twin skeletons {69th finale}

[Deleted]

We tell tales of these—
Heroes and thieves
Of their ascension to greatness and glory,
But more often than not we tend to miss the most important part of the story.
For there’s a moment in each
When that forsaken glory seems to be just out of reach.

If that moment is now,
There’s no time left for a why or a how,
Only that of cursed resurrection,
My dearest Margaret, this is not the time for anything less than perfection.

With cane in hand and coin in pocket I had settled down for the night, fits of sleep coming between the sunset and announcement of anthem. It strikes the sky with blazes of color, and as the capitol symbol fades to that of two faces, the boy from nine and the girl from six, I press myself further into the small patch of snow still untouched by the blood of the latter. It had seemed a struggle to even move that far, from the site at which she had fallen to my previous position, and as her face seems to linger in the night sky—far longer than the boy from nine had seemed to—I run my hand over the lion’s head that lay across my lap.

Marchello Donner had asked me to lay rest to the idea of accusations of guilt, and instead of appeasing them I had struck down the mind that was to receive the message. It seemed now that he would stay with me despite my attempts to rid myself of the memories of him, and though the relief had lasted for the time it had taken to watch Ellexias Verisity fall to the snow never to rise again, it had returned with the rise of the moon, and it seemed that the morning sun would not chase one of these to rest.

It did not.

Instead, the morning sun brings about nothing more than the feeling of emptiness lingering in the air, and with the void comes my heart of flesh to break the silence, weighing heavily within my chest yet still beating for Alexis Rondhal, Pixie Ruined, and the three I had killed.

After all, I had wanted to break the silence.

But its rhythm does not bring about the sense of security I had longed for, and though I had hoped that the last two days spent truly living would be the end of this escapade (but oh how it seemed that this was the way one was destined to die, finding a pulse beneath dead skin), it appeared that my want to revert back to the state in which I found myself prior, stepping with no purpose other than falling for a kingdom already in ruin.

I pull the crown from my bag once more, setting it upon my head with less dignity than the two previous days.

This was no coronation; this was a burial.

And as the morning sun blares the rays of its arrival, I leave those god forsaken hills, patches of red contrasting against the snow it once held pure.

I am nothing but sin in its wake; nothing but a mistake.

After all, I had never mattered much, not with odds stacked against me and mountains rising far too high over my head to be a sensible climb, yet here I was, standing at its summit with crown in hand whilst looking over a kingdom already fallen.

It rules that I must tumble now.

And with a quiet pace I leave the hills for a final time, determined to stay free from the snares experienced the last two days left in their wake. Two cannons, each lingering on the horizon like a death wish unfulfilled, and the coin that turns over in my pocket only serves as a point of reverberation.

It catches on the lion’s head grasped firmly in my palm, teeth driving against my flesh like the axe that dug its grave into my skin the day before.

I am a graveyard of broken bodies and chipping weapons; an artist’s palette of every shade of red imaginable. One may stain of anger while the other love, though the latter would never stay true for flesh or mind but that of task alone.

Rule a kingdom; save the people.

I had already failed in one of these, and the ghosts of Alexis and Pixie continued to whisper in my ear night after night to keep me from forgetting this. Their blood lay at the end of swords still carried by enemies alike, drying to the whistle of a wind that still carried the sounds of their cannons.

One, two—they never cease.

They are the constant battle cry of a war that will never end no matter whom waves the white flag of surrender the highest—I know one thing only, it will not be me.

A queen does not fall until her crown and kingdom do the same, and it seems that the consummation of this lingers just over the horizon, materializing in the girl from eleven.

What’s to be done with eight days living?

The blood of Marchello Donner and Ellexias Verisity has dried in the cracks of my skin; the blood of her friends has painted my dry tongue.

“I’ve never been much of a morning person.” The tone is light, a sunrise on a bleak horizon turned red with every shade of anger when the thought must cross her mind—

She must be starving for one last chance at saving grace.

And I wish that I could say the same but the only thing that speaks in its place is the answer to a question she did not ask, “I killed them, you know.”

Knowledge is ammunition in a gun loaded, and her finger rests lightly on the trigger.

I take a breath—one, two—

(“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”)

Please don’t shoot.

[margaret dubois attacks katelyn persimmon; spear]
surKJqUZspear
[deep gash on neck -- 10.0]

table by anzie

spear

[charade]

Katelyn Persimmon

"This is the end of the age... singing songs of w a r "

One last anthem.

Two tributes killed.

Three dead allies.

Four times Ellexias had saved her life.

Five pieces of armor that had done the same.

Six. The pair of tributes that had stayed with her for a week.

Seven. The only other tribute left.

Eight days.

Nine Hatchets it took to bring Chaske down.

...

Twenty-two canons.

Katelyn held onto her knees as she sat by the Cornucopia. The anthem had left the arena some time ago, but the faces were burned onto her brain. Ellexias’s deep brown eyes had stared down at her before the boy from nine did and she had buried her face in her hands. Twice, she had left a crippled friend behind so that she wouldn’t have to kill them. Twice, they had died because of it. Twice, the girl from seven had killed them.

And that was who she’d have to face in the morning. It wouldn’t be any sooner, no, the Capitol preferred the final fight of a games to be in broad daylight, the better for the cameras to catch every move; the games the previous year notwithstanding. The canon had fired sometime after she had left Chazz’s body behind in the snow. The sound that signified that there was only one other tribute alive in the arena besides her.

It had been both her hope and her fear that she’d have to fight Lexi;to kill her in order to go home alive, but after seeing her face in the sky, the fear was gone, replaced by a white hot rage. Seven, whatever her name was, had killed Marc, and then had gone on to kill Ellexias. Oh, some infinitesimally tiny part of Katelyn was relieved that her own hand would not end a friend’s life, was relieved that they were gone before it came to that, but neither was she happy that they were dead.

 If not for them; if not for the choice they had made in the training center to work together to survive, she doubted she’d be sitting there waiting for the gamemakers to force her and seven to fight, one last time. Though she had known them for less than two weeks, she missed them deeply.

Velocity. Marchello. Ellexias. They were names now. Names to be remembered. Cherished. The names of friends that she had never expected to call that. They were only allies after all, she wasn’t supposed to care about tributes that one day might have had to turn on her. But they hadn’t. And whether or not they would have was a question only the dead could answer. Katelyn’s eyes drifted down from the distance she had been staring into to her bloody body and the shattered remains of her armor. She had patched up the wounds Chazz had inflicted upon her as best she could, but they still hurt like hell. At that point however, she welcomed the pain, as it told her she was still alive.

There was the knife wound on her back, alongside a few cuts here and there. The throbbing pain in her foot. So many, many hits to her arms it was a wonder there was any muscle left on them at all. Her biceps and forearms were shredded; a patchwork of crusting scabs, coagulated blood, ruined bandages and shoddy needlework. Raising a hand up, she touched the back of her head and found it sore. If not for the helmet she had found in the cornucopia after the bloodbath, the boy from nine might have split her head in two. As it was, the helmet had been replaced by sponsors soon after the fight, and the dried blood in her hair was a testament to how bad it could have been.

But she had still killed another person. Chaske had clearly been insane, clearly wanted to kill her in the most painful way possible; but he had still been a person, one who she had stayed with until the light left his eyes. Katelyn took no joy in his death, only solace in knowing she was one step closer to going home alive. he had been right. None of them deserved to be there.

But life wasn’t intended to be fair. It was about the choices a person made and how they dealt with whatever the world threw at them. People died all the time in Panem. Katelyn had seen enough people die of illness in eleven to know that. It was only the twenty-three that died on television every year that captured everyone's attention. Katelyn wondered how many viewers were watching her sit, how many were rooting for her to win, and how many were rooting for seven. Probably an even split. That’s how it usually went.


Not that any of those viewers cared about them.She was battered. Bloody. But still whole. Katelyn picked at a scab and wondered what seven was doing; wondered what kind of condition her soon to be opponent was in. Katelyn had nearly died fighting the boy from nine, but the internal injuries he had suffered from his broken ribs had ended him scant moments before he had ended her. Twice now, she had killed a tribute, and twice they had attacked her first. Self-defense, she continued to tell herself. But the fight with seven would be more personal. She knew what seven had done. Knew whom seven had killed.

There would be a reckoning.

                                                          ***
Morning arrived, and with it, a knot that formed in Katelyn’s stomach. She had wandered to the castle where she and her friends had stayed after killing the mutts. She supposed that they intended for one of them to be the queen of the arena, as the victor would have a crown once they left this place behind. One person standing in between her, her parents and home. The same person that had killed both tributes from six. A tribute that had killed their own district partner. She still didn’t know seven’s name, but she promised herself that she would ask; It was something she needed to know. The other girl stood across from her, looking about as bad as Katelyn felt. She had an array of items, much as Katelyn herself did, but Katelyn recognized one in particular.

Last time she had seen the lion headed cane, it had been duct taped to what was left of Marchello’s leg. It was sticking out of the other girl’s bag, which meant that seven hadn’t the decency to leave Marc where he fell. She supposed she had taken things from Chazz’s body as well, but the armor and water she had needed. There was no reason for seven to have the cane. Though seven was missing a hand, she had both legs, so Katelyn couldn’t fathom why seven had it, and it made her livid. “I’ve never been much of a morning person. I killed them you know."

“I already know that. You killed them both.” she ground out, putting emphasis on the words that ended each sentence. While Prism and Chazz had nearly killed Lexi two days before, seven had killed Marchello. While Chaske and herself had been trading blows the previous day, seven had killed Ellexias. It hurt her deeply, to know that the people that had worked with her for the most hellish week of all their lives would just be considered statistics by the Capitol. They were worth more than that. All twenty-two of them were. Chazz had taught her that in his final moments. Whether they acted the villian, or acted the hero; whether their life circumstances had twisted them into a mockery of the children they once were or if they had stayed true to themselves in the end, they all meant something.

The problem was not knowing whether or not seven understood that.

“Tell me your name. I want to know who killed my friends.” The waterworks started as if on a cue, and she wiped her eyes with a bloody sleeve to get rid of them, and waited the space of three heartbeats for an answer before she provided one of her own, sliding her ice pick out of her back and gripping the handle with both hands. This wasn’t revenge; not exactly, since she had to kill seven in order to go home. But,that didn’t mean she was feeling particularly charitable either. “My name is Katelyn Persimmon. You will hear my voice all the way to your grave.”

Lamb no longer. she whispered in her mind.

I am a lion.

Seven's spear punctured her neck like the icy hand of death itself. Katelyn stumbled backwards, choking and spitting up blood in an agony she hadn't known she could experience; a pain that was lightyears ahead of what Chaske had inflicted on her; more painful then the knife wound in her back that still itched. More painful than knowing what Seven had done to Marc and Ellexias.

Gasping for air, Katelyn stumbled back from the other girl with a pitiful mewl not befitting the lion the she purported to be. There was no roar, no shout, just a heave of her axe towards the other girl as the pain overtook her mind.

-Katelyn Attacks Margaret-
yrvmVtAo200+11000
-- Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder -- 3.5 damage

[presto]

We fall apart, to get back up
We learn the rules to just get by,
that's not enough

[/presto]

[googlefont="Montez:400"]200+11000

[Deleted]

Does the heart of flesh beat,
If only once more?
Does it scream out for greed,
Or to settle the score?

I will not fall for a girl whose only emotion stems from that of the people she loved.

For my heart of flesh may beat—pound within my chest, and though there may not be a single thing to be done to halt its rhythm, there was always the opportunity to step in time, to fall in line to a song which I would cry from beyond the grave.

It consisted of three names.

None of which were my own, for Margaret DuBois—“it’s just Margaret”— is just a title of scrambled letters and emotions, its purpose lost somewhere between quiet chaos and untimely calamity. Margaret DuBois was a name I had been determined to hide from in order to keep pride from my mind, but all hopes of this had been shredded as my spear was ripped from the stomach of Wyatt Manderson—(“I’m just trying to make a statement.”)

But, oh god, weren’t we all?

And though I had attempted to make the least of these she does not seem to do anything but stumble on the first, a gritted “I already know that. You killed them both,” through chattering teeth. The girl from eleven was lighting a fire inside her chest in hopes to keep warm, but her blood ran cold over my spear as it sinks deep into her neck, a perfect replica of that which cut across Marchello Donner’s, never to be stitched by thread or hope.

“Tell me your name. I want to know who killed my friends.” But neither of us are in the position to make demands, and hers only causes a grin to tug at my face, like learning my name would ease the gashes I tore in their flesh—it would not.

And though I’m caught in the time it takes to fathom an answer, those five syllables catching within my throat like I’d swallowed a sword, she only speaks, still waiting to strike out with anything more than the letters which fall from her tongue, “My name is Katelyn Persimmon. You will hear my voice all the way to your grave.”

The girl from eleven—Katelynn, she speaks of fire that would melt this world we stood upon but it seems that only blood has done this thus far, that which falls from the tear in her neck and that which trickles from her shoulder, an attack on her part entwined with the passing moments that follow such a brave statement.

(“You’ve got too much heart to be a killer.”)

I was only trying to discover if Katelyn Persimmon was playing the same hand of cards.

And when we step back, squared off at the shoulder, my own trickling red down the front of my chest across my beating heart in every form of fear and anger imaginable, I speak only when our footsteps quiet and resolve to crunching snow underneath our heels, “It’s just Margaret.”

Those five syllables, caught within my throat like a tape recording I couldn’t erase, the repeat button jammed against my tongue. Making a statement was all my counterpart from home had wanted to do, and I could never figure out why. For the time spent with Alexis and Pixie had been something more genuine than I had ever experienced in prior life, and it left me with raised hackles and guard, only allowing brief moments of calm to break through the barrier of high tide.

I am drowning in an ocean of their names and cannons—one, two three—why didn’t I set them out to sea?

My spear hangs heavy within my grip, a deadweight tying me to mistakes made and opportunities missed, both of which were dangerous things in themselves, but together even more so. The girl from eleven, she stood between myself and a crown of metal to replace that which sat upon my head now.

I do not crave the home that would await my coronation, for my sister would insist on a conjoined kingdom, sticking to my hip every time I sat upon the throne.

It only seats one.

The plaque above it only has space for one name, though it might seem short with “it’s just Margaret,” those five damned syllables threatening to hang over my head for the rest of my life, whether the remaining time was minutes or years.

I wonder how much time Katelyn Persimmon had left.

From the way she spoke, it seemed that she expected her own timeline to fall to the latter, her years dragging out far past my own, and despite how the tides would roll in I could only hope she was the same as Marchello Donner.

It’s my turn to make statements she cannot cease; to require answers from untimely demands.

“Did you know that Marchello Donner fell because he had too much heart?” I give her a moment to let the words pass her shield of armor and axe before continuing, “Katelyn, do you have more heart than I?”

[margaret dubois attacks katelyn persimmon; spear]
PcSLwwehspear
[deep gash on cheek -- 8.5]

table by anzie

spear

[charade]

Katelyn Persimmon

"This is the end of the age... singing songs of w a r "

When her ax clipped the other tributes arm, Katelyn felt her stomach drop. Seven was a killer. Three kills that Katelyn knew of and who knew how many others. Katelyn had killed two people in self defense. Both times, they had attacked her first. This time was no different, save for the fact that seven getting the drop on her this time was most likely going to end in her death.

"It's just Margaret." Pain blossomed in her face, the spear carving a furrow into her cheek, creating a little flap that hung off at an awkward angle and exposed her teeth to the open air as she tried to keep her footing and listen to the question that her would be murderer was asking.  Not that it mattered. Katelyn groaned and held the ice pick out in the other tributes direction.

"Well,...just Margaret. We both... know the answer...to that question." she panted through bloodstained teeth, the gash on her cheek spattering the ground with fresh blood as she tried and failed to staunch the bleed in her neck from covering her chest. Perhaps she had been a fool. As on the second day in the arena, she had tried to fight for the wrong reasons, and now she was suffering for it. Revenge remained something not in her nature.

Once more, the tears ran freely down her face from a mixture of pain, fear and sadness. I lied Chazz. she thought to herself. I wasn't ready to die fighting you, and I'm not ready now. But like you, I have no choice. I have to be."You n-never had...had...had a heart." she gasped. Not that that would stop Katelyn from trying to hit that shriveled organ with whatever strength she had left. "You...deserve the hell you've made...for yourself." she wheezed as she swung the ice pick and wondered if it would connect.

-Katelyn Attacks Margaret-
hgbR9Iaa200+11000
-- Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage

[presto]

It's like there's fire in my skin
And I'm drowning from within -
I can't take another breath,
Please tell me I am not undone.

[/presto]

[googlefont="Montez:400"]200+11000

[Deleted]

You said you were prime for a fall,
Ready to give up the gain,
But you still do not know all;
You’re no new soldier to pain.

She strikes, blood runs, and I scream once more, if for a final time.

It is not the same of that when Marchello’s axe had taken my ear, causing me to stumble forward until hands planted in the snow. This is a battle cry, a call to arms for one last charge. Her white flag of surrender hovers at her shoulders, drenched in the blood that pours from her wounds, matching that which lays on the point of my spear.

I let the tip drag in the snow, purity washing over that which cannot be saved.

I am the black of sin in a white-washed kingdom.

Her answer to my question falls on a distracted ear, for my attention has shifted to the blood pooling at her feet, her heart giving way to that which it cannot hold, and oh do I pity the tears that fall down her cheeks, staining skin torn. “You n-never had a heart.”

I do not smile; do not torn to grimace or grin but let the morning sun fall where it may.

Stoic.

When I speak, it seems to sit between the currents of wind, caught and suspended as if written upon the sky that lingers above our heads, waiting to bury both of our skeletons, one dead, one alive. “I’ve always had a heart, it just never knew how to follow a pulse.”

I step forward—one, two—falling to the rhythm that Lex had engrained into my being when I pressed my ear to his chest for the first time. We had paid for each other’s debts in secrets and to secrets would we return, and I could only believe he was waiting for me with that book I promised to be open, for I had been a child laid out to dry, given to nothing other than tasks and reason—I was order and peace in chaos because I never let affection get in the way.

I was infinite.

But now, with flesh beating within my chest I can feel the timeline of my infinity shrinking, shriveling into its point like the close of a film—I am ending.

“You deserve the hell you’ve made for yourself.” It strikes a chord too familiar, for just the day before I had been welcoming hell with open arms, striving to reach its gates with arms outstretched, letting fire bite at my skin and char my heart until it turned to stone.

Turned over fire; frozen in time.

“You give me too much credit in saying I’ve built it myself, for I’ve had much help, Katelyn Persimmon.”

[margaret dubois attacks katelyn persimmon; spear]
dEIaYW7Rspear
[miss-- 0.0]

reroll for accuracy
spear
[deep gash on left forearm -- 8.0]

table by anzie

spear�spear

[charade]

Katelyn Persimmon

"It's like there's cancer in my blood... It's like there's water in my l u n g s,"

Blood erupted out of Margaret's bicep and Katelyn watched it fountain outward with a look of detachment. Seven was just like nine from the other day. This was not a fight for survival for her. This was about the golden pot at the end of the rainbow; or rather the crown. Margaret did not seem afraid, nor did her words betray anything other than a carefully cultivated sheet of ice. The career mentality. Katelyn shuddered. Margaret felt nothing for attacking her. She must have wanted the glory as bad as Chazz had. No love. No family to return to. Just the allure of what the Capitol promised. A sad existence, Katelyn thought blearily as she tried to focus on her opponent.

The other girl spoke of a heart that never learned to beat with a callousness befitting a tribute from district two."T-he boy from nine said something similar before I k-killed him. His heart was dead before the arena. Unlike some of the...others." Margaret jabbed at her and missed, the point of the spear burying itself in the snow.  Seven wiped blood off in the white and stained it pink before whirling around faster than Katelyn realized she could move. It sunk into the piece of armor covering her left arm and shattered it, only the tip drawing blood like a quill being dipped in ink.

Katelyn offered a silent prayer for Chazz, wherever he was, and thanked him for the armor she had taken from his body. “You give me too much credit in saying I’ve built it myself, for I’ve had much help, Katelyn Persimmon.” The girl from eleven huffed and shook her head, wincing as that caused the flap of her cheek to move. "I'm...not talking about the arena...Margaret." Hefting the ice pick and heedless of the blood pouring from her head, Katelyn took a step towards the girl from seven and offered her a wan smile turned macabre by the teeth that showed through the rent in her face.

Pulling her hand away from her neck, she reached into her helmet, pulling out her bandanna. The same red piece of cloth that she had been wearing when her name had been called at the reaping all those days ago. She placed it by her throat to sop up some of the liquid and coughed a great bloody gob that spattered on the ground in front of her. If Lexi were still alive she'd probably have told Katelyn something sciencey about lungs and what happens to them when they fill with fluid.

If Marc was still alive she wagered that he would have said something snappy and cracked a joke about his lack of a leg. And Velocity? Katelyn hadn't ever gotten the chance to get to know her, but she would have liked the chance. They were memories now. And Katelyn brooded, wondering how long she had before she was just another memory too.

But if that was the case, then she was going to go out the way that she lived. The gamemakers had failed to twist her into something she was not in order to get this far. Perhaps that was a victory in of itself. "I-I feel s-s-sorry for you."she gasped. "You've n-never known anything g-good. Whether it's five m-minutes or five decades from now, No one's going to miss you when you're gone." 

The words scratched at her throat, each a dagger ripping its way free of her mouth, but it needed to be said. For years, all Katelyn had tried to do was help people, and if at this stage in her young life it meant forcing people to see a hard truth that they denied, then that was all she had left to offer.

That, and enough strength in her arm to swing again.

"You will know my voice." she sobbed internally.

Because I want to live, and you were dead long before the reaping.

-Katelyn Attacks Margaret-
joOz_mE3200+11000
-- Shallow Cut on Left Hip -- 3.5 damage

[presto]

It's like there's fire in my skin
And I'm drowning from within -
I can't take another breath,
Please tell me I am not undone.

[/presto]

[googlefont="Montez:400"]200+11000

[Deleted]

Your sister gave you a rose of white,
But never did it once cross your sight,
That this was not just a call to arms,
This was a test of where you lay harm.

When my sister placed a rose of black in my hair, petals contrasting against the sun that shone upon us that morning, I had thought it to be nothing more than to accentuate the differences between Ella and I. She was my father’s light, his saving grace from the tire of my mind.

He had raised me a hero, but I stood as a villain.

Still standing three days later, Wyatt Manderson’s death hung heavily over my head, his heart a symbol of a broken tree line and split paths that labeled the sky as home. But home is a resting place for a heart of flesh, and I have never had one to call my own, residing behind four walls was nothing more than surviving on basic necessity.

This arena was more of a home than seven had ever been.

Once upon a time, the queen of a kingdom fallen sparred at battle with the shadows of her enemies. Never once did she strike flesh or bone, but she bit at the ground with such fury that between each breath and step taken her army gained the resolve to march forward, fighting for cause of heart.

“Do you know why you cannot advance forward, my dearest Margaret?”

I was caught in the brambles of fear and stoicism, never changing for fear or love in the same, each a shade of black and white that never colored the blank pages of my life. Words scrawled upon these were nothing more than children’s handwriting upon walls, unreadable and unneeded by anyone of importance.

I’ve never mattered much.

”You can never advance forward, my dearest Margaret, because you fight for mind, not for soul.”

I am not what my heart beats for.

Instead I am the thoughts that plow through a restless mind, tied to nothing more than the winds that carry away the last sounds of Wyatt Manderson, Marchello Donner, and Ellexias Verisity’s cannons.

It is silent.

And this unknown silence takes me back to the hollow walls of the justice building, when I had toppled a table and ripped apart books if for the hopes of breaking that which was seemingly indestructible. Its presence is porcelain, cracking under my fingertips.

She speaks, and it falls apart, shattering at my feet and causing the world to spin rapidly, and with fading sanity I bend, grasping tightly behind my knees to steady myself as her voice rings out, first speaking about the boy she killed the day before, whose lucky number of nine had run out. She told me he was dead before she had taken his life, much like myself, but if this happened to be the boy who struck at me the day Lex fell, we were nothing alike.

He killed for cynicism.

“I feel sorry for you,” and here my gaze flickers up until I’m staring at her through the curtain of hair that’s fallen in front of my face, cutting knives into skin with a gaze that’s anything other than steady, “You’ve never known anything good. Whether it’s five minutes or five decades from now, no one’s going to miss you when you’re gone.”

When I’m gone the heart that hangs heavy within my chest will find its place at home, settling into a chest that matches its pace—I am forever falling.

It does not matter if I die, this will be fulfilled.

I reach to my pocket, running fingers over the coin that settles there before placing my other hand on the cane that lies at my feet. I take one last glance at the lion’s head, letting its teeth dig into my palm before throwing them to her feet.

“I told Marchello, and I’ll tell you,” I pause, gripping my spear with both hands before watching the ground spin once more, “too much heart is a downfall.”

She was right in saying that no one would miss me when I was gone, but no one had missed me as I had left fading faces either.

I had never mattered much, and truly I never would.

[margaret dubois attacks katelyn persimmon; spear]
8AtwLl7Tspear
[shallow cut on right calf -- 3.5]

table by anzie

spear

[charade]

Katelyn Persimmon

"It's like there's cancer in my blood... It's like there's water in my lungs"

As the other tribute grew silent, Katelyn pondered what path had led Margaret to the finale with her. The other girl bore plenty of scars, bandages wrapped around half closed wounds and a ragged stump where a hand should have been. Clearly, it had been rough going. Whether by mutt or by tribute, Margaret had lost pieces of herself to the arena. Katelyn by contrast, had lost nothing but blood and scraps of skin as well as chunks of her muscles.

And of course, a trio of cannons that marked the slow decline of her alliance. Margaret must have lost allies too. Katelyn had seen the look on Margaret's face when the career from four had fallen after all.  If there were others beside him, Katelyn knew not, and doubted she'd ever know. 

Margaret threw the cane down at her feet, and for a moment, Katelyn wondered if she had actually managed to strike a nerve the way she had struck ten when she told him the careers in his company would use him up before he got what was coming to him. And he had. At Marchello's hands. Seven talked of why her friend died, and if the parallel that Margaret was trying to get across was being understood correctly, Katelyn felt a small measure of happiness at knowing Marc, for all his bluster had been just like her in the end.

She smiled in spite of the situation, her heart beating far faster than what was healthy as the spear point glanced off of the armor covering her legs."Too much h-heart might have been Marc's d-downfall." she said through chattering teeth."But at least...he had heart to give. Not enough heart is no life at all. But I think... you already know that."

Somewhere in her head, Katelyn could hear Ellexias yelling at her for talking when she could be suffering serious organ failure, and Velocity's wide eyes staring from the beneath the fronds of the camouflage station bored into her skull. With one last glance at the cane, Katelyn roared with whatever air was left in her lungs and charged.

-Katelyn Attacks Margaret-
JLu|VtRF200+11000
11020- Deep Gash on Right Thigh -- 8.0 damage

[presto]

It's like there's fire in my skin
And I'm drowning from within -
I can't take another breath,
Please tell me I am not undone.

[/presto]

[googlefont="Montez:400"]200+11000

[Deleted]

My father’s voice fades from my head, a light dulling with every second passing.

I promised him I was not weak, but never have I been strong, a girl with the world at her back and the void in front, one single step from falling over the edge.

It’s just Margaret—those five damn syllables, haunting me at every corner I turn, an escape from the fresh start. My name resounds off those hollow walls, an echo in a cave uninhabited. I am the shadow in the corner of dark rooms, the monster that claws at children’s feet. I am stoic, unbroken by blade and blood because I am built from the ashes of fires I have burned down. I am—

A heart of stone hangs heavy within my chest, never beating for my father, sister, or myself.

There is nothing more than the biological state of living etched into my veins—I am bleeding to prove this alone. My being runs red, I am the anger of the three I have killed, their weapons falling to my feet like gifts—I am anointed.

This is a coronation.

The throne lies six feet under and I watch for it in earnest, blood spilling from every wound like the entrance of a queen—I am dying—I do not care. I stain the carpet red, purity marred by every sin I have made, I am—

(“Just trying to make a statement.”

“Standing for a failing heartbeat.”

“Welcoming hell with open arms.”)

I am ruler of that which is broken, lost, and damned.

(“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”)

Then why am I dying?

Each labored breath and trickle of blood laces with the snow and for once the cold does not bite, the frost does not reach my lips—I am warm.

I am ablaze.

Embers of red, yellow, and orange tinge my vision like the mutts from day three. I see Lex with a broken heart and failing spear, Pixie with bloody nails and fear in her eyes, Hedvig with failing grace and ceased breaths.

I see myself, eyes glazed over and chest slashed across, stitches in the shape of a heart tearing into my skin like the axe turned against my skin. I am the body I tore apart in the training center, left to burn at the hands of those who would never understand.

I am just Margaret—those damned syllables.

[margaret dubois attacks katelyn persimmon; spear]
I_VMvBrcspear
[result]

table by anzie

spear

[charade]

Katelyn Persimmon

"This is the end of the age... singing songs of w a r "

Thigh.

It was probable that she had hit an artery with that last blow; not that either of them were in any shape to figure that our for themselves. More blood. More pain. No more words. No more overly enigmatic turns of phrase. No more of Seven trying to convince the both of them that she didn't care about what was happening. Or maybe that was just seven's body shutting down. Katelyn could hardly figure it out given how light-headed she was getting. Her eyes felt heavy in her head. The blood flow was slowing; a combination of the lack of fluid remaining inside her veins and the chill of the arena around them.

Margaret thrust the spear towards her again and she felt it pierce her stomach, drawing a thin line of blood as the remnant of her armored vest cascaded to the ground like a chrysalis being shed by a butterfly at the start of spring planting. Katelyn panted, holding the ice pick like it was her last tether to the ground beneath her feet. How were either of them still standing? Katelyn stared at the sun shining high above them and wondered why she could feel no heat radiating from it. Cold. That's what the arena was, and that was how the Capitol intended the tributes to be while inside it. Cold. Callous. Unfeeling. But Katelyn had rejected all of that. She had found warmth. Found life. Felt alive.

Life was something to be measured in the small good moments that surrounded the big bad ones. Because more often than not, the small moments of good added up and outweighed the bad. Sure, she could focus on the bad. The fact that three people she had chosen to befriend were on their way homes in pinewood boxes. Or that she sent two people home that way herself. That several people had tried to kill her and that one of them was standing right in front of her. But she thought of the happier moments. Girl talk with Lexi; watching Marc make an ass of himself in the training center and laughing about it quietly. Sitting with Velocity and a bucket of paint. Learning that a heart, twisted as it was could still beat beneath the chest of a career from two. Or that a tribute that made themselves out to be a monster was in truth a scared little boy lashing out the world.

Katelyn focused on the girl in front of her once more, and wept for the twenty-two cannons that had fired, as well as the one that would be firing in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. Margaret was just like the others in the end wasn't she? A victim of circumstance, just like herself. The ice pick swung almost of its own accord as Katelyn uttered a single word meant for all twenty-four of them thrust into the icy hell of the arena.

"Rest."

-Katelyn Attacks Margaret-
SzqSWVst200+11000
-- Shallow Cut on Chest -- 4.0

[presto]

We fall apart, to get back up
We learn the rules to just get by,
that's not enough

[/presto]

[googlefont="Montez:400"]200+11000

[Deleted]

✦ ✧ m a r a ✧ ✦

Margaret, my daughter, I asked of you
Only three things to show you stood true.
The first was this—I wanted to see
Will, courage, hope, and bravery.
But yet you turned your heart from me.
Do you think you’ve become what you aspired to be?

The damned, my father, if what you say is true,

Hell’s come for me but it stalls for you. 

You hold my sister in the palm of your hand, 

And I can only pray that she once takes her stand. 

For you are no father;

Your heart holds no care, 

Instead you spit hatred—

You’ve caught us tight in this snare.

I was an infinite timeline.

No beginning or end to this heart of stone could be found in the morning sun and falling night, for I was the best and worst of both of these, never tied by the limitation of defining that which I was to be—I was stoic. No scream or cry could falter my mind, and this was often mistaken for the best of these—courage, strength, and dignity. But all architecture cracks with the whistling wind and rushing of tide, and without knowledge of this I was giving way to the tender flesh that lay underneath, sheltered for seventeen years from the elements.

I was the heart of stone weighing heavily within my chest, never beating for my father, sister, or myself.

There was no emotion in those graceless days, no twitch of smile or grimace found on my fading face. I was never to be set alight, never destined to be the heart I so fondly spoke of during my time stood on a pedestal. But I was never to be the spark, either. For stoicism brings about the falling empire of a sword dulled, cutting skin in a manner nothing other than shallow.

My spear had skimmed her armor, drawing a line of the same.

I was the hand scrambling at a grip failing, trying to find purpose in the death of another, tearing from its fingers the weapons of murderers and the murdered alike, their blood catching under the nails I skimmed across my own porcelain skin. I am the artist, but I am the canvas as well, cracking lines and distorted shapes upon a plane of the infinite, timeless and lost in the threads of a life I could have lived forever.

I was my own saving grace.

I aspired to find no hope, no love, no dignity in the affairs and words of others, for they lived in the pure vulnerability of a world that was anything but—they were to be weak, broken bones and bruised skin crying their tune of blues. They were personified in the voices of Wyatt Manderson, Marchello Donner, and Ellexias Verisity, cannons resounding in a silent sky, the regret of it all—they were to be my downfall, but not just yet, because I was still stoic, unsaved, untainted by lust of flesh.

I was invincible.

And caught in the adrenaline of ignorance I made a statement too strong, sinking spear far too deep into the heart of one whose being revolved around the entity of metaphor. He made a statement in his dying breath about my cracking heart of stone, indeed shattering that which remained behind that fifth day in.

I was on the verge of breaking.

For once it was not just a crack to be stitched with steady gaze or unfaltering words, this was the collapse of my kingdom come, personified in the place which I was expected to call home, but seven was never this; seven would be only a resting place, the terrestrial home of my hell-bound throne.

I was unsuspecting of the cannons cry to fall at last.

But ignorance is the predecessor to downfall, more often than not, and within my ear pressed to Lex’s chest and my mind melded to the thoughts of an ascended throne I dug a grave for myself far deeper than six feet under—this false assurance was the trumpet sounding my descent.

I was the faltering step of a dead man walking.

Cor carneum, cor lapideum—
Heart of flesh and heart of stone,
Neither of which you truly know.
I asked you only to commit,
What more have you given me than a restless fit?
You promised to live three days only,
This last strike has rendered you lonely.

Non sum qualis eram

I am not such as I was, 

This is but fulfillment of the dreaded laws. 

I called a fault in the boy from six;

I played truly the role of a hypocrite. 

You cannot expect me to step these lines,

Without stumbling at least multiple times. 

I am the heart of flesh beating, screaming within my chest.

And within each rapid pulse—one, two, onetwo—I can press my fingers to a bleeding wrist, paper thin cuts across pale skin, finding the rhythm I once relied upon others to find. Its song stands true now; a melody of despair and a harmony to match, the song of a girl who was fixed just long enough to shatter herself with stable hands. The girl crowned victor could never take credit for this, no, this crown fell by my hand alone, a bloody sword pulled from wounded chest—my heart is screaming.

I can only scream along.

A single note to pierce the morning air, 10 A.M. and I am drowning in the bloody tears from a broken sky, a sea of red washing me out to tide, only to wash upon the shores of some far off land, where the horizon is licked in flames and the sky turned with the embers of the fire I failed to light.

I am nearing the end of that infinite timeline, endpoints marked by my disability to remain set in the heart of stone in my chest, flesh replacing scars like the tender reminder of a humanity I had only been given three to days to discover.

I am the downfall; the crumbling summit of a mountain standing in the clouds.

And from my prior position the throne below seemed too far below to be considered a plausible resting place, ignorance biting at my skin like the gulpers from a second day spent. Falling nights and desperate cries fall from torn lungs, flesh tearing with each passing breath—pain erupting from each wound she’s stitched into my skin, half-attempted needlework on the map of a mind held together by one single thread.

One string left to snap—I am only mortal.

Biological state of living etched into my veins now fades, fingers grasping at wounds in an attempt to slow that which hastens on towards the endpoint of that no longer infinite timeline. Bleeding to know you’re alive is a tragic thing. That whole being suspended above the waters of red now submerged, every shade filling cavities like a floodgate, water pressing against its surface like my heart of stone once pressed against the lungs that hung heavy within my chest, one moment in time from falling over the edge—

I am shattered.

Shards of a girl who believed the words spoken to her soul one time too many (“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”) Matched with those damned syllables, a last name ripped from the first like patches of skin torn from my body, the nametag of my heart left behind, torn at the fingers of the girl from eleven, as if her dying light shone any brighter than my own.

But through the cracks of severed nerve and porcelain skin my heart of flesh shines through, emitting a light that of which sets myself unsteady, causing my pulse to increase rapidly under the pressure of my fingers, breathe increasing with each. Time passes on slowly after this, dragging out that definite timeline like it could once more be infinite, but I am hardly more than a dead man still walking, only one last task left to complete.

I am digging my own grave in these last passing seconds.

I asked of you last,
Don’t toss your heart to the past,
For stone will protect you ‘till verbatim.
This life to die is not your ultimatum.
So deal for me now,
One time more,
Toss your head to the sky,
And settle the score.

If I was handed one more chance to live, 

Never would I give,

That which you’ve asked of me. 

Truly, my father, how hard is it to see?

This may stem from pride or grace,

You play protagonist in a world where there are none, 

But truly you have stepped out of your place.

Axe to the chest; one nerve severed.

One word left for her to speak, “Rest.” Unheard almost completely as I stumble, losing balance from that mountaintop I had so dared to climb, the solid ground beneath my feet falling out from underneath me with the passing moments. Any attempts to regain my balance are lost in the snow that stains between my fingers, innocence lost once more.

Still sin its wake; better unmarred.

My knees hit first, cold spearing through nerves like a blade sharper than that with which she cut, and the single gasp that draws out lingers in the morning air, a single syllable to set the fuse.

(“They can’t kill you if you’re already dead.”)

Then why am I dying?

Pain sears through cloth and skin, breaths rapid against my lungs, shoving my heart of flesh forward until it presses against my chest, each inhale a climb; each exhale a fall, I am climbing—falling.

I am caught in the middle of a terrible endgame, my infinite timeline drawing to its wretched end. I rip the helmet from its place of protection, hair catching in its crevices and torn from the root, but still I reach, fingers shaking until they grasp the crown that sits upon my head, and with one pull it comes free, flowers of black sitting within my hands.

I pull the petals, one by one, until all that remains are the vines twisted like the veins inside my body, petals littering my lap and the snow turned red, black contrasting against my sins. The precedent to the kingdom I am to rule, hell’s gate opening an inch further each time I exhale, breaths falling as the petals picked on the whistling wind.

Just trying to make a statement with those five damned syllables.

“It’s just Margaret” spoken to ear of friend and foe alike, only the former lay dead and the latter stood above me, her shadow casting on the pool of blood catching my body like a safety net—I may be dying but I am surrounded by that which I love, that which cares to save my skin.

Living catches in my lungs like dust, choking and sputtering in my throat like the curse of the wretched. To live has been an experience far greater than that which I could have ever imagined, though truly, it had seemed that all this time there had been the chance at saving grace just out of reach from my fingertips, one inch from the grasp I could never quite catch.

Ignorance and downfall go hand in hand.

With fingers now blurry within my vision I place the stripped crown back upon my head, watching the strands of hair the flutter in front of my face. I point a finger at the girl from eleven’s chest, right where her heart might lay, and with beckoning motion and silent plea I wait until she is mere inches from my face, each syllable strained against the wind that whips past us, “Enjoy your time living in a world of dead men walking, Katelyn Persimmon.”

I am not dying.

For I have been dead from the moment I decided there was a heart of stone weighing heavily upon my chest, pressing my lungs from air, for I was never really deceased with heart of stone, only ignorant enough to ignore the pulse buried deep within my wrist. I was alive seventeen years and lived only three days.

I am the ignorance at the end of this infinite timeline.

word count: 1,991, graphics: rook

[presto]

Thank yous

Last time I did thank yous, I rambled too much for my liking, so I'm going to attempt to keep myself from writing the entirety of the notebook.

Pogue- Like you said at the end of the 68th, there is nothing I can say here that can begin to even describe what you've done for me, both on site and off. You were my driving motivation during days 6 and 7, and you've been a constant comfort, especially in the last few days. I'm so thankful that we've become so close, and have continued to have each other's backs through hell and high water. I love you a lot, thank you for doing what you do for me.

Dars- If there was an award for the strangest, yet still heartfelt conversations, we'd win by a landslide. Thank you for being you, for writing Lex, and for continuing to be such a support for me with Margaret, and their friendship will continue to be one of my favorite aspects of the 69th. I love you for everything you do, write, and continue to be, even your southern accent.

Rook- Holy shit am I glad we started talking. In terms of writing, ideals, and strategy you continue to be someone I look up to, even though you don't intimidate the fuck out of me anymore (character development!!1!). Thank you so much for being such a patient listening ear, especially in the last few days. I look forward to the threading we do in future times (kaine you feel me?).

Rave- If I was to tell you all of the amazing things about Elverum, I would have a block of text longer than Mara's death post. But on the opposite side of that line, the things you said about Margaret continually made me love her more, and I cannot thank you enough for that. Thank you for staying by my side, for skyping just to make fun of pronouncing the word salmonella, and for being so chill in the times where I am falling apart.

Tristen- It was nothing short of a joy to ally with you, and if I had to say one thing I was truly disappointed about in these games, it would be not getting to keep you around longer. Your encouragement in confidence means the world and more to me, and I continue to look forward eagerly to everything we'll do in the future.

Python- Corgis, vines, and shitty jokes will forever be the name of our game, and there's no other way I'd like it. The things you said about Mara were more than encouraging, and meant so much to me in so many ways. Thanks for being rad af, and for sharing my love of Chickfila.

Cass- The pun re will forever be my favorite thing that came out of this, and never in the history of a games will there be a random event more suited for me. Thank you for being the second half of my favorite gm pair, you guys certainly kicked ass.

Aza- My son!! Thank you for not only saving my ass Day 6 and covering me during anthem, but being so supportive through thick and thin. It's been so cool to get to know you, and I'm requiring we thread in the future, because it's a thing that has to happen.

Sponsors- In the stereotypical manner, without your help I would not have made it as far as I did, and I am truly thankful.

Other 69th tribute owners- This story would not have written the same without each and every one of you, and I can't imagine the story playing out any other way. Thank you for helping to make it what it is.

[/presto]

[charade]

[googlefont="Ubuntu:400"]

Katelyn

Persimmon

                              Play this while you read


“Rest.”

That single word hung in the air as her ice pick sliced a thin red line across her opponents chest. Margaret stumbled, falling to her knees with a gasp.  She stayed there, fumbling with a crown of flowers that had been hidden by her helmet. Petals rained down like drops of blood as it was laid to ruin by her fingers. It was replaced when it was stark and dead. Like the girl wearing it. She motioned for Katelyn to come closer as each passing second drew another ragged breath from failing lungs.

Katelyn stumbled closer and bent to the other girl's face, keeping her pick up out of habit, but just barely daring to hope that her opponent could no longer lift their own weapon. The words were but a whisper, but she heard them clearly all the same. 

“Enjoy your time living in a world of dead men walking, Katelyn Persimmon.”

A cannon; the last cannon fired as Margaret collapsed into the snow and Katelyn thought perhaps that she had just fallen deaf. It was deathly quiet outside the castle, save for the sound of herself breathing. She gasped as she continued trying to staunch the flow from her neck,  With that final blast of sound, she was the sole living thing in the arena. The last tribute. The victor.

The nightmare was over. Though perhaps a new one was just beginning? There was no telling what she’d be subjected to in the Capitol. There was no frame of reference save for the rumors and ideas people had about it as there was no mentor to walk anyone through the process. It was with a jolt that Katelyn’s beleaguered mind realized that she was now eleven’s sole mentor.

In a year, she would occupy the perennially empty seat and ferry a pair of tributes to a fresh new hell. She suffered a panic attack at that; thinking that if she had survived, maybe she could pass some knowledge on to those who would follow her. Maybe. 

They’d want to wine and dine her when she got back, she thought feverishly. Victors were always hounded on the cameras weren’t they? Their personal lives were always in the news; like when the woman from five had gotten married. Why? Because the Capitol had many things it wanted to offer them. Glory? Honor? Fame? Riches? None of those held any allure for Katelyn. They never had. No, she had just wanted to go home alive, and she had succeeded.

Life was the greatest gift of all.

The bag she had carried for eight days hit the snow a moment later, its contents spilling out and sending throwing hatchets, medical supplies and a single egg skittering into the slush. The mess went unheeded as Katelyn stumbled away from it and towards the door, not wanting to look at the girl from seven’s body any longer.

Katelyn might have been the victor, but Margaret had been the queen, and the castle was a tomb befitting the girl. Those last words were a truth. Katelyn could feel it. Judging by the people she had met in the arena, she had just traded one set of broken tributes for another. Taking off her helmet, Katelyn let it drop to the ground and tied her bloodied bandanna back around her head. She needed no crown. That had never been the point. That had never been her desire. 

Dimly aware of the announcement booming its way across the arena which proclaimed her as victor, Katelyn struggled to stay on her feet as a loud whirring noise broke the silence that surrounded her. Her wounds were numb and there was a growing pit in her stomach that tasted like blood. The wounds in her face still trickled, but the blood was more like syrup than anything else.

Continuing her arduous walk into the castle, eyes wet with tears and body wracked with sobs and blood, she ignored the hovercraft coming to claim Margaret's body. The eight days in the arena were a week and a day that she’d carry with her forever, alongside the memories of people that were just that.

Three people whose lives had ended at her own hands. The walk didn't end until she was in the room with the throne, a place where five days ago, she had sat and talked with people who were no longer there. The throne beckoned to her, whispering for her to claim her rightful place; a place she had never dreamed would be hers for the taking. 

With a supreme effort, Katelyn screamed, lifting the ice pick up and pounding it into the throne. One, two, six times it rose and fell, taking small bits out of the ice as cracks spiderwebbed their way across the whole seat. She didn’t stop until her stitches and bandages were soaked as the tender flesh ripped anew and a whole piece of the back of the throne came off and shattered on the ground, the seat of the throne staring mockingly unbroken.

Three blows for the lives she had been forced to take. Three for the lives that had been taken from her. She cried with wild abandon as she slammed the ice pick down a seventh and final time into the seat and let it stay stuck, before sinking down to her knees and weeping.

But then as the blood loss threatened to cause her to pass out amid the whirr of the hovercraft coming for her, Katelyn's pain fogged mind drifted to a different trio of strangers than her victims, to those three who would become the most important people she would ever know. Three lambs who had the hearts of three lions. Three lions that the fourth had been lucky to know.

Three souls who would melt the ice of the arena, each in their own way and make it a warm place to be. The grinning girl from eight sitting under the camouflage station, next to the boy with the crooked smile but too much heart and the brunette whose clinical composure belied the compassionate nature that lay within.


“I didn’t catch your name.” the girl from six said with a smile. 

                                 “Katelyn." she responded.

                 "My name’s Katelyn. It’s nice to meet you.”



       ♔ END OF THE SIXTY-NINTH HUNGER GAMES ♔

Acknowledgements

Wow, this is surreal. Four years, 12 games, six tributes and three finales later, here I sit with a victor. Back when I was n00b that had less than fifty posts, I had only been a member for a few weeks when I was reaped for the first time. It was a wonderful experience where I made many friends, including Greenbeads & Rosetta, who were my first pals. Thought I was gonna win. I didn’t. I made second. I told myself that I’d win the next time. I didn’t. Grew discouraged because every games after that I placed worse and worse. But here it is. The end to a long journey, and a thanks to the people that helped me reach it.

Mylee:
Going toe to toe with you in the finale was amazing. You've got a knack for very poetic prose. Margaret was one a kind; and personality wise, the polar opposite of Kate. I couldn't imagine a more worthy final opponent.  

Ems:
Allying last games was an experience; and though we didn’t ally this time around, that's a memory I'll be keeping.  Chaske was a brilliant character far outside your usual character zone, and I highly enjoyed reading his posts.  They were raw, and real. Thank you for the threading experience. 

Cameo:
I haven’t forgotten you. I’m sorry that my roll was the one to end your character in the bloodbath; I recall that I was the one to accept DJ’s bio, and I thought she was a unique and awesome character. </3

Anzie:
Thank you for the wonderful pair of tables you crafted for my character.

Cato:
Bud. Bro. Late night discussions of The Walking Dead aside, I appreciate the messages you sent me to encourage me these last few games days when my fights were looking grim. -fistbump-  It's too bad there was never a round two to the convo Kate and Mason had in the TC. 

Cass & Rook: 
I don’t know how many times I’ve said this already, but thank you for the games you hosted! The RE’s in particular were stunning; at times hilarious, and all around enjoyable to watch being played out. All in all , this was a great sandbox to play in. You make a good team.

Kire & Python:
Kire, You have an interesting way of keeping your allies calm, and I suppose I have a new appreciation for statistics and numbers being quoted at me. Python, your wit in our chats was the other thing that kept me calm for the most part. Marc and Lexi helped Katelyn grow, right up until the end of the games, and I'm so ridiculously glad that we allied. It'd be great to see the two of you with victors one day. 

Kay:
Heh, where to begin? I guess it began three years ago when we were in a finale together. I didn’t expect to become friends with you, heck I had barely spoken to you during the 59th games cause you were on your honeymoon! But friendships grow with time. You backed me, as a stress relief sounding board , a major sponsor and an all around friend, not just in these games, but in many of the games before, and for that I thank you.  If I could change one thing about these games, it'd be Velocity's untimely exit. But rest assured that your character left a mark on mine, as your friendship has left one on me. 

Tributes: 
Best of luck in any and all future games you compete in. You are all wonderful writers and deserve another shot at the crown. This combined storytelling that is the games required all twenty-four of us, and for that I thank you. To everyone that bet on Katelyn; Enjoy your winnings!

made by anzie