The Southeast Quarter | Mandate Three

[mat]

Through the underbelly tunnels of the arena, tributes can hear the clamoring of voices from above. The old floorboards creak for anything weighing over one hundred pounds, leaving some travelers unsteady as Peacekeepers guide each child to the arena. Each of them gets two guards: one to stand ahead of them and one to stand behind them. The faint glow of colored eyes behind a tinted helmet only looks straight ahead toward the light, a sign that the rules regarding interaction with tributes are now being enforced.

Arlette, Sarina, Maegor, Nekhbet, Augustus, and Maccensie are guided through to the southeast entrance of the arena. Although their quarter of the arena is not walled off from the other tributes, pergolas made of deep gray stone tower the area. The click of technology (Mallory Malachei's security cameras) promises the crowd that even those in obstructed seating will have an excellent view of the show.

The Peacekeepers handlers step aside once their tribute crosses a thin line separating the tunnel from the arena. Without word or instruction, they retreat to let the next tribute file in. The midsummer heat is present here, and already starving tributes are quick to feel the intensity due to their heavy uniforms. Sun shines through most of the arena, with the exception of the shadows cast by the cloth that connects the pergola beams together. In the darkness is a variety of weapons for the tributes to choose from. Tributes seeking to get away from the heat may look to fight for that space.

Nearby members of the crowd taunt the tributes with jeers and insults. "Well, the front row seats cost us a fortune, but being within spitting distance of them is worth the price!"

A microphone booms through the stadium, calling everyone's attention to the indented box where the important people appear to be standing. Within the core, there are two people, one man and one woman, dressed in all black. The man has his hands folded rigidly ahead of him while the woman taps ash from the end of her cigarette. A group of people in grey move around them, taking orders and writing notes on their wooden clipboards. The outer ring is filled with Peacekeepers and guards similar to the tribute handlers, standing at attention. The man in black steps forward with a dry yet stern and commanding voice. "Let the-" he begins to speak but pauses. His hand scratches the microphone, crackling through the speakers of the stands to command silence for the announcement all twenty-four tributes have been dreading. "Let the Ninth Annual Hunger Games commence."

---

Retro Engine Link: Here

As a reminder: tributes will post an introduction post to acquaint themselves with members of their mandate and interact if they so choose. Each tribute must post at least once before the deadline, but are welcome to continue interacting through the introduction period if they wish. Weapons are available under the pergolas of the arena, but attacking other tributes with weapon rolls is prohibited in the introduction stage.

Tributes will have 48 hours from now to post an introductory post. Further instruction will be given then.

Cait Python Noah Vau - D2 (Cato) kap napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]

[Cait]

arlette foy

They dress you in rust red the colour of the blood that’s only moments away from being spilled across the sanded Arena floor. You feel comforted by the fibres hanging limply off your body; it’s been a long time since you had new clothes to call your own.

The Peacekeeper’s hands do not restrain you. Initially, they had held firmly to your body as they guided you through the maze of tunnels, but what real threat does a fifteen-year-old, five-foot-three, hundred-pound girl pose to trained killers? When you emerge at the edge of the Arena, you are as free as a prisoner could be. They don’t even need to tell you where to go, obedient little dragon that you are. You let the sunbeams guide you forward, let them welcome you home.

You don’t see the red of your District in your immediate vicinity. You don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed in that. One part of you thinks this is for the best – that it would be looked down upon if you were to kill your own District partner. But a bigger part of you longs to avenge the Arlette of home. A girl bullied and broken down by her fellow class members. It seems fitting that Simon should play the sacrifice. Maybe that would be enough to right the motion of the world.

You feel your heart hammer wildly against your chest, suddenly, though maybe it had always been racing. But now you can sense the change on the air. Something sinister and grotesque rumbles underfoot.

You thought you were ready for this. You realise how foolish you were. Have always been.

You gulp down buckets of air into your lungs like your mother taught you to do when you were afraid, but the heaviness by your ribcage doesn’t abate. Fine, you’ve been let down before. You know how to use disappointment as fuel.

A signal, somewhere. You feel it more than hear it. Intuition turns to adrenaline turns to a roaring flame.

A treasure trove of blades glitter at you in the harsh summer sun. You’re the first to spring into action in your corner of the Arena, darting quickly for the pile underneath the pergolas. Your hand wraps tightly around the warmed handle of the closest weapon; you let the momentum of the moment fuel the adrenaline in your veins as you come away spinning, girl of steely gaze and blazing irises.

Rule number one of survival: never let them have the upper hand.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

   

After three days spent hungry, I can't shake the image of the dogs on Thorn Street out of my head.

They were too large for mongrels, ears uneven and teeth yellow, and every child on the street knew it was a slow death sentence if you were bitten by one and a brutal execution if they mauled you to death. Ma always hid a stick on her wherever we went, clutching my sisters and I sisters close, but I was a grown child and the eldest son and so I could surely deal with the whole pack using my fists alone!

It proved a pipe dream, of course; one day, a particularly-large dog leapt at me out of a gutter as I was headed back home from school, tackled me to the stone-flagged path, and before I could even open my mouth to shout for help, I felt the white-hot puncture of teeth around my wrist, followed by a deeper agony as it clomped down to bone and sinew. Blood roared in my ears and rushed down my the arm.

I was screaming but I could not hear myself.

A man nearby came to the rescue.

He pull a bullet in the dog there and then, a bang, and then silence. I could never forget the scent of dirt-mangled fur as its dead weight landed on my crying face. They thought me dead, too, and they turned away. Another child gone was another day in Shear Hill.

It was only when I cried out again that others came to help.

My mother wept for days over the stitched wound.

She thought her tears would cleanse any remnants of the bite, keep it from festering black with rot or worse, and perhaps it worked because the wound closed a week later. The ribbed tissue remained, though. I love flaunting it to others as some sort of a battle scar, but on some days, I can feel it flare up with a ghostly prickling.

As they herded us towards the arena, the scar had begun to burn.

My breaths come in shallow puffs, adding to the sticky and meaty air, and god, I’m so beyond hungry. At least my cheekbones must look alarmingly good now. Putting on my best smother, I limber along the guard, noting everything in our wake. First of all, this costume is … a choice!! The material rests heavy like the unshed skin of the snakes we’d see back home throughout hot April nights, and carries the same heat.

Second of all, what is my play here?

I’ve been off script for long, improvising every scene, and it is making the pulse under my jaw flutter and body all jittery. My blood keeps tapping a staccato rhythm in each temple.

But when I step out of the tunnelway into the burning spotlight that is the midday sun, the other sound I have been picking up on overtakes my senses. The crowd. The vibrato of their excitement skitters up my arms and curls open my lips. I can’t help it, I wave and salute them.

Then, I turn my eyes towards the others on the field.

A couple of blank faces, no one that significant. Every play needs their extras, hah-ha!

Wait, that one- crap, that's district buddy. I tense for a moment, because sue me, I'm a patriot at heart. I'll knock her out last. Now I saunter over to the inky shadows under the large pergolas, waving and blowing kisses along the way, until I am right across from, like, a middle schooler.

I pick up a sword, look at her, and then back at my weapon.

It has a heft to it, tougher to carry than any prop sword, but I give it a test swing regardless, slashing at the air before me to hear the steel sing through it with a whistle. I grin, inspecting my own flawless reflection in the blade, and nod at the girl's own getup.

"A little too heavy for ya', don't cha' think?"

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

she hates being confined to whatever they are trying to hold her too here. sure, she knew that being reaped meant something, but she did not think that this was going to be what it actually was. she had never known anyone that had gone through the reaping process. she barely kept up with anyone else besides the small group of guys that she hung around back home at the quarry.

her district partner seemed like a dip from the moment she met him. she didnt really interact with him, mostly because she didnt feel the need to. she had a feeling that relying on him might not be the best way to go about anything. a strategy based around trusting a man was the last thing that mac wanted to do anyway. she would make it out of here with her own two hands, even if she had to kill her own district partner.

from what she knew there was a chance that they could pair them up from the beginning and have them kill each other out right. mac would have been okay with that, seeing as just from looking at him, he seemed like he was pompous and full of himself. most of the boys from two were, even though they really had nothing to show for it. they claimed to be smooth talkers and heros at the same time, but mac saw through that.

all she saw were con artists and villains.

mac does not talk to her district partner as they drag them to the location of their impending doom. she is still apprehensive about all of this, but she knows that she is going to have to do what she needs to in order to survive. she catches a glance from gus but she does not hold it for long. she cannot be bothered at this point. if they were going to share stories, they should have done it already.

kick rocks boy.

she is herded into a small group of other tributes, none of them recognizable to her. did that really matter to her? no. in fact, she had a feeling that none of them would offer her anything remotely interesting anyway. mac was on her own here, just like she was on her own back home as well. she didnt need anyone to prove that she was capable.

they dont even give out instructions, which is fair in mac's eyes, because do you really need instructions to understand that you are going to have to kill in order to survive here? 9 years later, and mac knew that there were people that went into these games thinking they could throw their hands up and nothing would happen to them. she hated to think what happened to them as soon as they realized that fighting was there only option.

they are moved into an entrance way, and thats when it sunk in to her that she was going to be in the same group as her district partner. "youd think they would get sick of having district partners kill each other huh?" mac says just loud enough for every one to hear. she knew what happened during the 8th. it was the talk of the town when the two picked for her district went at it like wild animals. it was hard to watch apparently. mac wouldnt know what it looked like because she did not pay attention to the broadcast. there were so many other things she had going on in her life.

guess now she couldnt ignore it.

she finally sees the sky, but realizes that the arena is exactly like the last nine, but she wondered if they changed it again. that thought was skirted the moment she heard someone from the crowd. she wanted to say something, but she knew that wasnt going to get her anywhere. she watched as they were pushed into the battlefield, weapons strewn about for them to grab. then mac looked up to notice that there was someone standing on a pedestal.

they announced the beginning of the end.

she doesnt act right away, because there isnt a reason too. the girl from five, only able to tell by the number on her shoulder, had moved towards the blades. then mac's own district partner, to which he says something to her that mac could only assume was dripping in toxicity. mac does not go for the blades, instead, she crosses her arms and observes.

there was no rushing into a slaughter.

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

Maegor Syndulla

I'm not quite sure what to make of the hunger games other than what I've seen being played throughout the district for the previous eight games, but now that I am here, I'm interested in seeing what actually happens. Losing isn't an option especially when losing means death. I'll kill every last one of the tributes if it means I get a chance to stay alive and live my life. Accomplishing my goals are important, but I'm not quite if I can accomplish this one. I'm going to try though. I'm definitely going to try.

Once the peacekeepers leaves me alone, I look around trying to take it all in. I'm not sure what's going to happen, but nothing good happens here. It's the hunger games after all, and I've watched some horrific things take place. At least I'm not in that arena where mutts attacked everyone all the time, but maybe that would've been the best one to win.

Life is precious, though, and so many times I've taken advantage of it, and maybe that's gotten me to where I am today. It's always so easy to believe that everything will just be handed to me, but the truth is, I've had to fight to get to where I am today. Every step of the way has been a battle, and most of the time I come out on top. Sometimes I lose, and those times are incredibly painful. I can't let that happen here. For the first time, I let myself look around and take it all in. Not sure what's about to happen. Right now, I can tell it's the calm before the storm, and while I don't know what's about to happen, I don't think I'm completely ready. I'll just pretend I am. It's why I reach for a weapon and stand off in a corner wondering what will happen.

District Twelve

[googlefont="Oswald:400"]

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

Even under the curtain-like shadows cast by the cloth and pergolas, the heat is unbearable.

It reminds me of stifling April nights, siestas, the heat permeating everywhere and anywhere, making it itch like a sandstorm, and- I can’t stand it. I rifle through the stash of sharp objects again, picking up a smaller knife, and the blade snaps the first buckle of the overall in one, clean swipe. I do it to the other, then to the front of the shirt, peeling it as I would a fruit off my torso.

Another draft of air swells up, cooling the sweat from my left pec.

At this sight - maybe I’m imagining it - but the crowd’s audience grows even more riotous. I make a crooked grin as I step out towards the sunlight again, flexing both arms, basking in this bright and searing glory, I’m dripping charm, man - every itch of me, literally - and I forget I’m in a death match for a moment. But hey, can’t blame a lad for letting loose.

(A low pan shot of Augustus flaunting his biceps, his body cut to a bronze, statuesque figure as the sun alights his skin. He makes a wide, toothy grin. The rest of the children circle him, and suddenly the shot becomes distant, taken from the stands, reducing the tributes to only dots on a field. They look awfully like a pack of hungry dogs, roaming a particularly bad turn in an alley.)

I unleash a laugh. Sword in hand, I spin it and turn on a heel to face the others, the midday light dancing across the back of my eyes in iridescent patterns, and I am sun-drenched and arrow-terse and trying so hard to keep up with the spinning of the earth around me but it's impossible.

The curtain’s about to part.

It’s my time to shine, but for a moment, there's nothing but the reckless, thud thud thud rabbit-quick beat of my heart. 

[Cait]

arlette foy

You realise that maybe, your lack of restraint is a downfall. Sure, it’s well and good to be the first to grab a weapon, but it also paints a blood-coloured target smack bang in the middle of your chest. Maybe the best play would have been to hang in the shadows – find what you could of the limited shade provided by the high Colosseum arches.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Across the Arena you catch sight of a girl climbing the pergolas, desperately trying to flee, hide, run, get away, save herself and her humanity. You’re not too sure if there’s much of you worth saving, but you can’t deny that passiveness may be your best chance of survival, tiny girl that you are.

No. You’ve been a coward too long. If you’re going to die, you’ll go down swinging, a streaking comet across the sky. Your hand around the knife handle solidifies this. Desperately asks your head to get on the same page as your heart.

It’s not so easy. You thought the memories of home – of taunting and bullies and bruises and tears – would be enough to keep your flame burning bright. You thought the anger would fuel your adrenaline long enough to do what needed to be done.

You thought you would relish the release of all those hateful emotions.

Something you didn’t plan on was how empty you would feel.

Five other kids surround you, ready to serve a sentence of vengeance. But they don’t even regard you. The emotions on their faces are not directed at you. For once – at least for now – you are not the target of their hatred, their fear, their cruelness.

You don’t know what to do with the fact.

Movement around you, a few passing beats deep within your chest. Two boys following your lead; a girl refusing to play along. You don’t care, you tell yourself. You’re the only one that matters – you resolve to follow the suit of the older kids and keep an oath of silence until you can find the core of your rage once more.

“A little too heavy for ya', don't cha' think?”

And maybe this, here, now, is the spark you needed.

Impulsive girl, wildfire child, you spin around with venom on your tongue faster than you thought possible. “Maybe you should mind your own busin–”

But maybe this, here, now, is the extinguishing solvent.

Your mum had talked to you about having crushes before, but you’d always rolled your eyes at her lectures. As if you had time to waste on boys when you were busy plotting the very downfall of mankind.

How wrong, how naïve you were.

The boy who was dressed in navy blue only moments ago now stands before you a new man: clothes ripped to shreds, muscles proudly on display.

Your speech dies on your lips. Your mouth dries up under the heat of the sweltering sun. Your heart speeds up faster than before for reasons you aren’t entirely sure of. The warmth on your face intensifies, spreads across your cheeks, the perfect picture of innocence.

“Uuuhhhhh...”

You don’t know what this feeling is – don’t know what to do with something that isn’t blinding white fury.

“You look... really strong!”

[kap]

Hands shaking, Nekhbet feels the nerves surfacing as the Peacekeeper guards escort her into the arena. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't want to kill. She just knows she has to. The one thing she does to try to ease the shaking as she's brought into the arena is whisper a prayer to the Sun God.

"Dear Holy Sun, please give me the strength to fight my way home. Please, give me the power to do what I must— kill if I must— to get home to Wadjet. I can't leave her there without me."

The girl has willed herself to stop shaking now as she speaks to her God.

She has her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes closed as the Peacekeeper guides her with his hand on her shoulders through the the underbelly tunnels of the arena. She only opens her eyes when she can sense the light piercing her eyelids and cheers of a crowd echoing in her ears as she enters the arena. Her hands still clasped, she looks around at the other tributes nearby.

Seemingly, no one Wadjet's age. No one to make her feel even more immense guilt than she's sure she already will when she has to harm them. She silently thanks the Sun God in her head, and unclasps her hands when she realizes she had yet to do so.

Nekhbet takes in her surroundings. There are weapons. There are tributes, some of which are already speaking with one another or grabbing the weapons strewn out in front of them. She decides she should do the same, and picks up a nearby, sharply bladed weapon. For a moment, the image of other tributes' blood on it flashes through her mind and she has to conciously keep herself from shuddering at the thought.

The weapon is a harshly curved sword.* It looks quite intimidating. Maybe that would help her case of 'please don't kill me' when it came to the other tributes. Maybe picking up a weapon that looked like this would make the crowd cheer her on— make them root for her.

Now all she had to do was take a deep breath and hope to the Gods that she could not only survive a hit, but also raise her weapon to fight back.

Breathe in, breathe out, look at each of the other tributes, she tells herself. Then, that she does. Her deep breath fills her lungs, she exhales, and she surveys her surrounding foes.

Foes. What a way to think of other teenagers.

What type of world could be sane and put her and these other seemingly-innocent souls in a situation like this? Certainly not the one she was living in.

-

[*Nekhbet's sword: x]
[words: 445]

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

It’s the smell in the basement levels that should’ve given it away first.

Moist, rotting wood, the stench of it reigns in the underbelly of this colosseum. Mixed with the stank of manure left behind by muttations from games past, stairwells spoiled by moldering wood and rat droppings. It smells like stale dust and congealed blood, sweat and unwashed clothing. A tumorous disease, there was nothing any of them could have done to stop what was coming.

Maybe if someone had been paying attention, but none of them were.

“Oh, I'd like to take a bite out of that one,” a woman says suggestively, making eyes at the girl sitting next to her. "Look at those biceps!"

Her companion giggles, pointing towards the boy from Twelve.

"I know he's from Twelve but I'd let him do a lot with those hands. Look at him holding that weapon."

None of them pay attention to the pair of leaders wearing black. Everyone has their eyes trained on what is happening below them on the ground, the collection of children being paraded in the ring like animals to the slaughter. Some people make a chorus out of boo’s while others whisper in each other’s ears, placing bets and making jokes at their fellow spectators' expense. The woman in black takes a long drag of her cigarette before dropping it abruptly. The embers of it stay alight, in pieces at her feet, but she barely notices.

A crow lands on the highest point of the colosseum, standing strong against the light filtering in from the gray sky above.

In an instant, she knows; she grabs at her partners arm, making a flailing gesture towards it, eyes going manic.

“JOVIS, IT CAN’T HOLD THE WEIGHT—” is the last thing everyone hears her shout before there’s a loud cracking noise that reverberates from beneath all of them. It sags along the edges first, wood caving in on itself under the weight of newly installed water tanks, the heavy fiberglass walls that had been placed simply to prevent any water splashing into the audience, fools. They’d been fools. 

It starts with rubble. 

Heavy debris falling from the floor as the tributes lose their balance, wood giving way. At first they find themselves dropping back down into the cellar, the very area in which they had been led into this deathtrap from in the first place. The newly installed walls cave in at awkward angles, warping and twisting as they pin some tributes by their legs, their arms, forcing them to try and wrench themselves free. Some of the tributes find themselves toppling into the cages of muttations being kept beneath the floorboards, while others try and scramble over the falling rubble, climb towards the stands filled with now screaming audience members. They find themselves near doorways that must lead to freedom, the chance to escape right there at the tips of their fingers if they could just work up the nerve to make it happen.

Somewhere in the stands above though the pair in black look at each other wide eyed before saying something to each other quietly.

"We have to flood it."

Intended use forgone, the pair sends two avox to their deaths to redirect the water source and the tributes witness freedom slip through their fingers like water as a flood surges through the lower levels, trapping them all in watery graves.

---

Retro Engine Link: Here

As a reminder: each tribute must post at least once before the deadline (September 5th, 3PM EST), but are welcome to continue interacting through the period if they so wish. Tributes must roll their d100 in their first post, and may not attempt another until Round Two begins, provided they survive. Attacking other tributes continues to be prohibited. I or Mattio will post at the end of the round updating damages, after which Round Two will begin. 

Best of luck trying to survive the flood!

Tributes will have 24 hours from now to post for Round One.

ROUND ONE: TRIBUTES MUST ROLL A 25 OR HIGHER IN ORDER TO SURVIVE.


Cait Python Noah Vau - D2 (Cato) kap napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

I try my hardest to study their faces for any inkling of what they want to do, but the sun is too bright, blotting out every expression except anticipation. Except a breath held.

Someone should teach them how to emote! But Ma says that even if our eyes win as the most expressive parts of a person, there are other tells to look for. Their composure, the way they speak, and the way they walk. From what I can see, most - if not all of us - have our feet planted to the ground and is unmoving, so there is that.

A stalemate.

Oh, is that a person on one of the pergolas-

“Huh?” I turn towards the middle schooler, and then I flash a disarming grin as the tail-end of her words come through. Yeah, I am a senior and she is like, younger than my second sister so that is an instant no, but I used to have a trove of love letters sketched in crayon from middle schoolers addressed to me. I am a star, the adoration and photograph shrines devoted to my good looks come naturally, but still. The trick is to let them down gently!

“Look, you’re, what? Fourteen?”

(A shot of Augustus’ face as he really looks at her, a wispy girl that is enshrouded by the shadows, and something in his expression falters. A soft epiphany cracks the surface, but he laughs it off.)

“It’ll pass, kid. Or, well ...” Somber nod, grave smile, memento mori as the hilt of the sword around my fingers sags in my grasp. I cannot stray from the script. I have studied this particular play over and over, from prologue to the end, and it has never rewritten itself to be anything else. “You should probably ru-”

(Augustus is cut short by a clank, then a thud, then an explosion of both sound and ground. The world shatters. It is caving in on itself, and the rest of the tributes follows closely by.)

I am back in Shear Hill. Thorn Street, the dogs, lampposts, shale, rubble, mountains, laughter, blood, all an onrush-

(A shot of splintering wood, racing towards where Augustus stands, rooted in place, staring in horror at the open abyss reaching out to swallow him until the last second, the final moment, where he scrambles back on a heel and turns around to- )

Vhe4Er3xY11-100

1-100

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

they are all saying things. every single one of them. all of the talking is a lot. the game makers, the audience, the tributes, the voices inside of mac's head. its all so loud. they are preening and peacocking to each other as they either pick up weapons or size each other up.

mac can only think about her group of boys back home. they acted just like this, and for a moment, she is taken back to the quarry where she would hang out with them late at night. they would talk about what life could be like if they just had a little more money. the girls they all loved but would never tell. the way things would be different if one of their parents cared just a little bit more. mac still felt like they were here with her, and they would be her strength to make it out of this alive. she would pick up a weapon and fight them, even her district partner, who is currently trying to size up a baby compared to them.

she is simply observing, realizing that no one is paying attention to her. that was fine. she was used to being ignored by other people in favor of something more exciting. when mac opened her mouth, that is when she demanded attention. she didnt know what to say to these people. she didnt want to say anything actually, not even to her district partner. that would make it easier. they both knew that much.

the girl from five continues to converse with gus, and mac is just walking around, looking at which weapon might be the right choice for her. she did not pay attention to the other tributes like she should have, and any one of them could have attacked her and that would have been on mac.

pick faster.

once her hand had touched a weapon, she heard the crowd say something vile about the male tributes, and then moments later, the ground shook. it was just like home when they used dynamite to create large cracks in rocks so they could excavate the area. the sound was identical, and mac had realized that something was coming.

her feet were wet already, it hadnt even been a second after the crash and she had to deal with soggy feet. but the water kept coming. "guess were gonna have to float now arent we?" she screams out to gus as she drops the weapon, knowing well that it would probably hinder her more than anything. she braces herself as the water envelopes her, but then she hears a cannon, and then another and mac isnt ready for any of this.

she cant speak, water would get into her mouth.

she screams internally.

[cannot win roll - hope things get dicey!]
T6s1U1oMor1-20
[+6]

1-20

[Cait]

arlette foy

You probably shouldn’t have said that.

You have enough common sense to realise how stupid you must sound, and you can practically hear the childish taunts of the children back home already writing themselves. But you couldn’t help it! None of the boys you’ve met before have ever made you feel anything more than hate. Your stomach turns in on itself as a reminder of the new emotion you’ve discovered. The boy speaks to you, and you don’t even hear what he says. Just smile like a deer caught in the headlights as you listen to the deep timbre of his voice.

What had mum called it? A crush.

Fitting, for the way your chest constricts, for the too-thin air that won’t seep into your lungs. Or maybe it’s just the sight of the bigger kids picking up their own weapons that makes you feel like you’re drowning.

Drowning. The thought brings with it an after taste of salt water and a few stray droplets of moisture which land wetly on the side of your cheek.

And then, the sounds hit you.

Ugly roars, crashing of metal against fibreglass against sand. Screaming, from everywhere – beside you, above you, inside of you. Horror, heavy and paralysing. Some children are running already; some forget how to move altogether. Fight or flight instincts kicking in – you don’t know which one you are.

This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

It’s not like you ever stood a chance anyway. But this change of fate has surely only accelerated your demise. And here it is: you will die before it even starts. You will die before your heart has the chance to be put to rest. Before you can make things right for the first time in your short, short life.

You watch the end of the world come, a falling metal beam rushing to meet you, too fast for you to do anything other than scream.

9nJKj9X3vF1-100

1-100

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

- to tackle the girl out of the way of the metal beam.

It lands instead on me. Hard. As in all the air escapes from my body and my lungs threaten to pop hard, and the world flickers blue and black and blue for a moment. I gasp aloud. It hurts, excruciatingly, but - hah, the ringing in my ear is sort of, like, audience from a distance. A half-sob, half-laugh scrapes itself raw out of my throat. 

Yeah, I'm the hero who saved a girl. Yeah, they'll paint murals with my face and immortalize me in the books and play all the film reels of my work. Yeah, I'm good, yeah- oh-  

(An aerial shot of August on top of Arlette, a metal beam flat against his broken spine, and we watch as the wooden floor underneath the two start to spiderweb out in splinters, crack, crack, crack. Then, it gives in.) 

(The two falls together. The frame slows to capture the moment then, and it seems beautiful for a split second, as if they're rising instead of the other way around, two shapes cast in amber sunlight. The sparks around them could be mistaken for fireflies.) 

I have always been asked to put on a brave face.

The oldest of three, it was what the world demanded of me: the role of the perfect brother, the golden son, a polished statue that did nothing but shimmer and glow.

I was going to be more than that, though.

More famous than my own self, so famous that everything else becomes a mere tidbit in my long biography, so famous that Shear Hill is known not for the children that die in gutters from dog attacks or buildings that collapse out of nowhere, but Augustus Imran Farr, actor, heartthrob, heartbreaker, hero- 

(August, using the last of his strength, twirls mid-air to put himself under the girl. She's so young, not even older than Firuza, who is seventeen and must be watching her brother die. August closes his eyes. The frame goes bright, sun-splotched: we are seeing the world from behind his closed eyelids.) 

What a dream. Stupid, yeah, but fuck, I still dreamt it. I can't wipe the grin off my mouth at that. I still dreamt it. 

(The slosh of water, dogs baying, and then- thud. 

Silence. 

Then the light fades, our frame fading to black.)

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

Maegor Syndulla

It takes a moment to fully get used to the weapon grasped in my hand. I don't know how to use it, and I am absolutely terrified that not really understanding how this works will end with me losing the game. Sometimes it takes a lot of work to keep my head calm, and sometimes it feels as though it's the easiest thing in the world. I look around trying to figure out who is going to strike first and where it will land. I'm partially afraid they'll come charging towards me. I don't have any friends here, and I really don't even know how to make friends. Pushing them all away seems like the easiest thing to do. It would be sort of poetic if I ended up dying in this horrible place, it I have to do whatever I can to make sure that isn't the case. I take a couple of steps to my left, but that's when everything changes.

The entire arena is shaking, and I'm unsure what to do. I've never felt anything like this before, but I have a chance to run from this madness. I just know whatever is waiting for me on the other side will kill me. I won't even stand a chance. I'm being tossed around like a rag doll, and the sound is incredibly loud and powerful, and I'm trying to scream yet no sounds leave or maybe it does, but it's blocked away by the boards snapping beneath me. I don't even know where I am or what's happening when I feel that water touching my feet. My eyes are wide, and I try wading through it to find a place to keep myself safe, but it isn't enough. It's never enough. I tighten my grip on the weapon I'm holding. Water is terrifying because I was never taught how to swim or how to even keep my head above water. There isn't anyway to learn this back home.

I kick my feet trying to propel myself upwards, but I don't know if it's going to work. One of my biggest fears is looking like a fool. All I've ever wanted was to prove that I'm the very best to ever live, but even that feels like too much work at the moment. I feel so heavy with the uniform holding me down, and I'm still trying to prevent myself from screaming out loud cause I don't want anyone to hear me. It's hard though especially as a couple of cannons already echo through the arena. I don't know what to do, but I push myself towards the edge and hope I'm capable of holding on. I know I'm strong, and I know what I can do, but if I can to outlast everyone in this arena in order to keep myself from drowning, I'm not sure if I can do it. It's a challenge I'm fully prepared to accept.

District Twelve

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[kap]

Nekhbet nearly loses her grasp on her weapon as the water starts rushing in. Shit. She hadn't swam much in her lifetime, but she couldn't let that be why she died here.

The floodgates open, and water is introduced to the Oasis girl faster than she ever would have anticipated. This is not what she was expecting. Doing her best to tread the water, she tries to keep her head above it all.

Not like this, she silently prays. Not like this, please.

Then, her prayer comes aloud, "Oh not like this, please. Not like this."

She isn't sure if she should hold onto her sword or let it go, but there really starts to not be much of an option. As it slips from her grasp, she puts more force into her swimming. She needs to keep herself afloat as best she can.

Water is lapping at her face, and the force of the flood threatens to pull her under. She sees others struggling, some of them who certainly won't make it.

Nekhbet tries to calm herself and control her breathing, but she can't. She can't focus on anything but swimming.

Swim, little duck. Swim.

Wadjet was watching from home. She couldn't let her see her drown.

Images are flashing in her mind— images of past, present and what many things could be. She sees what it would be like if the roles were reversed: if Wadjet were the one struggling not to drown right now. Nekhbet would be at home, panicking beyond belief.

Although, she didn't need to be the one at home watching to be panicking about the outcome of all of this. She was here. She was living it, and damn was she scared.

Petrified, she tried to think, but her thoughts were muddled. She tried to use her memories of learning to swim to help herself now, but they were clouded by thoughts of the time she almost drowned while her mother taught her.

Would this be the time it finally came to fruition?

She couldn't let it be.

Come on, she thought, begging to herself this time instead of to her Sun God. Let's do this. Just swim. It won't beat you.

"You can't—" she narrowly avoids taking in a mouthful of water and gasps for a moment before trying again. "You can't take me!"

-

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