thearena | In the desert, you can remember your name.

Who| Group 2
What| Waking up in the desert arena
Where| Scattered around
When| Several hours after the Candy Cornucopia
Warnings/Notes| Deathroll will be coming soon to check out this arena's cornucopia and find out who dies between now and next week.

Make no mistake about it. The bloodbath of this Arena's Cornucopia was brutal. Half of the Tributes fell, a jerking, painful death. It is the highest death count in one day that recent memory can ascertain. It is shocking and unexpected, certainly a twist as far as those watching from the safety of the Capitol are concerned.

But it doesn't compare to what happens next. Because the Tributes that fell in in the bright candy hell don't wake up.

At least, not in the Capitol.

Not this time.

The fallen Tributes' eyes open, one by one, as the trackers in their arms let out an uncharacteristic jolt to bring them back to consciousness. They are not in their soft beds in the Training Center. They are not even in the Capitol. Instead, there is heat, more intense than that in the strange candy land that they had been in. A wind picks up, swirling dust and sand around them, stinging eyes and skin.

Everyone who was cut down is spread far and wide throughout this arena, still in their costumes, perhaps a little worse for wear.

"Good afternoon, Tributes." Claudius Templesmith's voice echoes through the air once all of the Tributes have been unceremoniously awoken. "And welcome to the second half of the Seventh Arena of the 75th Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."

And with that, they're on their own....

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"Not us. You." The note being located, Parker's eyes narrow. "Timmy the Dimmy likes you better."

"I still need to count."

She shrugs. She's not sure she'd accept something from Timmy anyway -- in case there was something in it. Can't be too careful, or too paranoid, in Parkerville.

"Me?" She's leaning over Parker's shoulder in an instant, trying to read the note. She can't help but grin.

"Monsieur Timaeus sent me a present? No one has ever sent me one before today! And water - that is what I need... what we need."

She looks from the bottle to Parker and back again. Most other people, she wouldn't bother - but she sighs and holds it out to her friend.

"We can share, Madame. Perhaps Monsieur Timaeus will send us more."

And then, with a delighted grin, she looks up into the clear, hot sky, and for once, she hopes there is something recording her nearby.

"Monsieur Timaeus - if you hear me, thank you. Thank you for the water."

Parker holds up the note so that Eponine can see it better.

"Sponsors don't like me. Don't like them much either. Like throwing crumbs at the starving, but then taking all other food."

Parker hands over the note, and then crosses her arms. "Nope. You give me some, he might not send you more. Think he's dickish that way. Keep your water. I can count." She's firm in her decision, sure it's the right thing. It's rare for her to have that certainty.

Eponine shrugs. "You do not have to like them, Madame. Sometimes, when you are starving, even when you hate yourself more for doing it, you must close your eyes and swallow the sick in your throat and chase after the fine ladies and gents and you open your hands and you beg. Madame, it is hard, but even a crumb, if it soothes your belly and stops your Papa from laying into you is better than a beating and an empty belly."

She opens the bottle and takes a small sip of water. She could drink the whole thing, but she knows from experience that water can at least fill the belly when food is scarce.

"I do not mind, Madame. I would rather you were alive than Monsieur Timaeus keep sending me presents."

Parker looks concerned, not confused, concerned. She's seen this before. She's seen it from the other kids in care: the ones who didn't hoard, and spent time trying to earn affection. Parker didn't understand why, as she learned to steal, and run, and not care. Parker learned to accept being broken, rather than try. Her way may keep her fed, but it kept her from everything else.

"Don't hate yourself. You didn't do it. They did. That's how they get you."

On the water, Parker stays firm. "Won't take it. Can't make me."

Sadly, Eponine gets a glimpse of the defiant Parker she was as a child, which she's never really grown out of.

Eponine does hate herself. She hates everything about herself; there is nothing good about her, if you ask Eponine. She is a thief, a beggar - worse. She is an accomplice in her Papa's schemes, arrested, marked as a bad lot. Almost married off to a man who scares her, hurts her... she's a firm part of the underworld, of the scum that crawl the streets of Paris and she hates herself for it.

But she shrugs and tries to grin at Parker. "A crumb is a crumb I do not care where it comes from. Madame - we will bargain. I will not offer you water until we have counted to three thousand. If there is no water then, you will take a sip, and I will too, and then we will begin again until there is plenty, yes? That is a plan - you will do me no good dead, Madame."

Parker may not have a firm grasp on sanity, but she rarely dislikes herself. Only once in a blue moon, when a mirror of her childhood is held up, does she realize she's broken. Most of the time, she's all right with the chips and cracks in her person; it makes her unique.

"I care. I'll care if you won't. Stabbed a guy in the last arena for oranges. Won't do that again. Won't --" Parker stops. She remembers what Eponine said about letters, and learning before. "Okay. 3000. Not before."

Parker will feel no compunction accidentally subtracting a few. She even smiles at the idea. Sophie would be so proud.

In the desert, you can remember your name.

Re: Parker | OTA

Re: Parker | OTA

Re: Parker | OTA

Re: Parker | OTA

Re: Parker | OTA

Re: Parker | OTA

Re: Parker | OTA