oooh this is about to get messy and i love it proper thumbnail maybe soon maybe never haven’t left an event for so late before so uhh idk I tried to use similar equipment on cata’s fit to include the theme (white flags, clock on their leg, and shirt for train conductors) and connections with Sol… (choker + earrings) the big cape thing is based off flins from Genshin though he just gave the vibes anyways no more yapping music is fallen down (reprise) from undertale tw for mentions of a bit of fighting and injury and all that jazz (doesn’t go in a lot of detail but just a heads up) Little patience awaited the tribute as the smell of the steam locomotive entered his nostrils like an unwelcoming visitor - A smell of oil, and burning coal was certainly not in the feline’s books as capitol-style entertainment. After all, its inhabitants enjoys chasing the peak of fashion- Every trend, every bold and daring move, adorned with crimsons of gold and sliver. Accessories, all made to stand out like a sore thumb. It’s ironic, isn’t it? He thought. Such an ironic statement for such young tributes; Stuck in the past, forever forgotten as a product of its time, while the world keeps moving on, and thrives on the product of the lesser. In truth, he had considered this as the salt to the wound. How the capitol sees them as nothing more than a performance. Their sense of fashion and drive for the oldened aesthetic reeked of ignorance to its history and significance. Cata wore the silver pieces and the fabrics that tightly bound on their body with a unsatisfied look, one that had screamed contempt and disgust. It wasn’t that the clothing had not been to their standards, but rather than the memory it gives. His designer was more personal and perceptive, so much more perceptive that they were. The same shades of grey that Sol once wore on their parade. Maybe some of them were more memorable than others. Sitting around the humid environment that is the carriage itself, Cata met the gaze of the tributes that he had made little contact with. The distant scent of home, gosh, why did he give that away? Yet soon, they remembered that it was no choice of his; It was a mutual agreement, an agreement between the escort and his own will. A double-edged sword, if you will. On opposite corners of the cart, he eyed the few tributes who have also seen the events that have unfolded since that fateful day: Delilah-Anne, Milo, and Ophelia. But no sight of Coriander. Oh, Coriander Deltathorn. He hated how easily the name rolled off their tongue. Hated his own mouth, that flows and flows with words of wisdom, until eventually, he will turn them away, scared of his own feelings; The world does not let good things last, and the Hunger Games breaks the camel's back - It snaps it in half. Cata contemplates in the agreed silence. Was he so fearful of loving someone again, after all this time? The train makes its way onwards, and the wheat and scythe of district 11 makes up an ironic imagery. The eyes of the capitol awaits, but they are scared - They are scared of the lack of sympathy left by the tributes. A cage, constructed to protect their sorry state. He reaches, he yearned to meet the breezy air, after its long departure away from their homeland. Nothing more than the simplicities of life, the workers, everything that he had taken for granted. Slowly, Cata meets those eyes, horns, all those intricacies that had disgusted him. They peeked out the window, it glistens, like the makeup that the crowd wears - He hears their voices, all clamouring into one big background noise. A little wave conjures from his paws - Not that they’d care, of course, but courtesy must be upheld; It’s what Sol taught him, to show that they aren’t any less than the capitol lot. “My name is Cata.” They say, with a disdain that had not been observed through his past comments - The name of the Panthyre family, or more precisely, the Russell-Reyes Cordero family - Not that the family had chosen to name the children as-is, either way. Yet Cata Russel-Reyes Cordero rolled off the tongue like no other name would have done. “Cata Panthyre. District 11.” They continued, with a dry, and prune-like face that screamed neither excitement, or of any discernible emotions at all. “Greetings, citizens, and capitol of Panem.”
What would have Lu thought of at this moment? Was he think of him too? He grumbled in fury. /This is stupid, so stupid./ whilst tapping onto the dearly beloved steam engine, its history, all wiped out, leaving nothing but a husk of its original self. The taps slowly converge to a knock - A plea to escape, just to see if anyone is out there, just for anyone to hold him in their paws, and this humble request becomes anger - Why couldn’t he save anyone for once? He couldn’t save Lu, he couldn’t save Ma, and now, this dull life that once was the norm was ruined through their very own paws. Had he not decided to be a reckless git, had he ran away from everything to begin with. All sensations were now focused onto that one paw, so heavy with all these decorations, so burdened with guilt. He felt sick to the stomach, yet clutched onto dear life, as the train makes its way into the city. It’s so beautiful. So dear, yet he wanted to leave this place behind. Every knock becomes a driving force determined to break the shell into shreds, until a mysterious force comes forth out of the commotion. A white figure. Solelm. Authoritative. Terrifying at best. Cata glances at the tributes around, and dips his head in an early apology to what is about to occur. “This is capitol property.” Said the masked figure, in which he had assumed to be a security, peacekeeper, or gamemaker. Whoever the blasted entity may be. “Respect it.” “What if I don’t?” Cata growled. /God, not this again./ “What’cha gonna do? Throw me in jail?” His mouth is sharp, and filled with bitter hatred. They cannot stop him from being angry - He wouldn’t let that happen. With a forceful push to the chest, the figure wobbles and loses their balance. Before getting back onto their feet once more, and a fight ensues. “Fight me,then.” He barked. If that meant that they could leave this damned place behind. The pale silhouette hesitates, or perhaps Cata is imagining their sympathy. With some quick thinking, he had attempted to trip over the peacekeeper with his foot, yet with little success apart from a bruised paw. He yelped, and in their turmoil, the peacekeeper takes the upper hand. The two create a harmonious disturbance in their duel, rolling forwards and backwards on the moving automotive, until he is shoved up against the window. It cracks under the pressure, and it breaks. The peacekeeper steps back. Cata’s chest tightens. He sits, just on the flooring to a nearby seating, with sore legs, still hanging loose. There is glass everywhere, and they turn to meet the now-broken barrier. It is free yet Cata still cannot breathe. It hurts, and he doesn’t know where. The world has seen who he is. Just a good-for-nothing ruffian. A tired, unapologetic mangled rat of district 11; it is who he is, and Cata is satisfied.
