Public Training Sessions!

[Deleted]

KIERA NIAMH DEMPSEY

time it took us to where the water was
that's what the water gave me
and time goes quickly between the two of us
oh, my love, don't forsake me
take what the water gave me

“Kiera Dempsey.”

The voice that splits the air of the anteroom of the training center is stiff, robotic. Dead. Kiera represses a shudder at that thought, steeling her shoulders and pulling her diminutive frame up to its full height. The training uniform that Kaiser presented her is crafted to fit perfectly, to cling in all the right places and allow for movement as well, and yet for some undetermined reason she feels as if the stretchy zip-up collar of her shirt is strangling her. Sponsors are everything, it’s the one thing that Topaz and her prep team alike have been drilling into her head since she arrived, and it all boils down to this: fifteen minutes to make or break her, and she has no idea what she’s even going to do.

At least, she muses, she has the advantage of being one of the first tributes to go in for her private session. The Gamemakers are still fresh, not bored yet; and they look at her with a vague sort of interest as she crosses the threshold. Despite the growing panic blooming behind her sternum Kiera meets their gazes with a leveled look of her own, impassive amber boring into each in turn as she slides to a graceful halt in front of the platform. “Kiera Dempsey, District One.”

A hushed murmur ripples through the masses at the name Dempsey, and Kiera knows what they’re thinking. What they expect of her. Those two syllables are synonymous with death, total annihilation and boundless carnage. The only question is what would be better for her chances - to give the Gamemakers what they expect, or to throw them a curveball? She has always been one for logic, careful analytical skills honed to a razor’s edge and so quick on the draw that she leaves the heads of lesser beings spinning with the accuracy of her observations. But even a divine plane of understanding cannot help her now, thrown into a simple contest of showmanship in which she has no idea how to compete. The robed forms in front of her look at her expectantly, and Kiera tries to quell the tremors whispering along her limb, eyes darting around frantically to the various training stations. She knows them all, swordplay, ranged weapons, survival, camouflage, has been carefully trained to a deadly accuracy in each, but so has every other vicious Career in the history of the Hunger Games. There is nothing she can do to help herself, not when her skills are identical to those of others and the one thing that Kaelen never taught her was how to win people over. With every passing second her panic grows until it roars like a typhoon beneath her skin, the jittering shake of her hands no longer unnoticeable. Kiera claws at the confines of her soul for her familiar inner peace but finds none, searches desperately for some inkling of her divine heritage but can’t wrap her soul around it like she used to.

There is a still, reflective pool of water near the center of the room that is used to train tributes who don’t know how to swim, and Kiera finds herself gliding toward it without being conscious of her own movement, seeking wisdom where she cannot find it within herself. She kneels at the edge, carefully leaning over to glimpse her rippling reflection in the surface, a wide-eyed slip of a girl with wild-colored hair pulled back in a tight braid, too pale for her own good and looking far more scared than she’d like to. The water is processed and filtered, smells like chlorine and chemicals rather than damp earth after the rain, but it’s good enough for her.

“Help me,” Kiera whispers, leaning so close to the glassy surface that her lips are moistened with every word, her breath making new ripples across the water that shoot off like ardent prayers from the most devoted of souls. And although she had been afraid that the Capitol had robbed it of its life the way it does with everything else, the water whispers back. Come to me, daughter. I will give you strength. Smiling, Kiera leans forward without the slightest hesitation and slips beneath the silky surface, the water weaving its way into her hair-clothes-skin-soul and washing away every impurity that lurks in the darkened corners of her heart. Her eyes slide open even against the stinging sensation of the chemicals in the pool, wide with awe at the crystalline structure in front of them, her fingers weaving out languid patterns against the cool moisture surrounding them. The water sings in her soul, words of comfort and purity and strength that no mortal could understand, and Kiera finds her peace, cradles it close to her chest with all the tenderness of a mother holding a newborn child as the lights flicker in a distorted haze above the pool’s surface.

Kiera rises from the water a new being, her human frailties stripped away in favor of the understanding and commanding presence of the goddess she knows herself to be, the water-song rising in her lungs until it dances along her lips and spirals into the air in pretty, unintelligible hymns of power and mercy. She is unaware of how the water streams from her special clothes as she climbs gracefully back to the floor, uncaring of how it weighs down the fabric and drips in a steady stream from the end of her braid, the steady plip, plip, plip against the tile floor adding a harmony to her ethereal song. She moves with purpose now, making her rounds to each station, arrows embedded in the hearts of targets, fire springing expertly from between her fingers with the slightest kiss from a match, one, two, three dummies falling to the keen edge of a sword in time with each new verse. She comes to the plants station last, fond memories of the one who granted her divine status springing up from within as her hands trace the fragile blooms before her.

This is belladonna, the berries are poison but the leaves will help blood clot, the words spiral from her mouth, never breaking the lulling melody that they fall into. Oleander looks like Kingsfoil, but it’s leaves are lighter and it will make you have seizures. You can eat leeks and chicory roots, but you have to be careful, they usually grow near poisonous plants and you should wash them first. Yarrow stops fever and fights infection, and coriander is a natural antibiotic.

She can almost see Kaelen’s approving nod but pushes it out of her mind in favor of returning to the water’s edge, slipping back into her own language of rivers and rains as she kneels and gently runs her palms along the surface, communing with the forces of righteousness and purity that sit inherent in her veins until her voice fades out to the ghost of a whisper, the music spiraling into a silence punctuated only by the steady drip of water from the hem of her clothes.

Kiera blinks, startled as if she’s been knocked out of a trance, getting slowly to her feet and turning to address The Powers That Be on the platform before her. “That’s all I have, really. Thank you for your time.”

They dismiss her with odd looks and under-breath murmurs, but she grins maniacally all the way back to the elevator, not even taking notice of how her body trembles with cold rather than nerves. The divine certainty that has so carefully alluded her since the Reaping has returned home, and Kiera Dempsey is ready to take on the Arena as an avenging goddess once more.

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lay me down
let the only sound be the overflow
pockets full of stones
lay me down, let the only sound
be the overflow

ooc - I don't even know what this is. Watch her get like a 2. #YOLO

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[Rosetta]

~Bran Wolfe

The wheelchair. For the first time in his life it was Bran versus the wheelchair. He stared and it and it stared back. Dare he go into his private training session in it? Dare he wheel himself him? Like a cripple? Mother told him to never let that horrid name define. “Rise above it, Bran,” she encouraged him.

Fly.

Taking a deep breath, Bran pulled himself off of his bed and into his chair, the muscles in his arms flexing. Wheeling himself from his room, Bran took the elevator and wheeled quickly across the lobby and to the waiting area for the sessions. He could feel their eyes, like always. He’d always felt them. Except these eyes had targets trained on him. Jaw set, Bran took his place next to his sister and refused to move they can’t see you if you don’t move until, for the second time, his called name caused a rift in the earth.

“Bran Wolfe.” Bran took another deep breath and the eyes bore deep into his back, tracing themselves down his damaged spine and to his paralyzed legs. Ignoring them, as he’d been trained to do, Bran pulled himself through the door and the atmosphere instantly changed and he find himself under different eyes. While his fellow tributes were sizing him up, they looked on with quivering eyelids and darting pupils, the Gamemakers looked at him straight on, practiced eyes that have played with toys like him before. Sitting there, tiny under their gaze, Bran was reminded of Heron Kimberling. At least though she had half of her legs at her disposal though.

Bran swallowed down the sour taste in his mouth, the taste of a dead boy, and wheeled himself forward, refusing to allow his cheeks to burn before them. Mother told him never to be embarrassed by his disability. “It’s who you are now,” she told him, running a hand through his hair, “and it’s what makes you strong.” Thinking of her, Bran felt a deep pang within his stomach, knowing he’d never feel her hand soft in his hair ever again. He couldn’t even feel the warm shadow anymore. He was cold. Numb. A dead boy in progress.

He’d reached the center of the gym now and for a moment, Bran wondered if he was required to say anything. The room was deathly quiet. Mother had always taught him to introduce himself. And so, Bran cleared his throat. “I’m Bran Wolfe. District Eight. And I…I like to climb.”

The words shocked even him. He hadn’t said them in years. The word “climb” even was foreign and bitter on his tongue, but so sweet on his ears and suddenly, Bran knew what to do. Wheeling himself hastily to the knot-tying station, he picked up the longest length of rope he could find. It was sweet and soft against his hands, prickling across his skin most pleasantly. Spying the rafters on the ceiling of the gymnasium, Bran began to throw, heart racing each time his attempt failed, but finally, the rope looped around a rafter and he had two ends in his hands. Tying one end to a weight, Bran took the other end and began tying it under him. A make-shift harness. He’d made a few of them at home, up in his room, while he stared out of the dreary window, but now, he wove it quickly and with excitement and when he was done, his cheeks glowed with pride.

Refusing to cast a glance at the Gamemakers, fearing he’d find disapproval there, Bran began to pull and Bran began to climb. Nestled in the little harness he’d made, a loop in the rope that went under him, Bran felt himself being lifted from the wheelchair through the efforts of his tense arms. A smile spread across his face and his blood pumped adrenaline through him, refusing to allow his arms to ache and tire as he pulled himself up off the ground, out of the wheelchair and up the rope. Climbing. Bran was climbing again!

Flying.

The crisp December air was cool in his throat, but exhilarating against his skin, the wind whipping his hair about. His hands closed around each band of ivy and he was flying, flying up the ivy-covered tower. To the princess. To save the world. Flying, he was. Bran Wolfe was flying!

“He saw.”

Oh no. Bran suddenly felt his heart drop into his stomach. “He saw.”

“No,” Bran cried out, but it was too late. He was already jerking back in horror. Don’t push me, please don’t push me and the world was spinning, and he was spinning, and jerking backward, the room was too hot and his hands were flying-off of the rope and he slipped backward and there was nothing for him to do before he’d slipped from the harness completely and Bran was flying-no falling, falling from the height he’d climbed, almost there he was, almost there and his arms ached, but flailed, they flailed, trying to fly, trying, trying, trying to fly-

But he hit the ground, all of the breath knocked out of him. Luckily, the ground was soft and squishy this time. A safety mat. But, Bran lay there for a while, staring up at the swinging, twisting rope above him, just staring, more numb than he’d ever been, his lips parted, gasps escaping through in loud, shout intervals. His wings were gone.

They’d be gone for a long time and it took another fall for him to finally realize it.

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[semper]

Theseus Omaha Bolin Rhodium

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Your heart is once again pounding furiously behind your ribs. You try to keep your breathing in a steady rhythm but it fails you, quickening and making you feel quite lightheaded. Your eyes shut tightly and your hands ball into trembling fists, trying to ease your anxious nerves but it’s futile. Anxiety is something you’re used to and yet it still terrifies you – the seeming inability to breathe, the feeling of nausea, automatically assuming you’re either going to pass out or simply die. The churning in your stomach does you no good either; while the food in the Capitol is better than anything you could ever dream to make, it’s so rich and filling that it almost makes you sick. And right now I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sick.[/color] You long for some mint tea, but none of the chemical-ridden liquid here – you wish for simply a cup of hot water filled with fuzzy leaves that you yourself picked. Like I always did for Cod or Merc or Gwynn or Rio or Navy or any of them.[/color] That soothingly smooth taste, the hot water warming up every extremity, making you feel generally better overall. You miss that terribly. Will anyone ever make it again at Tempus? It’s not that hard, really…[/color] But you also wonder that, if they do happen to make it, will it remind them of you? Will they think of you as they stir up the leaves, possibly mixing in a pinch of sugar or a dab of honey? Secretly you hope they do, as selfish as it may sound. I don’t want to be forgotten or lost to the shadows anymore.[/color] All your life, that has been where you lived: you started out under your mother’s hellish shadow, avoiding her ever-present talon-like fingers and poisonous words, and then moved on to the kinder, lighter shadows of the Tempus actors and actresses. They showed you the proper meaning of love and what it’s like to have people that care about you, and you cherish each and every one of them because of it. Merc, in all her elegancy, with the voice of an angel. Rio, ever helpful and always there. Cod, always making me smile even when I feel like a complete failure. Xana, even, when sh—[/color]

A sharp jab to your side brings you out of your blissful memories. Your dark brown eyes lift their gaze up and suddenly you realize that it’s your turn. The panic and terror returns full force and almost at once you find yourself gasping for air. Your trembling hands are set down on the bench and you push yourself up, but the room is spinning and briefly you feel like you might fall. ”Theo, relax. You’re alright.” Cod’s soothing voice calms you only a little, but it’s enough to keep you standing. Your hand absentmindedly reaches out and presses against the cold wall to keep yourself balanced. I need you Cod. I can’t do this by myself.[/color] Your fingers curl and the nails scrape against the hard surface as you slowly trudge toward the doors, biting back the terror that’s making your every move twitchy and uncertain.

As you step into the room, your very first thought – oddly enough – was that you wish you had some alcohol with you. I just don’t want to feel this scared when the Games haven’t even started yet.[/color] The first time you had ever gotten drunk was at a cast part, just after a smashingly good performance. You had never had any alcohol before, but in the company of friends, you felt like it was okay. What could possibly go wrong?[/color] And so you drank hardly an entire bottle before you felt like you hadn’t a single worry in the world. Bulletproof. Invincible. You even went as far as standing on the edge of Gwynn’s box – number 23 to be exact – and proclaimed loudly that you could fly. From what you were told the next day, that is; you only remember the excruciating headache the morning after and your friends mentioning how they thought you would jump from the box and really try to fly. I want to have that fearlessness again.[/color] Your wide eyes seek out the Gamemakers that are huddled in their small area, but whether or not they’re paying any attention to you is a mystery. That’s okay, though; you don’t want very much attention. It’s not like I’ll leave an impression on them anyway.[/color]

Your gaze wanders to the wide assortment of weapons at hand, one of which you figure you’re expected to suddenly take up and display your power with. You shy away from them, though. Fighting isn’t your thing. For heaven’s sake, I hid behind Cod at the reaping[/color] – but there’s nowhere to hide now. You are out in the open, exposed to the people that now possess your fate in their meticulously manicured blood-stained hands. Just like on the stage at the opera house, when the red curtains draw back and you’re exposed to hundreds of people, all their eyes on you and only you. I wasn’t alone on stage, though. I had my friends – no, my family – there with me.[/color] The metallic room offsets you – it’s not the soft colors and bright lighting of the stage. But as you close your eyes, you feel the coldness of the room wearing off and being replaced by the familiar warmth of the spotlights. You imagine Mercury standing next to you, that soft and alluring smile of hers tugging upward on her lips. A few degrees of confidence return to you and your hands slowly stop quivering. It’s just a show, that’s all they want. All I give are shows, I can give just one more.[/color] You suck in a shaky breath, forcing the candy-colored and metallic world around you become the smooth wood and red curtains of your home.

”Home is behind,”[/color] the first few words waver but you catch yourself, just as you would if you stumbled over a particular line that you had trouble with during an opera. But your voice is much quieter, lacking the bold tone you usually would have. ”The world ahead, and there are many paths to tread.” Slowly you begin to forget where you are or who your audience is, preferring to believe as much as you can that you are with your family. ”Through shadow, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.”[/color] Mercury’s face flashes across your memory again, and more and more you believe that you’re back home as the familiar words are the only things you hear. ”Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,” Your voice rises and falls with each syllable, confidence beginning to fill out your tone. ”All shall fade…”[/color] Mercury’s face fades from the forefront of your memory, as does Cod’s comforting voice. You try to resurface them but they escape you, refusing to be found again. Panic begins to seep in again and you drag out the last three words, your voice slowly beginning to falter and lose its fullness. ”All shall fade.”

You open your eyes and are forced to squint at the sudden flood of light, and for a split second you whole-heartedly believe that you are home – that once your vision clears, you’ll see the long rows of velvety seats full of people who are simply awed by the performance the troupe had just put on. But as your eyes adjust, you realize that you’re not home. Instead you’re trapped in a room with stern-faced Capitolites, all staring at you strangely. Nothing like the pleased gazes of an audience back home. You quickly step back, hitting a wall and being unable to hold back a sharp, surprised cry. Suddenly panicked, your eyes frantically search for the door you entered from and, upon spotting it, you make a sudden and mad sprint for it, flinging your hand out to shove it open while you escape. You want out, you need out – some way to avoid being trapped in this place full of colorful two-faced people. You want the familiarity of your friends, the comfort of your hammock, and even the strangely warm relief that your torch brought you whenever you put it to your skin. I’m already giving up.[/color]




Song credit

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[✨ zozo.]

I don't want to think about it now
Is this all in my head?
Are you somewhere waiting for me?
Is there something unsaid
Are there secrets that you keep?

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"Aria Wolfe."

They call for me. Howl my name. I know how this works, this part of the Game. Good training sessions mean good scores. Good scores mean more sponsors. More sponsors mean more time to stay alive. I can do this. Perhaps they'll have windows to sneak out of or locks to pick. Roofs to climb, mud to walk through. Sticks for swords to play-fight with. Sticks and stones are long gone, and I should know that by now. Here, there's real swords I always envisioned battling with. It's almost too real, too much to take in. But they're supposed to be, aren't they? This is real. This is life. This shall soon be death, too.

What are you good at, Aria Wolfe?

I'm good at sneaking out of my house, of snapping back and scowling. I'm good at complaining, landing on my feet and keeping secrets. I'm good at hiding behind doors and jumping out to frighten my sister, laughing as her face turns as bright as her hair, and running away with a squeal of delight before she can get her hands on me. I'm good at avoiding soap, rules, Mother, and sticky situations. But I'm no good at impressions. And a good one of those is what I need. If only Sarita were here to sweet-talk them, to say kind words and twirl around in a pretty dress - but the thought of our final goodbye only sends chills through my body I'd rather not remember. Fight hard, Aria Underfoot. And fight I shall.

Loribelle tied my hair up into a slick ponytail this morning ("Simple" I ordered, sick and tired of Mother's hands prodding and pulling me to look perfect)[/i] that swished behind my head. The cool air feels strange against the back of my neck, goosebumps making themselves known as I stride into the room: fists clenched, teeth set, instincts sharp. Eerieness wallows in the air, stern Gamemaker faces staring back at my equally neutral glare. Winter is not happy that they're going to kill her brother. [/color]I hope you like the snow.

"Aria Wolfe" I almost snarl, disgusing my disgust behind a polite bow of my head. "District Eight."

I can't do much, but I can tell stories.

Immediately, I turn on my heel and leap towards the Gauntlet. It doesn't scare me, no matter what daunting name it's given. I'm back home, hopping over gates and cartons of material. A spring of my limbs, and I'm up, clambering over it as fast as my limbs will carry me, right up to the highest level. There, I twist back to face them, and hope to the highest heavens that my eyes cut deeper than swords ever could. "Once upon a time," I begin (that's how all stories should begin, as Sarita told me when I was young), fixtated on the Gamemakers as I begin to craft my tale, "there was a Princess who lived in the highest castle on the hill." And I'm clambering down it again, running as fast as my legs will carry me towards my next target: the dummies. "She lived with her family, her mother a Queen, her father a King, and the rest of her siblings: the lords and ladies of the castle." Hands find false bodies of plastic and foam, lining them up in a circle, one by one. Father, Mother, Jon, Rajas, Sarita, Bran, Ricky, Aria. And I'm running faster, words pouring out of my mouth as my fingers find rope, knots, more plastic, constructing an illustrated tale in which I am the author, controlling each fate in my own hands.

"Her father was kind. Her father was caring. But her family was restricting, binding the Princess to their rules." Thread wraps itself around the dummies, knots bending into shape, and I link us all together in a prison of rope. "She didn't like this one bit." The ropes course, now - clambeing up, up, up with a piece of rope trapped between my teeth. Tasting like cardboard and dirt, I reach the top, sliding the thick string around a metal bar in the course. A dummy slowly rises with each tug of my hands, attached at the neck until it hovers just above the floor. Slippery hands tie him to the course, and I clamber back down again, heart racing and pulse pumping.

"So when the Shadows captured the King, and hung him for slaughter" I almost chant, grabbing a sword the length of my arm that I can just keep upright and marching back to my creation, "the Princess knew she had to help. But her family didn't want her to leave." There's a familiar tang to this story as it exits my lips, an unfamiliar feeling bubbling in my stomach, spreading through my body with each line of my tale. "So she faught them," (a slash of metal slices through the first dummie's arm) "despite their constant nagging, pleading whines to not leave" My lungs have decided to speed up their process, oxygen entering and exiting quicker than usual as my muscles glide around the figures, slicing one by one with every memory that filters itself into my head. Aria be quiet Aria stop it Aria listen Aria sit still Aria why do you never behave Aria where have you been Aria you little devil Aria you are useless Aria, Aria, Aria, Aria.

They never stopped me. They never begged, pleaded for me to stay. They just let me run. Didn't bother to try harder, didn't bother to try and keep me safe. They wanted me gone. They wanted me out of the house, they wanted me out of their lives. They wanted me there and they wanted me here, and I want to scream at the thought. Angry groans escape my mouth as I slash, slash, slash, growing weaker by the second. "In the end, the Princess won, and she journeyed off to fight the Shadows and save her father from their evil." A leg, a hand, an arm. They fell like petals off of flowers that Sarita would pick in the springtime, or orange leaves from the trees in autumn as they prepared for winter. Winter is coming. There's a war coming. Aria is coming. Pure frustration at my family is the drive behind my blows - is that not what the Gamemakers want? Anger, frustaration, the ability to let loose and aimlessly kill? A good show is what they want. But I don't dare look any of them in the eye.

"So she found the Shadows, and challenged them to fight." In my dance of fury, twisting and turning around the circle, the ropes I tied are slashed open, freyed ends dropping uselessly to the floor. No longer do I control the story, but pent-up memories and a screaming version of myself takes over the pen, scribbling furiously. She controls my arms, legs, fingers. Every bone in my body. "But as she found her Father, she saw that the Shadows were not holding him prisoner," (kicking down the disfigured remains of the dummies - now sliced-into pieces of model scattered around the floor) "but that the King was controlling them. They had not taken him prisoner at all - he had left her." I still haven't cried this entire week, but if I was anywhere close to it, it would be now.

"So the Princess had no choice" my words are robotic, foreign - not how I had planned the story at all. (I hadn't planned to come here with my brother, and I really should learn that things don't always turn out like you want them to) "tricked by the Shadows and her father, now with no family to return to, had no choice but to save the rest of the Land from the Shadow King."

Father left me. He ran away to death's doors. He should have stayed, kept me safe. It wasn't fair. My family left me, ran away to life's. Their dummy replicas now scattered on the floor, my chest heaving so much that I may burst with anguish, arms with nerves that scream as I grasp the sword above my head, pulse beating in my ears so loudly I can barely hear the sword rush past me as the sword connects with the final, suspended dummy in one swift movement.

"Off with his head."

The dummy falls with a thump to the floor and rolls away, leaving only the rubber head swinging in it's suspension. My body heaves as the sword clatters to the ground below me, trying to catch my breath and slow myself down before I collapse in a frantic, dizzied heap. I don't dare look up at the Gamemakers. I just stand up, bow again with my eyes screwed shut, and march towards the exit door. Winter has only just arrived, I am certain of it.

---

"And do you believe that the Capitol people are immortal, Aria?" a blurred face, possibly a teacher, queries the girl who sits unnusually still at her desk.

She does nothing but raises her solemn gaze to meet his.

"No Sir" she says quietly, an air of knowledge in her words. "Anyone can be killed."

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I don't want to think about it now
I know I won’t get out if I fall in
I don't want to think about it now
It's dark in my imagination
It's dark in my imagination

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{ooc; idek what this is <///3}
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[Python]

-----------------------

One, two, three, four. District two residency certainly held its advantages. The eagerness to observe talent and examine the creativity of those who would die a terrible, tragic, and most of all forgotten death would still be fresh in the judge’s stringent minds. Unfortunately, while they were not yet irritated and bored of analyzing tribute skills they surely expected a great deal of grandeur to come from a representative of district two - a district that seemed to carry the unpleasant reputation of bearing the most ruthless of careers, one of the best examples being Julian Bryze, a victor and mentor. Her mentor, to be precise. And as Demeter waited patiently for her chance to glisten before few of the most important figures of all (number one being potential sponsors, of course), it wasn’t jumbled nerves that itched beneath her skin and pestered her with anxiety - it was her competition. Careers, no doubt, were the dominant figures of the games. They were practically war heroes and destined celebrities to the mindless fools of The Capitol, who had a knack for favoritism and unfathomable amounts of unnecessary enthusiasm for something so savage as a battle amongst adolescents. If these colorful freaks were going to be her audience, Demeter would have to conform to their ways not only by open presentation in front of millions of eyes, but by proving herself worthy of attention in the training center.

”Demeter Merwin-Glory,” drawled a robotic voice. It was time to shine.

Rising from her chair, she strolled casually into the immense space organized with weapons and dummies prepared to be taken advantage of, simultaneously twisting her golden curls into a sloppy ponytail as she concealed her worries behind a mask of ice.

“Demeter Glory, district two.“ She propped her hands upon her hips and stared at the table of game makers, briefly taking the time to absorb their expressions before diverting her attention to the task at hand. Approaching the arrangement of weapons she recalled her previously formulated strategy to distinguish herself from the others like a beautiful dove in a field full of crows - she was going to unveil the truth that she was bold, fearless, and unaffected by intimidation or the so-called “odds” presented when twenty-four teenagers entered an arena to slaughter one another like livestock. She examined the weapons briefly, her jades immediately focusing upon the series of daggers arranged in a neat, horizontal row. The past week she had practiced with all varieties - knives as short as her slender palms, to blades as long as her forearm. Swift and simple was what they were, but lethal when wielded by a worthy opponent. She knew this selection would hold the key to her success or mediocrity, but first there was another order of business to take care of.

Bold, that was the impression she wanted to give. The taut material of the outfit hugging nearly every inch of her skin like sticky web had suddenly become a subject of interest as a devious idea played in her mind. Try to forget this, gamemakers. Her two hands grasped fistfuls of fabric at the bottom of her shirt and lifted it up and beyond her head until she was exposed and completely unfazed by her strange act of courage. ”You may want to consider altering the designs of these outfits,” she mentioned carelessly, twisting he fabric in her hands and wrapping the length around her forehead. She created what appeared to be a makeshift headband. “They’re a bit too constricting.”

Now that she had successfully captured their attention, she grasped two of the shorter daggers and sauntered over to a lonesome dummy, eyes narrowed and arms steady. The silver glint of the precious metal withdrew suppressed memories from within the shadows of her mind. Do you remember the moment you first held one?

Blazing coals stared at her with drunken fury. The gentle sting upon her cheek leaked crimson, cascading down her cheek as if the golden-haired deviant was capable of crying tears of misery. “Get out of my house! I ain’t payin!” The silvery tip lunged at her again, and with a quick alteration of course she slipped beneath it, feeling its edge graze against a few of her stray hairs. With a swift thrust of her foot she transformed her enemy within seconds into a groaning, teary-eyed heap on the floor before he could scar her any further. His knife - dripping with her own blood as she clenched it tightly within her hand - would be an excellent souvenir, and a valuable lesson to learn.

How could I forget?

[/I]

She eyed the figure like a jungle cat would its prey, and with a single thrust of her hand jammed the blade into the center of its abdomen. ”A lot of tributes like to go for the stomach.” She retracted her weapon, examining it with disappointment. If only the dummies could resemble humans in another aspect besides shape. ”I don’t understand why. It may kill them eventually, but it still leaves them the opportunity to strike back.” A soft smirk crossing her lips, she backed up a few paces and changed her stance. ”And that’s why I have my own technique.

In the next instant she pounced. ”Dodge.” she ducked and side-stepped, shifting her entire body to avoid both a hypothetical vertical and horizontal attack. She wasn’t much of a career - the type that prospered as early as infancy in the art of wielding every weapon known to man - but to live without the burden title did not mean she couldn’t be considered lethal by her opponents. ”Distract.” The blade buried itself in its crotch bitch between the dummies legs. Always play dirty. A weak spot. Could she, would she? Yes. The dagger in her left hand had rested forgotten until this moment. Swinging her arm as hastily and steadily as she possibly could without distorting her accuracy, she connected the second tip with the dummies nonexistent right eye. ”Attack.” The first blade, leaving a slit where their end once slept peacefully in what should’ve been a pool of blood, was removed in a flash and brought across the front of the dummies neck in one slick motion. ”Confirm.” Then, with a shift of her leg she thrust the sole of her shoe into the dummies chest, watching with dilated pupils as it toppled to the floor. ”Finish.” She pictured a human corpse splayed awkwardly upon the ground. A dead tribute.

She stared stoically at the fallen tribute dummy before glancing back at the game makers. ”Well, I hope you at least partially enjoyed my session.” She once again approached the table and gave her bow. ”Demeter Glory, district two. Thank you for your time.” And with that, she was ready for anything The Capitol could toss her.[/size][/blockquote][/justify]

[Danny]

hold it i'm about to drop off
let me tell you my last thought
drift into a deep fog
lost where i forgot to hold it
i can feel you most when i'm alone

Here goes nothing.

You enter the waiting room with no confidence at all, having spent a majority of your time at camouflage, or healing. The only weapon you've been able to practice with was the bow and arrow, which in your hands is about as useful as giving a five-year old a car; but you still know that's what you're going to use. So, Alaska, watch all the tributes leave and never come back. And you know how this works, they give a 2 to whoever they want, and they give a 11 to anyone they want. So it doesn't really matter. It's not like you can do anything. Well, at least that's what you believe, Alaska, but you're still going to try. All of a sudden, the District Six boy is going off to preform his little show and the butterflies have finally entered your stomach. Some of the people so far have taken so long, but some of them were short in comparison. You don't know how long his was, but it felt as long as ever.

When it's finally your turn, your tired. Your body has been idle and your heart is beating fast and your blood isn't flowing fast and your mind isn't thinking fast. As you walk out in front of the Game Makers. "Alaska." You say, your words sounding groggy as you haven't said anything for a while. Clear your throat, Alaska. "District Seven." You search around the room for the bow and arrows, and on your quest you said disembodied dummies and knives in their hearts. And before you find the bow and arrows, you have an idea. Something your sure no one has ever done before, and even if it sounds preposterous, you're going to try it.

You look for what you'd need to do what your planning. A thread and needle. But where could you find that? Surely you could use the string from a bow and arrow as some kind of thread, but you're not sure where you'd find a needle. You also pick up some hydrogen peroxide. You look to where the healing station was just days ago and sure enough there's a needle there. When you get to the bow, you realize you'll need a knife to cut it. While slicing each end of the string, you ignore the odd looks you're getting from the Game Makers. Just before you before the knife down, you realize you'll need it for something else. You tie the string around your forearm because you saw doctors do this before while taking blood, except your not sure why. Then, you put the knife to your fair skin. This will be the hardest part.

Don't worry Alaska, you'll be fine.

You put pressure on the knife. At first, the sharp blade does nothing. All you know is it kind of hurts but you know it doesn't hurt enough for it to be working; so you push harder. Then, slowly put slowly, blood starts to seep from where the knife is stabbing. While scrunching your face and toes to try to get rid of the pain, you slowly slide the knife upward, away from your wrist, to cut more of your skin. When you finally stop, the cut is about eight inches long, and even though the stabbing pain isn't there anymore, it's starting to sting. You pour the hydrogen peroxide on it the stinging pain increases.

For some reason, you start to think of Cygnus, how she starves herself just to achieve self-satisfaction. And for some reason, you can't help but feel what it's finally like to be her. To do something because you feel like your life depends on it, because in your case, that's the situation. And your mind travels back to a morning not to long ago, and the conversation you had with her. "Cygnus!" "What?" "What do you mean, 'What?'" "What are you doing?" "Trying to lose weight." "Why?" "Stop asking questions," "What has gotten into you? You used to be smart and intelligent and fun and my little sister-" "I still am all those things, Alaska, I'm just changing." And for some reason, at that moment, you feel closer to your sister than you ever have, even though she's thousands of miles away.

I have to do this, for Mom, for Dad, for Cygnus.

The pain starts to come back to you, and your brought back into the present. You don't know how long you were thinking, but you hope not for too long. You still have (most) of the Game Makers' attention. Some of them are shocked, others more observant. You untie the string which has left a red circle of where it used to be. Then, taking the string with your good hand and holding the needle with your bad one, you start to tie a knot with the string in the little loop at the end of the needle. Once that's all done, and you think everything is fine, you remember something. How am I going do this with one hand? Your fingers aren't long enough to reach the string, and your alternative option is your mouth, so that's what you'll do.

You stick the pointy end of the needle into your loose skin, and it hurts, but definitely not as much as the knife part of this operation. You stick your need into the other flap that's what she said of loose skin, and your toes cringe as you do so. You bring your arm close to your head and your mouth meets your arm halfway. Then, you grab the needle in between your teeth, and pull your needle out far enough for the knot at the end of the string to be right next to where the first whole is. Then, you start right next to your first hole, and you repeat the process multiple times. At some points, you get frustrated and drop the needle, which causes the string to tug on your skin, but for the most part, your okay.

When your certain there's no string left to make another loop, you stop. You walk as close to the Game Makers as you can get, and you sure them what you have done. Let's hope you did this right. "Alaska, District Seven." you say again, right before leaving, just in case they forgot.

[/color]

{not really sure what this is, just wanted to be original.}[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[charade]

It was the absence of color that offended his senses as he entered. The nearly empty metallic room was hardly appetizing to the eye, and the only true splash of anything other than a dull grey was the area where the brightly hued capitolites that would be assigning a score to his skills lounged with various looks of bored disinterest or feigned interest showing plainly on their painted faces. Around a dozen tributes would have already entered the room before him either displaying the pinnacle of their many talents and achievements or failing most miserably in front of the one group that they should never want to have to face. These were the ones that largely decided what Panem thought about each individual tribute which, depending on what they did was either extremely helpful, or diabolically harmful.

As he strode towards the center of the room, his verdantly callow eyes took in the various stations that were arrayed about for the tributes to strut their stuff with. There was a wide assortment of weapons and target dummies facing off across from each other like two opposing armies.Or tributes lined up for execution.he thought morbidly. But that was not what concerned him. As the seventh district was not a fighters home, there was no need for him to concentrate on wowing the judges with a cacophony of steel upon steel and a whirling dervish that reduced the dummies to piles of burlap and sawdust. Half the games was more about surviving the elements than skill with a blade anyway, or there’d be more careers up there with Ross and Bryze.

So what to show the people in charge of his destiny? Curt was no lumberjack, and had no designs on chopping up people like trees, though if it came down to it, he was sure he could do what needed to be done. The skill set he had was a small one, but even those few could make all the difference. The Grant boy doubted that the preening peacocks up there had ever known what kind of things you could learn in your simple day to day life if you made an effort to apply yourself and truly take advantage of everything your surroundings had to offer you. This was no different from showing off for the ladies, or to explain an event that had happened to his mother. Having used just a little of his precious time to take full stock of the area, and decide that what he was going to do would not only play to his strengths, but be spectacular to boot ,he inclined his head in a small bow before turning to the makers.

“Curtis Grant. District Seven."When that failed to grab their attention he started to get angry, so he repeated the words louder, before taking a running start and bodily colliding with the rack of weapons, sending them flying all over the space in between the dummies and himself with a loud clatter.“That’s the opposite of what you want to do in the arena. For those of you that don’t know.”He remarked nonchalantly. Slipping off his shoes, he began a deadly prance across the field of spikes and blades, bending slightly to select a small knife and conceal it loosely in his palm.Stay calm. You’re not walking across a deadly field that could give you a permanent limp. Cassidy left his toys all over the frickin family room at night again, and you’re trying your hardest to get to the front door to sneak out without waking up the whole effin house.

The deadly minefield was navigated with no problem and as soon as he reached the dummies, he thrust the blade deep into the side of its neck with a loud yell.“Jugular vein. Death. Painful death.”How many times had he play fought with his unruly brothers, a rousing game of Peacekeepers and Uprisers, or a mock arena battle. Cutting the fake human free of its bindings, he dragged it over to the table and propped it up with a smile.“The doctor will be with you shortly.” Leaving it where it lied for a minute, he went over to yet another station and nicked some kindling and a match. There was no way that he was going to attempt to make a fire the rustic way with twigs or flint. In any case, that wasn’t even one of the stations he was trying for. The fire was lit immediately and he kept it going before moving over to the table filled with all manner of edible and poisonous foliage.

“These are Amanita Phalloides or...Death Caps. As the name suggests, they aren’t all that fun to eat.”Avoiding it like the plague, he picked up several mushrooms off to the caps side and held them up to the light. “These on the other hand, are Western Giant Puffballs. We have some of them growing by a sagebush near my house. Quite tasty.” Who’da thought that Colin’s penchant for stuffing things in his mouth would come in handy out here? Selecting some of the juiciest looking puffs, he pushed them open and began filling them with choice roots, leeks, and some tasty smaller mushrooms. Once stuffed, the food was placed on a small metal shield, which served as a makeshift pan over his fire. Satisfied that they would cook well, he went back to his patient.

“If I stabbed someone here,”this was punctuated with a vicious jab and pull to the stomach,"their guts would fall out faster than they could say don’t kill me. However, If I were to just stab them in the chest or arm and they got away, it might be beneficial to wrap the wound.” As he said so, he grabbed a roll of bandages and began to bind the second and third gashes he had caused. A look of mock horror crossed his face.“Good heavens, that arm has gone gangrenous! It’ll need to come off.”Casting his gaze about, he settled for a one sided hatchet and brought it down with such force that it was left embedded in the table, the arm neatly severed. “But wait! There’s more!Grabbing some blazing kindling, Curtis cauterized the wound, singing the arm and causing smoke to rise."Can’t be bleeding all over the place ya know.”

A pleasant aroma reached his nostrils, and he went back to the little oven he had made and plucked all of the stuffed mushrooms off and placed them on the flat of a sword that had not fallen to the ground with its fellows. They sizzled softly as Curtis arranged them neatly for viewing. Grabbing one, he devoured it with much gusto before approaching the area the gamemakers resided in. “Taste them! They’re really quite delicious.” Once they had made their selections, he bowed with an extravagant flourish and started for the door.“Once again, the name is Curtis Grant. District seven."Right as he exited he was seized by a sudden urge to keep showing off and so, shot the judges a parting wink.

[arx!!]

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

One of these represents a day that you are beautiful
They have spawned from a flower to find a place in your heart
They are the unspoken words of love and guiding lights in the dark
They are the bond that holds us together
The bond that will last forever

What am I doing here? It's time to get ready, to go out there and make a performance happen. To make the crowd cheer, to make then get to their feet with applause. We all need to be in the dressing room, zipping up heavy dresses and straightening already straight ties. Putting on pounds of make-up and watching ourselves all transform into someone from another era. Always hearing Rio's voice before I go on stage -"You look great Navy. Break a leg.And I will smile back at him every time, but never return the "Break a leg." line because I'm afraid he might actually fall off the stage and break his leg or something. And then the lights nearly blind me as I walk out on stage, thinking of nothing but my lines and my character and what comes next. Ignoring the people in the crowd because if I don't I may not be able to handle all of them staring at me. And then at the end when we all stand on stage, smiling at each other, taking our bows, feeling completely untouchable. Unsinkable. Unbeatable.

"Naveen Casovnik."

It seems my name has become some sort of religious chant here at the Capitol. I think if I hear my name again in the crazy accents these people have I might cry again. Their accents get it all wrong, it doesn't sound right rolling off their tongues, and they say it like they know me already. None of them know me and I don't want them to. Ever. They aren't my friends. They aren't Merc, or Gwynn, or Theo, or Xana, or Cod, or Hestia, or Keag, or Rio. I miss Riordan. I feel my hands start to shake as I stand at the sound of my voice. It's my turn. It's time to get ready. But I'm not wearing a dress. I have almost no make-up on. I have no lines to remember, nobody entering this stage with me, no one to tell me that I look great. To break a leg. Maybe if I could stomach breaking a bone I could score decently ... Even if I just went in and intentionally broke my own leg.

I walk into the room, thinking I might just pull off the task of staying sane in here, showing the Gamemakers at least a little bit of what I can do without starting to cry or sing or think of my friends. But it only gets harder to maintain focus when I have to introduce myself to the pack of complete strangers that are staring at me with very little interest. "Naveen Casovnik. District 6." My voice is all but a whisper, nothing like the one I might be able to use on stage back home. I wonder if they even heard me. As if it matters if they did or not. I'm trying to ignore them, but their voices continue to drift to my ears, filling my brain with masses and masses of things. I can hear them - their voices. They are staring straight into me, into my mind. I can tell. I am wearing all my emotions on my arm and they are looking through all of my secrets. Everyone I have loved, everything I have ever cared about, all of my cherished memories. Everything is on the surface - it's been that way since the Reaping. And I can tell now that these people - these people who have brought me here to die - are sifting through my entire life.

But they can't have my life. They can't know me. The secrets are not for them, not for anyone but me, Naveen Casovnik. No, no, no ... "You can't have them!!" They continue to stare down upon me, still stealing everything from me. They already took my home and family from me, what more can they possibly want? They can't have it all. I won't give it to them. "You can't have anymore, damn it!! You've fucking gotten enough!!" Something stirs inside me, something I haven't ever really felt before. It feels - Dark. Cold. Cruel. Very, very unnatural. And I'm suddenly scared. Who the hell is running my mouth?

"I-uh ... I mean, you can't, have anymore of those um, delicious looking truffles up there. They are really distracting me down here. Chocolate just intoxicates me you know!!" I try to laugh, and smile, and manage anything that might make them see my recent outburst as a joke and I'm graced with a few of them giving a chuckle or smiling back. I turn away from them, turning to the edible pants station, knowing I can identify each and everyone one without flaw. But I'm more concerned about what is happening to me. I'm turning into someone else. The people here, this game I am supposed to play ... have they begun to change me?

No. They can't - I won't let them. That girl that just screamed at random people, who are not only my elders but Gamemakers, was not me. It will never be me, and I don't want that girl to be me. She wasn't me, was she? I pass the edible plants test with flying colors, no slip ups, no mistakes - even with my distracted mind. The Gamemakers aren't paying any attention though. And as I walk to the door, I don't care. They dismiss me after they see me finish, wave me off, barely giving a sideways glance. And I think I feel relief. I shouldn't care if they are impressed or not. Who cares if I'm proud of myself? It's not like my opinion really matters. But just as my hands hit the handle on the door that unfamiliar feeling rises up in my chest again and and idea hits me over the head. If I want to impress I need to be someone else. Become something different. Play a part. This thing inside me - it's a part that wants to be put into the spotlight. It's just an act that would like to get center stage for once in her life. Greediness, cruelness, bitterness, darkness - she deserves to take the stage tonight, I can play this part - I'm the best fucking actress Panem has ever seen.

"You know what, I think what you guys need is something a bit more entertaining, right?" I say, walking back over to them, staring at them, making sure they all heard me. I feel the corner of my lip perk up as their faces turn to me in astonishment. I walk over and scoop up as many knives as I can hold. I hold one up for the my crowd, smiling. "I must say that these are very nice knives. You could probably slice and eye just by looking at it." A few nod, and it only makes me grin. I feel my hand grasp the handle, and the muscles in my arm wind up, and I throw the knife directly into the eye of one of the dummies. "Or you could make someone look at it." A few of them looked shocked and some others are impressed looking at each other with looks of satisfaction. Or at least I think that is what it is. But I'm only growing more satisfied with my act. I'm not here to please them. No, I'm here because I want to fucking scare them.

"Those truffles still look good. Tasty I bet." Most of them laugh at my reference to earlier. And then I wind up, and throw the knife into the crowd, just past the head of one of the stout men at the end of the table. They all stop laughing , looking at me with as if I just killed someone. "I think you might like the taste of knife a little better. I know I do." And with that, I grab another knife, stick out my tongue, and slowly glide the sharp tip of the knife down my tongue. It hurts, but I don't care. The look on their faces beats all as I let the bloody knife clatter to the floor and the blood from my tongue drip down onto my shirt. I lick my lips, undoubtedly leaving smears of blood on my lips. "Mmm - delicious." I smile salaciously, letting blood seep through my teeth. And with that, I walk to the doors only turning back for a second to sputter out two words.

"Have fun."

I make sure I'm out completely out of the room before I let the tears fall.

They keep you company when no one’s there
And will listen to all your stories that some people couldn’t bear
They will watch you work and watch you play
They help you through your every fray
They are the unspoken words of love and guiding lights in a troubled time
They are the beauty that’s true, the beauty inside

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

Crazy, insane, freak Naveen got a 6, bby xD

[chelsey]

Once I wanted to be the greatest.
No wind or waterfall could stall me .
And then came the rush of the flood.
The stars at night turned deep to dust.

“Let’s play a game.”

Uncle’s words buzz in my ears - like the aftershock of an earthquake drumming down the waves of sound surrounding me - and his voice coincides with that of the robotic vocalization erecting my name (a cruel mesh of my incandescent home and the emotionless hollow my chains wounded themselves around). Mechanically: I rise, I walk, I enter, I bow. My bottom lip quivers as the syllables “Heather Elliot, District Eleven,” pours forth from my mouth and fills in the silent chasm that barricades itself between me and the thinly knitted lifeline I’m given. I’m nothing but a walking corpse in my spectators’ eyes, and yet, the arrow leaning between the ticks of life and death will be pushed in the direction that the gravity of my performance gives. Twenty four pulses now rely upon the pump of the Gamemakers, and my tomorrow lies in their destructive and blood-red hands.

When I face the listless rows of dummies and shining weapons, I close my eyes and home spreads before me - the familiar green turf infinitely extending to the horizons and beyond, row after row of cornfields and vineyards etched across the hazy plains. I am only four years old, again, and Uncle’s playful voice sinks into the soil behind me.

“Oh, Heather Elliot, do you want to play a game?”

“How do you play it?”

[/I]

[/color]My hands reach for the piles of faceless dummies, and I spread them out across the vast room - some standing upright and some fallen in futile heaps to the floor. An array of knives shine before me, metallic and violent beams of light glinting off it’s deleterious surface. With one trembling hand, I wrap my skeletal fingers around it’s foreign grip, repeating the advice of the trainers like a mantra in my head: “Aim for the neck, head, or gut. Aim for the neck, head, or gut. Aim for the neck, head, or gut. Aim for -”

The skies are yellow, yellow, yellow in that Spring evening. My hand is a feather in Uncle’s colossal and guiding one as he leads us into the empty orchards. “All you have to do, Heather, is hide.”

“Hide?” I stare up at him, a question on my lips. “And then what will you do?”

“I’ll count.” He replies, letting go of my hand as we reach the middle of the cornfield. “When I’m done counting, you’ll hear my voice, and I will come find you.”[/I]

[/color]My footsteps gently pad across the cold tiled floors, a feather thud echoing within the silent vertebras of the room. I don’t stop walking until I am I a foot away from the threshold. Slowly, I turn, and face my audience.

“How do I know if you’ll find me?” I ask Uncle as a smile stitches itself into the seams of his lips. He bends down to my eye level, pats my head, and tells me,

“Heather Elliot, don’t you know by now that we will never leave you by yourself?”[/I]

[/color]With the knife still tightly gripped between my sweaty palm and clenched fingers, I bend down to my position with one knee leaned forward, and the other leg extended back. I plant the pads of my fingertips to the core of the ground, shivering at it’s frigid touch. My lips quiver slightly as I try to keep my vision steady and clear. I breathe in deeply, allowing the oxygen to fill the black chasms of my useless lungs, and listen to the steady rhythm of Uncle’s voice. [/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]

“One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Ready or not, here I come.”

[/color][/center]

My feet are swift and lethal as they sprint across the penetrating floors, carrying me to the cruel labyrinth of my spectators’ amusement. I’ve always been quick - I’ve always been good at running away from my problems (although, it seems, my legs fail to haul me out of this situation, now) - and I’m no more than a girl with broken wings slicing through the greedy visions of my audience. I weave in and out of the rows of (orchards)

[/s] dummies, the knife in my hand slashing meaninglessly as I cross paths with faceless victims. Each slash is a dagger to myself, though, as the bodies of the future tributes deteriorate before my eyes. Innocence of childish games sneak away from my blurring peripheral vision as I hurdle over fallen obstacles and stab another dummy in the [/color]“neck, head, or gut, neck, head, or gut, neck, head, or gut.”[/I][/color] And, yet, I still want to hide behind the shadows of the martyred prey - cower in all my false glory as the knife in my hand dissolves like the sand in my clock. But, I can’t stop, even when the oxygen in my lungs drag out and my head falls faint as the world around me begins to spin, and spin, and -

I’m sitting in the branches of a tree when Uncle strolls by, my laughter muffled behind my own tiny fingers. A giggle escapes my mouth, though, and drifts down to Earth. I bite my fist, fitting it in my mouth in an attempt to pacify my laughs. He places his hands on his hips, and scratches his head. “Where, oh where, can that silly Heather Elliot be?”[/I][/color]

My legs are fast enough to carry me from one end of an orchard to another, but they aren’t fast enough to unbind me from those freeing memories.

I swoop down from the tree, stumbling a little bit as I land by Uncle’s feet. “Ah! Heather Elliot! I have found you at last, my girl.” My arms stretch out wide for him as a smile cements itself to my lips, mirroring his own. He carries me piggy-back style as I latch two arms around his neck, more laughter stemming from the transversal of my chest to his. “See?” He tells me. “I told you that I would find you.” [/I][/color]

The inertia of my run almost causes me to run face first into the cold, gray walls - but I splay my hands out in front of me just before the impact, and in the end it is only my forehead heavily leaning against the wall as I try to tame my labored breathing and bat away the teardrops on my lashes.

I release my grip on the knife, and listen as the blade clatters to the floor with a sickening thud.

Uncle treads through the thick and empty orchards, the thuds of his footsteps fading away into the soft soil. The sun descends behind us, and we walk in the direction of the growing and illuminating moon, a blanket of miniscule stars glowing in it’s shadow. He takes my hand in his, and says, “Let’s go home.”[/I]

[/color]Gently, I heave my body away from the wall and cautiously turn to the aftermath of my sins, scared of what I’ll find. Honestly, most of the lifeless victims remain unscathed, though I managed to deeply plunge my dagger into a few of them. The thought makes my head nauseous (the thought of exactly how much corrupted power a single person can possess), and, in a haste to leave, I turn to the men and receive the burning stares of my audience. (The lifeline they offered me weakens and splints until, finally, it snaps under the gravity of a fading innocence.) I bow my head and murmur a weak, “Thank you.” When I exit the room, yellow Spring skies, scents of rich soil, skyscraping trees, and Uncle Dorian disappear with it.

Ready or not, here I come. [/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/color]

Once I wanted to be the greatest.
Two fists of solid rock
with brains that could explain
any feeling.

[/color]

[/size]

[Lulu]

[this is it boys, this is war—what are we waiting for?
why don't we break the rules already?]

[/i]
During training Atlas had probably spoken about five sentences altogether. He'd always been a man of few words, and that had only been further magnified after he'd been selected as a tribute. After all, he had to focus; he had to train, had to learn, had to take in everything around him. He'd spoken greetings to each of the trainers at the stations he practiced at, and exchanged a few words with a couple of other Careers—and a pretty solid looking District Nine boy—to plan an alliance for the arena. Other than that, he'd stayed silent. Now, coming up on his private training session with the Gamemakers, he sat on his chair outside the gym deep in thought, contemplating what he could show them that would pull a decent score.

Training with real, high-tech equipment had been the biggest adjustment for Atlas upon coming to the Capitol. He'd spent his sixteen years wielding handmade stone weapons or rusty, disheveled stolen ones that his father had nicked from the wealthier sections of District Two. His favorite broadsword back home had been coated in a blanket of corrosion, while all of the ones here had a metallic, silvery sheen unlike anything else he'd ever seen. Back home, he weight-trained by lifting rocks; here, there were rows upon rows of dumbbells and free weights in every size and weight you could possibly imagine. Most even had designated hand grips, to make a tribute's weight training experience more comfortable. It had taken Atlas a solid day to grow accustomed to all these things before he was practicing to the best of his ability, but after some time he could see with great satisfaction that other tributes were looking at him in a way that made him feel like a force to be reckoned with. And maybe he would be a force to be reckoned with, had he not long since decided that he aimed to die in the arena.

As he walked into the gym—third to go—Atlas attempted to bottle up his panic, but it was difficult; he had no idea what he was going to do, no idea what skill he was going to show. "Use your strength, Atlas, you're strong. It's your greatest asset." His father's words from their short justice building goodbye came to him. They were the only encouraging things he'd said—he seemed to think Scorpius was better in all other aspects of Careerdom—but Atlas had held them in high regard. He knew that whatever he did, he had to show strength. And suddenly as he strode slowly into the gym and glanced at the Gamemakers he had an idea.

It was rather twisted, sure, but it would allow him a chance to demonstrate various skills he'd mastered over three days of intense training. Assuming he could work fast enough and beat the time limit. The Career snatched up one of the heavy sand dummies and slung it over his shoulder like it was merely a bag of feathers, carrying it to the edible plants station and picking up a small knife along the way. With one single, clean motion he slashed a long, vertical slit through the dummy's stomach and sand poured out rapidly. He let most of it drain from the dummy's torso and then began stuffing it with deep red berries from a container at the station table, using bowls and bowls of the stuff in order to fill up the large dummy. Once he was complete he grabbed a medical needle and thread from a neighboring station—might as well show off some of his first aid skills—and stitched up the gash so that, from far away, it was hardly noticeable.

He only had about five minutes left, if he was assuming right, so he rushed over to the knot-tying station and snatched up a long length of rope, then tied it into an expert noose around the dummy's neck. Standing on one of the raised fighting platforms he fastened his hangman to a rafter on the ceiling and tied it in a tight knot. With a minute left in his session the dark-haired boy grabbed one of his favorite clubs from the hand-to-hand station—a particularly lethal one peppered with foreboding spikes—and gripped it tightly in his hands, staring down the dummy as if it were an enemy. Then, with a massive spurt of strength that would've impressed even his father, the tribute began beating it like a makeshift piñata, the spikes tearing gashes along its burlap flesh. Then finally, finally one hit did the trick; the dummy split along the middle, literally tearing in half and spilling out hundreds of deep, bloodred berries and their juice that so resembled the liquid of life. Atlas flexed his muscles in satisfaction, gave a bow to the Gamemakers, and retreated away from his morbid piñata, listening to berries continue to fall from it and burst open on the ground.

[i was never one to believe the hype, save that for the black and white
i try twice as hard and i'm half liked
but here they come again to jack my style]

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[Tom]

(Well here is my terrible PTS D:)

Does, Thinks, Says, Hears

Mason walked into the training area. He had watched one by one walk in, his turn would be next after the District three girl. The wait was quite awhile, he was thinking of a plan, but he couldn't think of anything to do. He sighed sadly, watching the District three girl walking out. Then a voice echoed in the waiting are,"Mason Krearns."Mason's eyes shifted to the door uneasily, slowly he got up and walked there. He wasn't ready. Not ready at all...

Mason walked into the training area, his eyes darting straight towards the Gamemakers. They were eating already. Mason shook his head and watched as most of the old people ate what seemed to be some chicken. He couldn't really tell from this distance. Mason began to speak, his voice was strong, confident, and a bit foolish."Mason Krearns of District four."

His eyes darted back to the Gamemakers, all of their eyes were on him. He began to feel his palms sweat and his voice got caught in his throat. His legs began to move somehow under all the pressure. He looked at where he was going. The spears, that's where his legs were taking him. HE grabbed a spear and moved his fingers across the spear's blade, making sure not to cut himself. He felt back at home when he would fish with a spear. He smiled at it, but then the voice of his brother came back...I told you! I told you that you should run away!

Mason sighed in frustration. He began to argue back, out loud on accident.Ugh DAVY! I wasn't going to run away! I am going to face my challenges, Head on! Now get out of my head Davy!Mason clenched the spear in his hands tightly. Anger was rushing over him. His hands had now stop sweating. He walked over to the dummies where they are. Why did his brother want him to run away from his challenges? Why? He shook his head and now stared at the dummies. Then another voice came to his head.

Mason.... Don't do this.. You will regret it for the rest of your life. That is... if you live. Good luck to you. I doubt you will win though.Mason got even more infuriated. He began to yell at the highest voice he can use.

God, Not you too. Julian Bryze. I will not regret doing this. This is my games and I will win it!Mason smirked evilly, his anger still flaring on his face. Mason was going to prove them both wrong. He was going to win this and not regret it at all. Mason clutched the spear tighter than he did before. He looked at the dummies out there. He was seeing things now. Right in front of him was Davy and Julian. Julian was smirking evilly like he always does Mason didn't car. He clenched the spear tightly.Julian began to speak again.

Fine if you don't think your gonna lose. Then let it be that way! I shall help you Mason, but only this once! Mason watched Julian walk up to him and then suddenly vanish. He was confused now. Was it a part of his schizophrenia. He sighed and felt more anger surge through him. Davy was still yelling at him for staying. He clutched the spear in his hand more. He was about to break the spear almost, but he then realized it has only been a few seconds. It felt like forever, but it wasn't. Mason pulled the spear back and tossed it at the dummy. The spear whistling in the air.

then is was a bulls eye right to the stomach. He smiled at his what would have been a kill. Mason ran and got another spear. He threw it at another dummy. This time it hit the dummy's chest. He smirked evilly. He could just imagine how the tribute would die now. He sighed. He was about to be done with his training session to prove he is good. Mason turned around to the Gamemakers. He smirked evilly. He began to speak again.hopefully you guys enjoyed my performance and I give you a goodbye. I am Mason Krearns from District four!

Mason smirked evilly. He did one last thing before he left. He bowed and said to the gamemakers,

oh and I enjoy fish over chicken any dayMason winked and with that he spun on his foot and walked out of the Gamemakers training area. He knew that his brother and Julian were fake and he knew that he could never redo that again, so now the Gamemakers know.

Mason Krearns, District four tribute, Mentally insane, and can kill very well. So look out world, Mason is on his feet.

Tags: For the GM named Cam! | Words: 000
Other: I know I know Cam it was terrible I am sorry, but whatever I had no clue what to do fr Mason XD

Template by Bryya

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[SinInChaos]

Damion Winters



Who needs a friend
when you've got a hatchet?

Why do I have to be so far down the line? I wanted to make that first impression and see if anyone could top my finesse. Instead, my blade won't give it's steel till the other nine districts have gone before. I've had this idea from all the training though, how to make them notice me before the others. What can I do to impress them with all this shit they're showing me? Show them that these talents can be combined. Why focus just on a blade, or aid, or even the stealth training? I need to show that I can put two and two together so that the judges will be impressed. And the game-makers will be impressed. So I think and think while I sit, one by one, watching them empty into the room and knowing that they will each be doing something different.

I will be the zone that cannot be touched.

Then my turn is up, and I enter the room. The judges are a little inebriated now, eating their own flavors and drinking up any and all the liquor offered toward them. They're having a good time. That's good. Pleasure yourself before you soil your trousers. So what can I do to impress them at this point. I have to think before acting. This score will direct attention toward me in a multitude of ways. Many people respect a high number, and others fear the big numbers. Then again, some know that the small numbers can just be a way to trick the competition. The larger numbers are also the targets usually, and what will become of me if I become a target?

I give off a loud whistle to gain their attention, then give off a smile. I hope my canines. “District Ten, Damion Winters.” Then the idea formulates. “I will let you to your wine and game, but I will need your attention again.”

My mind drifts off toward the stealth station and I begin to play with the colors. I have to be quick but correct when messing with the different blends. Wish I cared more for art, otherwise this might have come easier. I make what is wanted though. A few shades to blend in with the walls of the training center. That's the first part of my plan. Then I move to the weapons station, the blades, and I can't help but feel the amount of happiness build up within me. I grab an ax. Hold it tight in my hands. Get a feeling for the handle.

The whole instrument is so different than the small hatchets we have on the farms. We use them to cut up the small bits of overgrowth rather than the machetes I hear about from another district. I think District Eleven. The hatchet works well though, something that can be thrown easily and kill something just as easily. So this is even better. It's bigger than a hatchet, and the swing is farther than the small blade. I could easily cut through the bone of an animal with this as well. The blade actually cuts against my skin from just feeling it. I love it, but clean it up quick. Can't have that ruining my plan.

Then I'm back at the paint, making quick work of myself so that I blend in with the shades of the wall. The colors are just right for my body, as far as I can see, and I hope it all works out well. I close my eyes. Keep a expressionless face.

“Now then, my presentation.”

The game-makers look over to where my voice is, or at least I think they do. I can't really see too well with my eyes barely open. I slide against the wall, slowly, keeping my shades as close as I can with the walls. I have to keep blending in to the surroundings. I have to keep out of the eyes of the game-makers before I make the final move. And if I stay hidden, it will all work out in the end.

I open my eyes. I've reached where I've put the ax for the demonstration, and the game-makers haven't even noticed I've moved. They're still looking to where my voice had come from. Perfect. I grip the handle again. I smile. My canines are showing. I am an animal. I am mightier than man. I hold it up and look it over. A small bit of my blood is still there. The glisten in the light distracts me only for a moment before I realize my need for violence. The craving comes on quick and I have to do this.

I scream out, a war-cry, and charge out toward the test dummy.

I'm ten feet.

Eight feet.

Six feet.

The game-makers are finally looking my way. They're watching me and amazed by my performance.

Four feet.

Two feet.

I twirl with the ax not once, but twice, letting the weight of the weapon adjust in my grasp before decapitating the test dummy. The head flies for a good distance before it lands with a loud bang on the floor. The face I wear must be terrifying too, because I can feel the stretches it is making. The smile is extending as far as it can almost breaking the little seams holding it together. My eyes are wide with excitement. My nostrils are flaring up with the deep inhales I'm taking. I love it. The thrill. This is what I've been looking for.

I turn to them, barely able to put my smile down. “Damion Winters, District Ten.”

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[rook]

Wednesdae Drummond

i'm torn in opposite directions
the plot sucks
but these killings are gorgeous
god damn, these killings are gorgeous

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Waiting, waiting, waiting. Tick-ti-… Tick-ti-… The imperfect half-tick of the broken pocket-watch is driving me insane. The impurity was a mockery of a token to take into the Games with me, I should throw it whilst I still can. I would, if it weren’t all I have left of home. I stare at the foggy glass of the wretched thing, hating how the second-hand glitches between eight and nine seconds. It’s such a parody of everything I stand for, such a dirty thing. The way it captures a little pocket of time suggests that I’ll always be waiting here, like time is frozen and it will never be my session in that training room. I turn the watch over and over in my palm, trying to make time go faster. The waiting is painful, but endurance is something I need to learn early.

I’ve been working hard these last few days, more so than when I began. Getting people on my side was my first priority, before then training myself up. I’ve always been confident in my own abilities, so it was natural that I first went to establish some form of a pact with another group of kids. Even though I’m not part of a ‘gang’, I still feel like an outsider. Peridot, Kiera and Atlas are Careers, less so Kiera, but both the boys have been training to break necks since before they could walk. They’re ruthless and so well built that I consider it somewhat of a surprise that they took me in as an ally. Then again, who wouldn’t want me? I’m perfect.

At least I can go into this session knowing that no matter the score, I’ll still have people on my side. I’m convinced that I’ll achieve perfection as always in my display run, my trial per-sae. I’ll be judged, but that doesn’t phase me, because all I’ve ever done in my life is show off. The Careers will no doubt be disappointed with anything below an eight, and they expect the same from me, so I’ll need to push myself. I’m used to forcing myself to work when I have nothing left. I call it ‘going into the black’, when I’m empty, but something still spurs me to keep going. Countless hours in my blacksmith forge, crafting and bashing away at molten metal, creating beautiful works… Many times I was exhausted, but kept going in sight of a grail. I suspect that I’ll push myself too far again tonight.

“Wednesdae Drummond, District Nine” Rings the voice of the Capitol woman. Her job is as simple as reading my name from a list. I bet she hasn’t done a real day’s work in all her life. Her gentle face and warm smile is a little creepy, like it’s a doctor’s appointment more than me exploring different ways to kill people. I shrug, pushing myself to my feet and walking over to her. The waiting is over, even if I can still hear the half-tick of the broken watch, which I now slip in to my pocket so that I may forget about it, my time has come. I push through the slim glass doors and into the expanse of the training center.

The complex is as I remember: Perfect. A stainless-steel paradise of angles and lines, colors that match and well-placed pillars. I love this room, it would be my honor to perform such artistry in here. Sure enough, they have lined out a series of dummies as I requested, along with a weapon rack. I’ve opted to keep this simple. I’m a pretty one-minded guy, my strategy is kill or be killed, so I need display my strengths, the main pro being that I’m very good at combat. Over the years I have built myself from countless hours of labor in that forge, I am well-fed and toned. I have strength, something that few others have. I need to use that.

I also contemplate showing what I’ve learned, in addition to what I am best at. What did I learn? I know how to be more careful and remain hidden, in addition to maximizing my weapon output and foraging for food in the wild. I learned medicinal uses of plants and I can patch myself up pretty good too. I can’t cram all of that into one tiny display, and even if I did, it would be boring. I need to show one thing, and hope that they take the rest of my skills for granted. They’re more likely to mark me high to sheer brutality, so I finalize that my decision should be to be vicious.

I walk across the spotless tiles, hearing my footsteps echo through the entire room. The Gamemakers catch my eye, all standing around talking, digging into what looks a delicious banquet, even by the Capitol’s standards. Their talk is murmured, quiet and hushed as though they recognize my presence. One or two point to me, blabbering to the nearest person what little opinion they have already formed. All they know is that I am a volunteer. Maybe they assess my size? Are they sizing me up to see how I would fare in a fist fight? I can’t read the thought processes of these strange, but elegant people, so I will just have to push on without thinking about their constantly reforming opinions.

I approach the center spot, marked on the ground with a small black cross. I stand, feet very close together, and address my lords and masters.
“Wednesdae Drummond, District Nine Male.” I say officially and crisply. They seem to all nod, as if approving me, agreeing that this is indeed my name, and it is my turn to shine. I turn with their permission to the weapon rack, assessing my options.

I like swords. I forge swords a lot, they’re used by many different kinds of people and always sell well at the workshop. I have a lot of experience with using swords - My father taught me how to parry at a young age, call it a hobby, if you like. Over the years I have become increasingly good at sword fighting - I just question my ability to go sword-to-mace or sword-to-axe. I don’t have as much experience in that area. I eye up the axe, double sided and large, with a decorated black handle. It looks heavy and dangerous, a bad combination. I have less experience with axes - I used to woodcut every now and again, but that was a different kind of axe. I’ve forged a few, but not so much used them. Then there are a few spears, which again I lack experience with. How hard can they be to use? I’m alright with a sparring pole, I use that often when practicing with my father on weekends. How different is a pole to a spear?

After much contemplation, I decide to go with the spear. I reach out and gently touch the cold metal of the long pole, it sends a sensation through me. With keen eyes watching me, I take the spear in both hands, noting that it only has one blade at the tip of the pole. I hold the rubber handle, the grip is somewhat alien to me as I’ve only ever used a straight metal pole in sparring. This is new, but could be an improvement. I tighten my grip as I turn to the dummies, watching those Gamemakers in the corner of my eye. Will they like me? Will they judge me on every error I make? What if they think I’m too narrow minded? That combat is my only trait? I’m getting too worked up about this. I need to calm down, focus on what I learned. Achieve nothing short of perfection.

I can do this.

I take a deep breath, walking slowly to the first dummy. I have the Gamemakers full attention, I can’t mess up this first move, else they’ll think me a fool. First impressions, and all that. Just like training, I remind myself. Just like sparring with Dad on a weekend. I take a quick step forward and whirl around on my front foot, bringing the spear in a diagonal slash downwards at the dummy. It’s arm is struck and fluff powders out in snow. I don’t stop, jabbing the fake tribute in the stomach with the blade, twirling majestically to the next dummy, who I slice in the face a few times before switching to stab another in the eye. I surround myself with the representations of what will be my enemies, not letting my guard down. I slip my hands further down each end of the pole and strike a dummy on the forehead with the handle of the spear, dazzling it. I throw the blade up and bring it down in a swipe to the neck. Fatal blow after fatal blow.

This is boring. Let’s shake things up a bit.

I hold the spear in one hand now - My left hand. My stronger hand. Brown eyes flicker over to the edible plants section, where a garden of medicinal herbs and toxic berries circle a large tree. Between me and the station are several dummies, all standing statue still. I line myself up with one, keeping my tempo up all the while and breaking into a jog. I control my footing with a one-two-three, leaning back on my left foot with the third step and arching my arm and back, launching the spear at a near ten degree angle, watching it pierce through the air and cascade through the dummy, pinning it to the tree. I break into a forward roll and run at the dead tribute, grabbing my spear firmly and yanking it out.

So tired. Lactic acid fills my legs as they refuse to go on. I must go through the black, as I said. I can’t let exhaustion get to me. I am a fit, young man with a lot of strength, they need to see just how long I will survive physically in the arena if they are to get a good idea of how I will fare. I just hope they take into consideration my size and speed.

So my aim is good. Now I need to show I am good with plants. Spear in both hands, I roll into the undergrowth of the tree, becoming one with the shadows. I stay low and keep my breathing quiet and as still as possible. My hand searches through the variety of berries and bulbs, looking for that particular plant I’ve been reading about. I find something that feels familiar and pull the bright purple flower to my face. Yes, this is it. Toxic. I dab the tip of the spear in the pollen, making sure I am slightly more visible as I do this, so that the Gamemakers can see what I am doing, whilst still understanding that I am trying to be stealthy. Slowly I rise, taking cover behind the tree.

Patience. Wait for it. Now. I jump out with my venom covered blade, slashing at the dummies ferociously, cutting and poisoning the faux people with a series of jabs and swipes. In a large, powerful movement I even manage to decapitate one of the dummies. This is where I stop, standing over the head of the last tribute. My foot stands on the scarecrow head, I am panting, but standing victorious. My lungs scream for oxygen, my heart punches at my chest. I am empty. I have nothing left to give. Was it enough? Was it good enough?

It felt perfect, yet I have no idea how it looked. All I can do is bow in a blur of movement, not even able to speak to the people who will ultimately decide how much sponsor money I get. My mind is all over the room, I think I even stumble on my way out as all I can think about is getting back to my room. Tick-Ti-... Tick-Ti... It won't ever stop, bleeding into my mind in this wasteland between me and those doors, stretching further away. So numb. Is it a high? A success that has driven me to this strange ecstasy? Or is it some sick realization that I'm just not good enough?

I push through the doors and out of sight, collapsing onto the bench that I was waiting on before. I lean, panting and sweating. My body wants to throw up, get rid of all of this deliciously sickening food, get it out my system. I hold down the expensive food, each rejection of vomit sends a repulsive shiver through my body. I take the watch out my pocket and slam it onto the bench, staring at the quivering hand that taunts me. Doubt fills me, it is worse than the most cruel of truths. What if it’s not good enough, and the Careers don’t want me with them anymore? What if I’m the impurity? Never.

It was fucking perfect.

it's like a bad dream
something from the back of a magazine
black and white
and cheaply put together

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---

notes: the swearing was necessary. Love meeeee. Also, this got an Eight <3

theme:[/color] "Pulp Fiction" - Motion City Soundtrack[/color][/size]