Pts made public

[Knuckles]

Ok so this is for those that want to share their pts.

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Training. Training is an important part of being in the Capitol. It’s a part that I hate because I’ve been picking up weapons that don’t belong in my hands. Weapons that don’t belong in the hands of anyone. I hate holding them because I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to kill anyone, but I’m in a situation that involves fighting. It’s kill or be killed now. I have to fight if I want to survive, and even fighting might not guarantee my survival of the games. Anything can happen. I’m not ready to die, but I know my chance of death is high. It’s very possible that I’m going to die. Hell, twenty-four go in and one comes out. What’s the odds of my survival? Slim to none. I have no chance of winning. I’m as good as dead. I've been training around everyone. I've tried to stay to myself, but I've made an alliance. It's just one other person, but it's still an alliance. Today is different though. I'm training by myself in front of the gamemakers. I get to show them what I can do. If I can do anything.

My name was announced over the intercom echoing through my head. Storm Jay. I hear the voice over and over of the stupid escort calling my name, but this isn't the escort. I've already been reaped. I've already been sent to the Capitol. I'm here, and I must prepare to fight for my survival. I force myself to my feet. My heart pounds under my chest rapidly. I want to run away. My chest starts feeling tight as my stomach clinches into knots. I lean forward trying to remove the pain, but it just becomes worse. I can feel a hot, acidic, liquid substance rising in my throat and into my mouth. I force myself to swallow as I take deep breaths. Just breathe Storm. You got this. In through your nose, and out through your mouth. I take the first step towards the door as the room spins around me. A deafening roar fills my ears. I want to scream. I want to run, but I can't. I must show the gamemakers I'm not just a stupid kid from District Nine. I want them to know I have a chance of winning. I take a long deep breath before walking into the training center to face the gamemakers all alone.

********

My eyes scan the room as I enter slowly trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do. The faint sound of my heart beating echoes through my head. I need something to show them I'm capable of fighting. I want them to know I'm strong. I'm not the weak guy I've been seen as in group training. I want to make my family have some hope with my training score. I want them to know that I might come home. My heart drops when I think of home. I miss home. I miss everything about home. I shake my head forcing myself to continue to look around the room. My eyes stop on the weapon rack. My stomach flips around forcing the acidic liquid into my mouth again. I swallow it. I won't throw up in front of the gamemakers. I won't throw up at the thought of killing because it'll only show them I'm weak. I am weak, but I don't need everyone to know.

My legs carry my slowly across the room to the weapon rack. The deafening roar grows louder with each step I take. My heart bounds under my chest trying to bust through the bone. My legs buckle under the weight of my body almost sending me tumbling to the floor, but I force myself to stand up. I force myself to walk over to the weapons. Left, right, left, right, left, right. I stop in front of the weapons. My eyes widen as I look at the horrible items in front of me. None of them need to be in my hands. I cringe as I look at them. I crack my neck as I reach forward to pick up a pack of knives. What am I doing? I can't do this. I don't want to kill anyone. I can't kill anyone. I can't do it. I just can't do it. I place the pack of knives in my belt as I turn to look around the rest of the training center to figure out what to do with them.

"You can do anything you just have to believe." I remember Ma telling me this all the time. She never wanted me to give up, and I'm not going to give up now. I'm going to be strong. I'm going to give this my all for my Ma. My legs carry my frail body over to the rubber dummies that shoot blood out when they are sliced into. I have to do something to get a decent score for Ma. I have to make her proud. I remove a knife from the pack I picked up. I twirl the knife in my hand over and over preparing to attack this dummy. I want to kill this dummy like I'll be doing in the arena. Except in the arena, I'll be fighting against real life people. People that are breathing. Not these dummies that's standing in front of me. I stare in the face of the dummy before I start apologizing to it over and over again. What are you doing Storm? Apologizing to a stupid dummy? It's an inanimate object for goodness sake!

I take the knife I'm holding and raise it above my head. I stare straight into the dummy's eyes and the faces of my fellow tributes flash before it. All the people that have to die if I want to go home. I shake my head trying to block the images away. My hand starts shaking as I hold the knife. I can feel my body telling me to run away from the dummy, but I don't. I can't run away from the dummy. Not now. I have to do this. You can do this. You got this Storm! I swing my arm forward. My eyes fixed on the knife as it drives straight down aiming at the chest of the dummy. I bring it down as fast and as hard as I can. Pain rises in my chest breaking my heart worse than it already is. The knife slams into the chest of the dummy. My stomach twists into a pretzel as the acidic, liquidy substance surges into my throat burning as it fills me mouth. I lean forward as I swallow the vile liquid that filled my mouth. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

Blood oozes out from under the knife as I raise my hand dragging the knife up slicing it through the skin filling my ears with an awful sound. All the blood flows away from my face leaving it as pale as a sheet of paper. The liquid fills my mouth again with much more than it has before. I close my mouth together fighting to keep down what's inside me. I can't do this. I'm not a killer. I'm not a killer. I can't do this. I'm going to die. Tears start welling in my eyes. I blink a couple times fighting them away. I will not cry in front of the gamemakers. I will not let them see me crying. It's what they want, and I'm not going to allow it. I continue sliding the knife up through the dummy running towards the neck. I remove the knife and it drops to the ground. I hate this. I hate this. I can't do this. Please someone save me.

Reluctantly, I remove another knife from the pack. I twirl it in my hands as I continue to stare at the dummy unsure of what to do. Do others have this much trouble? I tighten my grip on the knife with my shaking hand. I swing the knife forward slamming the knife into the stomach. I bring my left foot forward kicking the dummy as hard as I can. I remove the knife before slamming it into the skin again. Tears well up in my eyes again. I can't do this. I'm so weak. I'm going to die in front of everyone. I'm not a fighter. Tears start falling down my face as I stare at the dummy. I kick it as hard as I can again screaming at the top of my lungs. The dummy falls to the ground. The vile substance flows into my mouth as a river starts flowing from my eyes. I force myself to stand up straight. I force myself to keep everything down. Relax. It's almost over. Your almost done. Just relax. I take a deep breath before walking over to another dummy.

I remove another knife from the pack. My hands shaking so bad I can barely hold onto the knife. I need to show them I'm strong, but I'm not strong. I need them to see I'm not terrified, but I am terrified. Every muscle in my body is convulsing rapidly. I raise the knife above my head again. I bring it down with so much speed that anything in front of it will be in pain, but I completely miss the dummy. I swear under my breath. Blood flows into my cheeks causing them to radiate with heat as they turn bright red. I raise a shaking hand to wipe the tears away. I don't care who knows I've been crying because I'm a weakling. I'm going to be the first dead just like Jabber. I raise the knife above my head again trying to block out the miss. I bring the knife forward slamming into the dummy's eye.

Pop! The sound of the knife piercing the eye causes the knife to fly out of my hands. I don't want to be holding on to it anymore. I back away from the dummy with my hands raised in the air. I watch as the eye rolls out of the head onto the ground. The blood leaves my face leaving it ghostly pale as my stomach drops to the ground. I stare at the dummy with my chin dropped mouth open wide. My heart bounds under my chest beating against the tight muscles preventing me from breathing properly. I remove the remaining knives from my belt and I throw them as hard as I can across the room. I don't want to be apart of any of this. I don't understand why I'm being forced to do this. I'm not a killer. I'm not a fighter. Please just let me go. Let me go home. My hands drop to my side as I continue backing away from the dummy.

The acidic substance flows into my mouth as a river flows down my face flooding the ground around me. The acidic substance burst through my mouth spraying everything around me. The dummies in front of me are covered as well as myself. The oatmeal I ate for breakfast this morning swims across the floor like maggots going on a field day. The vile substance flows into my nose burning my mucus membranes causing me to scream at the top of my lungs. The vomit continues running down my face dripping into my eyes. Sobs escape my lips as I run through the training center leaving a trail of smelly vomit behind me. Follow the vomit trail and you'll find me. I run out the door slamming it behind me not wanting to look back.

Narration 4C4361
Thoughts A091AE
Hearing 80779B
Speech A3A3D0
Other DECDD1

OOC: Credit for this lovely header goes to Shrimp <3
Lyrics: I believe I can Fly: R Kelly

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**********

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Talk about a hopeless case. The scrawny little boy from Nine, brother of the first dead in Dom's Games the previous year, was clearly going to follow in his kin's footsteps. As he walked into the gym, it was pretty clear that he felt like a brutish Career was already holding a knife to his throat; Gamemaker Nox was fairly certain that in just a few moments he would wet his pants. He was positively shaking with fear; Nox could not contain her giggle of excitement. She lived for the fright in her tributes' eyes, because she worked so damn hard every single day to scare the wits out of them. It was refreshing to have something to show for it; she much preferred to watch them quake than watch them triumph. It was better for her own image.

The child picked up a set of knives like many other tributes had before him, however his hands were shaking to such an extent that he was bound to stab himself before he stabbed anything else. The head gamemaker could almost see the tears running down his face as he began attacking one of the dummies full of fake blood. At one point he missed entirely, which was remarkable in itself. You'll be dead in thirty seconds, kid. Finally he burst the blood-filled eye; that was the final straw, it seemed. In a fit of madness, Storm Jay chucked all the knives across the gym as hard as he could, causing some of the avoxes flanking the perimeter to frantically duck. And then, and then, the most appalling thing of all happened. A stream of vomit burst from the boy's mouth, staining himself and everything around him, and his sobs racked through the room. Invidia gave a cry of disgust and stared in disbelief at this freak show of a tribute. "Clean it up!" she barked at the nearest avox as the boy ran from the room covered in his own stomach fluid. "Pitiful," she muttered, shaking her head, and her colleagues nodded their agreement. After a moment of thought, she printed a 2 on the paper in front of her. "And that's being generous."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[Cato]

"Jim McCoy." Jim heard his name and got up. He was so nervous that he was doing his best to not let his nerves get to him. "I'm so going to embarrass myself. I've been such a mess and I look like such a wimp. My own District partner Cerise looks like she could be the victor already." He shook his head. Doubting himself already at this stage wouldn't do him any good entering the arena, however his legs almost had a mind of their own. His legs were wobbly and shaking badly. Adding to his extreme nerves was the building tension in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he finally forced himself to walk more than one foot without wanting to break down in a sea of nerves.

He thought of Storm Jay, his ally. Storm was the only person he would truly trust with his life. The others? Well he didn't truly hate any of them, but Storm definitely seemed like a genuine friend to him. "Storm Buddy. I wish you were here to help calm my nerves. The gamemakers scare the living daylight out of me and I just want to get the my training session done. Unfortunately you cant be with me buddy." Tears escaped his eyelids and dripped down his face. The tears and the shaking were starting to affect him, which scared him. If the gamemakers could intimidate him, then what would the tributes who were out to kill Jim do to him? Reaching up to his cheek, he wiped away the tears. They certainly wouldn't gain him any sponsors or sympathy. The gamemakers wanted a tribute who they could be proud of, not someone like him who was scared to death. Finally making enough progress due to his nerves, he looked up to see that his legs had led himself into the training center.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Jim mentally shoved his nerves deep down into himself in order to appear cold and bored. He was most certainly scared, but the gamemakers didn't need to see that at all. Looking up at the gamemakers almost broke his resolve, however he spoke up hoping that his nerves wouldn't show up in his voice. "I'm Jim McCoy from District Three." After a nod from a gamemaker, he turned around to see a variety of things. "How stupid of me to announce my name. They already know who I was so they didn't need for me to do that." He spied a lot of weapons to work with and then noticed the station with fire. "I have some knowledge in using fire thanks to the station I went to. I should light a weapon on fire. That should impress them somewhat." As soon as he thought about the fire and lighting the weapon, he walked over to the fire station and picked up some tar before scooping it into a nearby jar. He also grabbed a few matches to work with. The jar didn't weight much to him, but his hidden nerves seem to intensify the weight. His arms started to shake and the jar started to slip, but he adjusted himself. Walking over to the station, he noticed one particular weapon that would fit his needs for the weapon. The weapon in question was a long double bladed spear.

Jim smiled at such a deadly looking weapon. "Ah what a lovely weapon. This should be a weapon that catches their attention." He grabbed the weapon that he was staring at and moved to where a dummy was stationed. Gently setting down the weapon and the jar of tar, he pulled out a few matches and set most of them down except one. Grabbing the weapon from the ground along with the tar, he then smeared the weapon with some material before lighting a match and setting ablaze the weapon. Jim was still very much a novice when it came to using fire so he didn't notice the sparks of flames fly out at his face and hair. His face didn't get too much of the sparks, but his hair got most of them. The sparks set off a minor flame burning a very tiny portion of his hair before Jim patted his head getting rid of the flame. It burned his hand to do so, but he didn't let the pain show too much on his face. Pain would come to him in the arena in one way, shape or form. Now that his weapon was on fire, he took a few swings at the dummy grinning while doing so when the flames started to consume the dummy. He hefted the slightly heavy spear and threw it as hard as possible at the throat of the dummy. It stuck with a satisfying burst of flame.

Happy with himself for using the spear moderately well, he went over to the first aid station. Oddly enough, his own little accident
might help him with his training. He looked for some burn medicine and found a tube of it. Gently applying it to the section of his hair that was burned, he smoothed the cool and soothing cream across the wound. He looked at some dummies that were spread across a few tables. Each one of them had different wounds on certain parts of their bodies which he would need to heal. On the first dummy, he noticed a simply cut that seemed easy enough to fix. He applied basic aid to it then moved onto a challenging wound. This dummy had such a bloody wound on the arm that he was intimidated by it. Grabbing a needle and some thread, he patched it up as best as he could, but noticed that it didn't look quite right to him at all. He wanted to do more, but felt that was all he could do to show the gamemakers his potential as a tribute. He turned around to face the gamemakers."Thank you for this wonderful opportunity." Jim didn't attempt to hide his displeasure with them in his voice.

"Speech"
"Hears"
"Thoughts"

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Gamemaker Nox's eyes narrowed as the small boy from Three entered the training gym, clearly about to piss himself from fright. They try to hide it, but I always know. It was so easy to tell, especially with tributes as young as the ones in these Games. She could still hardly believe the luck of the draw; she'd gotten what was perhaps the most interesting Quell to date. Tiny over here was living (not for very much longer) proof of that. All the same, though, he wasn't particularly impressive—"I'm Jim McCoy, from District Three," but she was quite curious to see what he had in store. Tapping her long, claw-shaped nails on the table in front of her, she observed the boy carefully along with her colleagues.

Fire. Well, that was far too typical; previously untrained tributes who didn't trust their ability with weapons often resorted to showing the Gamemakers how beautifully they could play with flames. But no… this kid seemed to be creating a flaming weapon. As she realized that, she knew exactly what he was going to do before he did it—and of course, a moment later, the flaming blade was embedded in a dummy that exploded in fiery color. Typical. But his aim hadn't been that far off. But he'd screwed up enough to actually injure himself in the process. Tsk, tsk. Invidia watched as he applied burn medicine to the patches of skin that he'd singed, and then for good measure, he proceeded to patch up some of the wounds on the dummy as well. "Thank you for this wonderful opportunity." With that, he was gone, and the avoxes swarmed out to clean up the mess he'd made in time for the next tribute to put on her show. Invidia smirked. "Wonderful opportunity my third toenail," she snickered, ignoring the inquisitive and sometimes frightened stares of her colleagues as per usual. This boy had some promise. By no means a lot, but some. Clutching a pen tight in her claws, she scribbled in a small 7.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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ooc: PTS was done before I used the table

[kousei ♚]

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[/color] Scoff[/size][/font][/center]

Lost on the way
No one to blame
No one to say
Nothing to do with the way
Everything's changed

My private training session. One of the days I actually haven't been dreading for some strange reason but I'm not sure why that is. I'm still very afraid of what the game makers will think of me but I'm not dreading it, I don't feel hopeless at the very thought of a private training session for some reason, I'm just not sure why, I'm not looking forwards to it because I want to show off, I'm not looking forward to it because I get to meet famous game makers. No, I don't feel this way because of any of those reasons, I don't know why I feel this way. Will I ever know? Probably not. But I can't dwell on that now.

I was woken up early by our escort Olivia (I don't think she likes me very much, considering I spewed all over her shoes on the reaping). She hasn't voiced her obvious dislike of me but she probably won't shed a tear for me if I fall to the floor dead in a week because someone stuck their blade in my heart. Speaking of blades I learned how to use a few from the trainer, I finally summoned up the courage to actually pick up a weapon and do something useful in my life. But I digress; I was woken up by Olive and told to get ready for my private training session, I had to go down with Saffron as I have been doing for the past two days. Saffron is actually alright, I just can't stand the thought of either of us killing each other, maybe we'll get lucky and neither of us will encounter each other in the arena. I quickly push those unpleasant thoughts out of my head and get ready for my private training session.

I walked down to the training center and had to wait, I'm going to have to be on the tail end of the tributes doing their training sessions as it goes from District one up. A clear pecking order, rich and hard careers at the front, crippled and poor kids near the back. Another unfair thing in this world but then again, when has my life ever been fair? I simply sit there, drumming my fingers on my lap as I try to think what the Game Maker's expect me to do. Do they want me to slash up some dummies? Make a fire? Show them I'm not afraid? I can probably do most of the things on that list I hope, I can only hope, but hope is one of the emotions I'm running low on right now.

Mantel Scoff.

It's time... The one chance I have to show the Game Makers what I can do. The robotic voice just told me to enter by saying my name and I did. My fists are clenched tightly at my sides, and I'm not trembling, I'm staying still. I know I can do this, today is the day I evolve, today is the day I evolve from simply being the twig kid. Today... is the day I become Mantel Scoff the Twig warrior! I like the sound of that very much. I get into the gym, looking around, it's so clear, all this space is just for me, for a second even my eye brows raise in pleasure and my fists soften up but then I clench them again, my eye brows knit. A warrior does not feel intimidated.

I look the head Game Maker in the eye, my fists still clenched. Do you know how much I hate you? You're happily going to send me into an arena to meet an early demise while you sit down and eat your fancy meat that my home gave to you and drink your fancy lemonade, enjoying the fruits of our labors. I break my concentration and I bow my head a bit. "My name is Mantel Scoff and I am the twig warrior!" I start off by saying, although it sounds stupid I'm just twisting the words of the bullies and making it sound like something cool. "I hope to impress you guys today so I'll do my best!" I announce and get to work.

First I'm going to use a trick I saw being used frequently in the sixty-third and the sixty-fourth, setting your weapons on fire. A girl died in the sixty-fourth from a flame coated sword, it set her on fire completely and she burned to dead, such a terrible and painful way to die. All because of them. I run over to the weapons station and grab a short sword, it's pretty light and I can easily lift it without worrying about fracturing or breaking a bone. I take it from the stand and go to the tar station.

Now to just coat it with tar. I think to myself as I coat the blade in tar almost completely, luckily I'm a wiz with making fires now so I quickly a fire out of some wood and set the blade on fire. I hold the blade up in the air, almost as if I'm a knight, valiantly rushing in to save someone. The bright orange flames do their dance of death on the blade of my sword, like snakes they strike out at everything they see, dangerous and deadly if played with (just like I'm doing right now). The flames are desperate to bite into something and slowly tear it apart like they did to the District nine girl last year, they almost burn my hand a little bit, however they don't, they can't. Because I am Mantel Scoff... The twig warrior. If only district ten could see me now, here I am, taming this element of death to bite at nothing but me, I have charmed fire, I have tamed it. I see a lifelike dummy standing about ten meters in front of me, that should make an okay run up I guess.

And then with a loud war cry I sprint towards it, however when I am but a few meters away from impaling it with my sword I... trip over my own feet, it was completely accidental, I had no intentions of doing that... "WHOA!" I scream out as I tumble forward; the tip of my flaming sword is still pointing towards the dummy's chest and it impales it as I'm falling, I hit the ground with a thud and I'm instantly winded and the dummy has gone up in flames, as if someone simply deemed it unfit to exist and just blew it up. I feel the heat burn my left hand slightly (as I am right next to it) and yell out in shock and roll away.

Maybe this twig warrior thing needs a bit more work.

I'm to embarrassed to go and get some burn medicine so I simply grit my teeth and look up at the Game Makers. "Ta-daa, bet you weren't expecting that were you?" I ask through gritted teeth, trying to style out my failure and be funny at the same time, I'm ignoring the now throbbing pain in my left hand which is red. "And erm, h-have a good day." I say, trying to cover up my embarrassment and take a quick bow, and I quickly get out of there, not running but walking really fast, leaving the flaming dummy and sword behind.

Oh Ripred I really need to run this hand under some cold water.

WC:1239

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Narrative
"Speech"
Thought
Other

Lyrics: Nothing can be explained

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*******

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The food had arrived somewhere around District Eight, so by the time Ten rolled around Head Gamemaker Nox was contentedly munching on a pickle and humming softly. She was actually enjoying herself, unlike most of the other Gamemakers, who despised this endless day—it was a chance for her to see exactly who her pawns this year would be. And most of them are incredibly entertaining. She still hadn't fully recovered from the Nine boy—indeed, the dreadful smell still lingered—by the time the Ten one walked in, looking tinier than ever. Immediately he walked over and looked up at the Gamemakers, at Invidia directly, and clenched his teeny fists, staring up at her with an expression that was probably supposed to be hatred, but looked more like uncomfortable constipation. In response, the gamemaker's face fell into a wide smile, and she gave the boy a taunting wink. "Alright there?" she teased, but by then he'd begun to speak himself. "My name is Mantel Scoff and I am the twig warrior!"

There was a long pause. Every Gamemaker in the room stared at this kid, trying to determine whether or not he was serious. Then Nox broke out into a high-pitched cackle, unable to contain her amusement. The twig warrior? Well, at least it made sense—this tribute wasn't much bigger or stronger than any twig she'd ever seen. She could not stop laughing as he walked over to the weapons station, and she was actually curious as to what he was going to do… and then he grabbed a jar of tar.

"Oh, give me something different," she complained, not loud enough for her words to reach Mantel, but the other Gamemakers heard and muttered their assent. She added a little notch to the tally in the corner of the paper, keeping track of how many tributes lit their weapons on fire in their private sessions. Once he was all set and the flames on his sword were flickering towards the ceiling—it really was a miracle he hadn't yet managed to roast himself—the twig warrior took off running towards a dummy, almost like a tiny little chicken running for its henhouse. But then… he slipped. He tripped over his own feet and the flaming sword accidentally went flying right where it was supposed to go: into the dummy's flesh. He remained on the ground for a minute, accidentally burned his hand, and then rolled away.

Invidia immediately rested her head down on the table in front of her, right beside a plate of roast duck, and her entire body shook as she laughed. Mantel's voice reached her ears—"Ta-daa, bet you weren't expecting that, were you?" The gamemaker snorted. "No, Twiggy, I wasn't," she mumbled into her plate, trying to calm her hysterics as he walked out of the gym. When she was able to pull herself together, she straightened up and surveyed his place in her book. "I like you, twig warrior," she mused aloud, still smirking. "You'll be dead in five minutes, but I like you." She penned a 4 in his slot.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[Sage]

[th][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][bg=7D3F66] Siana Felies “District seven female” the monotonous voice drones over the intercom. It’s my turn. I take a deep breath, calming myself, before standing and padding proudly into the training gym. I have to impress the game makers. That is the most important thing. I’m pretty sure they know who I am, no point in announcing myself. I know what I will do, it will be unique and fun and maybe make the game makers laugh. I won’t embarrass myself though, there is a fine line between making a fool of myself and entertaining people. My feet carry me automatically to the climbing station. I’ve been climbing tree’s since I could toddle, along with swinging around axes (although not as much as some children do). I place my hands on the ropes, my thumbs wrapping around the ropes with confidence, and pull myself up, climbing nimbly up the ropes before, suddenly, my feet miss one of the ropes and I find myself dangling momentarily above the gym floor. Fear washes over me but I push it down, I will not fall. I kick at the air before finding my footing again and continuing my climb. Keep going Sia I tell myself. Sweat beads on my forehead as I climb across the top of the ropes and refuse to look down. I do not like heights. It’s ironic, a climber who’s afraid of heights, who’d have thought? Instead, I look at the game makers, hoping I’m impressing them but I can’t read their thoughts. As I jump down the last meter and land lightly on the balls of my feet, I pad over to the axe station. If I’m going to up my training score, I might as well show off my axe skills a little bit. I pick up one of the axes, testing the weight of it in my hand, and toss it up a few times, letting it twirl in the air. I’ve always found it fascinating to watch the spinning of the blade as it glints in the light of the gym. As it comes down, I prepare to catch it by the handle and instead, end up with the blade landing inches from taking off my fingers. They close automatically around the top of the blade and I look up, smiling. Not intentional but it worked I’d rather not try that again because I’d prefer to have all of my fingers thank you very much. I decide I’d rather throw the axes at a target than catch them and almost lose a finger or a hand. I approach the targets, the axe balanced in my hands, and line up the target. I’ve never been really good at throwing axes but I’m decent at it. The first axe I launch embeds itself into the wall beside the target and I curse, anger rising its ugly head. I retrieve the axe and line up again, taking a deep breath, I launch it at the target and this time, it embeds itself into the targets shoulder. Not a deadly blow but one that will likely take out the opponents arm. I wipe the sweat from my forehead before speaking. “I believe that is all thank you” I place the axe back on the table and, with my head held high, I pad out of the training gym.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

By this point, Gamemaker Nox was growing quite hungry. She'd been too busy answering loads of pointless questions that morning to eat breakfast—her incompetent team couldn't even think for themselves—and had been looking forward to the extravagant lunch the Gamemaking team always received during training session day. District Eight. It was supposed to come at District Eight. Well, since District Seven was only just about to start, Invidia was more than a little grumpy.

The girl—Siana Felies—walked in without looking at the Gamemakers, without announcing herself; rather, she immediately made her way over to the climbing station. Typical Seven, Nox thought, but did not disapprove because very few other districts ever displayed this skill and it was a welcome change from the long line of fiery weapons that always surfaced during session day. It was interesting at first, watching her climb, but she quickly grew bored and antsy, paying much less attention than she should've. Until she made a misstep and began to dangle far above the floor, an expression of fear on her face that she was trying to hide but that Invidia was an expert at seeing straight through. The head Gamemaker sat up a little straighter in her chair; was she going to fall? But nope, she regained her balance and began moving again.

In another bout of typical District Seven, the tribute decided she would next throw some axes. Nox yawned, tapping her foot impatiently and watching the girl try and execute some fancy tricks. She wasn't bad; she had a pretty good handle on the weapon, though she never actually hit right on target. But it simply wasn't interesting or skillful enough to catch her attention. More work and you could be a threat, kid, Invidia thought, as Siana thanked them and made her way out of the room. But when you throw an axe and miss? You're going to have to go get it if you want another shot, and good luck doing that without a knife in your back. After some deliberation, she jotted down a 6 for this tribute. There was potential, yes, but she needed to become more deadly if she was going to stand a chance.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[✨ zozo.]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: D6B169; border: 303045 solid 0px; width: 440px; height: 5px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] SAFFRON LOWE

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[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: f3f9fb; border: e3e2f2 solid 0px; width: 430px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 0px 0px 10px 10px;] "Saffron darling, you are mighty clever you know. Why can't you pay attention at school?" "School's boring, Momma. Ain't no fun sitting at a desk all day." "But you've got potential, sweetie. Do you know what that means?" "No, Momma." "It means you have ability." "To do what?" "Great things." Great things do not entail hiding away artifacts for my own selfish hoarding. To be great, you need not to bury precious belongings, but to dig them up from your roots and impress others with them instead. To be great, you have to steal the words out of their mouths, to lock their eyes onto your creations, to make them stop and think. I can steal things, but not words. I can pick locks, but not attention. I can stop going to school, but can't stop them thinking about me. Someone told me long ago that I had potential to achieve wondrous things, but I think they had that all wrong. I seek out the great unknown, bury myself in places of the past, and find wondrous things to take home with me instead. "Saffron Lowe." Twice their robotic voices have called my name - once back at home, once here. Looking back at the trails of children stumbling home with a pressing weight off of their shoulders for another year as I boarded a train with nothing but a one-way ticket to premature death and nobody to follow home, I yearned for nothing more than to be following them all down the dusty roads back to my family. Now that weight I stole from them lies in my pockets, too heavy to contain anything but mischief – yet concealed enough that nobody noticed the bulges in my legs as we walked in silence down to the Gamemakers. In a selfish moment (can't be having many more of those, I'll use them all up and forget where I came from in times that I will need those memories the most) I close my eyes and rise, remembering their dot-sized frames getting smaller and smaller through the glass window as the light that dazzled against our vision temporarily blinded me- I have an idea. Shoes patter up towards them on the shiny metal floors, click-clacking in echoed melodies to announce my arrival. A few turn to notice my presence and shrug, making an attempt to look interested in me. But I know all too well that look upon their faces, as I've seen it in the reflections of classroom windows as I strained to pay attention to ramblings I once thought useless. Powdered faces grimace at my fire-coloured hair and patronise my tiny frame. Suddenly I'm not a great explorer, intrepid traveller or bursting with potential - just a silly little girl with a knack of borrowing stealing (and I might as well admit that’s what it is – stealing.) Swallowing my pride, I take a deep breath and remember that what others see as stealing, I see as my greatest asset. I am brave, I remind myself. I am brave. "Saffron Lowe, District Ten” I announce, clearing my throat in the process. I have potential to do great things. Now's the time to show them all. Immediately my hands find the bases of my pockets and I begin throwing objects to the ground, clattering against the polished floors. A few heads jolt in surprise to watch me, eyes widening at my collection of artefacts that spurt seemingly out of thin air. "I've been collecting things from the Training Centre this past week" I begin as the final few items find the spaces near my feet. "And nobody seemed to noticed." A small knife, a coil of rope, pliers, wire, masking tape, a water jug and a small vial of red paint all fall at my feet - my personal collection of stolen goods. "Maybe it's because I'm small," I continue, walking towards the shiniest-looking metal plate I can find, "maybe it's because I'm quiet." Hands grasp at its circular frame, cool to the touch as I roll it back to my pile of evidence. "Or, maybe, it's because nobody paid any attention to me." My words are as loud as the sound of metallic against lino ringing through the room - if they haven't heard me now they sure as hell won't by the end of it. Hands get to work, throwing the rope over a beam above my head. As quick as I can, I merge the rope to the mirror with masking tape all whilst continuing to hold the Gamemaker's attention. "Sometimes, the ones that yell taunts bursting with confidence, or the ones that get all the kills, aren’t the ones you should be watching." Now to the water jug, securing it to the floor as best as I can with wire and tape whilst my hands shake with adrenaline and my mind bursts with inspiration. "Personally, I think," - it's a stab in the dark throwing my opinion towards their powerful minds but it's not like I'm risking my life in the first place - "that people should be wary of the others." Shoving a weight towards my contraption and balancing the mirror on the water jug, I hold my breath. “You know, the ones that are quiet, small, unnoticeable.” Taking a hold of the rope in one hand and closing my eyes I pray to whatever God that has damned me to this hell that in this moment they’ll spare me a stroke of luck. I have potential. I can do great things. Most importantly, I am brave. "I think" (careful now, don't trip over your brave words) "that everyone" (knife by your side, paint pot open) "should open" (pull the rope, make it tight, look up to the light and count your blessings) "their eyes." There's a flash of light that bounces off of the mirror, my split-second illusion falling into place. Shouts of protest and squinting eyes are my tip-off and I run, as fast as I can, towards the nearest dummy to stab it once, stab it twice, stab it three times for good measure. Red coats my hands, fingers, the floor and the dummy - and in one surge of energy I push the battered thing into the mirror and the world explodes into crashing, falling chaos that rings through my eardrums and hammers against my skull. The aftermath does not blind anyone. As clear as day, the dummy lies still in the middle of the wonderful mess I've made. Red coats the stab wounds, a knife sticking out of where an eye would be as a few Gamemakers uncover their eyes and blink through my distraction to uncover the disastrous finish I’ve concocted. "You see?" I conclude with a sweep of my body towards the floor, a gesture I'd give to a thousand rounds of applause my imagination surely deserves. Wiping the smile from my mouth is so difficult I almost cannot do it, only just containing the shouts of excitement that gather in my throat before I stand straight to look them all dead-set in the eye. It worked, it worked, it worked! "If you don't look carefully, you might miss me altogether." My last words don't mean to fall off my tongue but I daren't try to catch them in their escapade. "So if I were you, I'd open my eyes and see." "I can't do great things at school though, Momma. There's nothing of use there." "Then what can you use instead?" "Why, all it takes is two hands, a set of eyes - and my imagination, of course." if that was as confusing for you as it was for me here’s a picture i drew to help me understand what i was trying to convey - hope that helps?

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.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Gamemaker Nox didn't particularly know much about the small redhead from District Ten, but she had no reason yet to dislike her, either. She walked into the training gym on light feet, announcing simply her name and district and looking as if she knew exactly what she was going to do already. Invidia leaned forward, interested to see what this small girl had in store. After the fiasco of the previous session, she desperately needed a good show.

And then Miss Lowe began to empty things that looked oddly familiar from her pockets: a knife, rope, wire, tape, various things that were always lying around the gym during training week. "Did she…" Invidia began, muttering to her fellow Gamemakers, but a moment later the little girl answered the question herself. "I've been collecting things from the training center this past week, and nobody seemed to notice." Gamemaker Nox made a mental note to figure out which of the trainers she had to kill for this. However, she didn't disapprove of the tribute's sneakiness—in fact, she found it to be quite an interesting asset. Invidia raised an eyebrow at Saffron, willing her to get on with it. What else have you got for me, little one? Come on. I want more.

As she worked to build something, the tribute continued to mutter things about watching out for the ones that fly under the radar, taking care not to count them out because in reality, they could be the most dangerous. You're going to have to do a lot more than this if you want to be considered even a remote threat, sweetheart. For one thing was always true about the Hunger Games: you had to earn fear. If you wanted to be a tribute to watch, you had to do something that proved you were worthy. It didn't just come. Invidia watched skeptically as Saffron continued construction with the items she had stolen, and hoped whatever she did would be impressive, because otherwise she'd built up quite a lot of hype for nothing. Indeed, surveying the lounge Nox could see that every Gamemaker in the room had their vision trained intently on the tribute. This better be good.

"I think that everyone should open their eyes."

[/i] Suddenly there was a flash of bright white light and Invidia was temporarily blinded, seeing nothing but a piercing glare from the sun. A few of her colleagues cried out, clearly suffering the same ordeal, but the head gamemaker kept quiet and waited. Finally, finally the light cleared, and on the ground was a dummy oozing fake blood, mangled to a pulp by this tiny girl during the Gamemakers' period of blindness. Everyone made sounds of astonishment as Saffron left the room, imploring them not to miss her, to open their eyes and see. After a bit of thought, Nox decided she approved. "Don't worry, little girl," she hissed, writing in an 8 beside her name. "I'll make sure they're afraid of you."
[/blockquote][/blockquote]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[Ivana Vox [Chime]]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 376px; height: 32px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 15px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-width: 3px 3px 3px 3px; border-color:#D2CDD1; border-style:double; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 300px;] Everyone makes mistakes. It’s what they’ve told me since the beginning of time, the teachers and the students and the parents and the adults who are there but not quite, the ones that sometimes forget my name but share my home. They say it when a plate shatters against the hard floor, when a cup of water spills out over yards and yards of ragged fabric, when a seam on a dress pops out and suddenly everyone’s scrambling around to find a needle and thread. It’s equal parts comforting and cruel. After all, how nice is it to know that no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you still won’t be perfect, not every moment of every day for the rest of your life? That’s what I used to think before coming here, to the Capitol with it’s calculated moves and it’s perfect Games with twenty-four pieces, first lined up in pairs and then breaking off into singles or twos or threes or fours. Strangers coming together and working as a whole for as long as it takes for them to slit one another’s throats. That the nature of this particular exercise, what you learn from lessons that can’t be written down in a textbook. Now I think that those imperfections are what makes this place a little less like a graveyard and more like a real place. Which is how I end up scribbling in an absolute panic, recording everything captured like birds inside of my juvenile head and letting the feathers spill out with ink as fine as the gold-trimmed stationary balanced precariously in my lap. Avian creatures with broken wings, off-key coos. The ledgers and margins are filled with formulas and equations, compounds that will start fires faster than any kind of flint and which elements can be found in what plant, how to extract them, how to make them useful. I can’t articulate these things in words, can’t ramble on like I can with a pen in my hand. I’m no writer - just a curious girl with too many questions and too much time to slave over books. Now I’ve run out of time and only gotten more questions for everything that’s changed. I record every imperfection I’ve noticed in these past few weeks. The times that a plate of food has come out just on one side of too hot or too cold, steaming a bit too much into my face or wafting the scent of something exotic and completely drowning the sweetness of something almost like honey. Every time the elevator has taken more or less than the customary time to drop me off at the sixth floor. Every flicker of lights, too quick to figure out if it’s just a visual illusion or a split second of panic draining the generators and power lines powered by Ripred-knows how many lives in District 3. The words and tallies and mistakes flood over one page to the next, my hand cramping and the side of my palm smudging black along the ivory pages until there’s a small pile teetering on the edge of my knee, detailing how even the Capitol is a place like any other. That it’s still bound by the laws of science, the nature of the world. I can breathe a little easier for knowing this. My lungs fill a bit more rhythmically now, even as I wait for the boy from District 5 to be done with his private session, for someone to call the name I’ve signed with a flourish on the corner of the last page of my disillusionment. I clutch to these loose-leaf pages now, crinkling the paper that’s far lovelier and thicker than anything I’ve seen before, my sweating fingers just barely blurring the not-quite dry ink scrawled along the cream. I had no intentions for this report, but when my name is finally called, I don’t leave them on my chair. I take them with me, like a safety blanket or a teddy bear, and just as a child does to his once favourite-toy, I toss it on the table after my footsteps have stopped echoing on the Training Centre floor. I trust that the Gamemakers can read, or will take some curiosity in what this girl from District 6 has just discarded on their place settings. Maybe they think I just intended to give them all paper cuts. Either way, it’s all I have to say to them before I retreat to the stage in which I’ll really be judged. They can’t possibly care for my observations, for my curiosity. They’ll think it’s insensible to let so much time go to waste analyzing what happens in their world, but I’m sure not one of them has noticed everything written on those pages. They’ll have full control over everything that happens to me for the rest of my life, assuming that I don’t win. To think, for just five seconds, I will have known more about their smoke-and-mirrors Utopia than they do themselves is enough to make me proud to be from a District that’s bound to lose. I stay away from weapons and paints, skim right over racks of silver-tipped spears and titanium swords. I’ve looked at them for hours before, and my lips move without my consent, tongue forming around the formulas that determine how far a bow will go based on wind speeds and trajectories and the weight of the holder. The paints are a mystery to me, the dyes colourful secrets that won’t tell me how they work together to turn human skin into the bark on a tree or the sedimentary layers of stone. But I know the chemicals that are put in each and every one, and again I find my mouth moving even if my gaze doesn’t stray from the only thing that might prove to be any help to me in this room. I can’t leave my report and hope for anything good. Not when they probably won’t care. Science labs and observational skills don’t let you survive unless you’re waiting to see the reaction of two chemicals which will likely end in an explosion, and then it’s just pure luck that will get you out of the lab before compounds bubble over and your nose is full of the acrid stench of metal getting eaten away by examinable forces. The first aid station was my obvious choice, but it was too easy, and I quickly found my morale sinking as I realized that the only impressive things I could do was see the world for what it is, and not for how everyone wanted me to see it. With a sigh, I settle at the plants station and go through the tests in record timing. It’s only due to memorization that I finish swiping plants into their places beside edible or medicinal or poisonous, sorting them with a sort of mechanical precision. It’s just another exam, another thing to score high on, and I’ve always taken great pleasure in making sure that my marks were high. It’s the only thing I’ve ever had, really, when my entire life would have been dictated by the grades that I would have gotten had I not been taken away from home and thrown into a sort of tailspin that will most likely kill me. If nothing else, I finish in record timing, but I really only wanted to do one thing: make sure that the Gamemakers had nothing to do but read what I had written, listen to me for just a few seconds of their lives when I knew I’d never get the chance to be heard again. Their Game is only so effective if you can see the chinks in the armour, where they can go wrong. I know now that no matter how well they plan, how perfectly it seems like everything is running for them, there has to be an error somewhere. And that’s how someone will win. They’ll see the weak spot and shatter the entire thing. Maybe it will be this year, maybe it won’t be for a hundred years, but for as long as mistakes are made, there will always be an edge to fray. A weak link. Only now do I realize how reckless I’ve been. So I do what I know I’ll be doing for most of the Hunger Games while I prove myself useless at combat and making friends: I flee from the Training Centre and hope that by not introducing myself, not saying a word, not even looking the Gamemakers in the eye for longer than I’ve absolutely had to I’ve ruined my chances of them even picking up the papers that I left, that I’ll just be a one or a two. Unimpressive. Forgettable. By the time I’ve stopped running, I’m already in the elevator and praying that I won’t have to explain to anyone what I’ve done. ...But mistakes are very dangerous little things.

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.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

While even the lower district tributes mostly chose to display their competence—or lack thereof—with a certain weapon in their private sessions, there were always those who deviated from the norm to surprise the Gamemakers. These in particular were the ones Gamemaker Nox enjoyed most; though more often than not they received lower scores than those competitors who showed battle skills, they were by far the most entertaining ones to watch. Or experience, in the case of Ivana Vox, female tribute of District Six, because in her session that day, there wasn't very much to actually see.

She was swift and deadly accurate with the plant sorting machine, but that wasn't what Invidia was paying attention to during this session. Instead, her focus was trained on the stack of papers that the girl had reached up and deposited on the Gamemakers' table. It wasn't every day that tributes made them a delivery—she couldn't remember the last time it had happened, in fact—so the head Gamemaker couldn't help but be slightly interested. A few of her colleagues bent in to read as well, but she shooed them away. "I'm in charge," she reminded them in a tsk tsk sort of voice, and disgruntled, they sat back and allowed her to scan the sheets of looseleaf unbothered.

Nox's eyes widened as she realized what exactly was going on here. Ivana Vox had spent all of training week recording every single imperfection she had been able to spot during her time in the Capitol. Her food was too cold. The elevator was too slow. The lights flickered. Over and over again, observations of the tiniest faults in this place that they all took so much care to display as perfect. Invidia frowned, biting her lip with one sharp tooth; on one hand, this girl's attention to detail was exquisite; she'd noticed everything, and that would be a useful skill in the arena to some extent, at least. But on the other… well, Invidia was not the sort to approve of reminders of imperfection. They were her Games, after all, and she'd gone to such great pains to prove that she was competent enough to handle running them. The last thing she needed was some snarky tribute reminding her of where she'd failed. Her pride itched to give this girl no higher than a three, but eventually she wrote in a 5 beside Ivana Vox's name. If nothing else, it was for her skill with the plants. You better watch yourself, girl. You aren't going to beat me at my own game; no one can.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[florentine, d4b ❁]

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lucy peverell[/i][/color][/size][/url]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 30px solid eeeeee; border-right: 30px solid eeeeee; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 390px;] "Have you seen Lucy?" "Oh, you haven't lost her again, have you?" "Not lost, as such." "Oh, Peter, I told you that you weren't to play that stupid game with her again." "But she loves it." "Not after last time." "Lucy, come on out. I give up. You win." "She doesn't play it to win." "Why does she play it, then?" . . . I have been hiding all my life. They'd turn tables upside down and unhook the curtains, rifle through each cupboard and peek beneath the beds. Hours would pass - hands trailing around the clock in a dreary dance to the tick-tock heartbeat of time. It began before I remember - Susan tells me stories of searches for a lost toddler that ended only when someone thought to check the empty space between the walls. Peter always said it meant I was patient, and Edmund swore it was magic, but ever since I was old enough to consciously curl my body into the smallest space I can find and tuck myself out of sight for as long as I possibly could, I've known the truth. (I hide because I am afraid, and it's easier when the four walls of the world are all within my reach.) . . . Last year, on reaping morning, I feared death. I wont pretend I was entirely selfless - although the thought of any one of my three siblings being snatched away to the Games turned my stomach and clutched at my throat, I was also worried for myself. (Still a child, I love adventure and games, but those certainly were not the happenings I searched for.) Susan fussed, and on any other day I would have wriggled away. Instead, I turned and buried my face in her chest. She smelled like roses and coffee and the porridge she had cooked for breakfast that morning, and she promised me I'd be safe. I was, but not for long. . . . For a girl who spent so much of her life throwing away time, I have been clinging to it extraordinarily tightly. In a way, it feels as though instead of counting upward the reaping has set a timer on my life - dangerous, fragile and with the capacity to destroy everything with a single wrong footfall. The waiting room becomes a prison. Tribute after tribute leaves without returning, and I bend my fingers back one by one, reaching zero before my name is called. My escort dragged me down here, and I wanted nothing more to run, to flee, to hide. I've been watching, these past few days in the Capitol, and I know a hundred places that they wouldn't find me. (Not for a while.) When my eldest sister kissed me goodbye, though, she asked of me one thing. "Promise me you'll be brave?" she said, and I smiled at her and nodded. I am Lucy Peverell, and I am many things. But I am not a liar. So when finally it is my turn and I get to my feet, I keep my promise and tilt my chin upward, defiant and determined. (They called me stubborn, but I liked to think of it as simply believing.) . . . I stand before them and remember to be valiant. These people - no doubt tired and bored and ready to slaughter the next child who walks confidently over to the knives or the tar to give them a show they have seen a dozen times over - are the ones who hold my final ticket. They'll choose how I die; if the end is kind, and the best I can do in these precious minutes is to give them exactly what they want. The difficult thing is working out precisely what that is. (Mama called me naive, but I can't imagine anything more fun than a game.) "I'm Lucy," I say, although I suppose they already know. Before Father left, he always said we ought to be polite and introduce ourselves, and I've always done my very best to be kind. I take in the training center around me - it seems huge, a vast expanse of tools and weapons I will never have enough time to understand. Although I cannot see a clock, I can feel every single timepiece in the world whispering to me, taunting. (We are playing with fire, fighting a war we have already lost.) I glance at the jars of tar, lined up neatly, matches set beside them. The bows and arrows in the corner, bulky and taller than most of the tributes this year. My eyes rest for a second on the plants station, with a thousand herbs and spiced sitting side by side, ready to be mixed into a potion that would heal the wounded. Bandages, needles and thread, ropes and mirrors and swords. None of these things are what I am looking for. Instead of walking toward a station, I make my way back toward the door - to the glass case on the wall that holds supplies in case of emergency. I open it carefully, not wanting to disturb anything I can avoid, and lift the fire blanket from inside. It is not soft like the sheets Susan sets on our beds each week, fresh and smelling like the morning sunrise. It's thick and rough and heavy and big enough to cover me entirely, and it is exactly what I need. I move to the middle of the floor. "Let's play a game. Hide and seek?" With that, I grin a wicked grin, hold it up high, and let go. In essence, it's a magic trick - but I know that from where the Gamemakers are sitting, I've disappeared entirely, just before the heavy folds of fabric hit the ground. From where I am hidden behind a climbing wall, I slide sideways and forward, keeping to the shadows. I am almost having fun - stepping without footsteps and running without breathing always were my favourite part of my escapades with my siblings. Although nobody was truly chasing me, thrill always would leap in my chest and my heartbeat would thunder in my throat and I would know without doubt that I was Lucy and I was very alive indeed. (For how much longer, I do not know, but for now I know I have dissolved into thin air before the eyes of an expectant crowd, and I'll need more than simple trickery to win their approval.) Unfortunately, pretences are all I have. I appear high in the branches of the artificial tree, duck out from the shadows I have taken refuge in. "Come on, find me," I insist, diving toward the ground again, fearless. I am not afraid of falling, and I harbour a secret pride for the seconds it took me to scale the wall and make the leap into the unbending branches. (In an arena filled with older tributes, perhaps my light frame and quick movements would be an advantage, but I am lost in a sea of children just like myself.) Pressing my back tight against the trunk I let myself tumble, landing lightly on two feet. From here, they cannot see me, but I know I'll struggle to make my back into the center of the room undetected by countless watching eyes. (Right now, I am their only form of entertainment, and I intend to make use of that.) Getting as low as I possibly can, I find the netting that covers the wall and grab a jar from beside me. Instead of scaling the wall, I slip beneath the cover of the mesh and climb the inside, out of sight and still clutching the jar of silver glitter. I can't think what it's intended for, but I know it wont buy me much time. Finally I find where the wall meets the ceiling and let my hand peek out from my hiding place. There, just inches from my fingertips, is the vent. I take a deep breath and let the glitter go, and it fills the entire room. For a moment, I watch winter fall in the room that is today my world - a brilliant storm of plastic, and then I descend the underneath of the net as quickly as I can manage. The training center is a snowglobe upturned by an overeager infant, and I fear for a moment time will run out and it will smash. Out of breath, I arrive in the middle of the floor just as the blinding, dazzling array ends. "Ready or not, here I come," I shout, lift the blanket for a second time and let it fall. Again, when it finally reaches the tiles I am long gone, but this time I am already out of the door, undismissed and beaming from ear to ear. . . . "I think she plays it because she wants someone to search for her. Because she doesn't like feeling lost." "You can come out now, Lucy, please." "No. I want to be found." . . . Still, I am not sure if my handful of fairy dust and magic will be enough to make me Queen. template by chelsey

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.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The 65th Hunger Games primarily consisted of a plethora of tiny blonde girls. Lucy Peverell of District Twelve was a prime example. She pranced into the gym, light-footed and delicate, and Gamemaker Nox gave a grimace of disgust as she was unceremoniously reminded of her demonic sister, Fauna, at that young age. Petite little pretty princess prick. But though Invidia loathed every hair on her half-sister's head, she knew she had to remain professional and observe this tribute with no prior conceptions. Besides, you one-upped Fauna in life a long time ago. Head Gamemaker vs. underwear model? There's a clear winner in this situation.

Invidia sat back and watched the tiny girl begin her session, praising Ripred that this was the last one of the day. The gym was growing stuffy and it still reeked quite a bit of pathetic Storm Jay's bodily fluids. Nox was distracted momentarily by thoughts of how glad she would be to get out of there when one of her colleagues gave her a sharp hit to the shoulder, and she realized that their little tribute charge had vanished. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," the gamemaker muttered under her breath, trying to spot little Lucy and failing. Finally her face appeared in the branches of the artificial tree at the climbing station. "Come on, find me," her high-pitched, bell-like voice trilled, and the entire team of Gamemakers watched intently as she disappeared again.

Just when Nox thought she could spot something moving behind the mesh netting on the wall—surely that looked like a little human form back there?—there was all the sudden a huge puff of… sparkles. As the cloud of glitter reached the Gamemaking lounge Invidia began to cough incessantly, trying and failing to wave it away. Why the hell was there even glitter in here? Someone was going to pay. "Ready or not, here I come," said Lucy's voice from within the sparkly gloom, and, still coughing, Invidia scowled. "Life isn't a game of hide-and-seek, princess," she snapped, though fairly certain the girl was long gone by now. "And neither is the arena." As the glitter cloud cleared, settling on the ground and in every nook and cranny of the training gym, Invidia scribbled a 5 beside Lucy's name and snapped her book shut for the final time. "I'm done. Clean it up," she waved her hand in the general direction of the avoxes and stalked out of the room and back towards the command center to work with the media team on the scores broadcast for that night. It had been another long, long day. She was still covered head to toe in glitter.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[Rosetta]

Matilde"Scout"Watson

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Things that I know:



1. How to climb a tree.

2. How to get my pants muddy.

3. How to disappoint Ardal.

4. How to make Ardal proud.

5. How to punch.



Thing I don’t know:

1. How to fight.

2. How to survive.



And it’s those two that are most important.



I stand outside those demeaning doors. They’ve already called my name. Except they said it wrong. My name is Scout. Not Matilde. So, for a long moment, I stand and try to air the name out of my body, breathing in and out until all I can breathe in is Scout, Scout, Scout. That’s what Ardal says and Carlos and Bertie too. They told me to be strong.



Knowing I’m strong and being strong are two different things entirely and I’m not sure which propels me into that room. My arms, they’re skinny, but there are muscles under the surface, a zest that ripples and explodes every so often. That is strength, but it isn’t being strong.



The Gamemakers are busy when I walk in, eating something or another, talking. Ardal always said not to bother people when they’re in conversation, but I think this is something different entirely. I swallow hard as I face them and say my name, “Ma-Scout Watson.” My heart is beating at a pace so wild it has exceeded the rate of the pocket watch in my pocket. Tickticktickticktickticktick.



Before I entered, I made myself a plan. It was all I knew. It was the first thing that popped into my mind. It was a spark, like the one I am about to create for myself. I need to make myself angry. And so, after I say my name, I close my fists, my eyes and I concentrate.



“You’re a little know-it-all.”



It’s flaring up. My heart gives a leap.



“All your dad does is sit around!”



My teeth grind against each other.



“Scout, quit it!”



It’s the first dummy I come to. I jump it. I grab it. I take it down to the ground, straddle it and begin to punch. My knuckles, nearly healed by Capitol medicine, are quick to ache, but I keep going. The chin, the nose, neck, windpipe. My father is smart, he is old, but he’s smart! I am smart! I can read, unlike you! My hands are sweaty, so one sticks when I fumble, one-handedly, onto the nearest table until it closes around a thin cold blade.



I recall how my scalp stung when they tugged my pigtails and how my cheeks burned when they insulted Ardal. How the dirt tasted, tossed up into the air, when I grind their faces into the ground. How Bertie or Carlos pulled me up and how they scoff at my ripped jeans. Suddenly, as I pick up that knife and my skin is tingling, hair flying, I’m not stabbing for the hair pulling, the insults but for that feeling, the brush of warmth, touch of lips in my hair, on my arms. Them. Bertie, Carlos, Ardal. With their shaking and berating, but their hugs and kisses and the way Bertie hauls me over his shoulder and home. That. Is. What. I. Want.



There’s stuffing on the floor. There’s rubber skin, from the dummy, on my hands. The thing that used to be a dummy has been demolished. It’s stuffing, it’s an open bag. It’s empty. I rise. My heart has stopped completely and there’s sweat dripping down my face. I don’t look at the Gamemakers. I’m staring at the dummy. I don’t know what it is anymore. My heart jolts back to life and the knife slips out from between my hands. Ardal. Ardal, after Carlos has hauled me home and he’s explained what I’ve done. His eyes sliding up from my muddy pants, my bruised knuckles, to my face, to my eyes that don’t want to meet his, but they’re glued and my lower lip trembles. The knife clatters and then comes to rest. His eyes droop, they’re deeper than a river and at the bottom, where I’ve sunk, there’s disappointment.



The dummy is lifeless.



My eyes fill, but I hastily wipe them away. Be strong

[/i], they said.



It’s hard to do that when you disappoint. So, with a lot more control than I thought I could ever muster, I slowly flee the room.[/color][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Matilde Watson of District Eleven reminded Gamemaker Nox vaguely of a small, angry little puppy. As she stalked into the training gym to begin her session, the tiny blonde girl sported an indignant scowl; Invidia observed her carefully over the last bites of her plate of food. She introduced herself as not Matilde, but Scout—the head gamemaker snickered at the nickname and jotted it down, making a mental note to actually use it. Perhaps not as good as "twig warrior"—she was still snickering over that—but it was still up there.

Then all of the sudden the little girl clenched her fists and closed her eyes, concentrating hard on something in her own mind. Invidia tapped her foot impatiently on the ground below the table; she'd spent the entire day in this seat, there were only two more tributes left, and she was eager to be done as fast as possible. Just as she was about to bark an order at the tribute to continue, for Ripred's sake, the tiny bottle rocket jumped a dummy and began to beat it up with every inch of strength she could possibly muster. The frenzied anger radiating off of her was almost palpable—what did you think about just then, little girl?—and then she reached for a blade and started using that instead. Then as soon as it had begun, she was done; Scout backed away from the maimed dummy, breathing hard. After pulling herself together, she slowly retreated from the room.

Gamemaker Nox frowned, debating what to do with this girl. She certainly had a lot of power, yes, and her anger translated to violence, which was always good in the Games. However, she'd beat up an inanimate dummy—there was no way she'd ever be able to replicate that on a living, breathing, fighting human much larger than her. At last she etched a 6 beside Matilde's name. "But who knows, Scout? Maybe you'll surprise us."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[rook]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, border: F5F6FA solid 4px; width: 500px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px 0px;][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 4F4943; border: F5F6FA solid 4px; width: 500px; height: 181px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 13px 13px;][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true] HOPE what do you know this house is falling apart what can i say this house is falling apart we got no money but we got heart we're gonna rattle this ghost town "I can't stress how much I rate this girl. What she just did isn't like her. I've seen her in training. She's quiet and mostly keeps herself to herself. I see the way she looks at other tributes, she looks at them like they aren't people. This girl's got a lot of emotions flying around her head. She's like a volcano, and we've just seen her erupt. I wouldn't want to be one of those tributes when it happens again." I would give anything to see Rubik right now. The Justice Building seems a lifetime ago and a world away. I called Rubik a coward for not coming to say goodbye to me, but I can understand his thinking now. I was selfish to some extent. Andorra was Reaped and I wasn't. It made no sense for me to put myself in her place, especially given all that our family has lost. Rubik was angry. Angry that I left him on his own. I was all he had left and now I'm gone from his life. I thought that by sacrificing myself Rubik would realize how much of a wreck he has become since Pandora died, and now that he's on his own, he can make something of his life. Yet all I've done is emotionally compromise him even further. Rubik doesn't know that I saved two lives, though. He doesn't know about Charlotte. He doesn't know why they need Andorra. I hold no regrets about Volunteering, even now. I did the right thing for the Konstantines. The right thing. Giving my life so that two others can live - Surely that's the right thing to do? I'm scared and alone but I'm doing the right thing. The clock ticks away as Linius displays whatever skills he has learned during our time in the Training Center. I haven't talked to him since the train - He seems so naive that I think any form of truce with him could endanger me. My goal is to survive, not to kill. Linius worked with swords and spears the other day, but I've kept strictly to skills that will keep me alive - Lighting fires and knowing which plants to eat. Learning how to patch myself up and stay hidden from view. I don't want to hurt anyone. I expect that Linius is throwing his weight around like most boys do in these sessions, but I will play this smart. I will show my survival skills. A buzzer goes off, prompting an escort to pop her head through the double glazed doors. Her cheeks are rosy and her face bright, but her eyes are dead. "Hope Woodards, District Eight?" She chirps. She is the antithesis of me. So happy and upbeat but dead inside. I look stone-cold devastated, but there is fire inside me for sure. I force a sharp intake of breath, before releasing slowly. I tell myself three times that this is the right thing to do, and remind myself to play this smart. If I want to survive, I need sponsors, and to get sponsors I need to impress. I cannot mess this up, else I will get a bad score for sure. As I walk slowly into the large, spacious hall, I think of all the tributes that usually fill it. Today it is empty and I will be center stage. There is no margin for error. I think of Pandora for the first time in hours - What did he do in his session? He probably used his strength or something. He was always well built and knew how to handle himself in a fight. Unfortunately, I'm just not a violent person. I don't even think I've ever hit someone before. When I volunteered, I instantly knew I had given myself a death sentence. I don't like violence, and so I am a dead girl walking. To be honest I doubt Andorra would be any different to me. The Gamemakers size me up and I can feel my score dropping already. Small, scrawny, fragile. I force myself to remember that most of the Tributes this year are small. Something about the way they are perched on their high platform, watching me with vulture eyes, it makes me feel hollow. An array of equipment is laid out for me. A first aid kit, a plant patch, a pile of logs. All the things I need to display my survival skills. Yet a glimmer of silver catches in the corner of my eye and I spot the weapons rack. Play it smart, Hope. Show them how you're going to survive. I don't show them anything. Fear grips me in a straitjacket and I am frozen like a statue, unable to move. My breath quickens as my mind screams at my body to move, to do something. These people sent my brother to his death. They are the Gamemakers, the ones who decide what happens inside that arena. The latch crab. Pandora's undoing. It was them. They deployed the latch crab that sent shrapnel into the side of his neck and down his back. They punctured his vital organs and split main arteries. It was all them... And now they want to send me to my death. No, don't get angry, try to focus. This is the right thing to do. The right thing. I take a step forward but find myself frozen again. They killed him and they want to kill me. They want to kill twenty three children. They're the bad guys. Them. My heart hammers against my chest as I lean down to the collection of plants. Block those thoughts, Hope. Focus on your training. I reach for a plant which I think is safe to eat, but my hand trembles so much that I have to force myself to calm down. They're judging me. They're still judging me. Drinking wine and eating cakes and judging me. This is the right thing to do, Hope. The right thing. And Rubik, he judged me too. He never said goodbye to me. He ran off to his stupid, crazy girlfriend Senalia as soon as I was out of his life. I did this for him. I did this so that he could sort his stupid life out... But no, he makes out that I'm the brat in all this. He calls me a silly little girl and sends me to my death. He's no better than the Gamemakers. Then there's Hitchcock, who sucks our compensation money dry and spends it on women and gambling... And then tells me that I'm selfish. ME. All I've done my whole life is help other people, and when I make the ultimate sacrifice - For Andorra, for Charlie, for Rubik... I'm the bad guy. I'm in the wrong. All I've done is tried to do the right thing. Fuck the right thing. I stand up and kick the potted plants over, smashing terracotta and scattering dirt all over the clean, white floor. I push the stand containing medical supplies over, toppling jars of ointment and sending needles into the dirt. My face burns red as my entire face screws up into a frown. I storm over to the weapons rack and rip a sword from its bindings. "FUCK THE RIGHT THING!" I shout, my eyes stinging with tears. I swing blindly at a dummy. Stuffing flies around like snow, covering me, but I don't stop. I rip out all the filling from the dummy, hacking at its insides and tearing it apart. I move on to the next dummy, screaming as I rip it apart. There is no accuracy, there is no well-placed slashes, there is just the red, red rage. I take the head off another dummy and continue to stab at it until it no longer resembles a head. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!" I scream again, grabbing a knife and throwing myself at another dummy, stabbing and stabbing at its chest. Stabbing until I can no longer see through the blurred lens of my tears. Stab, stab. Stab. My screaming dulls into a groan, and the groan deteriorates further into a sob. I lie on the remains of the dummy, crying into its chest, shaking violently. "F-..." I snivel, "Fff-... Fu-... Fuck..." I face the ceiling, letting my eyes dry out. It's too much. The world is against me and my best chance of proving the world wrong was to show these Gamemakers that I can survive. All I've shown them is how upset I am. I push myself to my knees and throw my head back. "FUCK!" I squeal loudly, piercing my own ears with the high-pitched curse. I throw the knife angrily across the room and it wedges in a pillar. I get up and kick the medical supplies again, for good measure. The vultures glare at me still, their eyes a little hungrier, perhaps. I return to them, red-faced with tears still wet on my cheeks. "F-Fuck you all..." I manage. I hope you all rot. Them, Hitchcock, Rubik... They can all rot with Pandora in whatever hell he's in. I'm on my own now. live my life without coming up for air now it's all wash i want everyone racing down the hill i am faster than you wait for summertime wait for summertime oh anna sun lyrics by walk the moon - graphics by rook - template by kire

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.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

When the teeny little girl from District Eight walked in, Gamemaker Nox was struck by how young she looked. Certainly younger than twelve? She half expected her to start reciting her ABCs. When she caught a good look at her face, she was reminded very much of her older brother from the 61st Games; Nox herself had GMed them, so she remembered Pandora Woodards and the latch crab fate he met all too clearly. Internally, she snickered. One of the more amusing deaths. But one question had bugged her from the moment little Hope Woodards had opened her mouth in that district square: why did she volunteer? What was her motivation? Usually she thought them strange, but in this case, Invidia would give anything to get inside her mind and figure out why.

She looked as if she were about to play with some plants—relatively as expected, because it would've been strange to see someone so small pick up a weapon and start hacking—but then all of the sudden Hope Woodards exploded. "Fuck the right thing!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, and began to kick over potted plants, toppling tables of medical supplies, and just causing havoc in every way possible. Then, to Invidia's surprise, she picked up a sword and did start hacking at a dummy, but there was very little rhyme or reason to her movements; she simply sliced and stabbed until if it were a human, it would have been dead three times over. "What the…" Invidia mumbled, but found herself laughing as the girl continued her explosion of rage and swearing. When she was through, she chucked her blade across the room, kicked the medical supplies, and glared once more at the Gamemakers.

"F-fuck you all," she got out, just before she left. Gamemaker Nox, slightly stunned, watched as she disappeared from the room. "I don't see what all the pent-up frustration is about," she said aloud as she tried to determine what score these theatrics had earned. "After all, she volunteered…" But there was clearly more to the story than met the eye. Nox was already highly considering sending another latch crab skittering Hope's way in the arena. Just to see how she'd react. Finally coming to a conclusion, she wrote down a large, loopy 6.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[shrimp]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] But it was not your fault but mine And it was your heart on the line I really fucked it up this time Didn't I, my dear? Okay, admittedly I am not the best at most things in this arena. The leg has rendered me practically useless when it comes to any close range combat: It drags behind me like some kind of log and I guess the trainer sensed my frustration because she came up to be before we were done for the day, telling me to use my disability to my advantage. Truth be told I don't really know what she means. It's hard to walk as it is, let alone run (and I don't want to picture myself running towards that Golden Horn any time soon) but to use it to my advantage? The only thing I can think of is not to put too much pressure on it, but then I'd be hopping around on one leg and I mean that'd just look silly, right? Warrick, my district mentor, told me to play to your strengths; that the Gamemakers are looking to see what promises you have, that I have to play down my weaknesses, that I have to make them see that I can be a valuable token in their Games. That's all they want right? A show? I'm just one of their actors, galloping on and then being dragged away, the red pooling on the stage floor as they call for the next rising star to be ushered in from stage right. I'd better give them a really good performance then. However, it's easier said than done and now it's like two-thirty in the morning and I'm pacing back and forth in my room (with its too soft blankets and they even gave us a soft stuffed animal as some sick attempt to be kind) because I don't know how I can be of any use to them whatsoever. I'm only good at ranged weapons (the slingshot was fun to use to be honest but I'd rather be shooting windows not people) and tying knots (see dad, I learned something from our lessons). Maybe if I could draw someone to death - or scare them to death with some kind of creepy drawing, maybe put up a canvas between two trees and paint the background and some headless tribute kind of thing or some weird muttation would do the trick but of course it wouldn't what am I thinking. But artists are known for their creativity, their ability to create from nothing, and I must be able to use that because after all I'm at least part artist (I'm mostly just composed of awkward laughter). And that scaring someone to death doesn't even seem that bad, honestly; I'd just have to find a way to do it... And now I'm here great am I seriously going through with this I'm going through with this aren't I and I mean I have nothing better to do because who wants to be that tribute who walks around and shoots arrows at things and misses or slices a dummy's head off but shows no promise anywhere else? I need to be noticed, I need to be brave and proud and confident and let the world know that I am better than they think I am, just watch. I mean the chances of me going home are pretty slim to begin with, but maybe, just maybe, I can make Mum and Dad and Eye proud by making it through the Bloodbath, and maybe those sponsorships will help to get me out of Bloodbath fodder and into Day 2 Deaths. Ick. Alright Ewe, you can do this. Breathe in, Out. That's good. Okay ready? They're calling your name. It's time to go. You'll be fine, they all believe in you, Eye and Mum and Dad, they're all waiting for you to come home. Show them you've tried. The ground echoes and scrapes as I make my way into the room, so much more vast and cold than yesterday, when the trainers were there and there was clashing and booming and so much more noise and it was almost comforting, almost like a gym class except I was always the kid who was picked last so not that comforting. The Gamemakers sit on a raised platform, sipping champagne or chattering or nibbling on bits of toast from the breakfast beforehand (or maybe they just brought it home, I wouldn't really know). If this plan is to work I have no time to sit there and talk to them so I give a quick wave and scamper off as fast as I can, making my way to the Improvisational Weapons station, grabbing wire and dry dye from the Camouflage station, matches and sticks and leaves. With an armful of stuff I head towards one of the demo areas, where the rubber trees stand tall and ominous, the bushes scratchy and far too green to be realistic. This trap has to be prepared quickly, before my test subjects can know what's happening, so I turn my back to the Gamemakers and to the avoxes at the far end of the room, sliding back and forth, winding the wire to and fro, lighting the wood with my match (okay I know how to make a fire and I doubt that the Gamemakers aren't going to be so impressed by it that I need to show them it. It's just a fire.) When it's done and the fire's been burning for at least five minutes (I spent a bunch of the time pacing back and forth, calculating in my head, checking for ways this plan could fail. I'm sure there are many.), I walk over to an avox, whispering in her ear, beckoning her to walk the plank. I tie a cloth over her eyes, making sure she can't see me, can't see the scenery, can't see the event that's about to befall her and I mean of course this is going to look ridiculous but is there any other option I mean really. When she's in position, I snap my fingers once, and she removes the blindfold, looking blankly ahead at the rubber trees before her, covered by a nice lawn of leaves and I'm nowhere to be found. She walks forwards, sarcastically looking back and forth when she hears a loud boom coming from her right as a tin of red dye explodes from the pressure from the fire, sending shards of tin everywhere as she ducks and runs the other way, to the left. Yet suddenly another magenta dye explodes at her feet and she's ducking this way and that, racing to and fro, running away from the exploding dyes that send red, so much red, spiraling up to the sky. The Gamemakers can see her panicked expression, just clearing the smoke that's chasing her like a dragon. And then suddenly she's down, her ankle caught on the trip wire laid before her. She scrambles up to run again, only to be tackled as I jump out of my hiding position in the bushes and leap for her, shoving her on her back with a knife brandished to her neck, my legs straddling her torso, my hand pushing down on her shoulder. We're both panting, she's crying a little. I can feel her heart racing so fast, her fight or flight reactions in full throttle, the fear from the tin and the powder that's in her eyes and the cold silver that lies on her neck. I hope this is enough, this has to be enough. The ground's covered in specks of ruby and primrose and peony and some small metal shards that glint in the light. While some sick minded people might want to call this a macabre form of beauty, it's not beautiful though, never could be to me. The scene ends, the curtains fall, and the buzzer rings and I rise, leaving the avox girl curled up on the floor, walking out of the door with my head held high (and hopefully my score held even higher. Kinda doubt it though)

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.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

More than once since Reaping day, Gamemaker Nox had wished that Ewe Saw were more impressive. District Four could use a good, strong Career victor; it had been many years since their last, since for the past decade or so they'd been overshadowed with Districts One, Two, and, perish the thought, even Twelve. But she supposed their Career training wasn't what it used to be; not only was the boy this year unimpressive, he was disabled. Why had a stronger child not volunteered in his place? So when Ewe walked in that morning, Invidia sipped her champagne and mused over her very low expectations; what could a tribute with a gimp leg ever do to impress her?

He began to build a contraption with tools from the improvisational weapons station; Nox watched closely, knowing that something like this could go either way. He started a fire near the climbing station full of fake trees, and the head Gamemaker began to tap her foot impatiently. Get on with it, cripple, I haven't got all day. She raised her eyebrows as he recruited an avox to display his trap; not unheard of, but certainly not all that common. The avox was blindfolded and placed in a strategic location. Then she began walking.

It happened fast; there was a boom, and the pressure from the burning flames caused what looked like a tin of red dye to explode, and then another, and then another. A chain of pressurized explosions peppered the area, and the avox ran every which way in fear, still blindfolded. Invidia watched in delight, enthralled by this display, and then finally the avox's ankle got stuck in a bit of wire. The next moment, Ewe Saw was on top of her, holding a knife at her throat. For a moment, Invidia thought he was actually going to do it—was she supposed to stop him, or something?—but then as the buzzer sounded he slacked off and stood up once again.

Ewe made his way slowly out of the room, leaving a shaking avox and his mess behind him; there was a brilliant spattering of all different shades of red across the floor. Once he was gone, Invidia began to clap. "Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I quite enjoyed that," she mused, shocked that the District Four boy had actually managed to impress her. She wrote down an 8 beside his name. It teetered on the edge of a higher score, but he was still a cripple, after all.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

[/color]

[/size][/center] [/justify]

[Deleted]

Cassie Radke

[/font][/center]

I’ve been told you only have seven seconds to make a good first impression. That worries me, because in seven seconds you could do a lot of things, ranging from cartwheels to the shooting of a bow. Does that impress people? Does that capture their attention and entice it? If it does, you’re good to go, but if not, you’ve lost your shot. There are no second chances, if you messed up, you’re out; you’re done, goodbye. It’s kind of like the games in general, if you slip up, you’re dead (and not in that figurative you’re-in-trouble sort of way). You’re actually dead, your corpse lying lifeless on the terrain as the battle rages on around you.

Make your impression,
Time is ticking.

As the heavy metal doors moved away creakily from my touch, I started counting. One, Two. I tried to look confident even though I was pretty sure I was shaking like a leaf in the breeze that shook the trees at this time of year. I attempted to put a spring in my step as I made my way into the room, however, it felt as if I was dragging myself through knee deep mud.

Three, Four. “Cassie Radke, District 5.” District five, I missed it. I missed my brother, I almost wished that he was here, telling me what to do, where to go, how to keep my composure even. I almost thought I was back home for a moment, but then I realized I had been frozen in place, almost like a deer in the headlights—actually just like a deer in the headlights. I hoped I hadn’t stumbled over my words yet; it was just my name after all. Hopefully, I hadn’t and I had a chance. I mean this wasn’t my main concern, but a decent, average score would be helpful I guess.

Five, Six. I made my to a miscellaneous pile of weapons and thumbed through it. A sword, a club, and a couple of things that I wasn’t quite sure what they even were. On inspection of the pile further, I saw a couple of different leaves from the odds and ends of plants lying about. I walked over to the first I saw, and moving the debris around it away, called out, in a voice loud enough to be heard, but not quite loud enough to be considered a shout; “This is poisonous,” and looking up slightly I continued, “but only by ingestion,” as I picked it up gently, turning it over in my hand, “but, if you were to eat it; it would quickly go to work in paralyzing your entire nervous system, which, might cause you some problems." Seven.

There went my seven seconds, and I was pretty sure my first impression wasn’t good. Maybe it wasn’t horrible, but maybe just maybe, by some miracle, it was decent. Just decent, that was all I wanted. I continued to search the room, springing from place to place, lying on my stomach here, standing on my tiptoes here, just trying to find whichever plants I could, and identifying them as I found decent. One toxic if touched and another completely harmless, maybe even useful if handled correctly. I relayed my thoughts but tried not to glance up towards the group of adults at the front and center of the room, for I was sure anything I saw wouldn’t be encouraging.

Finally, I figured there was no more to be done, and I made my way to the front. Giving a slight nod, I shook out a couple of words, “Thank you for your time.” and exited as terrified as I had entered.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Before Cassie Radke of District Five came in, just after Shadow Bison had displayed his monkey trips, Gamemaker Nox had had trouble remembering exactly who the District Five female was. She quizzed herself for a minute, attempting to recall the name, but was unfortunately unsuccessful until she announced herself. Cassie. That's it. She'd learned with two Games under her belt that some tributes tended to fly under the radar more than others; it wasn't until they did something unforgettable that they stuck in her mind. Well, girl, here's your chance. Surprise me.

Unfortunately, she did not quite rise to the challenge. Cassie stood like a deer in headlights for a few seconds, no doubt daunted by the presence of so many Gamemakers waiting to be impressed, and then she began a sort of scavenger hunt around the room for plants. She would pick one up, state its uses and whether or not it was poisonous, and then throw it down and move to the next one. The whole thing was quite dull, and Nox found herself yawning more than once during the display. Finally she finished, and left the room; the head Gamemaker wrote down a 4 immediately. This tribute was clearly smart, but that could only take you so far in a ruthless place like the arena. "You've got to be more memorable than that, sweetheart." Invidia shook her head, staring after her as she left. "Plants aren't going to get you out alive."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

[/color]

[/size][/center] [/justify]

[Meghan]

So close to that one. So close.

For Axel, for all those nights of encouragement; love always, the Sheriff.

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[/color][/center]

Today, I am the loyal marionette, pulled harshly by neck and shoulder as part of a convoluted shtick to prove that I am one of the worthy ones. A bullshit tale to weave to the stalwart symbolic knight who sits at the head of the arena for this years games. The principal of the school, so to speak. Whose greatest indulgence came from strapping our lilliputian figures to the strings in a manipulation to her every desire. A line has been drawn in the figurative sand. The moment has come to hand our manipulator her wooden bars. The audiences response had swelled to a roar and our vapid eyes faithfully stare into the crowd. It was time to give the gamemakers what they have been asking for all along. Compliant, consenting, still, docile, obedience. For obedience in the persuasion of assured destruction is the most tender way to fall.

My wooden joints ache with disuse and so they must whip me into place. I stand in a straight line with twenty-four of my companions, attentive to every instruction, every command. We are all ears as they instruct us in their wisdom. We'll have thirty minutes, but if we go over that's okay. Just try not to take too long, they don't have all day.

This score could mean everything, or it could mean nothing. It could either assure our survival or it could secure our death. It was up to us to use this time wisely, for the wealthy pockets were watching us. Frankly, it made my blood simmer. Who did they think they were, forcing us to perform like we were some sort of sick, distorted monkeys?

I already knew that answer. We were their monkeys. We were their tributes.

I thought briefly of this moment for him. Did Cassius feel afraid? I would never know what he dared to do, who he dared himself to become. "He probably had a cigarette in his mouth the whole time," I whisper to myself, but nobody hears me. They were too consumed by their own tricks and trades to pay me any mind. I wonder about them too. Were they worthy enough for yet another game?

What about Storm, or Shadow? Were they going to cry today? I had a feeling they might throw up. They never seemed to have the strongest stomachs, that much was clear. A little fire, a little smoke, a little scare and they had lost it this week. It almost made me want to laugh. To taunt them one last time, for their weaknesses. Yet, I couldn't do that to them, not now. Let them dance for their last banana, for that final hope.

We were all about to die anyway.

The first tribute was called and I was left with my thoughts. I had not made friends with my district partner. He was a boy from the training center back home who had always left little impression on me. We merely nodded to each other and did our own thing as the half hour passed.

The hall continued to empty, and soon district one was gone. Gone.
Gone.
Gone.

What had they done?

I watched Kyle depart with hungry eyes, and my arms began to shake as I thought about what I was about to do. I wondered how they would respond. Immediately? Or would they wait for the arena to seek their revenge?

Only time would tell,

and that time was ticking ever closer.

[/i][/color][/right]

Do not get me wrong. I did not choose my path with an easy eye, for what benefit did it have to me really? These people were not my friends and I could not trust them. Hell, I did not even trust myself, especially in this moment, for what have I done to earn that trust? I have done nothing more than merely exist for fourteen long years.

Yet, I have no interest in trust and no heart in friendship.

So what does it matter?

There is one good thing foreseen in my wood-and-string fairytale today. And even if they killed me, I would die knowing that this mission would soon be accomplished. If only I lived long enough to perform that final act and take my final bow. Soon the queen would understand her crowning jewel, her little puppet from district two. I was the lonesome figurine upon the dusty shelf, I was the shadow in the corner of the room.[/color]

Ready to leap out from the confines of reality to prey upon every crevice of her mind play the game they forced me to play.

I came here to make them not forget.

Yes. After today they would remember me. Beatrice Birch. District Two. The ghost that lurks within their souls, a shadow that plays within the games.

They are calling my name now. "Beatrice Birch." Just four, strong syllables. My heart pounds into my ears, a brief reminder of my humanity.

Boom.
Boom.
Boom.

[/i][/right]

Could I do this? Could I really obey? My hands begin to sweat and I take each step with a cautiousness. No, I couldn't hesitate for what hold did they really have over me? It was time to be a free spirit. It was time to escape their control, to show them who was really the boss of my fate.

And thus, I broke my strings. One by one with a sharp snap, and bounded into the hall with open merriment. I pause only long enough to run my fingers over a swatch of light-switches. Let them be afraid.

I expected total darkness, and feel sorely disappointed for one sorry moment as a stubborn light continues to burn on just above the center of the room. The poor thing would never realize its fate, for surely, I would never tell. With a huff and puff, much like the angry wolf when faced with the three pigs, I stormed across the room and grabbed a bow and arrow.

Proficient fingers found tar and flame, and I lit the arrow up with little fear. Though target practice was not my forte, the light was large enough that I had little doubt in my ability to assure to its extinction, especially in the state-of-fury I found myself quickly falling trap to. My shoulders pulled back and aimed above my head. I released and the arrow shot up like a tornado, hitting the target with a

bang,
bang,
bang.

[/b]

Sparks began to fly in every direction as fire consumed electricity, and for a second I speculated if I would soon cause the entire thing to explode. But no, instead it simply fizzled out, and with it, the lights within the room were gone.

[/blockquote]

Gone.

...and we were clothed in darkness.

I felt grateful for my exploration of the center throughout the week. I understood where everything was, and it came in handy at a moment like this.

A low chuckle caught in my throat as I tip-toed to the nearest table. Useless items, all of them. So I gathered them in my arms and poured them in a line along the floor. I began to hiccup as I tried to hold in my laughter, hic-cup, don't laugh, hic-cup, don't breath.

Wood and metal, paint and rubble, bows and knives. It all went into the pile. I left out only what I knew I'd need, strapping things to my back or pulling them out to what would soon become my stage. Real laughter escaped my lips, uncontrollably. I couldn't help it, and I didn't really care. Let them question my judgement. I wasn't here to hide from them, I was just working up to my grand finale.

I began to tell a story as I worked.

[/color][/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/center]

"There once was a ghoul,
who haunted the dreams,
of those who were marked to die.

He liked to whisper things, you see.
He told them secrets, yes, but he also told them lies."

I sprinkle my final touch upon the rubble and grab a tiny flint. My story pauses and I look towards the game-makers, and their tiny lights, wondering if they can see me in the darkness.

[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

"This ghoul, he played upon their fears.
He thought it was a hoot and a half to turn their shame and worries into action.

Do you know what I'm talking about?
Do you know who?"

I grab a piece of steel, improvising with the rustiest looking knife I can, and hit the flint against it once, twice, until it causes a spark. Happy with the quality of my work, I hold the two instruments above the rubble and laugh again, echoing the ghouls delight. The sparks cascade upon the junk below it and land upon soft, flammable cloth.

I cackle as the fire begins to consume the line of items.
The training hall is nearly bare, and they are going to have to scramble to replace it before the next tribute.

But I am not done. No, not even close. I erupt in motion, for this is what I truly came for.

A moment ago the room was defined by darkness. Now, it is consumed by light and shadow.

And I am the star of the show.

[/color][/right]

A blaze of fire stretches across the center of the hall in a slightly curved line, illuminating my handy work. I am truly the projection, cast upon the screen for the crowd to judge. Light flickers against the white walls and outlines my transformation. I am no longer a mere puppet, but a true heroine, come to save the day as the demons dance around me.

Twelve of them, set in a line, just waiting for my grand entrance. I begin to laugh again, my voice hoarse through the mirror of smoke.[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/color]

"Do you remember this ghoul I was telling you about only a moment ago?" I ask them sweetly and approach the dummies, my boots echoing across the floor

"He had a name. An identity, so to speak.
He had a purpose too.
He wanted to make these people destroy each other because of their fears.

Yet what was the purpose behind this?
Alas, I came here with a story, dear friends.
So just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!"

I clap my hands together then drag them across my belt.

"The first fear," I announce with a solemn tone, my face still hidden by the towering rise of wildfire. It seems as if the shadow upon the wall itself is speaking, and it demands their attention. "Comes from Arbor Halt, a boy of only fifteen. He did not want to own up to what he had done. Once a loyal boy, gentle and even compassionate. But the ghoul pierced his integrity and painted pictures of betrayal into the depths of his soul. In the end, he turned even on those who asked for nothing more than a moment of protection. He didn't want to give up the comfort the demons had promised to him, so he took his allies out and became an instrument of their destruction."

"The second fear comes from a little girl of only twelve. Who did not want to be alone. Unlike her mentor from the previous games, she clung to her ally until the very last fight. They didn't want to give up on each other, yet fear led them to that slaughter! Aranica shot her darts and swung her club and she took her kill."

"The third fear comes from a girl who did not want to murder love. The ghoul begged her to change her mind, to destroy her beloved so that nothing could hold her back from her true glory. Kill me! I'm here, he said! Kill me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for breaking your only request with this demand, but kill me, please. The ghoul destroyed this girl with her only fear, he took her out and she dug her sword into the flesh of her last enemy. Not unlike the sword that caused her beloved to fall, so willingly, so quickly. But at what cost?"

"The fourth, inflicted with the fear of help. Heron rejected her last bit of humanity when she attacked Katie in favor of her own life. She just wanted to go home, for the ghoul had bewitched her. Isn't that what we all want at the end of the day? Oh, but how little people to whom ghoul grants that wish."

"The fifth, afraid of the future. She didn't want to die, and she didn't want to kill, but she had to! The ghoul forced her to, didn't he? Isn't that what you want us to think?"

"The sixth, afraid of the memories. Driven forward by his loyalty he slayed his final brother with ferocity reserved for what only could be an arena. An apology echoed across his lips, one last regret, and he too was taken ashore, to victory."

"The seventh, afraid he would lose his final victory. Oh, and the ghoul let him realize that fear, did he not? Snatched it right from his pretty hands. Drove him mad with it. Julian sliced the head of his deceased opponent right off his neck without a second thought, just to get that final chance, that last hurrah. If only it had meant anything, for that death had already been stolen."

"The eighth, driven to fear almost anything. Pushed beyond his limit, so far that he doesn't even recognize himself anymore. Lost. A murderer of his own loved ones, of his own friends. They declared him king of the castle, did they not? But what is a king without a kingdom?"

"The ninth, afraid of his image. He wanted to be their perfect pawn, but that never was as easy as the cameras seemed to let it portray. The girl from one, or heck, even the boy from nine rose more readily to the challenge and struck the chords that reverberated within the crowd. They were the popular ones, yet they were the first to die, weren't they? Why do you think that is? Why does the ghoul sometimes pick those who seem unworthy?"

"The tenth, oh what a sight she was! Afraid of the ordinary, of all things. She brought both reality and wonder into the arena, shattering anything that ever held the dream of normalcy between its palms. For what fun could a victor of little ambition bring to a world already clothed in black?"

"The eleventh, afraid of fire. A funny fear, if you ask me. A fear both used and wasted, one that brought both death and life. Yet it brought her victory in the end. Its funny how much our fears can change us."

"Did they mean to gain so much from death? From taking the lives from another human being just so they could live another meaningless year upon this barren land? Is that what fear drove them to?"

My hand grazes my waste again, but for what? My story pauses and I stare at the flickering forms upon the wall. Thirteen in total, including myself. I grab a length of fabric, a handkerchief really, and tie it across my face.

I work better in the dark anyway,
and I need no light for this.

I spring to action, my body becoming a series of steps as I draw out my dagger and coat it in tar and flame. Starting with the last, I announce their names and repeat the blows that ended each life.

"Yaa, stabbed in bicep. Dead. River, stabbed in bicep. Dead. Funny how history repeats itself. Wednesdae, sliced on calf. Dead. Fitz, sliced on calf. Dead. History really seems to work in twos. Reyes, stabbed himself in his own heart. Dead. Aesop, degutted. Dead. Razor, deep gash on bicep. Dead. Tabekas, deep gash on back of head. Dead. Dru, bruised femur. Dead. Jared, deep gash on back of head. Dead."

"All dead, all faded into the pages of history. But what about the victors? What about their fears? Are they truly living?"

I swing my body around and ignore the last dummy, for now.

[/i]

"Arbor. Aranica. Topaz. Heron. Lethe. Mace. Reyes. Klaus. Peridot. Cricket. Opal. Didn't they deserve to die?" Ripping my blindfold off, I reveal the truth. I run along the line of dummies, a laugh in my throat once more and swing my weapon, inflicting the wounds that should have killed them.

I push Arbor to the ground, cut Aranica's thigh, slice the cheek of Topaz, bruise the arm of Heron, leave a gash on the bicep of Lethe, cut the stomach of Mace, decapitate Julian, cut the calf of Peridot, stab the bicep of Cricket, and cut the stomach of Opal. The only victor left safe from my elimination was Klaus, the King of Fear himself. For his loyal victim subject had refused to attack in that final breath, and that was something I had to admire. Only Klaus could be allowed to reign.

I halted, my blade still burning, and released my breath in staccato huffs. The flames were beginning to die, and my time had almost faded. It was time for my grand finale, or else I would risk being forgotten.

I drop my dagger and let the floor take care of the last of its light. My feet swivel and I turn to face the game-makers, one last dare on my tongue.

"You're probably wondering what the twelfth dummy is for? Well, I'll tell you." My sword feels heavy from exertion as I pull it from its perch upon my weary back. "You search for a victor from among the ashes, from among your little shadows. Each year you pluck twenty-four of us from our innocence and force us to fight it out, to face our fears and become your beacon of hope. YOU TURN CHILDREN INTO MURDERERS FOR YOUR OWN AMUSEMENT, AND YOU DON'T EVEN REGRET IT."

"AND I HAVE COME TO ASK YOU WHY. YOU KNOW, I COULD BE YOUR CHAMPION." I run to the dummy and raise the sword above my head, yet my screams echo throughout the entire hall "I. COULD. BE. YOUR. CHAMPION. I COULD." I bring the sword down and slice the dummy straight in two. It pauses for a crack in time and I watch. Breathless, tears within the corners of my eyes, before the blood begins to shatter and I find myself covered in its hot liquid.

The dummy falls,
falls,
falls.[/right]

And I stand still, if only for a moment.

Then, I turn towards the game makers once more, and wince as the fire cracks beneath my feet. I smile, softly. Beatrice is still in there, somewhere.

"I could be your champion," I whisper a child's whisper, but I'm sure they can hear me, even through the sizzling pops of the dying coals. "Though my fears are just as dark as any of the victors, I think I could conquer them. I think I could use them. You don't understand, truly you don't. I have seen things that most people only see in their nightmares, and I understand what it is like to be alone. My fears alone could fill this room with ghouls. But I am here, and I am about to enter that arena with those little children... I am their shadow."

"I could be your champion. But do I want to? Do I really, truly want to? Tell me something, Ms. Nox, Ms. Gamemaker. Do we have to have a champion this year? Does somebody really need to go home, to be restored to their previous way of life? Why is that? The games change people enough already, can they really, truly be restored? I don't think so. The victors never seem to be the same. Murder changes people... the games change people. Yet, here we are, year after year. Victor after victor. Is that what you want? Another victor? Another shadow, another empty box of a former person?"

"What a twist it could be, Ms. Nox! To send home twenty-four instead of twenty-three. I kind of like this game of death! This dance of truth and slaughter. The other tributes, they don't really understand. They have not yet tasted the blood upon their lips, and they don't understand the nightmares. They don't see the ghoul for what it truly is, and they don't see the shadows that lurk just past their hearts."

"The stage is set before me, Ms. Nox. I am ready to rise to the challenge. I am ready to be the nightmare within the arena, if I have to be. I am not afraid of inflicting death. Just pull my strings, and I will be there, my arms raised to their final extinction. But in the end, Ms. Nox, in the final moment... what will the occasion bring? When the final tribute falls what will you ask for me to do? Go home? Be happy?"

"I don't think I can do that. For you took my final happiness away two years ago. It was you all along, Ms. Nox. It was the Capitol. The Capitol is the Ghoul, and the Ghoul inflicts the fear. The Ghoul turns us into murderers, AND THE GHOUL MURDERED MY BROTHER CASSIUS."

"In the end, if I'm still standing. I don't think I can do it. I don't think I could go home. For what was my home is now gone... gone... gone. Taken from me. And I will return to him. Whether you like it or not. I will return."

"I can be your champion, Ms. Nox, but I will do it on my own terms."

I drop my sword and bow my head. It's dark again, not enough for the light to be completely gone but enough for me to leave quietly. I say nothing more, for I feel as if I had made my point.

Slowly, wordlessly, I walk out of the hall. The mood so different than the boundless energy I had when I came in. Its somber, and I feel full of solitude. I had no idea how they were going to respond, or even what score I would get, but I still felt proud. [/color]I had both stood up to their authority and obeyed.

I needed to find Iago, or Kyle. Or anybody. Somebody who would help me put things into perspective. I was beginning to feel like a madman of sorts. Had anyone ever pulled such a crazy stunt?

"Probably," I laughed once more as I emerged into the hall. I was covered in ash and soot. I had truly become a shadow.

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size][/center]


[/td][/tr][/tr][/table][/center]

Word Count: 3701

Thanks to Onyx for help with the header and dreams for fixing the table!

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Beatrice Birch just looked like she was going to cause trouble. She had a mysterious, devious look about her, that girl from District Two, sister of a bloodbath victim in the 63rd Hunger Games two years previous. Would she amount to something, unlike her brother? Perhaps—she seemed to have a harder countenance. But already, Gamemaker Nox did not like the look of her. In fact, she did not like her at all. And her private training session would only validate this.

Frankly, Invidia had been unaware that it were even possible for someone to talk that much. From the moment she walked angrily into the gym her mouth was going, at first telling cryptic stories as she piled various training tools along the ground. Then all the sudden—and Invidia had almost known what she was about to do before she even did it—she set them all ablaze, rendering useless many important gadgets that were difficult to replace. "Insolent girl!" Nox cried, slamming her fist on the table before her, but Beatrice was already going on and on again, too busy speaking to hear the head Gamemaker's frustrations. She performed a sort-of puppet show with the dummies, telling a chilling tale about the paths each victor had taken to victory. That's all very well, but your storytelling is not going to save you from a torturous, painful death. I myself will make sure of it.

At the conclusion of her show she brutally maimed each dummy with a sword, leaving only one of the eleven that represented victors untouched. At this point Invidia was already devising a clever death to force upon this awful excuse for a tribute, but then it only got worse. She began speaking to—more like insulting—Nox directly, and the Gamemaker pierced her with a signature death glare the entire duration of her pointless rant. You will pay. You will most certainly pay. Then suddenly it was over; she dropped her sword and walked from the room, her mouth shut for the first time since she'd come in.

Every gamemaker in the lounge muttered their utmost disapproval as soon as Beatrice was gone. The one was already written down beside her name—she'd never seen a tribute so stupid, and would've given a zero if it had any precedent—but then Invidia slowed, realizing what this would mean. Giving a one attracted far too much attention; sponsors, audiences, and other tributes would know that something peculiar had happened in that gym, and they would be too intrigued; she needed to make Beatrice disappear, to make her entirely unremarkable. Coming to a conclusion, she erased the first number and penciled in a 3. That would do the trick. "Oh, you will die. I don't yet know how or when, but I can be particularly creative." Nox forced her fists to come unclenched and directed an avox to replace the burned items at once. "And it most certainly will hurt."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[semper]

s h a d o w b i s o n

”Shadow Bison.”

Hearing your own name made your feet root to the cement ground right before the heavy metal doors. Were you ready? Did you really believe you could do something to amaze the gamemakers? I don’t think I can. They wanted to see feats of strength and ability and you possessed none of that. All you ever did was run and hide (does that count as an ability?) and you were so little that even the attack dummies were nearly twice your size.

What can I do?

The training center was all metallic, it seemed. There was a patch of artificial grass for some station that you remembered from previous times in there, but other than that it was purely silver and grey. You bit your lip and cautiously stepped through, flinching when the heavy doors closed behind you.

So then you were stuck.

The gamemakers up in their little overlook didn’t appear like they anticipated a very good show and you didn’t blame them. Your mind was frantically searching for anything to impress them but wound up dry. You swallowed hard, moving away from the overbearing gazes of the gamemakers and stepping around the shadows of the obstacles to explore what you had to use.

There were plenty of weapons around (most of which were either too scary-looking or much larger than you) and the dummies towered overhead; there was not much you could work with as fluidly as you figured the bigger tributes could, so you continued to search around until you came across the knife shelf that Mantel had spoken to you about.

The knives had a huge assortment of shapes and sizes, and frankly there were a few of which you weren’t sure which end to hold. You reached for the most rudimentary one, just a simple blade about as long as your forearm and a cold steel handle. You bit your lip as you held it. Maybe this blade has actually killed someone. The thought almost made you throw the knife down but you hastily remembered that you were being watched, so you choked back the fear and clutched the weapon tightly.

Great, you knew what a knife was. But then what?

You lifted your gaze to find something to effectively use the knife with. A dummy would be ideal, but just standing and hacking away at the thing would not be very impressive. Perhaps you could use the dummy with something else? Your attention lifted upward and that’s when you saw it: the cargo nets stretching across the rafters.

A plan began forming, pushing away the fear that demanded to tag along with it. I have to leave my mark – if it’ll even leave one. At least I’m trying.

Unfortunately for you the dummy was not in a good position for you to carry out the plan. You slipped the knife through your belt carefully and then placed yourself on the side without the shadow, holding onto the pole below the fake torso and tried to pull it in your direction. It was unbelievably heavy and you found that out rather quickly – the dummy tipped but remained in place, hardly having moved at all. A look of disappointment crossed your face and you looked back up at the cargo net. It could still work, luckily; you would just need to adjust the angle.

There was another rope that dangled down from the ceiling just beside the net. Climbing was something you had great experience with: during your free time in Five you always climbed trees, reaching up as high as you could before you feared the branches would snap. The rope was different, you knew, and the motion of climbing it was different, but you figured you’d give it a shot. You avoided shadows that stretched across the ground as you made your way over and took hold of the rope, climbing up to the best ability your weak strength could allow. Imagine it’s a branch-less tree. You tightened your jaw and struggled up the rope, eventually reaching the top and checking to make sure the knife was still securely in your belt. But then came when you had to transfer to the cargo nets.

You stretched out your short arm and came to the unfortunate realization that it was a few inches out of your reach. The panic started bubbling up once again, seizing hold of you. What now? What now? You clutched tightly onto the rope, hands burning, and thought as quickly as you could. Right at your eyelevel was where the rope connected to the ceiling and the mechanics of it alerted you to the fact that it could move and swivel so maybe I can swing to it? You shifted your weight side to side, side to side, moving to and fro until you were moving just a bit closer to the nets. Even the short distance you traveled was enough to close the few inch gap and you grabbed a hold of the edge of the net, taking a deep breath before letting go of the climbing rope to haul yourself up onto the top half of the net.

Your arms shook from the unusual amount of strain and you found it hard to keep yourself balanced atop the net. A few things were stored off in the corner – possibly more weapons? – but you ignored them, focusing instead of the dummy that was now a good distance below you.

Crawling across the ropes became easier as you travelled, circling around the points where carabiners held the netting to the ceiling. The first thing you realized was that there were no shadows to scare you and it made you smile. The light fixtures were at your level and so their light shone below both you and the nets – perhaps…

You ventured closer to the lights and reached down through the square pattern in the rope. The light bulb would undoubtedly be hot but your hands were already numb enough from the rough rope. With your fingertips you quickly twisted it one way, shook your hand free of the burning sensations, then another quick turn, and another, and another, right until it was nearly ready to fall out. The light had since stopped so you patiently waited until the bulb was cool enough to hold, then you took it and held onto it.

After a bit more crawling the dummy was directly underneath you. It wasn’t much but you carefully held out the bulb and aligned it with the dummy’s head and dropped it. The clear glass swiveled in the air and shattered atop the head, shards raining down on all sides of it. A little grin came to your face. Not much, but something. You then traveled a little ways more and turned around, sitting back on your legs.

Judging the length of rope it would take certainly was a daunting task. In the real games you wouldn’t have any time to really plot things out so you would have to wing it. It looked about right to you so you pulled out the knife, using the serrated edge to cut away at the rope. You severed the sides, leaving you with a dangling rope that had knots and what looked like little wings; on and on you continued, cutting away and lengthening the rope that grew longer until it was right about with the dummy’s torso. Once satisfied, you pulled the rope back up and crawled back to where you had originally began cutting. The anxiety was starting to settle in again, causing your hands to tremble and second thoughts to enter your mind. Is this really going to work? It was certainly out of your comfort zone and no amount of imagining yourself in a tree would settle the nerves. At some point in the near future that dummy would become a real, breathing, living person. Would you be able to do it then?

Your jaw set tightly and you gripped the knife in one hand and the rope in the other. The gap between the net was very narrow so you had to weasel your way through, but once you slipped free, gravity immediately took over.

Your feet quickly found a hold of a lower knot and you gripped as tightly as you could, squinting your eyes and feeling light on the sheer panic and sensation of dropping. A shriek escaped you as you flew and you nearly forgot to wield the knife as you approached the dummy; the knife was pulled out but you fumbled with it, failing to find a proper grip before you sailed by. Disappointment cut short your shriek and thoughts raced through your mind. Make up something, quick. Carefully you twisted the knife around so the blade pointed backwards as the rope swing rose up and paused momentarily, falling back down the way you had come. This time you were ready: you held the handle as tightly as you could and reassured yourself, reaching out with your arm and driving the blade into the back of the dummy. The force of the impact was so strong that it caused another startled yelp to sound from your throat. The knife was torn from your grip and you were left spinning while the rope continued to swing – the room around you sped by in blurs of silver and black, a sickening feeling starting to blossom in your tummy. You tried to still hold on to the rope, you honestly tried, but the forces tugging you in each direction was far too strong and you lost your grip, sliding off the rope and smacking against the floor.

While you had succeeded in stabbing the dummy, you certainly hadn’t ended with the finesse you had wanted. Your head was still spinning as you crawled to your hands and knees, sitting back on your heels until the room stopped going in circles. I actually did it. The rope was still dangling from the cargo netting and you could see the hilt of the knife protruding from the back of the dummy’s neck. The ghost of a smile started creeping across your face, aftermath of the adrenaline rush. I really did do it. Granted, the dummy wasn’t alive, but you felt the sneaking desire to believe that you could somehow defend yourself in the arena just like that.

Maybe I won’t be forgotten that easily.

And then, once you really thought about it, the swing down from the roof was actually fun. On top of that you had actually hit the target with both the light bulb and knife (the light bulb was just a spur-of-the-moment decision to do – it wasn’t as damaging as the knife attack but it satisfied you enough). You watched the glass shards surrounding the dummy shine and reflect while you moved to stand up, just a little bit taller than you did when you first stepped into the training room.

Maybe I’ll make Lethe proud, maybe I’ll outdo Cassie, maybe I’ll somehow strike fear into Iago like he did to me. Maybe I still have a shot at this.

For the first time, since you arrived in the Capitol, you smiled. You were much smaller than the rest of the tributes and so it didn’t surprise you that you were overlooked. Maybe you could use that to your advantage.

”Seeya soon!”

[/size][/justify]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The boy from District Five was really quite small—but then again, wasn't everyone in these Games? Gamemaker Nox could not hold back her excitement; the quell had been in the works for so long, the twist was perfect, and everything was going right. Well, don't get too excited yet—you've still got half the tributes to go. Invidia clasped her fists together and gave a small smirk as she watched Shadow Bison walk into the room, looking rather scared out of his wits. As per usual.

She looked on, amused, as he tried to move a dummy that was many times his size and even more times his weight. You're making a fool of yourself, boy. It merely tipped; it didn't even move an inch. Invidia spent a moment wondering what else this kid had up his sleeve; only a moment, because then he began climbing the rope near the dummy, his tiny body looking very like a monkey as he ascended. To her surprise, he made it all the way up to the cargo nets that lined the ceiling and began crawling towards… a light bulb. What? Why were the tributes so bent on destroying her gym? insolent little bastards. She watched in disapproval as he unscrewed one and dropped it directly onto the dummy. It shattered in a pretty array of glass, but Invidia rolled her eyes and gave one of the avoxes a look that clearly said, your job.

If he had been done there, he probably would've gotten a 2—solely for his climbing ability—but it seemed that Shadow Bison had more to show. He began to cut more ropes in the netting with his knife—did this child know nothing about vandalism?—but then he did something that was actually fairly interesting: he swung down from the cargo nets on the rope that he'd sliced, careening straight towards the dummy, and impaled it on his knife. He landed less than gracefully, but at least he'd managed to hit the dummy before that. Invidia paused, biting her lip, picturing him doing something like this in the arena and actually realized it might be a good strategy. If you had rope, it would be easy enough to create some sort of ambush contraption while hiding in a tree, and if your victim was oblivious enough you could actually get away with it. "You might actually have some potential, little one," she muttered to herself, writing down a 7. "Just work on your grace a little bit. No more crash landings."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

[/color]

[/size][/center] [/justify]

[uwu]

Thoughts
Actions
"Speak"
"Others Speak"
Others Actions
Other

Today wasn't going to be a good day. I woke up multiple times in the night from nightmares, mainly of me dying in the bloodbath or watching one of my new friends getting torn up from a mutt while I couldn't do anything. So when my alarm clock officially woke me up, I wasn't myself. I felt all clammy and nervous. I felt my pillow, and it felt wet, probably from all the cold sweat from my sleep. Today just won't go well. And today's the stupid privet training session today! Crap! I take a shower, hoping that it'll calm my nerves. As I get out, I feel better, but not 100%. I don't really think about my clothing today. I just choose out a shirt and some jeans. I don't really care for dressing up today. It's not like it's going to be anything special. Just a place where I get my score. For the games.

My escort, Glitch, took me to the place where they held the session. As we get closer, I realize it's just in the same place as the normal stations were before. I sat down on the seat by the door, waiting to be called. "Kyle Jones." Finally took long enough. I wonder what the District one people did? As I walked in, I looked up to the box where the gamemakers sat. I nodded in their direction, then proceeding to walk over to the dummy. Hmm... They'd probably be expecting me to do something typical, like pick up a weapon and attack the dummy. I should probably do something different. Something... unique.

As I came up to the dummy, I decided to use my hand-in-hand combat against it. I threw I couple punches for warm-up, then I used a thrust kick against it. I don't know if I should be scared of what happened next, or proud. I heard the dummies fake bones crack, and then it went flying. I didn't mean to kick it that hard, but it happened. I watched it soar over to hit the other wall about 500 meters behind it. I didn't really know what to expect. I knew that it would move, since it was on a table, but I thought it would be connected to something, so stuff like this from happening. I eventually got my stuff together, and bowed towards the box.

"This is Kyle Jones of District 2 for you." I kind of regretted saying that, but didn't care at the moment. I walked calmly out of the room and walked on to who knows where. Just somewhere away from there.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

She had much lower expectations for the Careers this year, mainly because they were all so small and young. In a typical Games, children reaped at this age would have been volunteered for in a heartbeat. But obviously that wasn't an option in the 65th Quell. Kyle Jones was somewhat larger than his other Career counterparts, but it was certainly nothing that would give him a huge advantage. She was curious to see what a Career not even halfway through his training would have to offer.

Immediately after walking into the gym, he began to beat up a dummy with his bare hands. He had interesting nerve, that was for sure; even the burliest of Careers usually chose a weapon to aid him. But the issue was that in the arena, the tribute with the blade would win; there was no doubt about it. It didn't matter how strong you were, unless you were able to sneak up behind your opponent and snap their neck, which undoubtedly no one in these Games would be capable of. The tribute with the weapon won. So even as Kyle managed to send the dummy flying backwards with a thrust kick—not an entirely unremarkable feat—Gamemaker Nox was left relatively unconvinced of his survival skills. "Watch your back, kid—you try that in the arena and you might swing around to see a knife at your throat." She wrote a 6 down in his slot.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[Deleted]

I a g o
I z a r – M c C l a i n e

•••

{They'll laugh as they watch us fall,}
{The lucky don't care at all,}
{No chance for fate,}
{It's unnatural selection,}
{I want the truth}

•••

Sleepless nights have been spent preparing for this moment. While others wasted their waking hours devoted to the study of slashing blades and cracking whips, I honed a skill that has never failed me before: my honesty

[/color]. There are those here that would like to deceive themselves. They hide behind dreams of grandeur or of their own failure, as though these gossamers protect. Delusion is more apt: boys and girls spend a week thinking they could prepare for doom. I see the girl from one with hands like claws pawing out her attackers. How many hours will save you from the drip, drop of poison that finds its way to your lips? Or how about being felled by the unlucky spear, straight through the eye[/color]? Preparation proves futile in the eyes of all we’re up against.

Chaos.[/color]

I find the word like a child left out in the cold; ignored for her sisters luck and chance, favored only when all the tributes have gone up in arms toward the same brass ring. We all have the same odds on our platforms. The buzzer signals the beginning of a ramble of legs and then—the pluck of faster feet will determine who gets slashed to bits. But what about the ones that take mercy?[/color] The boy from five will have his day at my fingertips if I have my way, but I have no quarrel with the boy from four or the girl from one. And so all odds are twisted, with no clear cut solution. Just a gnash of limbs flailing about, until chaos reigns supreme. A voice calls from the speaker. Iago Izar-McClaine.[/color] Today I am not an Izar—no dreams in my eyes, but a steady, resigned look toward the doors that open. I am all McClaine.[/color]

A chorus of faces greets me from above, and I march to the center stage. “Iago Izar-McClaine, District Eleven.” I rattle off my name, as though they hadn’t steeled their eyes already. Even I haven’t let the nervousness leave my stomach, and I stutter step toward the waiting knives. There is to be no talking here—a fool wastes time bargaining with the ones deciding my fate. Nor do I need the help of anyone else. Why use an avox when the dummies work so much better? My hands are fast as I throw a coil of rope around my shoulder and begin braiding. First one dagger, then another, then another—until, four in all, they sit on an outstretched bars like a set of teeth waiting to devour. They rest on two long branches, with a piece running across the center. Crude, but enough to do the deed.[/color]

I am not a fighter. There will be others that show their footwork, I’m certain, or how they can juggle knives. A bead of sweat drips down my brow and I slap it away with a palm. I can feel their eyes bearing on me but I’ve already moved for the heavy axes. A braided net of chords and soon I’ve strung another to be hoisted to the rafters. My eyes search the table until I see them staring back at me, and grab full hand round the hand mirror. I smash the thing to chunks on the table. Over and under, I find the roots needed to make a small box. I remove my shirt, my skinny frame gleaming in the light. I know they can count my ribs but I step forward and wrap the cloth around my box. The shards of glass are lodged into the waiting spaces above. Atop all of it I place apples, the glistening red prize for any stupid enough to reach through the box to get them.

I move back to the center and grab at one of the dummies. In a swift motion, I grab the opposing strands of rope to coil around the false tributes face. I give a sneer and a tug, setting the trap into a motion. Blades swing like pincers against the wax flesh. The face contorts under pressure of the blades, slashed once, then twice, until broken into pieces. I put my hands on my hips to survey the cluttered mess I’ve left behind—face gone, just as the one from five will be if he were to stumble into it. I swing back toward the other dummy, grab it by the arm. My box hangs, innocent and drooping with my shirt, just out of reach. I force the hand inside, and it is music to my ears. Shards of glass rain down, and a hand reveals pieces gashed across the thing’s wrist. To think this was the most merciful I could come up with.[/color]

I spend my last minutes with legs around the waist of a dummy, and move him into the spotlight. The last finds his arms stretched in an “X”, tied and splayed on the ground. I pull the rope taught until there’s no give for any of the limbs. Here’s what will become of anyone stupid enough to truly get caught.[/color] I walk slowly toward the edge of the room. I snake my fingers around the waiting cord, and look from the game makers to the dummy. With a tug, one axe swings down, close but not enough to graze the skin. The other follows, closer. They come back again, this time slicing into the waxy flesh. Swinging faster, they chop through the polymer, and with one solid swift motion, the thing is torn into two pieces. If only there were entrails to show the waiting splatter that would have followed.

These all were not meant to cause my foes to tumble and fall. They could just as easily avoid them—though I doubt many of them were smart enough to know how. And yet I am less concerned with slowing them down in a fight than I am in taking off their faces, or slashing their wrists. I relish the thought of tying one up and hearing him scream mercy. And mercy I’d give—two birds with one stone: a dead competitor and a message for all those thinking their ends would be anything but just. Begging for death will prove to be so much sweeter, especially with the little boys and girls of the districts and their pathetic sob stories. Whether I win or not is of no issue—instead, I will leave them smashed, battered, and unrecognizable until they beg that the end had come sooner.

I give a bow and lick the sweat trickling down my lip. I exit without a word, not bothering to look back at the disfigured dummies. Soon it would be limbs, not wax. Blood, not air. For if I was to leave anything behind, it would be chaos in my wake.[/blockquote][/size][/justify][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The lower district private sessions had been going… well, interestingly, so Gamemaker Nox had honestly no idea what to expect when the Eleven boy walked in. The one thing that had kept Iago Izar-McClaine in her memory was that he was a volunteer; he had stepped up for the boy who shared half of his last name, Sampson. So rare was that in a lower district that you couldn't help but keep it in your memory. And he looked fairly competent, too, save for his obviously underfed appearance; the head gamemaker found herself legitimately interested to see what he had to offer. This better be good, or you've hyped the entire nation up for nothing.

He had a clear plan in mind, stopping for nothing but to announce his name and district to the Gamemakers. She leaned forward in her seat, munching on the last bit of shrimp from the extravagant lunch that had been delivered earlier, and watched as he began to construct something—why was it that all the tributes were building? But his was different; in just a few minutes, Iago had constructed an elaborate, bladed trap, with a set of glistening red apples as bait. She'd never seen anything like it before—but would it work? He pushed a dummy into the fray and Invidia watched as it was sliced up as easily as a loaf of bread.

Its face was torn up from the force and accuracy of the swinging blades, and then he forced the hand of another dummy into the box he'd built for the apples, and shards of glass swiftly sliced its wrists. And at last, a final dummy was caught, splayed out on the ground, and at the mercy of falling axes that quickly sliced it into bits. Invidia's eyes grew wide in delight as she imagined this happening to a tribute in the Games—it would take quite a lot of effort and supplies on the Eleven boy's part, but he'd clearly shown his ability to construct elaborate traps. "Well, now that I've seen this, you better deliver in the arena," she hissed at his retreating back as he left through the gym's double doors. "Or this—" the gamemaker came to a conclusion and wrote a 10 beside his name. "—will not be merited." It was a high score, yes—some would perhaps say too high. But she wanted the other tributes to be afraid of this boy. She wanted him to be noticed. So that when they would fall into his trap, the show would be all the more entertaining.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
remember me as i was not as i am
and i said i'll check in tomorrow
if i don't wake up dead
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

[/color]

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