Private Training Sessions

[cass]

-wants to see everyone else's-

All alone
It was always there you see
And even on my own
It was always standing next to me
I can see it coming from the edge of the room

Fear seemed to roll off the district five boy as he stood and walked silently to the door. He was not one to talk. He felt emotions he connected everything around him with emotions, it was who he was. And right now he could see the fear fall from himself; he could feel it roll across the ground and up the stylish walls, trying to escape. But it couldn’t. So it followed the boy as he walked into the training centre, the place he had found nothing but misery in. Haff didn’t know how to use anything. Sure he had tried to learn, but he was a hopeless little boy that knew nothing, but his horses.

His hand grazed over the cool metal of the door. He really didn’t want to do this, he knew he couldn’t do anything, he couldn’t fight, and he wasn’t smart like all the rest. He was stuck, he had no hidden talents no secrets, he was just a boy that couldn’t think clearly, a boy that knew nothing but emotions as a way to communicate and his horses. That was all he knew. The ground echoed softly under his steps as he made his way to the centre of the room. He nodded politely to the gamemakers and he avoided looking at them.

His hand fumbled slightly around the bracelet that encased his wrist. It was wiry and yet so delicate. It was made of the fine hairs from one of the stallions back home…Home… It was what he missed so much, it was what he yearned for, home was why he found himself crying every night. Haff didn’t connect with his family, he didn’t believe he belonged there with the people who raised him, but he belonged with the horses, it was the horses that were driving him to fight because he had to see them. He had to go home and care for the giant beasts, because if he wasn’t there, who would care for them?

Haff didn’t know what he was going to do, but the deep passion he felt was enough to make him head over to the fire-making station where he chose a piece of wood. He so badly wanted to talk to the gamemakers, he wanted to tell them to let him go him, he wanted to yell at them and scream and plead for them to let him go home, to let him see his horses. He missed Anima. The little foal that meant so much to him. The little haflinger, the horse the breed that was named after him, and the little horse that meant more to him than any person. In a way he wanted to make the people who watched him feel responsible for the pain he felt.

Haff felt so much pain in his life, but right now the deep agony in his body was more than he could bear and it was all because he couldn’t see the animals that kept him sane. All because of these people. Has hand grasped the wood tightly as he moved numbly over to the knives. He picked up a short blade, dull and somewhat similar to the ones he used at home. He then walked back over to where the gamemakers where perched like vultures. He wanted to run away, the fear that he felt almost made him. But he stopped himself. Because no matter what they all said Haff wanted to get home, no matter how they all said he was dumb, retarded –even though he was- he was going to try. He was going to do one of the things he did best.

Haff looked down at the piece of wood in his hands, than he sat on the ground. He didn’t look back up at the gamemakers. The blade balanced gently against the wood before biting deeply into it. As he dug the knife deeper he stopped just a few centimetres in and with an expert hand he twisted it sending it flying back out, a flake of wood fell to the floor. Again the blade bit into the wood, and another flake flittered to the floor where it landed beside the first. This continued until the rough shape of an animal showed. He then slowly began to go further, creating the smooth curve of the animals back. Than after the curve of the book the knife run down the side of the block, and he began the hard job of delicately filing out the animals fine legs.

Each movement of the blade came swift and precise, there was no room for error in this kind of task. Slowly the outline of an animal became more evident. The long flowing legs could be seen, and even the ripples of muscles along the young animals body where shown. This animal to the young boy was more than just a carving, he was giving life to the wood, because no matter how many lines you carve, no matter how many times you try only the best could give life to the dead. Haff’s eyes stayed on the carving this felt like home. Haff could spend hours perfecting little carving, just to make sure they looked like what he saw.

The boy felt a yearning to go home and see everything again; a deep sadness was replacing his early morning hope. The hope had all but left home. Haff had stopped feeling any hope now. He missed the feeling though, it had been the only feeling that had given him any reason to keep going with his day. Now he had none. The clock kept ticking away, but the boy wasn’t done yet. Every animal needed definition, they needed to have every part of them to be there to be called an animal. So he started in the face. The knife was pressed lightly onto the wood, and with soft pushes and halts he began to dig out the eyes of the young animal. Then the curve of its fine mouth followed by the nostrils.

He stopped than. He looked at it up and down, searching for incorrect detail. This animal was his life, and in a way he was putting his life into it. Everything about it was him and it was everything he wanted to do. Haff loved this animal so much. But all he felt was fear as he stood up, he was scared, and it rolled through him, racing through his veins, and causing his hands to shake, just a little bit, but they shook. He steps up do the Gamemakers table and looks at them all; he looks at each of their eyes. He didn’t hate these people as individuals; he didn’t know what they did. He hated them as a whole. He looks down at the little figure. Everything he could do was in it. Gently he placed it on the table.

He then raised a hand and pointed to it, he wanted to tell them what it meant. He couldn’t leave without telling them. Then slowly he put his hand on his heart. That horse was in his heart, and he knew that one day he would see it again, just as long as he tried. And he needed to tell the gamemakers that he was going to try. He would try for the horse.

Because to Haff, that was all he had that was worth fighting for.

The carving looks like this ^^

Creeping in the streetlight
Holding my hand in the pale gloom
Can you see it coming now?
AAaaAAhhh...
I think I'm breaking down again...

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

We're the lifers here till the bitter end
Condemned from the start

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My gaze has glued itself permanently to floor. I do not know if the other tributes are looking at me, for I don't lift my head up or dare to release myself from this hunched posture. My name in itself tells them too much about me, and I'd prefer to be the face the other tributes forget. So I look down and become invisible.

His name is Moreno.

I don't know anything about them except what I've sensed through quick glances and the sound of their nervous conversations, but I can read their minds, I think.

He is weak. Look at him! The boy that sobbed his way up to the podium. So tall, but he's afraid to look at us.

Though my thoughts are mine and not theirs, I project my image outward, those vicious, self-deprecating ideas swimming around in my head so I can begin to believe my own lie.

Look how pitiful he is.

My hands are limp, resting in my lap. I am first to go - the District One male. Somebody calls my name just as I begin to pick at a piece of bread, sitting alone at a wobbly-legged table in the corner. I can feel eyes turn towards me, eating at me. Three seconds pass before I push myself from the chair, leaving my food untouched. I count the tiles as I walk, and in my drive to avoid stepping on the cracks, I bump into a table.

Through the lunchroom, through the hallway. The doors of the training room close behind me a minute later.

The Gamemakers stand above me, their impatience ebbing away because the game starts now. They hold themselves like wolves, their lips curling up to bare too-perfect teeth because they know who I am. "How interesting is this Moreno boy?" they wonder.

To Hell with it!

I ignore them. They are the cameras, the country, the sponsors, the tributes, and my family all rolled into one. Power cannot be presented in a show of physicality, no, not at all. Power is a word spoken to relax the mind and manipulate. If they want a show, they can go screw themselves, because that's not what I do.

But I am free now from the eyes of the other tributes. I raise my chin and shoulders up and allow myself to move. The images stop swimming for a moment, only a second or two, as I release the pent-up energy of the past few days, walking briskly towards a dummy on the right side of the room.

I wheel him over to the camoflouge station. He is a horrid shade of blue, kind of like the corpse they sent back to us, except this one's still got his head. I smirk at him, just as I did to the boy in the coffin, and I begin to paint his features. Dark, wild hair on his head (though, admittedly, my artwork is horrid), dark eyes, a dark smile despite the dancing and the liveliness, in the end. Just for clarity, I finish with painting his name onto the chest before I wheel him over to the center of the room and sit myself down on the floor.

His eyes don't move because he's a dummy and that would be terribly odd, but I imagine him dancing, strutting around the room, his eyes cold as they glance upon me because I'm the brother he hated most. And I have the urge to dance with him, to move in a circle as he did, so I pull myself up and hold my head high.

"You lost, brother."

He stares, unmoving, and isn't that such a shame? My poor brother, a dead dummy, run out of words to say. He stands on the right, and I the left, but a moment later my body begins to shake. There was no order to his dance (nor was it very good) and it's not particularly difficult to imitate. My arms flail, my legs bounce, my feet step to the right, crossing the boundary from Jae to Reyes.

I become Reyes Moreno.

And oh, he is an odd one. A wild grin replaces the arrogant smirk, and I fly across the floor. My feet suddenly refuse to stand firmly on the tiles, and though my shoulders were already set back, they loosen as I raise my arms above my head. My ass wants to shake itself at the Gamemakers -- such a thing I would do, too! -- so I let it move freely, the tap, tap, tap of my toes replacing the sound of an ever-present pulse pounding through my heart.

But a dark feeling arrives with the music, a thought that takes over immediately:

I am free, so why am I here?

His interview, his words, his inner being flood my mind. Last words aren't easily forgotten, and I know him better than I know myself.

"No.. no.. " The words pass through my mouth before I am aware that I thought them. This delicious freedom, this ass-shaking devilishness, this cowardice -- it takes complete control.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha!

My head snaps to the side and I stare at nothing, nobody, but my words are sharp and tinged with laughter, my eyes sharp as I stare down my own shadow. "No! I'm not the dead one, not now. You should know, brother, how cold you are compared to me."

The liveliness leaves my limbs as the shadow takes over again. My self, so comfortable and warm, pulls me to the left of the dummy with footsteps morphing from a dance to a careful strut. My arms stop shaking along with the rest of me, and a moment later I am still, like a corpse.

I dig into the dummy's painted eyes, staring. The smirk lifts up again as I notice an array of weapons to my left. I take a moment, all the time in the world, to walk over and pluck an axe from the bunch and walk back as the Gamemakers watch.

What the hell is he doing?

I tell him -- and I've been waiting to tell him this since his coffin turned up -- how wrong he is.

"Cold? You think I'm cold? You'll be rotting in the ground, Reyes, and I'll have a beating heart. I can dance and laugh and murder all the rest of these idiots, and one day, you know what?" I stop, shifting the grip on the axe. "I will have won, and there will still be worms digesting your decomposing flesh six feet under."

And oh, Reyes doesn't take that lightly at all. He is offended; I can feel it inside my head. His thoughts eat at me until I let them have me, such power overtaking the coldness. Admittedly, it is easier acting like a wimp than acting like my brother.

But he doesn't stay long -- he doesn't even dare to dance.

I shift to the right with a bounce, my limbs shaking gently as laughter rips me apart.

Ha ha ha ha ha!

"When you die, Jae," I say towards my shadow, "I'll welcome you to Hell."

And it's over -- I can't handle it. I shift left with my shadow, my knuckles white against the handle of the axe, and he releases me from the shaking and the fever. Bitter cold surrounds me as I step forward, and stab, stab, stab, stab, stab Reyes Moreno everywhere I can until he is reduced to shreds.

I stare down at him, and then my shadow, and then I meet the Gamemakers' eyes.

Hell would be such a bore, compared to this.

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[florentine, d4b ❁]

KLAUS GORAVICH

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♕ DISTRICT THREE ♕

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For somebody so bright, you're awfully stupid.

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"HOW DO YOU SLOW THIS THING DOWN?"

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I am balancing on a sheet of glass so thin it feels as though I am suspended in the air. Soon, I will be falling. The gong will sound and the glass will crack and I will plummet downwards. For now, however, I am still balancing, swaying this way and that and trying with every muscle in my useless body to hold on tight to my ever-waning sanity. I do not want to let go. Death is something that was always coming closer, grasping for me. But not this, not the terrible claws of insanity that reach for me now. Who am I to resist their wrath? Who am I to cling to the sheet of glass as if there is any point holding on? I will be consumed the moment I see the arena before me, the second the countdown ends and the bombs below my feet are disabled. So why is it that I bother holding on now, when the fall is inevitable? Maybe it is better to jump and fall than to cling on until sanity can hold you no longer? Surely it holds more dignity to dive into the unknown than to slowly slip away, clawing and grasping for what once supported you?

Even now I know my mind is not where it once was. Once it was clear, and I did not dream of shattered glass falling around me, suspended in the air and glittering like snowflakes in a starless sky. I would never have thought of such abstract and terrible things before. Before the moment I looked at Hopper and knew it would be the last time I set eyes upon his features. I always knew I would die, but not like this. Never like this. First, I wanted to live and love and make memories and learn until I could learn nothing more. Then I wanted to share what I had learned. But just as surely as the stars in the midnight sky, the clock is ticking and it feels as though every second that passes is simply it's way of counting down. One second, Klaus, one second you wasted in a crumpled heap on the floor. And then - two seconds, three seconds, four. A minute. One more minute of your life drained away while you cried. But crying is the one thing that reminds me of who I am. Weak, impressionable, useless Klaus. The tears falling land on the thin, breaking glass and remind me of it's existence.

I am not sleeping, however I am not awake. I do not feel pain, nor am I numb. My mind is reeling, spinning, soaring, yet at the same time it is blank. I have forgotten to be serious and logical and all the things that are Klaus, and instead I have become broken. So broken that I am not sure how it is that I can hear my escort's sharp words. They come to me from the darkness and my eyes open. I love reality. The way that things can be sure, one hundred percent positive. The way that science can dictate the exact outcome of something following the rules of physics. There is no maybe, no if and no but. Just cold, hard, solid facts. This certainty no longer exists for me. When your world has fallen apart and everything has changed, anything is possible if you just close your eyes. I don't like it at all.

That is why when my senses return to me and light flows into every pore in my body and I blink into the outside world, I want to bring back that certainty. Even if it means being absolutely and unconditionally certain of my own imminent death. If only because at first, I wasn't going to try at all. When my name was called out on reaping morning and I was flooded with relief, it was only because Hopper was safe. I didn't need to fight, I just needed to turn up. There was no reason to go through the pain and the torture of that what ifs. I just simply had to tell myself I would never, ever see my family again and make it to the arena to step off my plate and end it all. I wasn't going to fight, to prolong the pain. But then Jamarion spoke to me, opened his mouth and fed my desperate mind with the words I needed to keep breathing for just a little longer.

Stupid, beautiful words of hope. "Don't you dare embarrass us, Klaus. Play to win. Do you hear me, Klaus? Play to win!" I pretended not to hear my brother as he screamed, but I did. It shattered my resolve to think that my cold, heartless Jamarion, who never believed in me and never supported me and never seemed to care did. His words made me think that just maybe there was a point in trying. One more day I could live, just for him. If I can't try for myself, I can try for my family. And these words are why, when my escort calls me a second time I rise from my feet and push away the tears. I am not strong, not fast, not able to stand up to anyone at all. But I know. I know so many things, and perhaps I can pull myself together to show the Gamemakers these things. For Jamarion, for Hopper, for Lyana and Tacara and poor, poor Marina.

This is the string attached to my heart that tugs and pulls and draws me into the waiting room, where I will show them what I can do. Show them what makes my head tick like that ever present countdown on the clock face. Tick, tock. Three, two, one. Time slipping away from me like time in an hourglass. Every moment I'm not fighting taking minutes from the end. And every moment I fight back against the fear riding up in my throat and the weakness in my limbs another moment to add to the grand total of minutes that is my life. The sneaking thought in my mind that if I just show them what I know, I might make it past the bloodbath. You know, I might even make Jamarion proud of me. When my name is called I am so deeply wrapped up in my thoughts that I at first do not move. And then heads turn to face me and I find myself stumbling to my feet, away from their eyes prying into my mind and wondering if it will be me who dies first or them. And as I push open the door and am escorted into the training center I am desperate that it will not be me. The thought that it could be them, however, is just a little too much to bear.

I find myself standing and looking right up at the Gamemakers and wondering if I prefer their terrible, boring, empty eyes or the eyes of the people who will be dead by the time the last cannon sounds. Twenty-three of us will have fallen and one of us will be left alive. Different, changed, broken beyond repair and falling apart at the seams. Crazy, nightmarish and empty. Fallen from their pane of glass and tumbling through the starless sky. Their support will not shatter like mine - but they will lose their balance and tumble just the same. As Marina once said as we gazed into the television, our childish eyes awed and disgusted and afraid all at once - surely it is better to be dead than to be that. When I see the careless eyes of the Gamemakers who have made these poor people that, I want to show them everything. The fear and the suffering. The glass I am balancing on because of them, the cracks running through them as thin as a hair yet growing with every ticking of the clock. I want to show them my camera and the documentary I was making about my life and my family. I want to show them what they have taken from so many people.

Instead, I look right up at them and feel my knees collapse beneath me. As I stumble to reach my feet I feel their attention begin to wander and relief wash over me. It is only for a moment that I am happy that their focus is moving from the pathetic heap that is me, and then I remember why I am here. Using some inner strength I surely do not possess, I pull myself to my feet and look around with what I know are wide, fearful eyes. I cannot do something loud and drastic and amazing. I cannot throw knives or haul flails into dummies or toss axes with ease. I cannot even speak, the lump in my throat is so great. So I do the only thing I can do. Cross the room, ignoring the combat weapons and targets and other intimidating impossible things I cannot face. I hear nothing, my vision blurs and I struggle to keep my breathing, normal, consistant. I have never been so conscious of every breath I take, as if the very thought is the only thing stopping me from simply fading away and forgetting to breathe at all. It would be so much easier than this.

What is this? What am I doing, why did I not plan my session earlier, instead of sobbing and thinking and residing in that place between sleeping and waking and nightmares? How could I have done exactly what my brother warned me not to - embarrass myself and let my family down before the Gamemakers. So, although I do not speak and I look none of them in their haunting eyes, I manage to find the plants table where I feel slightly safer. Surrounded by something a little more familiar, the leaves that I have studied for so long. As my gaze flickers over the tables, my head running through the names of every leaf and stem and root I see, hope rises in my stomach and I manage to breathe without having to force every breath through my lungs. The plants laid out before me are arranged carefully, their diverse colours sparking memories in my shaking mind. I feel the glass splinter in my mind. And then I begin.

My aim is to show to Gamemakers what I can do. What I know. And most importantly, how I can kill. Because that is what they score you on, and that score could be the difference between life and death. No. That score could simply give me extra moments, extra seconds, extra hours. Perhaps an extra day. But that time might be all I need to look right into the cameras and say what I feel, or I think I feel. Every moment is precious and I intend to make them count. This is what I am doing as I watch my hand reach for the leaves of the first plant I recognised and rub them softly. I know what suffering these leaves can bring, and I am beginning to form an idea in my shattered and broken mind. What am I doing? When I leafed through the pages of my old plant guide book, did I ever think that I would come to use them in such a sickening, terrible way? To prove myself before a pannel of people mapping out my death like a terrible game? No, no, but it's what I have to do to grasp those moments in my hand, and it's something I can do. As I reach for a vial and begin to grind the leaves into it, I whisper their name and begin to think those moments may be mine, after all. Not for me. For Hopper, for Marina. Lyana and Tacara and Jamarion. And for all the other people who will die because of this.

The Cicuta, otherwise known as water hemlock, was once a deadly plant that grew a little out of the tropical waters of the world. It has however, evolved, and now it's poison has lost some of the deadly reactive ingredient it needs to finish off the job it does. Fortunately that ingredient can be found in a variety of different plants. This plant is not thin and spidery like the leaves of the cicuta, spreading it's way out over the rocks to take down anything that tries to destroy it. It is primitive, flowing high in the palm trees, clinging to them for it cannot care for itself. Feeding from them. I am not a cicuta, fearless and filled with poison, I am the timid, weak plant who's name I cannot recall. Regardless, I grind the two together, watching them fizz. The Gamemakers eyes are on me once again, filled with questions. That is, I think they are - I do not dare look up to greet their gaze. I could not bare to fell the weight of my body collapse upon the ground once more, bare to hold that shame.

My mind has wandered from the mixture, and it is not until a gentle fizzing sound draws my eyes back to it that I see the thick yellow sludge it has become. I reach out one more time, my fingers growing more confident, and clasp the tiny, bitter berries that Hopper used to find for me when I had nightmares - I hate myself for what I am doing so very much that I need to give it some feeling of home, some way of stopping the pain. I stir it with my fingers. The thick, sticky liquid has turned a comforting shade of pale pink, a colour so surreal I almost feel like sampling the brew myself. But I know what it does, for I know how the chemicals react to one another and what they create. I do not realise that my hands are shaking violently until I draw my cherry-red stained fingers from the vial and force my feet to cross the room once more. This is my plan, and it is the most terrible thing I have ever done. If I am to live, however, it will not be the most terrible thing I will do.

The Avox looks at me with wide, wide eyes which I know will haunt me until my dying day. This day, of course, is getting closer every moment I hesitate, so I reach out to her and whisper the first word I have spoken ever since I entered the training center. "Sorry." What I mean by this is that I'm sorry, ever so sorry, but I choke on the tears in my throat and cannot go on. So I simply hand her the vial and self-consciously wipe my stained hand on my jeans. I know what is coming next. There is no variation when it comes to exact chemical science, and the yellow fizzing has produced a distinct smell so like honey and blossoms and fresh air that I almost burst into tears right then. And then the Avox lifts the vial to her lips and swallows it with her eyes squeezed tightly shut and my head reels yet I stand there, unblinking, just watching as she looks around. And then, so suddenly, her eyes grow wide and wild and she clutches at her stomach desperately, as though attempting to claw out her own insides.

What have I done? What have I done? What monster have I become? I simply stand there and watch as the Avox girl falls to the floor, thrashing and twisting in the midsts of a violet seizure and I know the pH levels in her blood have plummeted and her brain is swelling and it is all my fault. She never did anything to me. She never did anything wrong. And this is what I have done to her. She was no threat, yet I have encased her in a world of pain. This is not the Klaus Goravich I was before. This is a monster, and the gong has not yet sounded. I feel the glass slipping away, shaking, and my balance loosening and my will to hold on falling away almost as quickly. I should never have done it. It was just a training score. Buying me a day at most. I hate myself. Hate everything about me and what I have done and who the Capitol have turned me into. This is all some sick test and I just failed, bending to their rules instead of being the courageous hero of storybooks. I cannot bare it anymore, to watch the girl coughing, screaming, kicking out as her mind slips away like my sanity.

The plant station is at my fingertips in seconds and my mind moves in a blur I do not recognise. I do not hear, I do not see, I do not feel. I am simply numb, pulling herbs and plants I vaguely recognise and pulling them together into something I hope will save her. In the back of my mind I know there is no true cure for what I have done. Will saving her life be the kindest thing, even is she is never the same, feeling pain? Will the Capitol kill her anyway if she is unable to do her job. I do not know. All I know if the feeling of regret in my heart is weighing down on my very being and pushing all sense of reality from my mind. I am no longer immersed in my world, naive and stupid and adorable Klaus. I am a killer, whatever happens. Even though my mind is gone, my hands are subconsciously finding what they need. I grind a root in my teeth, feeling it's sharp sting and spitting it in the vial. And then I wait, because it takes a moment for these things to come together, to bind, to gain the power they need to do their job.

That moment takes forever, and the girl thrashing before me, drowning in her fit, coughing blood onto the carpet, is beginning to slow. Her life is coming to an end. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Every person I have ever known that died flashes before my eyes, the runaways that were captured just outside the gate, tributes of my district falling in their own games. My mother, although I never truly met her. And then myself. Secretly, I had imagined my own death to be something heroic and just, something to be remembered by. I wanted to die good, even when I decided to fight. But the games turns away logical and truth and what is right in the end. I was always easier to influence than the others.

I do not look at the Gamemakers as I feel the seconds pass and the bubbling in the vial stop. Somehow, I know what I have done is right, in a chemical sense. The smell, the color, the texture - I have read about it all before. But there are other things, things I have to make a choice on whether they are right or wrong or neither. I make this choice as I raise the antidote to the girls lips and her eyes fly open. She looks at me with such understanding that I begin to cry, for her, for myself, for what I have done and the terrible pain she is feeling. Her head is bulging, just a litte, as her brain is swollen and her skull is bruising. And then she stops clawing frantically at her body and stares right into my eyes and nods, almost as though she understands. I do not understand. It doesn't make sense and it's wrong and there is nothing I can do. For this, this is the one thing that stays the same whether your world is upside down and falling apart or not.

You cannot change the past.

Once the poison has passed your lips, you cannot take it back.

The girl is breathing, her heart rate slowing. She is alive. I have not killed her, but her absent look tells me that I have done much, much worse. For the first time I look at the Gamemakers - really see them, and I am sure they are looking back at me. I am not crying. I look at them, as if to say see what you've done to me, see what you've done to her? And then I leave, knowing that my mind has wreaked more damage than good upon the world.

"'HOW DO YOU MAKE THIS THING SLOW DOWN?"

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"'WE TRIED TO BREAK, BY SAYING 'MUST BE SOME MISTAKE'."

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Speaking
Thinking
Expression
Body
Headings

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[L△LIA]

( P E N E L O P E C A L Y P S O L I B E R T I N E )

Sleeping is giving in
No matter what the time is
Sleeping is giving in
So lift
Those heavy eyelids

Fitz Ripley breathes like a symphony as he sleeps, each exhalation arcing up to swirl through the air above us in a soft reverberation of sound that is so reassuringly there. Each release of air becomes a guiding star in our personal ceiling-turned-sky and every inhalation a promise that there is somewhere to go from here. Since that first night on the train, each second bringing us further away from home, I have made a habit of sharing his room, seeking out his comfort with a brazen shamelessness that would surely send all our siblings back in District Four into a tizzy. I don't care. If I want to sleep in the arms the boy who is at once a son, brother, and friend, who is more of a District token to me than anyone is meant to be allowed, then I will. However, for all the good I feel laying next to Fitz and listening to his sleep murmurings as he drools onto his pillow, I do not sleep peacefully. That's half the point of my staying with him though, seeing as how I've never slept with an untroubled mind. While the dreams themselves may bring no comfort, their steady sameness does and that's exactly what Fitz is as well: a steady sameness.

Originally I was terrified that for the first time in my life, I might dream of something other than drowning in the ocean. The water flowed through me with a vengeance that night, washing away my fear of the unknown and reminding me how completely possessed by it I am. There is nothing else. Forever and always will it snatch me up in its salt-hewn teeth, swallowing me whole and sending me tumbling into its infinite depths to tread away the night hours and —

People say that you'll die
Faster than without water
But we know it's just a lie
Scare your son
Scare your daughter

When I wake, I am heaving with that old, familiar panic, gasping for oxygen and thrashing against a pair of unseen hands that are wrapped around my throat until I can't breathe. There are some sensations a person will never grow accustomed to and this is one of them, despite every morning beginning in just this way. Lungs sputtering as if trying to spit up a gallon of swallowed sea water, I fling myself from the bed and sprint out of Fitz's room without looking back, footfalls so heavy on the cold floor that each step jolts into me like twelve inch needles stabbing up through my bare soles and into my legs. The past couple mornings haven't been this bad, but last night the water's currents were violently relentless and I tumbled to the tempo of their fathomless will, lost to the crushing pressure of the deep. I don't want him to see me like this: clawing at my own throat with my mouth contorted into a soundless shriek. So I run and lock myself in the room that I was told was meant to be mine, even though it doesn't feel as if it holds anything for me.

I want to boil it out, to set myself on fire until every last drop of water has burned from my body and I am free. In District Four I had matches hidden in the bathroom, but here there is no relief, just the sound of Fitz worrying at my door, knocking and pleading. I refuse to leave, curled up in the corner until Plato comes for me, coaxing me with the insistence that: "It's time to go, Penelope. You need to get dressed and head down to the Training Center. Fitz is already there. Shhhh, come on now." Lifting me by the elbows, I can feel a frustration in our Escort's touch that betrays the kindness in his voice. "Up you go. See? Not so bad. There's a good girl." This is not the first time he has dealt with a Tribute's refusal to move and exist as if they might really be just another human being for the day.

People say that your dreams
Are the only things that save you
Come on, baby
In our dreams
We can live our misbehavior

Despite doing as I'm told, Plato has set me even more on edge and by the time I've made it to the Training Center, I am seething. Fitz begins to reach out to me as I take my place in line beside him, all good intentions and kindness, but I cut him short with a single look. There is a flood raging in my soul and it will not hesitate to pull everything around me under, without discrimination. I have room in my thoughts for only one thing: desperation. Burn the water out, Pen. Every. Last. Drop.

My name rings through the air like the often underestimated click of a detonator button. "Penelope Libertine, District Four!" Before the syllables have finished echoing down the hallway, I am pushing through the door into the gymnasium, each step reinforcing my determination. Just a little further; it's here, Pen, it's here. After ten agonizing seconds of walking, I burst into an all-out sprint, eyes searching the supplies with a near-ravenous ferocity until I find my prize.

People say that you'll die
Faster than without water
But we know it's just a lie
Scare your son
Scare your daughter

As always, the match feels foreign in my fingers, a tiny taboo that the almighty god of the ocean has strictly forbidden me from touching. Today, and not for the first or last time, I defy the water within me and strive to be something of myself instead of a simple vessel for holding and being held. With a flick the flame bursts into life and although my siren daughter instincts tell me to shrink away, I draw it closer instead. Breathing in the thin curl of smoke (if Fitz exhales like a star-song of creation, then I am surely the deceptive first gasp of a storm's ruination), I revel in the glowing warmth as the spark of its potential burns its way down the wood. Closer and ever closer to my hand — first blissfully warm and then steadily into discomfort — I hold onto it until I can stand it no longer. Only, I don't drop it or throw it away. I encourage it to ignite.

Skin blistering as the sweet sun-child I hold within my hand begins to affectionately lick my skin, I'm not ready to let it go completely, even if my fragile body disagrees. Reaching out, I gift the flame to the practice dummy standing beside me, my gaze transfixed — hypnotized — as the fire steadily devours it. Without hesitation, I retrieve a coil of delicately thin rope meant for snares or knots and start looping it throughout the gymnasium before leading it back to my starting point. The tide within me begins to recede, my lungs swelling and crackling as they fill with the sweetly smokey air. I can handle the pain if it's a means of setting myself free. Can any of the twenty-three others turn agony into liberation? Please, burn me up. The fire crawls obediently down the path I've presented it with, unhinging its ravenous jaw to consume everything, and I smile for the first time today, even as several avoxes rush forward to extinguish the newly savage blaze of my self-destruction, because I know: The real fuse in this room is me.

Now here's the sun, it's alright!
(Lies!)
Now here's the moon, it's alright!
(Lies!)
But every time you close your eyes: Lies!

Training Score: 1 And well deserved. What was this. I don't even. If I'd have had another option for her I'd have written it, omfr.

[wimdy]

I've always been good at making an impression, at playing the game of life to my benefits. Whether it be with a smile or a wave, people have always seemed to look my way. I never mean for it to happen. In fact, I don't really want it to happen. I don't like the attention, the pressure. I don't like others looking at me. I don't want to leave lasting impressions on anyone. If I could have it my way, I'd disappear into the morning mist without a trace. The only people I want to remember me are the Ripleys and Libertines. They're the only ones that matter anyway. Who cares about the world when you have a family to remain loyal to and protect? With them, it was all about comfort. Their acceptance was all that mattered.

"Fitz Ripley, District Four."

My eyes flit up belatedly, glancing at the other tributes around me from under my recently died red hair and sweeping it out of my eyes. They're all staring. I can feel their eyes on me even without looking at them, even though I do. My eyes meet every single one of them, my usually gentle face turned cold with determination. I stand, stretching as confidently as I can as I walk down the hall. Despite my disinterest in public opinion, this is when it counts. This is it. This is what may or may not break my chance protecting Pen or surviving myself in the arena. Once I go in there and act, there will be no taking it back. The next few minutes may very well change what is left of my life, for better or worse. Just out of sight, I stop before the dark, imposing door to the Gamemakers. My hands tremble at my sides before clenching roughly and ceasing all movement. For a moment, my breath catches in my throat and I feel myself drowning deep beneath the star-coated waves of District Four at night, the cold slide of water pulling my body down into the depths beyond reach. The water gives way to dirt, mounds of soil swallowing me up with the aid of hundreds of pale, post-mortem limbs. I am dragged into the endless brown tomb of my own making, struggling against the ghosts of my life. In the blink of an eye, I'm back to staring at the metallic door before me, steadying myself mentally and physically for the task ahead. I take my final steps.

The training room seems so barren now that I stand in it alone, making my way across the sprawling floor so that I stand before the Gamemakers platform. There's no trace of the tributes who came before me. The room is sterile despite the presence of the careers just before me. I wonder what they did. No doubt they showed themselves and impressed the Gamemakers to the best of their vicious abilities. I look up at the Gamemakers silently for a moment. They blink. I blink. What skills do I really have? What can Fitz Ripley do that no one else can? Charm them? Dazzle them with a smile? No, it's all very generic. If there is one thing I know about, it is death. I've lived among the corpses of those who have gone before for years upon years. It is difficult for one not to take in the knowledge of death after so many years. And there lies my answer. I take a quick breath before summoning up my courage to speak. I fear the words won't leave my lips, but with a little bit of force, they ring across the air with clarity.

"I'm Fitz Ripley; District Four's male tribute. If you don't mind I'd like to take a moment just to talk before I proceed... I know I don't seem very imposing. I'm not the best tribute, by far. But... I have a reason to be here. I'm here to protect Penelope, my district partner and one of my best friends. I'd do anything to get her home alive. Anything. Just because you don't see it now doesn't mean I'm not capable. I'll prove it to you out there in the arena."

I suck in a quick breath, my nerves sizzling as I try to find some kind of fire; something, anything to make them believe I have what it takes. My chin juts upward of its own accord as I take a step forward, staring at each of the Gamemakers with narrowed eyes for a moment before letting a confident smirk settle on my mouth and flipping my red hair from my eyes. I suppose it does add an element of flare after all. "I know that this is supposed to be a demonstration of skill. I know I'm supposed to show you how I can be lethal. However, showing you outright would ruin the fun, wouldn't it?" I drawl, motioning over one of the Avoxes standing by the door. She walks over swiftly, stationing herself beside me as I direct. My left hand grazes her forehead before jabbing slightly at her temple.

"Location one: the temple. It's a location of elevated blood flow as well as a susceptible point to kill a person. Should the expected effect not occur, it is likely that the victim would either pass out or have impaired vision."

My hand glides to her nose next, giving it a small poke as well. "Location two: the nose. Given the proper amount of force, the cartilage snaps and could either obstruct the air passage or lodge in the brain. Similar can be said for location three: the Adam's apple. The obstruction caused by breaking this bone would cause asphyxiation."

I step away for a moment, turning my back on the Gamemakers as I try to think of what else to do. My eyes land on the array of knives set several feet away. One is in my hands before I even know it and I'm striding back to the still Avox with the silver dagger brandished in the air. One of my fingers slides across it slowly before I drop that arm back to my side. I raise the knife, slowly bringing the point to rest on the Avox's neck. She shudders despite herself, the cold of the knife rippling across her fair skin. "Location four: the jugular. Seeing as the neck holds two very important blood vessels, slicing into either of these two points would cause massive bleeding. The victim would bleed out within minutes."

I smile at the Avox slightly, my heart racing as I let the knife graze across her neck before dropping down to rest against her fluttering ribcage. "Location five: the lungs. Though protected by the ribs, the lungs are one of the weak points of the body when one introduces a knife. Should the lungs be punctured in any way, everything else goes to hell without the necessary oxygen supply."

The blade slips down her ribs one by one until it comes to rest on her abdomen. Her stomach sucks in slightly at the pressure. "Location six: the abdomen. Seeing as this is the trunk of the body and holds the vital organs, stabbing anywhere would create significant damage. However, stabbing up here, into the stomach, would facilitate the release of stomach acids that would cause damage as well as massive hemorrhaging."

Once more, I let the blade fall across her body until it sits against her thigh, the cold metal inducing shivers that swim up my arm. "Location seven: the thigh. The inner thigh, like the throat, holds a major blood vessel that can cause the victim to bleed out in minutes. Should the wound not be deep enough, there would still most likely be damage done to the muscle and walking would be impaired."

I stepped away from the Avox gesturing for her to return to her post as I placed the knife back where it had been resting originally. While facing away, I let a small sigh escape me, trying to stop myself from shaking or passing out on the spot. My qualms settled again as I turned back around, facing the storm head on. My eyes come to rest on the bedazzled and dyed men and women above me. The Gamemakers look as blank as always, as monotonous and unfeeling as they have to seem. There is no change in expression, no caving in of emotions that lets me see just what they think of me. We're all blind. Every single one of us tributes. We're all walking into this with our eyes covered. They'll never give us a chance. They're ruthless and they'll do exactly as they please and as pleases others: play. For us, there's nothing left but to do just that and give in. I bow quickly, making sure to reach a full ninety degree angle, before standing up straight again and watching them one last time.

"I'll play to the best of my ability... I'll make sure you remember me."

Graphics courtesy of the ever lovely South<3

Score: 4. Considering it was just him talking, I'm happy. Plus, he was true to his character. So whatevs.

[cyrus]

The past few days had been one of the toughest trials Cyrus Malloc had ever faced. Coming in with the lowest of expectations as a volunteer and from a non-career district, even his mentor seemed to have written him off as useless. And if there was anything that Cyrus hated more it was to be considered useless. His whole life he’d been pushed more to the shadows than limelight for his funny way of talking and interacting with people. His lack of attention to personal space and high anxiety level had left him with a personality that aimed more toward shutting people out than letting them in to see what he really was. Now was the time for him to step into the spotlight and show that he was more than a mixture of nerves and clumsiness. How on earth would he present himself to the world as a warrior when he’s gone so long as a wallflower?

But Cyrus was good at some things. He was good at menial, repetitive tasks. He was logical, if nothing else. He may not have understood emotions but he could problem solve. His familiarity and comfort with numbers was what inspired him most about this task: when his mentor explained that this strange number could likely determine much of his fate for the games, Cyrus felt himself swell with hope. Cyrus could commit himself to figuring out how to score what he needed to be safe—or even better than that, someone to be looked out for—if he understood the logic behind the scoring. As his mentor explained, it was a combination of his ability and presentation to the judges. He would have to show off what he could do in the games, and above all, be memorable.

And so Cyrus slipped into a rhythm, one that helped him to shut out all else. He would ignore the taunts of those who saw him as nothing but a fatality on day one. Though he tried not to shut out Fawn, the girl from his district, when he was in the training stations he was more mechanical than anything else. Just as he used to cut different sheets of metal the same way, Cyrus knew that he could perfect at least a few basic skills if he did them over… and over… and over… until at last he could consider himself proficient. He may not have been a natural born fighter, but he could at least become good at a few things in such a short span of time.

His stomach lurched as he sat waiting to be called in for his demonstration. He clutched his wrist, thinking of Tatum, and let out a few deep breaths. He had gotten much better about trying to relax, though he knew this was to be his greatest challenge. He had devised a plan during his last day or so of training to present as much flash as he could with the minimal substance he’d been able to glean from his training stations. When it was his time, he stood to enter the room and walked directly to the center to stand before the gamemaker and his colleagues. He gave a slight bow, and with a cracking voice boomed out, “Cyrus Malloc… District Six.

[/color]”

There was not another moment spared as he set to work on the fire building station. He needed the three key ingredients to fire: oxygen, heat, and fuel. He gathered the available twigs and made the teepee like he’d done so many times before. He began rubbing the dried timber and as sweat dripped down his brow saw the smoke that signaled it was almost time. He leaned in to blow some and sprout a bigger flame. He would have to work fast if he was to carry out what must have looked like a bizarre spectacle to those watching—why on earth would anyone start with building a fire? As he tossed more timber onto the flames, he moved toward the self-defense area of the arena.

Grabbing a coil of rope, he proceeded to wrap it around one of the dummies and attached a small sword to the available arm. He pulled the arm back and twisted a few more knots so the weapon hung above him, ready to swipe down when he let go of the rope. The dummy was now armed and set, and Cyrus stepped back to the fire making station. He grabbed a small dagger and held it down to the flame. He let the metal become hot as he held it there, fighting against the heat that was nicking his own hand. He had to put on a show. He had to look brave. He had to look powerful. He would be memorable. And he would win his freedom.

He moved back toward the dummy and grabbed the coiled rope. He stepped an arm’s length away so that the hanging arm of the dummy, with its short sword, would easily slice down into him if he didn’t move out of the way. Now is the time to be brave. Now is the time to show them that you are Cyrus Malloc. You can do things. You are not just another body that will be tossed out on day one. You may not be a warrior, but you are smart. And one does not have to be the best warrior to survive. Only the swiftest.

The sword sliced downward with a whizzing sound as Cyrus yanked the rope. Life moved in slow motion then. This was the moment that he would have to show them, he would have to prove that there was a fight within this gentle soul. As Cyrus leapt out of the way of the sword, he rolled to the side. Arm back, fists down, hard into wrist. Just like you’ve practiced. His arms came up and he brought his right arm to the dummy’s arm, grabbing tightly and smashed his free hand, with dagger, onto the wrist to send the sword clattering downward. He swung his arm wildly, hoping to connect a blow with his dagger to the dummy’s chest or neck. His aim was not as true, however, and instead Cyrus struck the thing in the middle of the face. He ignored this, showing no emotion—a dagger in the face could be exactly how they remembered him.

But the show was not yet finished, as Cyrus had planned one last display of skill. He stopped to fill a water jug, though he didn’t take a sip. While he ran to mock wrap his hand in a small bandage, to show that he could indeed use first aid—a skill he believed would be lifesaving at some point—he turned to the small collection of plants and herbs in the room. He ran quickly, knowing his time was short, and huffing and puffing, pulled out a selection of pokeweed, English ivy, and Virginia creepers. He pulled the stems off and cradled them in his shirt to carry them, and brought them back to the center of the room where he’d started. He laid them in a pile upon the ground, and scattered them around the water jug in a mock trap for an unlucky fictional tribute.

At last, he was finished, and turned to give the district six symbol. Not waiting to let them see his anxiety bubble to the surface, he ran from the room and out the door. Once outside he bent over his knees, gasping for air. He had done the best he could. He had been brave. He shook as he stood there, clutching at his wrist, hoping with all that he had that it had been enough to show that he could do this. That he deserved to be here. That he could play this game, and that he had come to win.

OOC: Cyrus received an 8 as his PTS. [/justify][/blockquote][/size]