neil felt like there were walls closing in on him from every angle. Claustrophobic though it was, he could take comfort in the fact that he blended in easily with the other people in his age group. Neil worked hard to be a mundane, ordinary presence in the world. His survival depended on being invisible.

The tension in the air was thick and uncomfortable, everyone’s fears laid bare and only intensified by the setting. Peacekeepers lined the permitter of the square, stun guns and tasers at their belt, ready to be used. It hadn’t come to drastic measures like that in recent years. The Capitol had beaten District 12 thoroughly into submission.

All of the shaking, fussing, and nervous movement among the crowd stopped at once when the speakers cut on. The Capitol escort onstage was ready to begin.

“District twelve! I’m so happy to be with you all here today,” she began, her voice nauseatingly saccharine.

It was clearly a lie — all Capitol citizens stuck up their noses at the districts and were eager to leave at the first available opportunity. But given the fact that they would be the one benefiting from the games, Neil supposed that perhaps her enthusiasm was real. A bloodbath was guaranteed with each year.

That notion nauseated him even more than her voice had.

Her hair was teased up high into a poof-like style, the color a mixture of orange and pink. Neil wasn’t sure of the last time he’d seen a color so bright within the district. Though he’d only seen a handful of Capitol citizens in propaganda videos and even fewer in Twelve itself, he could tell that they were a flamboyant bunch; not only did the people there don every color of the rainbow, but body modifications weren’t unusual either. He’d heard stories of people who had cat-like ears attached to their skulls, or full-body tattoos that blurred the lines of human and animal.

“As I’m sure you all know, today is Reaping Day. And this is no ordinary one, I might add— ” she paused, effectively lodging a boulder in Neil’s gut, “It is also a Quarter Quell. Every twenty-five years, we add a twist to the game, so to speak.”

It was dawning on him now that this was indeed a Quarter Quell year. He’d gotten so caught up in his hopes for an escape that the whole thing didn’t even occur to him.

There were always different adjustments made to the Hunger Games during the quells. One year, tributes were reaped from the districts by a vote among their own peers. Whichever two citizens had the most votes were sent into the arena. Families were pit against one another, leaving the districts frigid and tense long after the tributes were sent away. There were numerous murders and assaults within the districts that year as well — the Capitol didn’t want the bloodshed to be limited to the arena.

Neil had no idea what the cruel twist would be this year, but his imagination was already leading him to terrifying places. He wouldn’t put anything past the Capitol.

“During this Quarter Quell, the number of tributes will be doubled. Let this serve as a reminder to the districts that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen during the Dark Days. Instead of twenty-four tributes from the twelve districts, forty-eight will be reaped.”

Neil took a moment to do the math in his head, his pragmatism working hard to beat out his terror. Doubling the tributes reaped would mean four individuals being chosen from each district — two girls and two boys.

Even with this alteration to the Games, his likelihood of being picked wasn’t very high; Neil had only been entered in the reaping pool a handful of times, and he never received tesserae. The odds of him being chosen in comparison to the dozens of other kids in the district — namely the poorest ones from the Seam — were very slim. He silently chided his heart for thudding so painfully and his skin for sweating uncontrollably.

This event would be fleeting fear, he told himself. After the tributes were picked and the town square was dispersed, Neil would be able to narrow down his plan for escape. He was roughly half an hour away from the biggest sigh of relief in his entire life.

The Capitol escort onstage went into a lengthy monologue about the history of Panem, which Neil had already heard a thousand times over. The supposed history of their nation was beaten into every citizen’s skull, to ensure that they knew exactly whose boot they would always be trapped under. This was a tired, propaganda-laden tale that Neil had no interest in hearing. He found himself tuning out until a silence fell among the crowd. Neil’s focus turned back to the stage, where the woman was now walking over to the two clear glass bowls with names scattered within them.

As the woman on stage chirped out “Ladies first!”, the entire crowd held still. Neil could see a few girls in his age group beginning to tear up, a sense of fear falling over them at once.

With an exaggerated twirl of her hand, the attendant swiped a name out of the bowl of girl’s names.

His attention was scattered between his own thoughts and the goings-ons around him, but Neil caught the name Laila being spoken. There was a gasp within the crowd and a muffled sob could be heard a few feet from him. Neil watched on as Peacekeepers escorted the girl onstage. She couldn’t have been much older than fourteen. The sight of her tear-stained face and heaving chest only worsened Neil’s dread.

The entire event was inhumane. The Games were carried out for the sadistic pleasure of the Capitol, and there was no conscience to be found in people like that.

After a brief interview with Laila, the young girl was directed to the side of the stage and the escort moved on to the next reaping. This would be the first of two male tributes. Neil’s fingernails bit painfully into his skin as he clenched his fist, watching the escort’s hand swirl daintily into the bowl. Despite his effort to look as composed as possible, Neil couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes just before the name was called.

“Matthew Boyd!” was the name that rang out in the square. Neil’s eyes instantly shot open and his hands relaxed at their sides, the tension wrung out of them for now. Matthew Boyd wasn’t a name Neil was familiar with

The person who stepped out from the crowd was older than him — probably reaped during his very last year of eligibility. Neil hoped that he wouldn’t suffer a similar fate. He was so close to being done — so close to being free.

There was a slight commotion as Matthew stepped up on stage, but Neil’s focus was ebbing. His hands still shook at his sides, awaiting the second and last choice for a male tribute. Time slipped by without notice and before Neil knew it, Matthew was being ushered to the side of the stage and the second female tribute was being reaped. No one he knew. No reason to care. The only way Neil could cope with the insanity of it all was to remain as pragmatic as possible.

“One last tribute!” the attendant chirped, strolling over to the bowl with ease. This, of course, only spelled the end of her fun for the day. Not potentially the end of her life, as was the trend for District 12. Neil could only remember two winners from their district, and that wasn’t an encouraging average in comparison to the Career districts.

Closing his eyes again, Neil stuffed his hands in his pockets and dug his nails into his palms. They burned as he clenched his fingers tighter, and his whole body felt rigid. If he wasn’t called, he knew it would take everything in his power not to break into a sprint right then and there. Tonight would be his last one in the Seam one way or the other. He just hoped—hoped with painful intensity—that he would be leaving of his own volition.

Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me.

Once the paper was pulled, the Capitol attendant fumbled with it for a few seconds before coaxing it open. A beat later, the name came. Neil’s breath hitched, soaked in fear from head to toe.

---

The strange thing was, Neil couldn’t recall hearing his own name. He couldn’t recall hearing anything in the few seconds between standing there, paralyzed with fear, and being yanked forcefully from his place.

He struggled against the Peacekeeper’s grasp, attempting to kick out his legs so he could escape. Had he been thinking clearly, Neil would have known that this was as good as futile. They would catch him, hold him down, and make sure he wound up in the arena. They would have their entertainment. His blood would be shed for the sake of cruel tradition.

He was so close. This wasn’t fair.

Neil fought the Peacekeepers all the way up to the stage, shouting every indecent thing that came to mind, his arms and legs still fighting to be free. Once he was pulled on to the wooden stage, a plastic zip tie was secured to his wrists. This wasn’t enough to temper his rage, though. Neil flailed a moment or two longer before he felt a shock at his side. It sent him falling to the floor, the impact shuddering through his whole body.

The one shock was enough to subdue him, but Neil felt three more on different parts of his torso. Electricity coursed through him; it was a mind-numbing pain that began to dull his senses. He could hear the crowd growing uneasy, talking amongst themselves to make sense of this unusually violent retrieval of a tribute.

The last thing he could remember before his vision dimmed was the sound of his name.

“Neil Josten, our fourth and final tribute from District 12!”

[sugarpinecrews]

title: guilt by association word count: 1,306 warning(s): mentions and/or graphic details regarding drugs, weapons, violence, murder, and gore. a/n: what up it’s ya boi with yet another parker fic. here’s his gta au origin story.

       How they thought Parker didn’t notice the guns always being carried, the poorly hidden bloodstains, that ever-so-slight scent of a life newly ended...well, he supposed he was smarter than he ever gave himself credit for. He also supposed he should look into finding better friends, but that thought didn’t come soon enough.

       He was only a teenager when he was first exposed to the dirty underground of the city. Flashes of steel against prepubescent skin, bruised knuckles clutching pencils in study hall, black eyes painting targets on the weaker end of the high school spectrum --- students disappeared, and word spread fast as to the cause ( drugs, some would say, while others insisted gang involvement --- Parker never knew who to believe, so he chose to ignore all of it ). As the years remaining dwindled down, as did the class size; by graduation, too many to name had gone missing, most of them having never even been found. Those were the lucky ones, or so those remaining said ( in hushed tones, for fear of being next ).

         High school ended, and with it, as did any previous, albeit little, knowledge Parker had on the less-than-legal side of the city. He went about his day to day just as any other oblivious person would, hoping that one day, he would wake to a new world, one that wasn’t so drenched in so much death and paranoia. The Fake AH Crew wreaked havoc downtown, and Parker tried his best to get his groceries home safely; this was life...at least, that was until he came into contact with his very first crew.

          A friendship inevitably arose between himself and a handful of local criminals, and Parker tried his very best to ignore that information; they even suspected him ignorant of the fact, not realizing he knew of their shady dealings until well into the partnership. The group only spent time together doing random things --- a lunch date here, a night in with pizza and video games there. How they thought Parker didn’t notice the guns always being carried, the poorly hidden bloodstains, that ever-so-slight scent of a life newly ended...well, he supposed he was smarter than he ever gave himself credit for. He also supposed he should look into finding better friends, but that thought didn’t come soon enough.

          Eventually, a job goes wrong. It always does, it seems, and Parker is forced to house a group of wanted criminals for the night. The evening is spent in panic, a new, overwhelming sense of fear collapsing upon him like a cartoon anvil, dropped out of what seemed to be nowhere --- his friends were criminals, and he was now an accomplice. With few options left, he caves, and by the end of the night, he has wiped his tears and held a gun for the first time in his life.

          Two months later, he goes on his first heist. It’s a simple job, a hit-and-run sort of robbery that only barely holds the title of a heist, but the event still fills him with a strange sense of pride; he is only a getaway driver, and he quickly graduates to being on the ground --- he mentally prepares himself for three weeks, but when the time finally comes, he panics. A man is shot dead at his feet, and Parker only stands there, hands still shaking against a trigger he never even pulled; a friend approaches and gently takes him by the shoulders, leading him out and away from the scene as efficiently as possible. He doesn’t hold a gun again for six weeks.

           As time goes on, he starts to pick up on hidden cues; a civilian searching their surroundings a certain way, that too-cocky air of a criminal hiding in plain sight --- he learns to plan heists, too, starting out small before gradually increasing in both profit and difficulty. He begins to do behind the scenes work for what has become its own little crew, but it isn’t long before they are trying to pull him back to the field. Another hand would be nice when storming their next target, they would say, but he would incessantly decline; life wasn’t meant to orbit the act of taking it from others, and he refused to allow his to do so.

          Years go by, and finances quickly become tight; the crew’s profit balances little with the price of this all-too-risky lifestyle, and the need for more money leads a few of them to explore a more dangerous side of this underground world. Kidnapping becomes a regular occurrence, as does blackmail --- eventually, Parker is called to a warehouse on the edge of town. The crew is trying to get information out of some stranger, who hasn’t a clue what’s going on, or maybe she does. Maybe she’s just trying to buy time she doesn’t have; Parker can still recall her screams, all pained and desperate, as the men he called his friends slashed blades across exposed skin, blood squirting into the air as if trying to escape this hellscape of a scene --- he wished he could do the same as he stood there, helpless and, truth be told, a little bit frightened. 

          A gun is shoved into his hands, all sweaty and nervous, and he is told to shoot this woman dead, point blank. Tensions are high, and there must be a pretty hefty price on this woman’s head, but this does not convince Parker of murder. He doesn’t think that anything really could, but his friends insist that he do it, insist that he join them in being the dangerous criminals they always dreamt of being --- he still recalls the way the bullet ripped through her skull, the way the force of the firing shook every bone in his body. He remembers the blood, splattering everywhere; he isn’t sure someone could forget something like that.

          By the end of the week, he is no longer working with the crew. He still considers them friends, still invites them over for pizza and a night of shitty video games, but he chooses to opt out of the criminal world. Guilt wears heavy on his heart as he lives his day to day, remembering the life he took, the countless his friends took with such ease and carelessness --- days turn into weeks, then weeks turn into months. He very easily slides back into the civilian world...that is until he comes into contact with one Steven Suptic.

          A new arrival to the city, Steven seemed eager to jump into the ever-changing tides of Los Santos. Perhaps a little too eager, though Parker would never voice that concern; the pair clicked instantly, but it wasn’t long before Parker came to recognize those same little ticks in Steven that he first saw in his other friends --- the gun always being carried, the not-so-subtle bloodstains across the brim of a pink hat, against the red of a flannel shirt; just like before, he doesn’t mention these little observations, and just like before, he is only really exposed to such a life when a job goes downhill. One always is, it seems.

          The next few years seem to fly by; Steven works with random names across town, barely making ends meet, and Parker tries his best to keep himself afloat. He helps Steven when necessary, and eventually learns that his management expertise can actually be useful; he plans heists for the highest bidder, yet still finds himself struggling to pay rent. He eventually finds roommates, men who work in their own shady business ( one that Parker doesn’t even try to understand --- the less details the better, really ), and he even tries to better his combat skills. The latter fails tremendously, but at least he tries.

           Out of the blue one day, he receives a call; Steven is trying to get a crew together, one that would actually pose a real threat to the city, and he knows no one better to plan their first few jobs. Reluctantly, Parker agrees to help, and the rest, as they say, is history.