The Southwest Quarter | Mandate Four

[mat]

Through the underbelly tunnels of the arena, tributes can hear the clamoring of voices from above. The footsteps of stomping the children above, accompanied by their giggles, make everyone move a bit faster 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.

Lucius, Bluebell, Vera, Hutch, Trillian, and Lavender are guided through to the southwest 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. "I hate this old dump of an 'arena!' But I guess it fits the trash it holds!"

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.

gamemaker kelsier ✨ zozo. d8f vera vilde [spencer] Tom Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] k!ah

[✨ zozo.]

i salute you, quiet living
next time i see you
my life won’t need me

Shaking hands but I hold true. Palms sweating, this place is dark and miserable - yet still, I hold true. Chin up, a good little girl. Do as I'm told. Don't let them think anything but --

Hollering in the dark. I stay in the shadows. Waiting, waiting, waiting, in the echo of violence as Keepers beat down on troublemakers I stay silent.

Today's the day and they dress me in overalls far too big for me, I don't say a word. Not one complaint, eating my bread with thanks. The other kids might call me compliant, but I know better. Eleven is harsh, harsher still under the weight of our terrible uprising. Starving out the enemy, or so I'm told. But that's not my punishment to bear. This is. I don't need any more trouble coming my ways. 

Not yet, not yet.

Such a strange place, but I find a strange familiarity in the pagolas above. Wires winding around like vines, I think of beanstalks and sunburn and green tomatoes, aching backs and fingernails worn short. The straps of my messenger bag digging into the skin of my shoulder, alleviating the weight with every delivery complete, every task finished. Home. Who I am. Where I come from. What we believe in. 

How beautiful, to give life - to feed others. I feel the bread in the pits of my stomach as they march us, one by one, into the arena. I'm thankful for it. For where I came from, how long I spent there. However short. However harsh. It made me who I am. I grew from the soils of Eleven and I suppose I'll be returned there, someday. Somehow.

I hope they plant a tree with my ashes. Wishful thinking, but that's okay. Doe-eyed and dumbstruck to the audience, I oggle at cameras - assumingly. In the back of my head I make a plan. Smile at the idea. Hold true. 

I don't pay much attention to the other children, all different heights and accents and coloured overalls. When they let us begin I do just that - begin.

Bluebell Barnes will not fight. Instead, I march over to the first pagola and begin my ascent.

table credits to the talented elegant


[ blue begins to climb one of the arena pagolas! ]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

TRILLIAN TORRES

Neither the first, nor the last, but trapped somewhere in the middle, adrift.

It was an apt metaphor for Trillian's life. In the tunnel, it's dark, except where it isn't. The sunlight expanding from the open maw threatens to blind her. But Trillian is used to decoding, to reading around, betwix, between. As the sunlight's glare sharpens, so does her mind. he grabs opposite hooks of her coveralls and holds them close, despite the sweat and gnawing hunger at her core.

When she stumbles into the arena, she isn't looking at the blinding sun. She is looking down at her dust-coated boots, at the shake and shale of earth coming undone. The command, reverberated, feels like any other morning at school: roll call (taken) and you may go on your way.

Trillian trips.

Just a clump of earth or maybe part of the arena's cinder block or maybe an inscribed stone --

She catches herself on the spine of the pergola Bluebell has begun to ascend. Stomach keening, Trillian looks up. "Help me," she pleads.

[gamemaker kelsier]

I bet you're probably wondering how I wound up here.

It's a pretty short story actually, I mean, depending on where you think the story actually begins. Mine begins with me of course. Like, the history of the games and stuff, that's kind of not my story to tell and probably, if you're here already then you even know all of that stuff already.

My story is less busy than all of that.

Yeah, so they called my name at the reaping. I got reaped, me, Lucky boy Dewitt himself. I know it's dark in here but I'm hooking my thumb at my chest pretty vigorously right now. 'Cause I'm right here, but probably not for very long unless I figure something crazy out. I had enough of a glimpse of everyone else to know that most of the other kids here aren't twerpy little 12 year olds as well.

But that's the story, told you it wasn't very long. Uncle Chuck says I've got too many words in me for my own good but sometimes I think I don't have enough. Instead of trying to talk to the kids around me, I just tip tap my feet against the floor of the tunnels they're making us wait in.

No light up shoes anymore, just a heavy canvas overall and old looking bits of leather, like they took 'em off a dead kid or something. Woah, they probably did huh? My toes curl up against the sole of my shoes as I let the thought wrinkle my whole brain up like a prune. But come on, my feet are touching dead kid feet (sort of).

And it's almost a nice distraction from the fact that we're moving now, a guard in front and one behind each of us, like we're going to just try and kill each other right here in the dark. I can't shake the idea though that none of us even want to kill each other. Every person I've met from the Capitol though has stared at me like I'm some zoo animal and not just some kid from the Third.

They look at me like I've got horns coming out of my forehead, at one point I kind of felt around up there just to make sure I hadn't grown some overnight.

I squint, the tunnel having suddenly opened up into daylight. My feet stumble a bit as I try to adjust and something prods into my back, the butt of the Peackeeper's gun who was walking behind me maybe. My knees hit the ground and I hear harsh laughter, then the wall of sound that hit my ears as soon as I came clear of the dark starts to dissect itself, like lines of code swimming across a black screen.

"I hate this old dump of an 'arena!' But I guess it fits the trash it holds!"

"Wowieee," I mutter, dusting my knees off, "Gonna need some burn Gel for that one. Medic?"

But even as the joke tumbles out of my mouth, a weird chill runs down my spine. We're less than animals now I guess.

There's a crackling sound, then a voice travelling through static, telling us to begin. Begin what though? I look up to see a pagoda roof above my head. Cameras are aimed down at us, their wires coiled around the pagoda's pillars like tails. There are weapons spread out around us, tools of the trade mixed with sharp looking blades and spiky sticks.

Guess they wanted to make sure we'd all see something that we were comfortable with.

This one girl to my left starts trying to climb a pillar, another kid to my right dives right for the weapons and then there's me, standing there like a little ballpoint pen stickman on a blank sheet of paper.

Uh-oh. This happens sometimes when everything tries to happen at once. My brain's gone all smooth.

I don't know if I would even know what to do with a knife if I held one. Mom never let me use the sharp ones at home and when I helped with dinner she made me do the stirring or the measuring. Gramps always cut all the things that needed it. It's because I was born with two left thumbs, well, not really, it's just saying.

I'm clumsy as heck basically.

I keep doing nothing for a moment and then realise that my feet are taking me to the left, to the bottom of that pillar where that girl is trying to climb up.

"Gonna do death from above?" I chirp, tone one hundred percent brighter than I feel. Unky Chuck says I have to stop using sarcasm as a shield. I think if I've got this much of it inside me at age twelve then I'm probably already doomed.

I place a hand on the pillar, fingers spread out as if I can hide the shake in my voice, in my fingers even, with them like that. I glance over my shoulder, trying to see Trill in the group. I think I watched her end up in my line when they separated all of us but I can't be sure. That would actually be Lucky, and my name's gotta come in clutch at some point right?

My gaze goes back to the climbing girl. I don't know what she's thinking but I do know that when an animal is cornered it doesn't always think everything through. Like, I don't think she knows what she's going to do when she gets up there, for one.

"Hey," I hiss up at her, a hand cupped around my mouth to hide my lips from the cameras, "Can I come? I can hack the cameras!"

Probably. I mean, I've never seen tech like that in person but I'm really really good with computers.

"Help me!"

"bAH!" I jump a little bit, I didn't even notice Trillian's arrival, what the heck. "We needa put a bell on you!" I spurt out before anyone can call me out for being scared. I wasn't scared, I just needed to test how high I could jump.

[Tom]

H U T C H
W I N C H E S T E R

Dust kicks up with every step they take. Marching one by one as if he's some wild animal needing to be taught obedience. It's disheartening. Another sign of how he's going to be coated in the blood of his father and mother's own doings. Dirtied by the feeling of walking through tunnels where names resided; kids crying or yelling over and over. It's been only a number of games, but there's ghosts in those tunnels. And a Winchester knows what ghosts look like; he's travelled through graves left behind in a field of mines and bones that'll never be cleaned. These walls bleed like memories forever and forever. Tinted visors staring at him as he steps with all the nerves a young man could ever have.

Give him a break, he's about to die.

A little bit of nerves is a very normal reaction to knowing it's time to be thrown in a place where children die for the punishment of all districts. Hutch stands tall, quietly glancing about the tunnels, nothing giving way to any sort of hint at the event about to happen before him. "Are we just going to silently walk?" There's not reaction at all, just a butt of a gun pushing him forward as he continues. "Yer really gonna just... okay." Ignoring the burning press of a gun to his back, Hutch shrugs. What are they gonna do? Shoot him? This ain't his first rodeo with a gun being pointed at him, though Old Geezer Troy wasn't exactly a peacekeeper.

Heat rushes past him as the tunnel open up to the true arena; sounds of people seemingly everywhere as he steps forward, listening to capitolites starting to enjoy whatever show was about to start. He was trying his best to pretend he wasn't apart of it right now, but given the circumstances, the people he'd talked to, and everything else. He knew he was the show. Stress from back home had nothing on the experience he was already having. Gritting his teeth, keeping his eyes forward and feeling almost naked without any sort of hat covering his hair, he keeps moving. A shout from the crowd echoes as the first thing coming through as he steps into the real arena.

"I hate this old dump of an 'arena!' But I guess it fits the trash it holds!"

Trash? Was his outfit really that dirty? Black was kind of the most fitting color for him. Almost as if he's dressed for a funeral he never quite got to attend for the rest of his family, he feels a bit out of his depths. If only Lady were there to at least bring some ease. Staring out at the large pergolas surrounding them, the cloth letting air flow through it as the shadows cast down onto them. Hutch only watches with a certain strange look as he finally notices the weapons littered around ahead of them. Oh, this was how it was going to be. Weapons to kill one another with. Kind of learned the gist after hearing of Terra and now Marcus who everyone kept comparing him to.

Sorry, but he didn't work on any farm nor had any land like the Emberstatts it seemed. All they had was the pasture and their little homestead. Bucky boy probably was already in town trying to hear any news of him. Kit would've found a radio station to listen in. Hopefully, Granny and Gramps don't try to watch or listen in. Especially if they heard he wasn't wearing any hat, keeping a ten from their hat was punishable to most men back home. Knock a few teeth out in a bar and then become best friends or something. Never had quite happened to him, but he's heard that Buck did a number on his friend who stole his hat one night.

Turning to the crowd, a bit of his sensibility coming back as he looks to see a number of pretty average people, minding the expensive fashion or looks they wore. One of them had to have a hat resembling the ones from ten, so he decides to be himself as he shouts out to them. "Hey! Pardon me, but do any of you fine fellows got a cowboy hat? Similar to the ones in ten?" Some insults and shouts back are what he gets before sighing despondently and muttering to himself. "I'll take that as a no."

A crackling sound reaches through the place; voices of individuals he didn't really want to know in all honesty announce the start of the ninth games. At this point, he feels the stress start to creep down the back of his throat, sending him into a slight cough. Looking around, he notices some sort of metal pole sticking out of the ground. His feet take over as he starts to rush over there, reminding himself why he usually rides horses. Strength always meant having to carry more as he goes; a sort of heavy feeling sits at the center of his stomach. Buck and Kit were watching and he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

A number of the Winchester family feuds have occurred in his life; fists thrown over words, feet tripped over pettiness, and even a couple of broken bones between them all. Fighting isn't outside of his nature, but he'd always helped. It's why he decided to deliver messages in the first place. Deep down, his Granny always said he's a soft teddy bear, but once you've messed with something of Hutch's, he'll go full head honcho on anyone. Memories of his family flood his mind before he rips the metal pole from the ground, good enough to use as a weapon in dire situation. Pointed end, but mostly metal. Possible some sort of rebar? He's not going to question it.

Only after grabbing the metal, a shadow casts over him briefly, darker than most. His eyes widen out of curiosity and eventually settle on confusion before he watches the girl continue to go. "I don't think you're supposed to do that?" Confusion sets in as he speaks, only sighing afterwards before continuing. "Ah, to hell with it." Waving a hand in her direction, he settles on approaching the others, but he's not quite sure where he should go. It's not like there's any rules for these things, hell he barely even knew what he was meant to do in the sort of interview with Mister Godfrey.

Only out of the corner of his eye does he notices a different girl fall; seemingly catching herself only to surprise a boy who Hutch swears jumps at least 5 feet into the air. They seemed younger than him. Similar in age to Clayton and Gage. A sudden sick feeling sits in his chest as he glance about for a second, trying to gather his surroundings. This was really not a great idea. A grimace on his face as he starts to speak outwardly in a surprised sound. "These are the other kids I'm expected to kill?" Worry sets in now, less about feeling as if he's going to die. Instead, the worry building up is the how he's going to manage to even build up the nerve to fight.

"This is really.... well alrighty then partners, I guess that's how this is going to go."

Looking around to see these strange machines with glass on the very edge of it above where none of them can reach, but continues to seem to stare at him, he continues. It'd been the first thing he noticed besides the roaring crowds of people who absolutely wanted to see their guts all ripped out... quite literately.

"Hey! Doohickies? You aren't serious right?... Right?"

[k!ah]

There had been blood on the ground. It had stained the bitumen just outside the house. The sun had long set by the time you found yourself on your hands and knees, scrubbing away at the stains as tears rolled down your cheeks. You could still see the teardrop stains whenever you closed your eyes; you could still see the way the blood had caked into her hair, staining it the color of a rose. The memories haunted you, even now, as you stood between two peacekeepers like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

They guide you through a small tunnel. At the end, they stop and direct you to move forward; however, you find that your feet feel as though they are made from stone, cemented into place. You are the last tribute in line, the final sacrifice, for what the Capitol had explained to be for the greater good, and your feet refuse to carry you toward the end.

"I—no." You look from one peacekeeper to the next, but they refuse to meet your gaze. Like walls of ice, one shoves you forward, and you stumble, looking back over your shoulder. "Please, I have to go back home! They need me! She needs me!" But your pleas are answered with the slam of iron gates. "I need to be there for her. I need—" Who was going to pick up all the pieces? Who was going to put her back together? "Please!"

But once again, only silence answers.

Swallowing hard, you turn around. Hands balled into tight fists, you reluctantly follow the path of the tributes before you. You watch as one tries to climb one of the structures, while others yell at them from below. Another tribute clutches to one of the shelter's arms. She pleads for help, and you almost step forward to ask her what she needs, but a voice in the back of your mind screams at you to stop, she will kill you.

Your mouth becomes dry, and your eyes frantically scan the area around you, looking for an out, an escape, anything. However, it doesn't take long for you to realize that there is no escaping, that this is it. Slowly, quietly, you back away from the other tributes until you can feel the iron bars of the arena's edge dig into your back. You slide down them until you are sitting on the ground, pressing yourself against them, desperate to make yourself disappear.

"I need to go home. I need to go home. Let me go home," you whisper into the silence.

[d8f vera vilde [spencer]]

All eyes on me.

Over the past few days I have been doing a lot of thinking -- who wouldn't in my spot. I thought about the obvious things, of course. How I would likely never grow up and find my place in the world. If dying was going to hurt. If I was going to be received into a radiant afterlife where all my suffering was over -- or perhaps eternally damned to somewhere far worse than this.

If my mother would cry as my brain matter was visible on multiple different cameras.

Most of all though I thought about how to rise above my station. I was an underdeveloped fifteen year old girl from a family of administrative assistants. My idea of physical activity is climbing out of my window at night to go smoke in a warehouse. The quads of some of the boys here are thicker than my waistline -- I'm fucked. In all likelihood I won't last an hour. I was destined to be just a footnote in somebody's eventual bestseller -- The Complete Guide to the Hunger Games -- but only the uncut rerelease.

And to make matters worse I have nothing to change this. I meekly walked up to take my place at the front of District 8, head hung as my community stared at me with pity in their eyes. I hardly talked on the train ride here, even my own district partner would know nothing about me if he can beat the odds and walk out of here alive. When it came time to my interview I played the perfectly pleasant little girl, like I was giving an interview for my school paper rather than national television on the eve of my death.

It's easy to be bold when it's on your own terms. I felt no inhibition at home when I would command the attention of my family or my classmates or my community at large. I would act the freak, do whatever outlandish antics I could think to do to imprint a marking of myself onto their day. But here and now I realize this was all just a means of control. Winning was never an option at home either, not when you're somebody like me. Better to succeed at making myself an outcast than to fail at being accepted.

My point is, the past few days have been truly out of my control. I've been ushered back and forth against my will, told what to wear and where to stand. The threat of violence pushed against my back at every step, my own terms felt like they were left way way back in District 8. It was not my narrative that I was living, but the capitol's.

But now I stand in the arena, feeling sick to my stomach in my colossal coveralls as the sun bears down me. I stir as I see action around me, a nearby girl running to one of the structures littered across the arena and others shouting after her. I take a deep breath and look around me. There are no peacekeepers, just kids with fear splattered across their faces, and more eyes on me than I could have ever imagined.

I reach for my hair and let it loose from the tight ponytail they had enforced on me. I let the coveralls fall from my shoulders down to my waist -- the heat induced nausea quickly fading. I look towards the space beneath the pergola for the biggest, baddest weapon I can spot. Their narrative is over -- I'm writing my own ending.

no footnotes

[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.

“GET HER DOWN FROM THERE!" A raucous man shouts towards the tiny girl from Eleven. Clumsily, he takes the beer can he's holding and chucks it, seemingly as best as he can. Lobbing it hard, it manages to nearly catch her in the back of the head, missing by an inch. "Quit running, kid! Face your fate!"

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.


gamemaker kelsier ✨ zozo. d8f vera vilde [spencer] Tom Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] k!ah

[✨ zozo.]

i salute you, quiet living
next time i see you
my life won’t need me

Damp palms make this tricky, but there's a newfound confidence that comes with the muscle memory of scaling a large post and it eases the shaking from my insides, out. In a few moments my fingers latch around the pergola eaves and in one big kick of my legs and swing I am scaling the run-down skeleton of a playground left desolate from the war, watching the neighbours kids make magic out of the one swing still hanging, chains creaking as they soar into the sky with glee arena, hauling myself upwards with the last remains of my bread-given strength.

Breathe out, a sigh of relief. Up here isn't so bad. Warmer, sunlight cooking us from the inside of plexiglass cages - and there's a smell rising, sour and musky. My nose twitches, taking it all in, as I roll up my overall sleeves and set out across the neighbourhood, ignoring the squeaks the soles of my too-old shoes make on the Panem Postal Service's vinyl floors - holes are starting to wear in the sides as the seams come undone but we need ration stamps more than I need new shoes flinch at something soaring through the air to my right.

Oh. They don't like this - that's right.

I just smile, hold true.

And then there's a hand reaching up to me, a girl about my age - and a boy, too, younger, but he's got ideas about the overgrown bushes that crawl across the fence on my walk through the fields, Izar land just up the way - a girl from my class I called a friend tells me the wildberries are safe to eat. I shake my head and carry on with my deliveries, ignoring the dull ache of hunger I've learned to live with wires that hum with something dangerous. I follow their trail, leading back to a somber camera lens that clicks at me. I think it can read my thoughts. (Good.)

I've never quite known what to do with an outstretched hand. An empty one at that. My mind draws a blank - usually I put something back into palms. Packages, parcels, envelopes, bread. Don't ask what's in them, just hand them over. They've paid their pennies' worth of postage already and wave me on. I go quietly, asking for naught. Can't expect something from nothing, and everyone at home has nothing.

I still have nothing. So does she, girl from Three - the boy in the matching overalls has a plan, at least. I have nothing to give but my hand, holding true to myself and who I want to be, not what the Capitol thinks I should be.

So I take her hand to haul her up and the sky cracks open. And then I am falling, or rather tumbling, into the abyss of a crumbling arena. I follow suit.

They were not safe to eat. She died two days later.

Something hits me on the back of the head. Hard, and I know it's the end - but that's okay. I did not hurt. I tried to help. I tried, I tried, I tried, I tried, I tried I t r i e d I...

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I was true. 

She smiles.

I smile back.

table credits to the talented elegant

41SIfEwbb41-20

this is bluebell's last post! thank u for letting me tell her lil story 😌

1-20

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

TRILLIAN TORRES

It's the fuzzy mop of blonde hair Trillian recognizes first, just a split second before her district partner stutters, "we needa put a bell on you!"

For a second's breath she forgets where they are. The grin that opens her face is genuine. A bell! Wouldn't that be convenient. Or obnoxious. And totally inappropriate for an arena -- The crash as the moment bursts is almost physical. At least, that's what it feels like to Trillian as the arena comes apart.

"Luck-?" She manages before someone - the climbing girl - grabs her hand.

It's the only thing that keeps her being crushed under a pile of metal and stone. That little lift from Bluebell floats Trillian above the initial collapse.

But still, they fall, bodies twisting. Trillian scrapes along the edge of the collapse, leaving behind layers of skin and scrapes of blood. She tumbles, once, end over end and comes to a halt against the shattered remnants of the pergola.

Right next to Bluebell, or what's left of her mangled body.

Trillian claps her hands over her mouth and screams. Screams and screams and screams. But she can't look away. She has to look, to see, to witness. She makes a vow to stay, to protect her lifeless body, to lift her up, just like she'd done for Trillian.

But then the water, the shockingly cold water, fountains and pools, threatening to raise her up once more. She releases one hand, cramped, and grabs one of the tattered poles of the pergola.

Slowly, shaking, she removes the other hand from her mouth. "LUCKY?!" She screeches into the dusty dark. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!"

JbNCzOrK|A1-100

1-100

[Tom]

H U T C H
W I N C H E S T E R

It starts with a rumble.

Screams ringing out from the stands of well dressed citizen. Hutch's heart thrums with the rumbling of the earth beneath his own feet. Slow and methodical shifts in the dirt beneath them, his eyes reaching over to see the kids around him in different positions; just as young as his brothers. A girl reaching out for the sky; as if she could escape the ghosts of this place's past. To be free from here, he couldn't blame her, but it seemed she had the right idea in the end. A boy jumps high into the air, surprise evident on his face. Flashes of his brother's scaring one another out in the shed's hidden boards, where mowers and tools reside. Laughter hanging in the air. Only, their laughter fades to the sound of crumbling earth.

A young girl on the ground, just like Gage would do when he'd been drawing on the wooden floors of the homestead. A humming of a tune long since lost fading into the rumbling around him. Another girl sliding down against the edge of the arena, words seeming to fall from her lips as he feels his body shake. Memory fading into his vision of Gage curled up against a doorway, fear in his eyes. The shaking of earth echoing as his words ring beneath his ears. I'm scared. The rumbling sets in his chest as his heart thrums over and over. The ground seemingly shifting for a second. Shattering his senses as he looks over to see the last one around him; coveralls rolled down, ponytail no longer tied up. A large weapon in her hands; shining against the sunlight barely peaking through the cloth covered pergola, just like the beating sun of Ten's wastelands of dirt and empty creek beds.

Breathing in once, heart thrumming against his throat, he feels the earth move. Shifting ground underneath his feet as he snatches a look around. Gravity pulling at the earth, he can feel the familiar feeling set in; an earthquake erupting all the same as before. Given all the years of living on the outskirts of ten, there'd been plenty of quakes, cracks spreading along the ground. A shifting of earth and the sound of wood splintering. Feet taking him like a memory in the wind, the sound of hooves in his head as if Lady were taking as far as he can get away from this, but it's not Lady. No, he's running to the edges of the arena. Mind thrumming at the muscle memory of getting to safety; Gage's scared face in the middle of an earthquake.

Only, once he gets to moving does he hear the snapping of wood at the center, rubble starting to tumble down as he looks to the others quickly as he shouts out to any of them. "Y'all!" The swaying feeling beneath his feet makes the world spin slightly; sky covered by the cloth above, blowing in the breeze. Like a ripple in a pond, the arena starts to crumble down, down, down. "It's like a quake!" Eventually, he feels the rubble beneath his feet starting to bend as he pushes even harder, sweat starting to drip from his brow as he rushes forward.

Splashing water starts to ring out as keeps pushing. Was it a flood? Did the floor collapse from lack of care? There wasn't enough time to think about it too hard. If it was flooding, they needed to get to somewhere to either hold on to the wall or get to safety. Otherwise, they'd be no better than a opossum washed out in a river. Running towards the boy, who's about the same age as Clayton, he can feel himself reach out to grab him with his left hand. His voice is heavy as he yells. "Rascal, c'mon! The place is gonna flood!" Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, Hutch pushes to the edge.

With not a lot of time as everything starts swirling and the sound of rushing water and breaking ground, he swings the rebar forward. Everything feels as if it slows as water starts to rise up his ankles, the chill setting in as the sound of rushing water makes him feel heavy. The ground crumbles underneath him as he pushes the rebar as hard as he can to the wall. The sound of metal rings in his ears as the splintering of wood continues. Almost as if the ending of a bombing fills his ears. Memories of hiding below the earth, hearing splintering wood of broken homes.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Holding on tight, he feels the water at his ankles, the water drenching him as his eyes stay focused on the others as he keeps yelling. "C'mere! We can hold onto the edges and get up! Hold on tight, partners!" Holding tightly to the rebar, hoping it'll hold, he holds his hand tightly to the young boy he'd snatch up on the way to the arena's walls. Hutch had seen hell, he'd seen the worst of the destruction in Ten. He could hold on. He had to hold on. Heavy breaths as adrenaline floods his system, a heart beating in his chest. The sky as calm as before, but the chaos below makes his head spin.

"Don't let go."

VYx8B1Vgky1-100

1-100

[k!ah]

"It's like a quake!" is the last thing you hear before the ground beneath you opens up, swallowing you whole. Your stomach jumps into your throat, and for a brief moment, you feel weightless. But all too quickly, the ground catches up with you, slamming into your body so hard that the air in your lungs is forced out, leaving you gasping for air. Breathless, you catch movement to the right. "AHHHH!" You cry, rolling to the side just in time to avoid the sword that plummeted towards your head.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," you pant, catching your breath. Scrambling to your feet, you stumble towards the edge, hands pressing against the wall. Screams fill the air, tangled with the crashes and bangs of falling debris. It's chaotic and messy, and—is that a door?

Your eyes narrow in on a door ten meters to your left. For a moment, your world goes silent except for the pounding of your heart. "Home," you whisper, a second before your world catches up, and the chaos erupts. The screams have intensified, tributes and spectators alike. Ignoring them, you sprint for the door, jumping over debris in your desperate attempt to escape. You are only a few feet away when everything changes.

"No!" you cry as your fingers reach for your freedom, for your home, for your family. "No—" water crashes into your body, throwing you against the door. It pounds into your body, and you fight to find the surface, your lungs burning. By the time you manage to find your feet, the water is at your waist and growing.

Desperately, you grasp at the door handle. You feel the handle move, and a small, pathetic seed of hope grows within you. Gritting your teeth, you pull at the door. It doesn't move. "Come on! Please!" You cry, putting everything you have into trying to rip the door open. With each tug, you feel that seed of hope die until there is nothing left. "Dammit! No!"

0namDuguNX1-20
[Weighed down in water by clothing. +7]

1-20

[gamemaker kelsier]

I'm smiling because Trill finally is too.

I get it, I do. I know how easy it is to be afraid and even though I maybe don't show it, my knees have been shaking in my boots this whole time. What people don't get though is it actually takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile. Got that from a fortune cookie once, didn't bother fact checking it 'cause who really cares if it's wrong.

I grin back at Trillian, "See? Not all ba-"

And the ground gives out from under us, didn't even have time to knock on wood.

I'm staring at her as I fall, a dumb smile still spread across my face as I watch her horrified face grow smaller from where she hangs off that other girl's hand. So this is it probably, the moment I die. Gonna be twenty-fourth out of twenty-four, huh. That's not too bad when you consider the fact that I wasn't ever supposed to live past a year old anyway.

Got twelve whole years, free of charge. My hand lifts in a little wave, as the world crumbles in slow motion around me. A huge hunk of metal is right above me, turning slowly in mid air, hopefully to crush my head in, I don't want to go from being pinned to the concrete by the stomach or something. Dying from bloodloss, writhing in pain, it all sounds freaking awful.

I shut my eyes.

"Rascal, come on!"

Huh.

I'm yanked up so hard by the neck of my overalls that the canvas cuts into my neck and I almost choke on my own spit. Suddenly I'm being lifted back up into the light, my feet scramble for purchase for a moment, my fingers scrambling at the neckline of my overalls before I just give up.

Guess I'm just here for the ride. I watch the hunk of metal slam sharp-side-down into the exact spot I just was. Man, I don't even think there'd be anything left of me to identify after that.

Someone's screaming. There are cries of pain in the aftermath and as the dust settles I can hear Trill's voice calling my name. "H-HERE, TRILL," I call out, cupping a hand around my mouth for the extra volume. "TRILL, I'M OKAY!"

Thanks to-

I look up, squinting into harsh light at the older kid holding me up over angry water, swirling, thick eddies forming beneath my feet. I don't know him, but he's the one who sounds like he walked right out of one of those old westerns my Gramps loves to read. He's definitely older than me, definitely stronger too judging by the way he hasn't dropped me yet all while managing to hold onto a metal rod above our heads.

"Hey!" I holler up at him, "Are you crazy?"

What kinda lunatic saves someone during the games, doesn't he know that the whole point is for us to kill each other? Still, I guess I'm grateful about it. I reach up, hands wet from the spray of water, and claw at the leg of his overalls, fingers digging into the canvas and holding on for dear life.

At what point do I mention that I can't swim? Seems like an important thing to make note of. If I fall into that angry water below then I'm dead. Actually the amount of times I should have been dead in the past few minutes here probably just proves my name sake.

Other than the whole getting reaped thing.

I kick my legs a little, trying to use the momentum to climb up cowboy's leg. I probably look like a mangy little half-drowned cat at this point and the image almost makes me laugh. I can feel my grip growing weaker, feel the panic starting to set in as I realise that I'm going to definitely let go soon.

"Don't let go," says cowboy.

"What, you read minds too?" I mutter, tone spiking with my fear. The sarcastic facade is already crumbling, as quick and easy as the pagoda we were all standing on just a few seconds ago. Using all my effort, I elbow my way up until my arms are wrapped tight around cowboy's ankle.

It's cold though, my body is numb from it. There's a girl in the water below, banging on the walls and I have no idea about what happened to that climbing girl. Judging by the screaming, probably nothing good. I'm losing feeling in my arms. It's better than the burning feeling from a few seconds ago but I've spent enough time on the monkey bars at school to know what that means.

"Ha ha," I say, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice, "Hey Cowboy, you think they passed the safety inspection when they built this place or what?"

Not my best work. If those are my last words that's low key embarrassing.

QFvIULDs2m1-20
Cut by fiberglass shards +6

1-20

[d8f vera vilde [spencer]]

She's not unlike me actually, the climber. I hear the crowd hissing and booing as she steps past the weaponry scattered on the floor beneath her and makes her ascent -- as another approaches her and looks towards her with pleading eyes. Like me they feel the weight of a million or more eyes. Eyes looking to absorb your every move, to store you to memory and have conversations about at brunch a week from now. Or in the case of those back home, to have as their final memory of their loved one lost too soon.

In their case they have chosen to be remembered as the one who maintained their purity, who separated themselves from the carnage of the arena if only for a short time. Their family might remember her face in the sunlight, and how she reached down to help those pleading for aid. There is a narrative here as well. She was pretty too; she was probably popular back home and would have the entire district sobbing when somebody climbs that pillar after her and cuts her apart. Somebody like me.

It's not like being a killer was what I dreamed for myself. I thought I might be the next great gothic poet, perhaps the greatest skateboarder of our generation -- really whatever I happened to be into that particular week. I always just knew that I would not be satisfied in life unless my name went down in history to be viewed by the eyes of generations to come. I guess in a sense you could almost call my reaping an opportunity, there aren't many ways to reach historical figure status as a nobody in post-war District 8. I eyed an evil looking sickle as I grew close to the mound of weaponry. The Reaper of the Ninth, that was something I could live with -- or well, die with. And it was time for her story to begin.

Or it would be.

You know when a plan seems to all be coming together but then you realize that you forgot one key piece of information?

When the peacekeepers hold so much power over you, when they force you onto a train and command your every step it feels like they have it all together. When they bring you to this giant arena and you look at it's magnificent architecture -- it's hard not to marvel at its grandeur. That's right, I forgot that everybody from the Capitol is actually fucking stupid -- absolute rocks for brains the entire lot of them.

It started with some creaking. Hearing this over the intense roar of the crowd was already worrying. I started looking around and saw many others doing the same. The air felt heavier suddenly, as if the weight of something unholy was about to land on all of us. And then it did, all too literally.

Pure pandemonium. A complete assault of the senses: the snapping of a million million planks, brackets, panes of glass. The incomprehensible sights as my world went spinning in every direction as I was suddenly looking at the sky -- then a dimly lit stony floor. The taste of blood as I bite through my lower lip as I crash into said stony surface face first. And the intense pain as I am battered with debris, beginning to batter my body to mush. I had to stand -- to find cover.

I started scrambling up, seeing before me the battered body of the climber. A pool of blood was already forming around her impacted skull, and the rest of her body didn't look much better. I had to move on before that was me -- to where though? I could see only a few feet in front of me as the dust of mass demolition clouded the air.

I tripped over the coveralls which had fallen to me knees. I reached up pull them up and felt wet. Fuck, was I bleeding? No, it was too cold, and suddenly way too much to have come from any one body. It splashed my face and before I knew it I was completed submerged, the coveralls still holding me down.

I was free of them just in time, my head reaching the surface just as my lungs felt full empty on air. I choked in the still dusty air, though the worst of the chaos lay beneath the waves. A voice shouted in the distance, my only point of reference. "We can hold onto the edges!" I heard it say. He was at he edge, I knew I had to hold onto something soon, I was already slipping back underwater. Was I going to get stabbed in the back for going over there? Were the games even still on?

I don't think I had much choice.

ssCfeKDtnC1-20

1-20

[mat]

The plexiglass barrier that once protected the crowd from the tributes, as well as the tributes from the crowd, has shattered into millions of shards. Railings at the front row bend inward toward the arena, hands of the Capitol's richest swiping forward to catch their clunky cameras and popcorn. Thankfully, most of the crowd stands remain intact.

In an interactive show, the tributes in this part of the arena have begun climbing up the pergolas to reach a vantage point of higher ground. As the collapse occurs, most who climb up now fall into the rubble. But one tribute jumps toward the higher-elevated colosseum stands. She lands chest first to her death, they need no cameras to see that. Many are distracted by the dead tribute in the stands, but those focused on the television cameras would see the other tributes working together to survive the flood. Snakes and rubble threaten them and make this even more difficult.

Jovis pinches his lip, trying to hold back a smirk. OH NO! some thought. Him? Oh no!!! A tragic accident, but to him, a deserved one.

Capitol citizens stay close to the exposed collapse, members of the crowd from the above sections moving down to inspect the damage. Those in the front rows of the crowd cluster around Bluebell, the dead tribute in the stands. Some acting in disgust, others acting as sadists, grab her by the arms and legs, dragging her past the steel railings and tossing her body back into the arena's wreckage. After seeing the chaos, the commanding voice that announced the start of the Games demands them to stop. Have they learned nothing from when Capitolites mobbed the train station to accost the tributes? "Members of the crowd are reminded that interference in the Hunger Games is strictly prohibited. Those who violate this rule will be detained." The man, perhaps many will assume to be Jovis after calls during the collapse, sends Peacekeepers and guards to various deviant crowd members. Jovis commands his most trusted guards toward the front rows. "I want every person with so much as a drop of blood on their hands from throwing her back into the arena arrested. NOW." Those who threw little things will get one warning, but a body? Those who grabbed her violated the sacred rule of no-interference in a way that warrants no second chances.

The two leaders, dressed in black, confer. He whispers to her, "They won't live forever down there. Give them some time, and then we'll send guards to recover the bodies. Maybe there'll be a survivor." The inflection in his voice gives anyone within earshot that he hopes there aren't any to be found.

Within the collapse, pieces of the rubble break down further. No part of the arena's underbelly is stable. Capitol dogs growl in wait. Rats bite at the food fallen from the crowd. Snakes travel with the water's flow. The new terrain of the arena is only getting smaller, and the water rises, preparing a new Atlantis for the tributes.

---

Retro Engine Link: Here

As stated: all tributes will take damage over time, regardless of whether they pass the survival check or not, to be sure that there will eventually be a victor. The roll below will represent how much damage each tribute in this mandate takes. This damage can be interpreted by the tributes as they see fit! The new survival threshold is 30.

X1epzw42Mc4-84-8