PTS made public

[Python]

A thread where show-offs like me can post their PTS for all to read

[Python]

All their laughing and their talking and their wasting of our time, and it hurts to see them now

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L A I L A S Y C A M O R E
DISTRICT5 | THIRTEEN

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I can’t breathe. The fabric of her training uniform was taut and constricting, hugging every inch of her body when she’d rather be adorned in something loose, something that would let a breeze roll through the cloth to prickle her skin with goosebumps. There were no breezes here, though – only the icy breath of air conditioning in a narrow hallway with silver walls and twenty-four tributes, minus nine now that Laila’s district partner was locked away with the Gamemakers performing tricks as if this were a circus. Best of luck to him, even though she doubted his talents and his ability to impress anyone but psych ward employees. Claude was off his rocker, she knew that. She wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, but at least she didn’t despise him.

”Laila Sycamore.”

She was already sick of hearing that name. It wasn’t even her, this “Laila Sycamore.” She was just Laila, and she lived in the Sycamore house. How dare they assign such a cursed name to her? Her face scrunched up into a sour scowl as she stood up and walked to the automatic doors, sucking in a harsh breath and exhaling it through her nostrils. She knew what she was going to do, and it would take courage. It was bold, it was rebellious – it was exactly who she was, and nobody would like it. What else could she do, after all? Try to truly impress them? With what? She was an animated stick figure, thirteen and too weak to defend herself. She could stab inanimate objects with tiny knives because the trainers wanted her to, so she had practiced. But what good would that do? Everything in the arena would move, and move toward her. Straight for the kill. Stabbing fake people wouldn’t accomplish anything.

She marched into the room wearing a stoic mask. Make them think she wouldn’t be terrified of this arena while she stirred through restless nights imagining of all the ways she could die. Make them think she was confident. Make them think she cared for the time being. “My name is Laila,” she was surprised at how defiant she sounded, how loud her voice echoed. She would not squeak under their pressure. ”You’re not going to like me.” A ghost of a devious smirk flashed across her features only for an instant before she turned around. The private training session and their precious “scores” was a waste of her time, so he was going to waste their time as well. What use was a number anyway? It was only for publicity and for sponsors, two things she wouldn’t receive no matter how hard she tried. She was an invisible child from district five, hopeless and small. Nobody would care, so she wouldn’t bother trying to impress her dimwitted audience.

It took a few minutes for her to set the stage. Seven wooden dummies lined up in front of the Gamemakers, propped up on poles, no arms or legs. Faceless, unlike her, yet to her audience she might as well be. To them she would only be a canvas for carving and killing like the dummies she practiced on every day with the other tributes. She wouldn’t feel guilt ruining these soulless things with a sharp edge. They had no mouths to say “No” and no eyes to plead silently for life. Right now, shoving the tip of a blade into the first chest was simple, and raking it down was almost just as easy. There was no skin, no blood, just splinters and shavings as she repeated the same movements until an engraving was left behind. A scar in the shape of a large ‘F’.

F is for fun, which I’m having right now.

She moved onto the next dummy and carved a second letter, tongue wetting her lips as she concentrated.

U is for understanding. Nobody will.

The third dummy made her hand ache.

C is for colors. There are none here, just grey and black and brown. In the arena there will be red, and I hate that color.

K is for king. I’ve always wanted a king for a father, because then I’d be a princess instead of a stupid orphan.

Her palm was sweaty and stinging from her firm grip and the constant friction. Would skin be any easier to carve?

Y is for year. Every year two people from district five walk into this room. Now it’s me. Who would’ve thought?

O is for organ. Last year when I watched the Quell, I saw too many.

U is for underestimating. People will do that to me, and I bet they are right now.

With a large “Fuck You” in display Laila would’ve giggled if not for her aching hand and sudden onslaught of anger. She immediately hurled the knife uselessly toward the Gamemakers’ perch, and as it skittered harmlessly across the floor she sprinted to the camouflage station and grabbed two cans of paint. She repeated this process at the fire station, withdrawing a pack of matches. There were racks and racks of weapons large and small, long and short, deadly and ridiculous and she didn’t want to see any of them anymore. Fuck your weapons. She unscrewed the lids, heaved the cans up and doused two racks of weapons in paint, coating them in shades of green and brown. That wouldn’t last long. She crashed into the racks with all of her body weight, little as it was, and toppled them over. Metal crashed against the floor and weapons bounced out of place.

She took out a match.

The odor of smoke triggered a gag reflex. She tried to swallow her nausea as flames erupted from the floor like orange spires. The destruction was not as extensive as she had hoped – the objects weren’t flammable enough, but damage was damage and she wanted to watch everything burn, just like the old Sycamore house had. Did the Capitol help them when they were starving and freezing in a house painted with ash and soot? No, so she would burn their shit too, even if it made her sick to her stomach. ”You look upset,” she said, examining at all of their expressions. Scowls, frowns, they mirrored her own tiny face. ”I don’t know what you expected. I’m a thirteen year old orphan from five. Do you give district five training centers? No. We don’t get shit.”

”My only talent is throwing tantrums.” She looked at the dummies behind her and the burning she had caused. ”This is the first one.” The first of many others to come, she thought. And then she walked away, flashing them a bird with her right finger – a gesture she learned from a friend.

_____________________________________________________
template by chelsey

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

I like Laila Sycamore.

I like her because she doesn't care whether or not I like her, and that sort of stony indifference from a little thirteen year old girl is eye-catching. She'll be a fan favorite in no time. So when she walks in with a vicious glare and a blunt "My name is Laila. You're not going to like me," all I do is beam at her.

Azure's been keeping her eye on some of the older tributes, but this little one's got more potential in her little finger than most of them have in their entire adolescent bodies. More spark, more brashness, and it shows when she carves a string of expletives into the training dummies facing us.

Azure scowls. I burst into hysterical laughter. Little Laila keeps going, desecrating a rack of very expensive weapons and setting them aflame. Somewhere between the acrid smell of burning paint and her middle finger rising proudly into the air, I start up a slow clap, the impact of my hands colliding the only sound in the room other than the crackle of flames as Laila Sycamore turns on her heel and marches out.

The other Gamemakers are dumbfounded. Azure looks ready to kill someone. I smirk to myself and reach for my clipboard. "I like her."

Laila Sycamore - 10

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Argo had always preferred to go first. He would always volunteer for the first sparring match, spin the bottle before everyone had even gotten settled, sat at the front of the class. Even if he wasn’t especially good at something, he wanted to be front and center. So, being de facto first in front of the Gamemakers pleased him to no end. He barely had time to exchange anything more than pleasantries with Francesca, his district partner and ally, before ARGONITE SHORE boomed over the loud speaker. He sauntered between the rows of tributes. At the last moment, he turned on one foot, a perfect pirourette.

One hand to his heart, one hand to his fedora, he bowed. He pinched the tip, readying his signature move. And at the last moment, he winked at Magenta. “Better luck tomorrow.” He flicked it up, so that it set well above his forehead. He’d chosen a mahogany cloth fedora with a silver seal from the collection his stylist had thrown together. It didn’t quite match the uniform, but it was subtle enough not to clash. It bounced cheerily atop his head as he entered the empty training center. He waved to the men and women behind the shield, and then approached the heaviest throwing boulders.

It took him a moment, but leveraging his body weight, he managed to push one free. Argo rolled it across the room, letting it stop just in front of the Gamemakers. A line of sweat beaded his brow. He climbed atop it, sitting with one leg bent, resting on his knee, his hands clasped in his lap. “I’m Argonite Shore, of District One. We don’t know each other very well, and I think that’s a shame. So I want to start off with what we do know. ”

“Azure Herodotus. Jareth Amell. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He bowed at the waist, hands to his chest, and held that posture for a breath before coming back up with a smile. “I know you’ve all been watching me for the last week. I thought it a waste of your time to watch me play hide and go seek, to throw spears into the heart of every dummy, to light a fire between my hands. I know you recognize my name, because I’ve had two sisters train in this very room. Some of you might have even met them. ”

He swallowed; his smile faded. This would be the only time he would allow himself to feel this way. This was the only time he would allow himself to be tortured. “Emerald Shore.” He meant to say more. He meant to detail her training, her brilliant combat. But her name stuck in his throat. He hadn’t said it in so long, he’d forgotten the way it tasted. Like iron and ash. “And Opal Shore.”

Argo rocked back and forth, letting the boulder start to move beneath him. When it had a rhythm all its own, he folded both knees to his chest and then dropped them to either side, sitting indian style. “I’ve been luckier in life than most people I know. We Shores, we’re tough. But we’re also a lot of fun, if you give us the chance to win you over. I’ve got so many siblings still at home. Brothers and sisters you’re going to see some day, right here. And they’ll be great. Better than that. Stunning. Because we’ve all been trained for the glory of the Capitol. That’s why I’m here. To mark my name down in history, to pay penance for the damages of the Uprising, and to remind everyone that the strong survive.”

The boulder slowed. Argonite paused, looking around the training center, trying to imagine Emerald and Opal playing out their private training sessions. He sighed. “People ask me all the time if I’m doing this for Emerald. If I’m going to avenge her, or make people remember her.” He blinked, the memory of tears in his eyes. “But I’m promising you, Azure and Jareth, right now. I am not going to speak her name once I leave this room. Because I am not going to win because Emerald died. I am going to win because Opal lived. Because her victory is forever.” His conviction comes in the sheen of his teeth, the furrow of his brow, the flex of his arm. He can feel it in every bone of his body as he slides off the boulder, landing deftly on his toes.

He steps forward, fingers to his lips, and blows them a kiss. “For the glory of the Capitol. ”

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

Private sessions have never been my favorite part of the Games. Everything about these few weeks is built on grandstanding and false pretense, and I know (and love) that, but for some reason watching all the last-ditch grabs at approval seems a little too clichéd. I might as well be back in high school, sitting at the popular kids' table, watching the lesser beings engage in their own little social Hunger Games for that one empty seat. It brings about the same opinion now that it did then. Vaguely sad. Decidedly pathetic.

However, I'm optimistic about the first name on my clipboard. The Shore name commands a healthy amount of respect here in the Capitol, and for good reason. Opal has been a hit as a Victor, and When Emerald went down in the 63rd, people talked about the battle for weeks. Legacy tributes always turn heads, and I have to say, Argonite Shore is worthy of those head turns.

He walks in with an easygoing sort of confidence about him, a winning smile. This is the face of a boy who has everything going for him - a lifetime of training, a particularly deadly skill set, and the benefit of going early enough that all the Gamemakers watching are still attentive - and knows it. So now the only thing to do is wait and see what he does with that potential.

And he talks.

Argonite Shore talks for every one of his fifteen precious minutes, rolling a boulder across the floor and sitting atop it as if to regale us with some charming campfire story. He's articulate and magnetic, talking of his sisters and glory and strength, but that's all he does - talk. He talks right up until he leaves the room with a kiss on the air and all of that confidence still holding his head high. For a moment, I can't even process it. This is my first tribute of the day? No, this has to be bigger than I'm making it. I've been watching Argonite all week, I've seen him wield weapons and survival skills effectively. To come in and blow a training session with family stories? The rabbit hole goes deeper than one might think.

"I think we've got a Dark Horse on our hands," I mutter to Azure, feeling like Argonite Shore has very pointedly not shown everything that he's truly capable of. Maybe he's saving the brutality underneath that winning smile for the unsuspecting souls in the Arena. Still, I have to grade based on what I've seen - a strong personality and the ability to roll a rock across the floor.

Argonite Shore - 3

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Kire]

◘ C l a u d e ◘ A e g e r ◘

Does, Says, Thinks

I see the sweat is dripping
That's because you know just what I'm thinking
Don't look back it's me who follows
And there ain't nothing from me you can borrow

This whole time Claine had been preparing me for this moment. We sat outside of the room, nervous energy causing my leg to bounce against the bench I sat on. Claine, beside me, was still. He looked forlorn, his eyes gazing up and down the hallway as if searching for something. I don't think he found it. "I remember when I sat here. It was so long ago, it hasn't changed much but certainly enough." I listen silently, my nerves choking any reply from my lips. I still didn't know much about Claine, just that we looked so similar we might have been brothers. If not for the age difference, we could have been twins. My hand clenched on the leg of my pants, creasing the fabric as I thought. There was still nothing I could come up with that would serve me well in the arena, no tactic that I would be able to use or trick I could perform that would help me any. I wouldn't be able to do anything, I would be a failure and die right away. There was nothing to show the Gamemakers, I may as well go in, tell them my name and just stand there. Anything I attempted to do would be a failure.

Claine shoved me further down the bench as yet another name was called and I scooted one space closer to the biggest embarrassment of my life. "What am I going to do?" I didn't try all that hard to lower my voice, so I'm sure someone heard me - it wasn't like I cared at this point, though. I might be the first person to ever get a zero, that was more embarrassing than anything anyone might say. "You'll find something." Claine sounded a little smug, like he knew something I didn't. For all I was tempted to retort I bit my tongue. Arguing with a shadow when I was in a hallway full of people wasn't exactly a brilliant move. Silence pressed as once more a name was called. Did people really not take that long to show their talents off, or were there more people like me who had no idea what they could do.

You like to hide behind lies, but we see through your disguise
It's not a threat or a curse just a proper verse
I'm gonna make you let go of what you tried to withhold
And I can promise it won't be long, yes I can promise

I didn't hear my name called until Claine nearly shoved me off the bench and onto the floor. Cursing, I stood and glared at him. Whether or not I looked crazy was far from my mind as I ground my teeth. "You're up." The stuck up little brat gave me a big grin and stood, grabbing me by the arm and towing me inside. "Smile, you're performing." I certainly didn't feel like smiling, but I managed to at least keep from scowling. Glumly, I gazed around in search of something I could do reasonably well. All this time in the training center and I hadn't gotten anywhere close to being able to properly wield anything. I felt so lost, and I wasn't even in the arena yet. I thought back to what I had seen at the reaping - the pile of my guts laying on the ground in a puddle of blood and ooze - shuddering slightly. Even then it had felt like an omen, a prediction, now it felt like it would be the future. I would be gutted in the bloodbath, the first death left to rot until the fighting had ceased.

That was when I was punched in the teeth. I snapped back to the present, hands curling into fist as I shifted into a defensive stance. In front of me stood Claine, a wicked grin on his face. My jaw was sore, and I checked each tooth with my tongue to make sure none were loose. "What did you do that for?!" He just smirked at me, raising his fists into a fighting position. I simply stood there and watched him for a moment, until he punched me again. It was meant for my eye but a moved and his fist connected with my cheekbone. I was scowling now, my clenched fists growing tighter as I swung at Claine. I missed his ear - which had been my target - but caught him in the side of the head anyway. He stumbled a bit and I sneered. "Whatever your doing, it's not going to work. You claim you're going to help me and then you start attacking me?" I went to grab him but he slipped out of my grasp, grinning wildly.

You think the war is over
I've only shown you the tip of the iceberg
And you rely upon your lawyers
But at night when you sleep does it bother you?

I spun to face him again, blocking a lazy punch heading towards my gut with a forearm as I tried to smash a fist into his glee-filled eyes. "I am helping you, silly. Now they can watch you fight." Snorting indignantly, I reached out to grap the front of his shirt. I missed, but my fingers closed around his arm and I dragged him closer to me. Just as I went to wind back a punch and hit my target for the first time this whole day, Claine kicked out and hit me in the shin. I snarled, sending my fist at him without aim and somehow getting lucky enough to catch him in the face. My knuckles suck into his flesh, hopefully leaving him with a lovely black eye later. We exchanged a few blows, more minor than before, until Claine hooked a foot out from under me and we toppled over. Rolling, I tried to pin him beneath me. I landed blow after blow but the only one that did anything was the last one, breaking his nose and causing blood to run down his shirt.

My knuckles were raw and I wiped the blood on my top. I placed a forearm over his throat and applied pressure, compressing his windpipe. "Give up?" Somehow, despite all of the injuries I had inflicted, he still grinned. "You have to do better than that." I glared, leaning down and pressing my forearm harder against his throat. I gritted my teeth, staring hard into his eyes. "Give up." It wasn't a question anymore, it was a demand. I was done with this, all I wanted to do was leave and nurse my injured knuckles, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of holding out. I would leave here dominant. The feeling surprised me, the deep instinct driving me to be the alpha something I hadn't dug up before now. When Claine attempted to shake his head, unable to talk with his trachea being crushed, I brought my other hand back and struck him in the side of the head. He looked dazed, and I wondered if I might have hit him too hard, when he looked me in the eye and then away.

Is this good enough for you man?

I asked him for the final time, "Give up?" Slowly, restricted as he was by my weight on top of him, he nodded. I gave a curt nod and stood, leaving him to pick himself up as I turned to face the Gamemakers. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, blood leaving a little trail of red on my clothes, as I looked at them. "Thank you for your time." I left, not looking at Claine or the Gamemakers or anyone else. I was off to have a nice shower and go to bed.

Boy, you better pray
We don't seek you out, no
You better hope
We might lose control, no

OTHER
Please note that Claine is a hallucination due to Claude's Schizophrenia and does not actually exist.
Words: 1206
Lyrics: You Better Pray by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

There have been several... interesting sessions so far, but I think that out of everything I've seen today, Claude Aeger is the most disturbing.

I've seen people fight with dummies and fight with punching bags, but never fight with nothing at all. I watch with a horrified brand of fascination as the boy from Five flails around on the floor, screaming at something that isn't there. Well. Interesting.

That's how it goes for his entire session, but I've got a substandard score on the paper long before he leaves.

At least he'll be fun in the Arena.

Claude Aeger - 4

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto]

TAKE YOU BY SURPRISE FIRE.

[/presto]

"I feeeeeeeel like I've been put inside a petri dish."

I have been.

Oh.

Sometimes similes don't need explaining because if you don't get them that's probably alright. I was never created to be understood, I don't think that anyone was; we're all such strange things. The thing that starts us funny, like a motor choking on it's on its own fuel, is the fact that when we start out we believe ourselves to be sane. Well that's a lie, I, hate to break it to you. We are mad as hats. (Why are hats mad? We don't know, they are, we said so, fuck you.)

We live in a world that has a star to watch over it, that has a moon that circulates it out of love, but mostly out of gravity. (Ewe taught me that, you know, before he took a flail to the knee.) I live in a world that gets bored. The sun rises and sets every day, without fail, and boredom exists. There is a bird that flies so fast and hard when it is flying home from its winter travels that it dies in mid-flight, unable to keep up with its own heartbeat. Why? Who made it like that? No one did, it's called evolution, kids. Ripred doesn't exist. If he does, then what the hell is this? If he exists, he doesn't care. He let this happen. He lets it happen every year. Twenty-four children die every year. I mean twenty-four. No one survives, not really. He just lets it happen. He's like a father that spent a life in an armchair, drinking and ignoring his kids so why do you even want him? I hate the guy. I'll kill him next.

I spent a whole hour once in the woods, rocks pushing themselves into my knees, trying to bring a bird back to life.

If sanity is regularity, then I claim that humans are insane. Do you want to know why?

I grab a few spray cans from the paints table, a belaying rope, a harness and a knife.

There is an Avox that I could stab in the throat if I wished and that's one reason why humans are insane. I'm pretty sure the Avox that stands demurely in the corner now is the one I spent telling my life story to all week. I asked his name but sanity claims that he's not allowed to communicate with me and he stared straight ahead. I wonder how many times the pup had to be whipped to learn that trick. I give him a salute and begin to climb the netting beside the viewing stage. Easy-peasy for me, I've been running through open air since I was young. I've never really felt comfortable on the streets. Why settle for ground when there is air to sea to walk across?

I grip the knife between my teeth and pull myself up until I reach the ceiling. With a grunt, I grip the netting that acts as foliage above the floor, and clip my rope through it. I go in a network, moving around in a line above the stage so that I can travel. I may be absolutely insane, but safety first. I tie myself off, and give the rope a tug to make sure I am secure, one hand gripping the netting, my two feet hooked in as well. I am now center stage, but they can't see me yet, I haven't lifted the curtain.

I give one last tug on the rope and let go, plummeting down towards the floor.

I catch the ends behind me, running my hands raw and red. The stop is sudden, a jolt, my body rocks and a grin spreads it's self so sharp across my face that I might cut some corners and cut myself open right here.

Well, I won't.

There's a picture to be painted.

We know now, what I am. It's become a tiny bit obvious in the past while. I mean, people would suspect it, what with my brother dying and then me volunteering for the games, I mean, I must be. Yup, I am definitely a dirty rotten scoundrel who tags his district with eyes and rescued a boy he barely knows. Shameless. I shrug at the observing parties and I concentrate very hard on not giving them both fingers. I do a very good job, I suspect Claire will be impressed when I tell her.

I unhook a can from my harness and give it a good shake. Black makes a perfect base. Expertly, I kick my legs out and swing myself back and forth, reaching for the walls so that I can rebound myself and get the paint completely covering the glass. There are spots still when I'm done. Ah, well. Everyone needs a good spy hole.

Finishing that, I take the red paint and begin the first few letters of what I need to say. It's to answer the question that I've been hearing all week. Why. Why, why why. That's all they know how to say here, but for the Avoxes who seem to be tongue-deficient. I hope that this will clear things up. I mean, I could have done many other things. I'm pretty proficient at first aid after all the years I spent cleaning up Ewe after he got bullied, or after this past year when my mother forgot how to fix me up because the Capitol took her boy and her brain away. I also could have kicked a few dummies heads off. There aren't many who can accomplish what I can in the Dojo. I needed a way to get all that anger out see. It was good because it worked but sometimes, just sometimes, you have an anger that is too big.

I stick my tongue out and narrow my eyes in concentration as I spray paint onto the glass. It's an interesting texture to paint on. I may never go back to cement. I get one word down, and use some yellow and green to paint some decorations along with the lettering, making it into something beautiful and I like to think, classy. Finishing up with the first bit, I shake the can a bit more to get the red flowing again, and start spraying. The can sputters out on the 'U' so I drop it to the floor below me.

I don't have more red, and I'm up here. The red is on the table, back there. Looking down towards the Avox, I sigh, "You don't think you could....ahh. Forget it, I know."

I pull the knife out of the harness and flip it in my hands a couple times. Gravity is weird; flipping things in the air is weird when you are in the air. If I was more interested in science, I'd ask someone why this is, but the thought is only fleeting. I flip the knife up and catch it, bringing it in one fluid motion to stab into my thigh. I dig it in deep; I need a lot of red for this. There's a saying that artists put a lot of themselves into their work. I've always believed in that. Humming to myself, I take the black can and twist the nozzle off. The rest of the paint meets the floor in a daze and I pull the knife out of the wound to let blood spurt into the can, storing the sharp metal in my mouth. It takes a few minutes to be filled, but eh, I can wait. When it's done, I take the bloody knife from between my teeth and shove it back in my thigh for safe keeping.

I can deal with this type of pain, I've been taught how. It's the other I find difficult.

I work pretty quickly after that, I don't really want to take too much of their precious time. I was planning on spending the afternoon getting Willis drunker, it was really fun earlier. I hope they are sitting in dark boredom back there. I give the middle finger to the wall behind me in case of video cameras. If they have them, they can see what I'm writing anyway. I finish the words, I finish the flowers, and I let myself down quickly at first, and then slow. I leave my ropes system up there; I don't have time nor care to bother with it.

As I walk out, I pull the knife out of my thigh again and head over to the Avox. There is one last thing I better do if I want to send the message that I'm not messing with them. I hate to do it, but sometimes people are just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He looks apprehensive as I near him.

He doesn't move away as I get closer.

My grip tightens on the knife and I bring it towards him as if in slow motion and there is fear in his eyes and I am staring so intently he can't stop me now my knife is flying towards him and he can't even defend himself the poor guy because he's been trained not to and I

Use the knife to cut a strip of white fabric off of his uniform.

Quickly, I tie off my wound to stop the blood flow.

"Sorry," I say pleasantly, and then turn on my heel, tossing the knife to the side as I walk (with a slight limp) away.

Before I exit, I take one last loving glance at my work, most likely the last piece I will ever make. It looks lovely there in the light, and I am triumphant. The fancy lettering turned out perfectly.

As I turn on my heel, I mutter the words under my breath, that cocky grin sliding right back on my face.

"Because fuck you, that's why."

[presto]

FUCK THAT, I CAN DO ANYTHING

[/presto]

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

I know, I know, I typically write off anyone that deigns to hurt themselves for the sake of shock value in a Private Session.

But Eye Saw... Eye Saw hurts himself for art.

I watch with breathless rapture from the minute he walks into the room climbing up to the ceiling and swinging from his rope like an acrobatic ribbon-dancer, paint blooming from his fingers. The talent, the concentration... it's nothing short of entrancing. And when he runs out of paint, that doesn't dissuade him. No, Eye Saw is committed to his art, so committed that he gives it a part of himself, finishing off his project with his own life's essence. What he has to say is so important to him that he's willing to bleed for it.

"Because fuck you, that's why."

Well, there's a sentiment I can identify with.

Behind me, the rest of the staff are in an outrage, wailing about how we'll be an hour behind after the cleanup, but all I can do is sit there with a Cheshire smile stretching across my face. Eye Saw gets it. He knows exactly what he's going into.

It's not an Arena. It's a canvas. And there's no one I'd rather have paint it red.

Eye Saw - 11

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Anna Banana]

MARY ELLEN GOULDING

"WE'LL BURN THE WORLD TOGETHER"
_____________________________

"Mary Ellen Goulding"

Oh how I hated that name, it was a name I had cast aside so many years ago, and since I'd been reaped it felt like it was the only name I heard these days. Between the escort, my stylist and my mentor it was "Mary Ellen" this or "Mary Ellen" that. I was sick of it, oh how desperately I wanted to shout at them all that my name was Rainbow, that I had been named that because I was a druggie, that I was a druggie because the neglect of the Capitol left me and my family in a perpetual state of poverty. What better way to make a statement than the one I would make today in that room full of pompous windbags, those fools who sat in their comfortable chairs as they watched us all butcher each other. I would do absolutely nothing for them, I wouldn't show them any of the tricks I had up my sleeve, I wouldn't show them my skill, or lack there of, with a weapon. I would let them judge me simply on the merits of my appearance. The less people knew about me the better, especially if I wanted to make it back home.

It seemed so empty in the hallway as I made my way to the large steel door that loomed up before me, my footsteps echoing around off the walls as if to the beat of my heart. I made my way into the room, my face an emotionless mask as I looked around me. All those Capitol representatives sitting in their comfortable chairs as they watched me, like I was some sort of show to entertain them. Well the joke was on them, I wasn't going to do a damn thing. It would be interesting to see how that would go over with them, especially considering they expected everyone to bow to them like they were royalty. Oh how I would enjoy this, my moment in the spotlight, it would be fun to wave that red cape in the eyes of the bull. Let their ire and wrath be raised, it would make the game far more interesting for me, I'd hate to be like every other District 12 tribute who walked in here and pretended to be some fierce warrior.

I walked to the center of the room and stared up at the people I was supposed to "perform" for. With a mocking bow I stood up and smirked at them, my chin tipped up a little in arrogance as I stared each one of them down in turn. "I'm sure that you're expecting me to grab a sword, hacking and slashing mindlessly at these dummies for your entertainment, and than giving me a "training score" as my assessment. Or maybe I could paint these wonderful colors on me and try and blend in with the artificial foliage you have scattered around the building...well you can forget it. I'm not doing anything for you. I'm more than just a number on a piece of paper, and I'm more than just a pawn in your little game. I'm a human being and I won't be your puppet on a string."

Slowly I lower myself to the floor, glancing at the clock that signified how long I had to "impress" these fools. All I had to do was run the clock down and make my way out of this godforsaken room, and let the games begin. The Capitol had forced me to take part in these Games, well I would be the one part they couldn't control. Oh I would try to win, but I would win on my own terms, I would win without them knowing every little detail about me. They didn't deserve to know any of my secrets, they didn't deserve to know anything about me...my life was my own, and it was time someone stood up to them and showed them that we were all people. Finally the clock ran down without me having done anything for them, I hadn't picked up a single weapon or done anything to possibly entertain them.

Stiffly I stood up from the floor and gave them a curt nod, along with one of my best mocking bows. "I'd say I'm sorry I didn't play along with your little game, but I'd be lying. I don't feel bad about much, and disappointing you happens to be at the very bottom of the list. It's just a pity your seats aren't a little closer, I'd take the time to spit on each of you personally." I beat my breast and salute them with a grin before spinning around and flashing them my finger. "A pleasure meeting you all, the names Rainbow by the way, I always hated my name."

template by chelsey

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

Oh, how cute. We have a rebel on our hands.

But what Mary Ellen Goulding doesn't know is that her little acts of rebellion here mean nothing. If she saves that spark and kindles it in the darkness of the Arena, maybe she'll have a fighting chance. But flaunting her insubordination here? Hardly the first time I've seen someone do such.

She sits there and runs the clock down and walks out having done nothing but give her silly little speech. You can see in the way she holds herself that she expects a one, a zero, wants it. I turn behind me and look up at Glamour with a smirk. We're both thinking the same thing.

You don't know, Miss Rainbow, that I can be a rebel too. You will never get what you want, and I will always get the last word.

Mary Ellen Goulding - 9

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[rook]

to the dark, dark seas
comes the only whale
watching ships go by
it's the day we try

Hello, old friend. Expensive whiskey has always been a guilty pleasure of mine. Most nights I would persuade the other men at the bar to buy me the most extortionate liquors in the house, as a reward for me beating them at darts. Of course I would never have been able to beat them had I not been drunk in the first place. Drink is kind to me - It calms me and allows me to focus. It gets rid of these damn tremors and makes me a different person. It makes me invincible.

This is a mad idea, but it's the only idea I have. My hands haven't stopped shaking since I threw up on the morning of the Reaping. I've been a nervous wreck this whole time, and it's about time I did something about it. Drink usually damns me. Yes, it happens to be the only thing in the world that can stop me from trembling, and it allows me to stay calm enough to throw with such accuracy, but it also condemns me to a cruel world of vile hangovers and heavy depression. Every high has a low, and every second of being sober is a second that I cannot bare. I have become totally dependent on alcohol, and that burns me up inside. Not today it won't. Today drink will be my salvation.

The doctors said that my tremors were a psychological thing, caused by the trauma of losing Pyrian and Gypsy in such a tragic manner. Bullshit. This may have started with the death of the twins, but there's no way this is still going on because of them. I got over their deaths a long, long time ago. This isn't about my psychotic cousins and their pathetic dispute in the Arena. No, this is about me having a physical disability that, no matter how hard I try, can only be temporarily cured by getting drunk or high. I know that if I didn't suffer from this, then maybe I'd have a shot at getting a decent score today, but the fact of the matter is this: I'm gonna have to go in there drunk.

My new friend Eye Saw is quick to adapt to the idea. His enthusiasm amazes me - He lost his brother a year ago, and here he is, acting like he wants to be here. Acting like he's enjoying all of this. He runs around the District Six penthouse like he owns it. Trina, my escort, clearly uncomfortable with a boy from Four being in our quarters, speaks out her protests. Eye tells the pompous Capitolite to shut up, which clearly flusters her further. Nice one, Eye. But luckily I am able to reassure Trina by telling her about how I met Eye in the Training Center, and that we've become allies. Disgruntled, she goes back to reading a Capitol newspaper, mumbling under her breath about how alliances never work.

The training gear they have told us to wear is skin tight, and somehow makes me feel claustrophobic despite being in such a large room. My skin suffocates beneath the lycra fabric, so I try to stretch it by tugging at the looser parts - Maybe that will help. I feel so naked and exposed in this. Eye doesn't seem to mind it at all. The boy from District Four is filled with a confidence I envy. I know that confidence - It's the same confidence I get after I have a few vodkas. Eye is already in the kitchen, scouering for any alcohol he can get his hands on. I'm glad I have someone like Eye on my side. He's a guy who doesn't care if he lives or dies, simply because he lost everything he had the moment his brother died. Maybe he wants revenge, or maybe he just wants to cause chaos. What I do know is that his forward nature and carefree attitude will make dying in that Arena a little more tolerable.

"If we can't laugh at death, what can we laugh at?" I think aloud to myself.
"Hmn?" Eye half turns as he forages through a catalogue of different bottles, trying to select the right one for me.
"Nothing." Ignore me, I'm just rambling to myself about my imminent death. Just continue to act like everything's okay. After a few moments, he turns around with about four bottles in his arms.
"Here, this looks fucking expensive, drink this one!" He shoves a large, brown bottle into my palms with a grin stitched on his face. It is full of what I can only assume is my darling whiskey, but inside amongst the brown there is a white smoke like substance, drifting around. Flecks of what look like gold also swim around the potent, musty drink. What the hell is this stuff? It looks more like a work of art than a drink. I try to read the label, but there are far too many words that I don't understand. I don't really care what I drink, to be honest. Cheap spirits like we have back home, or lucrative premium liquors such as this one - It makes no odds to me. In the end, it all does the same thing to my body. I nonchalantly pop open the top and tip it down my gullet. Hello, old friend.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Who can be sure anymore? Time is water, leaking violently from my consciousness. I am starved of sense and logic, and I find myself exalted.

These walls cannot contain my juvenile hysteria. I run down the spiral staircase, slapping my hands against the walls and howling at the top of my voice. I skip the last step and decide to violently kick over a chair, as I run through the corridor and spin around a corner. I hop into the elevator and jab at the G button repetitively, like that will make it go any faster. I'm buzzing, my whole body and mind is buzzing. My stomach drops as the gravity shifts in the elevator, and it shoots down towards the training center. I hold my hands in front of my face and grin widely. No shakes. No fucking tremors for me. Eye Saw, you're a genius. He has given me hope where there was none. He has given me my confidence back.

All twenty-four of us are filed like paperwork - lined up and assigned a seat. They aren't particularly comfortable, and being in a worse District means that you have to wait longer. I don't particularly want this to take too long, because I really don't know when this drunken moment of madness will end. I just want to get in there and show them what I can do, before my tremors come back. This is great. I feel so good about this. I don't even know why - There's no dartboard there for me to show my skills. I don't even know what I'll do, I just know that I'm feeling a lot more confident about it than I was an hour ago. Yeah, haha. Much more confident.

My foot drums against the floor impatiently. This is taking forever. I watch Eye go in for his session, and then Laila shortly after him. Everything is distorted, but it's a distortion I am accustomed to. One that relaxes me and keeps me calm. I look to my hands again, paranoid that the shakes will return, but they are still steady as a rock. I grin to myself, and then at those around me - When they don't return the grin, I stop abruptly, feeling awkward. Why is everyone so serious about this? It's not like it matters. What matters is what we do out in that Arena, right? A training score will mean nothing when I have an axe lodged in the side of my head. Despite it not meaning a whole lot to me, I feel like I have to prove myself. I have to prove myself to myself. This ain't for them, it's for me. I start grinning again.

My name is called, and the show begins. My head swims as I stand, screaming at me to get another drink. No, I've had enough. I've had all I need. My hands are steady and I'm in the right place. I can do this. I push through the translucent glass doors and into the bright white catacomb. The overlords judge me from their elevated platform, sipping at bitter wines and munching on dried fruits. I am a stain on their schedule, a stupid alcoholic who can't possibly survive in that arena. Well, I strive to be a paradox.

"My name is Willis Keeni." I just about manage without slurring, my face gives away nothing, I hope. I then turn to the set-up before me - Training Dummies scattered across the tiled flooring, arranged randomly for me. Yeah, great. Not exactly a dartboard, but it will do. I want another drink. No, I don't. Focus for fuck's sake. My hands are steady, that's all that matters at this stage. Great, now I'm doubting myself. I start to think about Eye, and how stupid this idea was. Maybe he was against me the whole time, and getting me drunk was part of his plan to get me a bad score. He didn't get drunk, he just got me drunk. That bastard.

The Gamemakers are waiting impatiently, and I realize that time is slipping away from me. My head feels clearer, the drunken state is starting to fade. My hands are not shaking yet, but they will be if I don't get this over with. I pick up a knife, lighter than the usual dagger, designed for throwing. It is thin, but sharp, weighted perfectly to allow precision. I take a very deep breath and try to picture myself in the bar, playing darts against other drunken men. I try to picture myself hitting triple-twenty three times and scoring a 180, as I have so many times. The best darts player in Panem.

How different can throwing knives be?

When I pivot on one foot and arc my arm to allow maximum release speed, just like I have done many times before in District Six, and the knife hurtles through the air at approximately eighty miles-per-hour, I am as surprised as all of the Gamemakers when it hits the first dummy directly in the head.

Oh. Well that's exactly like darts.

With a steady hand, I do the same thing four more times, each time I hit a dummy in the head. What the fuck? I'm amazing at this. When I tried to throw knives in training, I only made a fool of myself by dropping them mid-throw, or missing completely. I never imagined that a steady hand would make it this easy. Yeah, I'm amazing at darts, but darts is a sport. It never occurred to me that I was good at throwing other things - That I have a deadly talent. Eye, you are a genius!

With each throw my confidence grows, blossoming into a deadly display of skill. I wish I had tried throwing things more dangerous than darts a long time ago - I've had this deep inside me the whole time, and it's taken me until now to unlock it. It's just as well I have to fight for my life in a few days, then. I hit all six dummies in the head, each would be a dead Tribute. I aggressively throw two more knives, hitting one fake Tribute in the face and the heart. Dead is dead.

I mix it up in the later stages, hitting dummies in the heart and neck. I relax, finding it ridiculously easy. I should have been born in One or Two, I would have been a kickass Career. I pick up another knife, ready to throw at the eleventh or twelfth dummy, but suddenly, without any warning, I hesitate. Shit. No, no, it's too soon. My hand starts to shake, and panic fills me. The back of my neck prickles with sweat, and my breaths become shorter. Calm down, Willis. Calm down. If I throw now, I will screw up all I have done. I lower the knife and put it back on the table, turning to the Gamemakers. I can salvage this. I've impressed them enough. They'd be crazy if they weren't impressed.

"You best put out some knives for me, if you want your precious ratings and sponsorships to soar," I say, feeling too sober to ignore my red-hot hatred of the Capitol, "Thanks for underestimating me." I walk out the room with my head held high, and my pride in tact. It's a fake pride, because I know that I will not be able to do that in the Arena without alcohol, and that isn't exactly a common resource. I just hope I did enough here to make the Gamemakers think I could do it any time I wanted. As soon as I'm in the penthouse, I go to the bathroom, ignoring Trina's half-hearted enquiries into how I performed. My hands tremble, like they were always going to when the alcohol seeped away from my mind. My head drops shamefully into the toilet basin, and violently spews forth acidic yellow vomit. Hello, old friend.

it's a casio on a plastic beach
it's a styrofoam deep sea landfill
it's automated computer speech
it's a casio

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

There was something to be said for a boy from the middle districts coming in for his Private Session and throwing knives with a form that most Careers couldn't even master, hitting his target every time.

There was even more to be said for him doing it very noticeably drunk.

Someone behind me is hissing about unprofessionalism and impertinence, but I find myself grinning like a Cheshire Cat as I watch Willis Keeni sink knife after knife into the sedentary dummies. If he can do that drunk, imagine him sober. I just chuckle as he sways out of the room, scrawling my pen across the paper. Oh yes, I'll be watching this one.

Willis Keeni - 7

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Spesh]

hannah mcewen

Today is what I've been preparing for my whole life. I should be worried: my hands should be sweaty, I should have butterflies, I should really just be suck to my stomach. But I feel done of that at all. I feel, to be honest, utterly fantastic. I'm not worried about my father, and I sure as hell bet he is not worried about me. Nor am I worried about how Argo -- Ripred I want him so badly -- or Francesca -- bitch better back the fuck off -- did in their private training sessions before me. Just like me, they've been training for this their whole lives, and they won't fail.

Hell, even Magenta, that girl from one of those shitty Districts will probably do well. Maybe she'll strip for the Gamemakers.

Maybe I should strip for the Gamesmakers, it would work.

I'm sure she'll be fine.

I'm confident most of the time: back in District Two when I was training, all of the time that I spend with boys, and just generally in life, I al confident. Sure, my nose sucks, but even with this flaw I still carry myself well. Yet right now, I feel more confident then ever. It must be my acute preparation.

Even as they call my name, my confidence does not waiver. I stand up ready for anything, check myself out in the gleam in the diamond ring token that Daddy got for me (Wasn't that just oh so very nice of him?). My hair looks good, my eyes look good; I'm ready to go. I keep my shoulders straight back as I bounce out of the room holding the twenty tributes who will try to put on a show after me.

I bet they'll fail to impress.

The gym is bright as ever, maybe even brighter than normal. It's probably because my star shines so bright that they keep it this way. I'll make it a note to ask my mentor, Julian, about the lighting of the training center. I bet he'll laugh at my confidence.

"Hannah McEwan," I say, flashing my pearly whites at dressed up men and women who are Gamesmakers, "District Two Female." I make sure to keep my voice nice and sweet, there is no need to scare off the people who are supposed to be giving me a good score. Let them be surprised by me.

"If you don't mind, I would like to sing during my session. I hope you find my voice enjoyable." I quickly stretch out my back and cough a little. Ahem. I hope that was cute like I was told I should act back home. I always wondered why the trainers never thought a girl like me should be sexy. I did hit on them enough.

"I got my ticket for the long way 'round," I begin as a search for the throwing knives. I need to find these throwing knives, otherwise I'll lose my calm sense of demeanor. Even so, I continue to smile as I search with my eyes. "Two bottle a' whisky for the way," There the throwing knives are! I cal my walk over to them. "And I sure would like some sweet company. Oh, I'm leaving tomorrow. What do you say?" I get to the knives and pick up eight of them.

Thankfully, I don't have to do anymore brisk walking to get within range of the targets. I dare not take too much time to size up the targets, but I do turn turn my head to face the Gamesmakers and sing,  "When I'm gone," I turn my head and throw a knife straight at the dummy, "When I"m gone," and I throw another knife slightly lower, "You're gonna miss me when I'm gone!" A third knife leaves my hand, aimed lower than the one before it. One knife hits the dummy's head, the second hits the diaphragm, and the final one lands right by the inner thigh.

Before the third one even hits, I'm off towards a second dummy, "You're gonna miss me by my hair, you're gonna miss me everywhere," I throw two more knifes at dummies that I'm passing by. Each of the dummies gets hit in the head. "You're gonna miss me when I'm gone," slash slash hack. 

I look at the dummy in front of me and see a rather disfigured face. I can't help but smile at my multitasking as I never was supposed to sing in this training session. I was supposed to throw knives -- and isn't that just typical of the female tribute from District Two? -- and smile. But hey, maybe the Gamesmakers will appreciate this show of my ability to multitask.

I walk back towards the Gamesmakers, smiling a cute but not overly aggressive smile the whole way. As I stand in front of them and curtsy, I quip,  "I hope you're going to miss me when I'm gone."

I then make sure to add on the more traditional, "Thank you for your time."

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

I've known ever since the Reapings that Hannah McEwan of District Two was a charmer. She came off as all sweetness and light, an impression that followed her right up to the doorway of the Training Center and them promptly flew off to God knows where.

If she comes out of this, it will have less to do with her skills and more to do with the way she can work a crowd, something that I must admit I admire. That much shows in how she skips about like a little schoolgirl, her pleasant voice bouncing off the walls even as she carves up the training dummies ruthlessly. Viewers will like that juxtaposition. I keep jotting down notes as Hannah keeps singing and slicing, noticing how she falls into a beat with her strikes and never falters. Career skill with the social grace of a professional actress. A dangerous combination, indeed.

She flounces out with a little smirk, and I find myself thinking as I write her score out that we might not have to miss her when she's gone. That sort of thinly-masked ferocity might just bring her out of the Arena alive.

Hannah McEwan - 7

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[kousei ♚]

Ari Newton

So they dug your grave
And the masquerade
Will come calling out
At the mess you've made

The sound of my curtains opened and the gradient sun rays is a rude awakening, it shakes me awake suddenly and I look around, blinking twice and sitting up. Tasmain has come to wake me up. I want to say it, I want to say 'please just leave me' but I can't. Just speak your mind damn it. It's funny, my whole life I tried to view everyone as an equal and yet I find the guys in the Capitol rather... intimidating. And yet they're human... just like me. I don't want to get up, just tell him I don't want to get up. But I can't. Why can't I just speak my mind? Reluctantly I groggily slide off my comfrotable bed for kings and follow Tasmain into the main room.


It's strange. Back in the Capitol I'm treated like a king above all kings and yet here, here in the training center I'm treated like nothing but a warrior in training. But I'm far from a warrior. It's true, I've never been much of a fighter, it was always Damien, Damien got his fingers dirty, he plunged his hands in the filth so I could keep mine clean. Well my hands are plenty dirty now. My escort told me to relax whenever I'm in the penthouse and I guess he has the right idea. After all I can't be all stressed out. I haven't really been talking much to Moss lately, I've just been focusing on myself. Yea call me self-centred.

After eating one of the best breakfasts I've ever had (oh who am I kidding, everything here is the best I've ever had) and showering (I quite like these showers, way better than the buckets we use in eleven, I like the way the water just sprinkles onto you and you just hand to scrub yourself a little bit, instead of sitting down and dumping bucket after bucket after bucket of water on you) and changing into my training centre clothes I find myself walking back down to the waiting room.

I'm one of the last ones there. I'm one of the smallest, skinniest tributes here. But that doesn't mean I'm the weakest now does it? I let out a groan when I realize how long I'll have to wait, all these big strong careers will get to go first (the spoiled pricks) and I'll be waiting in this chair for hours just for my damn session. Why couldn't I just sleep until it was my turn? It wouldn't have been that hard, but no. I have to be treated like a rat and made to do things I don't want to do, why can't I just be treated like a king all the time? It would be a much more enjoyable experience. But I would be lying if I said I wasn't anxious, the Gamemaker's, the people who were probably planning my death the moment they saw me volunteering. But jokes on them because I will make that plan fail, I made a promise.

What would you do Damien?

After sitting around for what felt like an all agonising eternity I hear my name.

"Ari Newton."

That's me.

I slowly get up and begin to walk towards the centre. This sensation... it's so much similar to when I took the stage, but that time there were millions watching me and now there's only a few people. So why is it harder? In what feels like another eternity I find myself facing the bored looking Gamemaker's. I weakly wave at them and look around the room.

My knees are shaking, the kind of shaking I used to get when during the cold nights at eleven. So why am I shaking now? It's not even cold? But the atmosphere is very chilling... So what did I learn in three days? Skills I needed back at home, mostly survival stuff. Fire, fire, that's probably the most dangerous thing I learned to do. And fire is a form of death but also a form of life. I think it's about time to show how deadly fire really is. I quickly go and grab a jar of tar and some firemaking equipment.

The words I saw next aren't as calm as I wanted them to be; they tumble off my tongue and hang in the air. "Y-you know i-i-it's funny. F-fire that i-is. B-back in eleven w-we love f-f-fire, keeps us warm and all that. B-but here, but here it's so much different; you see I could be using th-this fire for so many things," I begin, I open the jar of tar and smear some on the outside of the jar. "I could b-be u-using it t-to keep myself warm. I-I could b-be using it t-t-to make it l-lighter. Back in eleven fire is life."

I give off a weak smile as I quickly wipe off the tar on the floor. And then I make the fire on the fire wood, I gently touch the fire on the large smear I made on the jar and suddenly it's as if the jar is alight in my hand. Luckily for me I only generally smeared part of the jar with fire but I know it will start burning my hand again soon. But for now I am weilding death! I turn around and face a dummy, spotting it. I give off a loud grunt and throw the jar of tar with all my strength, the jar shatters on impact with the dummy and it's like a fire bomb, an explosion almost. The glass shatters and the tar inside is instantly set alight by the fire that had been burning on the outside. A make shift bomb.

This resulted in what could only be described as an explosion of fire. The fire engulfs the dummy, it washes over the dummy like a tidal wave and before I know it the dummy is set alight. "But here, fire is a killer." The sight of the burning dummy mesmorises me. I turn around and give a quick bow of my head and stride out of the room as quickly as my shaking knees can take me. It's funny, back in eleven I could've given anything to be near a fire on a cold day but now, now I'm doing all I can to get away from it.

I'd hate to think what would happen if that was a tribute.

______________

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

What tributes don't often realize is that the Hunger Games aren't all about death and brute violence. The Games are an art form. Mindless slaughter just cheapens it, and so mindless slaughter isn't waht the Gamemakers, or at least me, want to see in Private Sessions.

I want to see art.

And surprisingly enough, Ari Newton of District Eleven gives me that.

That bomb he tosses is like a fireworks display, a sort of destructive beauty in the flames that I can already see in the canvas of my Arena. I nod approvingly as he walks out, scribbling down a solid score.

I think this one's going out with a bang.

Ari Newton - 7

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Sage]

Waiting, something I’ve never been very good at. I’m sometimes quite impatient and it doesn’t help that I am going near the end. Today is the day that I will be judged by the game makers, my private training session that will finalize my training score and could either get me sponsors in the Arena, or get me killed. I sit on the bench, my hands fiddling with my district token nervously. What am I going to do? I wonder because honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do today, what will impress them? What will make me stick out in their minds? As one of the last districts to go, I know that the game makers will probably be getting antsy and bored, I have to get their attention if I want a decent score. I don’t look at anyone, not even my allies Aurora and Luke, who Aurora seems to be trying to set me up with, and continue to play with my necklace.

Colin, are you alright, are you looking after Briar? Lark and Aspen, are you guys staying strong? I hope they are being stronger than I am. I don’t feel strong at all but I know I have to keep the façade up. These benches are really uncomfortable, too hard to be sitting on them all day. As the waiting area empties out, I begin to relax a little bit, even looking around. Aurora’s name is called and I smile at her encouragingly. I know she’ll do well. Now, it’s just a waiting game. Come on, I just want to get this over with. About five minutes later, my district partners name is called and I am left alone with the pair from twelve. I cross my legs, trying to find something to distract myself with. “Moss Rose” The monotonous voice calls and I take a deep breath, standing slowly and padding towards the gym. This is it, the time to show them everything. I square my shoulder and put my head up, stepping into the room and looking up at the game makers. I’m assuming they probably already know who I am but it makes me feel better to announce myself. “Moss Rose” I say before looking around the room. What do I do? That is when it hits me, a sudden, violent anger that consumes me to the point that I’m seeing red. These people take pleasure in seeing us die, they can’t wait to throw us into the arena and cheer on our killers.

I dart to the weapons stations, picking up a sword. I let my anger flow as I launch myself at one of the dummies and shred it, the stuffing flying around me. When the dummy is mutilated, I turn from it, searching for another dummy to mutilate. It feels good to let my outrage at being forced into this situation out. I do not want to impress the game makers, I want them to see what I am capable of. I launch myself at another dummy and shred it, the sword slicing through the stuffing like butter and I know that I must have the stuff all over me, I don’t care, I am pissed off, pissed off at the game makers for doing this to me, pissed off at the Capitol for making me do this, and just pissed off at life in general. My blood pounds in my ears as I kill the dummy grotesquely and I can feel eyes on me. I am not a weak girl from district eleven, I am a fighter and I will not die without taking someone with me. The sword, after only having used it for three days feels natural in my hand, like an extension of my body that can be deadly. I will not let them underestimate me because I am not weak, nor will I ever be.

I feel the anger drain out of me as I look down at the mutilated dummies, my work here is done I think. I turn to the game makers and bow, a smile playing on my lips. “Thank you.” I say before stalking out of the room, my feet making almost no sound as I exit the room. I think that should give the game makers something to think about. I wonder what score I’ll get.

Template by Kiah

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

For all the perks of being Head Gamemaker, the monotonous part was finally starting to hit. Hours of watching this year's tributes make increasingly futile efforts to impress me was starting to wear thin, and I could barely even manage to nod in acknowledgement when the little blonde from Eleven made her way in, going straight for a rack of swords.

Oh. How original.

Still, my eyes paused mid-roll when I saw how ferociously she went at one dummy and then another. Not Career-level form by any stretch of the imagination, but... there was a ferocity there that deserved merit. She might not have the skill, but she certainly had the spunk. It was up to luck to see how far that would get her. Humming contemplatively, I scrawled out a footnote across the bottom of the page on my clipboard.

Moss Rose - 6

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Stare]

chapter ( the third )

my love, i am the speed of sound
i left them motherless, fatherless
their souls dangling inside out from their mouths
but it's never enough

(His hand connects with my face in an explosion of pain that leaves my eyebrow bleeding and my teeth rattling in my jaw. I stumble back, clutching my face, sensing his advance. My leg lashes out, the toe of my boot smashing into his shin. He curses loudly and lunges toward me, but I’m too fast, ducking out of his way before he can touch me. I’m not so lucky the second time. Something hard crashes against my skull and suddenly I’m on the floor gasping for breath, my vision swimming.

I hear his footsteps and am able to focus just enough to see the silhouettes of my sisters huddled against a wall. My teeth grit together, the blood from my cut leaking into one eye. I see his hand raise up and suddenly I am on my feet again, wrapping myself around his fist, driving him back.

“Keep your bloody hands off of them,” I growl, shoving him into a wall and slamming my palm against the plaster near his face. To my surprise, he flinches. “You hear me? You don’t touch them.”)

My trainers taught me to be silent, feet padding against the ground soundlessly. They taught me how to breathe in and out in harmony with the sounds of the world around me so that I become a natural part of it. They taught me how to move with the wind, how to understand the heartbeat of the earth, how to be fluid like water, yet dangerous like fire. They taught me and I excelled in the fine art of being as quiet as life itself.

When I walk in for my training session, I am loud.

I am a storm, a hurricane, a tornado, raging in with wild eyes and heavy breathing. My escort offered me no advice - probably because I have yet to remember his name - and Luke and I haven’t spoken much since the train ride here. I was left to my own devices to come up with ways in which I would impress the Gamemakers. It was a bad idea from the start. Nothing good would ever come from locking me, an eighteen year old girl with a temper, in her room to brainstorm how to please her killers.

I’m not afraid. I’m not nervous. I’m not rebellious. I’m angry, and I’ve never been quiet when I was angry before. Why start now? Whipping around to face them, I allow myself one deep breath. “I apologize for the massacre in advance.”

I immediately snatch one of the dummies and throw it against a target, grabbing several of the nearby swords and using them to pin it through the shoulders and stomach to the board. My fingers wrap around a jar of red paint from the camouflage station and I mark the dummy’s chest with a large X, condemning it, before I begin. The rage within me turns to liquid adrenaline and I mutter every swear word I know as I begin gathering other weapons and slamming them into the false body, if only because I’m morbidly curious as to how many will fit. This isn’t about standing out. This isn’t about demonstrating my skills. This is about releasing the pent up frustration within me and showing them that they’ve made me furious and I will not hide that resentment just because they are the Fates, dictating my doomed destiny from places of invincibility.

Once I find myself unable to shove any more blades into the artificial flesh I find a new victim. Again, I paint the red X, slowly, carefully. By this point there is a consistent flow of insults and curses flowing from my mouth. They’re directed at the Gamemakers, whether they know it or not. My escort would be horrified at such vulgar language, but the blood is roaring so loudly in my ears that I can’t bring myself to care. I hack this one’s arms and legs off. The next marked dummy loses its head.

Finally I lose interest in inanimate objects, snatching the red paint and walking to the wall beneath where the Gamemakers sit, painting out two long, crisscrossing lines. My fourth X. And oh, I plan on tearing them apart, just like I did the dummies. Stepping back, I stare up at them.

“This is your fault.” It’s so low, my voice practically trembling with rage, that I wonder for a moment whether or not they heard it. I repeat myself, just in case. “This is your fault. I’m going into the Arena and it’s your fault and if you think you’re going to get away with it, you are dead wrong. If you ever even try to come near me before I get to that Arena I will rip you limb from limb, you hear? There will be so much blood they’ll wonder how they never found the bodies. Are you listening to me? I will kill you, you bloody sons of - ”

My voice cuts off into a frustrated screech and I grab the cut off arm of the second dummy, throwing it at the third X. I’m seething by this point, unable to form proper words, so I begin to pace the room. My fingers drag through my hair, eyes wild. They’ll give me a zero for such threats. They’ll kill me in the Bloodbath. Good. I’d rather die in the first second than make it to the finale. There’s more that needs to be said, though, so I force myself to draw in deep breaths and close my eyes, hands resting behind my head. Every part of me is alive and buzzing, wanting to launch myself at them right now, but I hold back. Now is not the time for violence.

Soon.

At last, I’ve collected myself enough to turn back toward them, my expression slightly more schooled than before. “My sisters are home alone without me, and for that, I swear to Ripred I will make you pay. Every second of every minute of every bloody day left for me in this city, you will regret having picked my name.” I will ruin them. I don’t know how, but I will. “When I get into that Arena, you won’t be able to kill me fast enough. And I swear, if you even think about touching one of my sisters after these Games, I will rise from my grave and personally make sure each and every one of you dies screaming for mercy.”

I throw a few more things at the wall until the buzzer sounds, and then I straighten and flash them a winning smile. “I’d say that was worth a solid two, yeah?”

I’m gone before anyone can scold me for misbehaving.

i carved your name across three counties
and ground it in with bloody hides
broken necks will line the ditch
‘til you "stop it! stop it! stop this madness!"

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

Tributes are angry. That's a general understanding among Gamemakers. We're throwing them into an Arena to fight to the death, and they're angry about it, forget the prospect of victory and a life of luxury. No, it's always about the imminent death, and that general pissed-off attitude almost always comes back on us, rather than the people who instituted the Games in the first place. I'm used to seeing anger.

But I'm not used to seeing an anger like Savannah Carey's.

She practically emanates rage from the moment she walks into the room, turning first one one dummy and then another and then on us, screaming like a possessed thing and spouting threats off like a little bright-eyed geyser of righteous indignation.I can hear the offended sounds behind me, feel Azure bristle beside me, but I reach over and lay a hand on her arm, turning to whisper in her ear as the District Eight girl stalks out of the gym.

"Just think of that anger in the Arena," I mutter placatingly, leaning over to jot down a score on Savannah's paper. "Think of that anger with a sword in its hand."

Savannah Carey - 9

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[[nyte]]

Dance, Dance 

We're falling apart to half time 

Dance, Dance 

And these are the lives you love to lead 

Dance, this is the way they'd love 

If they knew how misery loved me

The tight suit clung to my skin. The fabric it was made of barely able to caught between my fingers and lifted from my skin. I could feel the sweat beginning to leak from my pores and stain the suit. Yet I had not even begun my session. While my heart beats as rapidly as a hard day's training, I sit dormant. Waiting. The sweat tracing a path down my temple was nothing more than the absolute fear of facing what lay ahead of me in the room. (Could I lie my way out of this?) Doubts swirl about my head, causing a hand to rake through the golden wire laid upon my scalp. And for a second, I am completely out of control.  

"Lyric Woulf". It's as if my heart has finally broken through the cage which it had lived all my life, crawling through my throat and sewing itself to my sleeve. My take one last deep gasp before I am forced to my feet. Uneven steps echo as the room which I shall be entering grows closer. (Is this what it's like to truly feel?) Ivory fingers wrap around the handle, turning it as gently as a man caresses his lover.  

My heart pulls me forward, into the room until I am once again the center of attention. (You've done this before.) A smile spreads across my lips as my eyes find where the gamemakers sit. "The name's Lyric." Despite the shaking of my fingers, my voice floats around the room smooth as silk. Teeth dig into a painted lip as my hand traces the various dangers set out at my disposal. "I've always wondered something." I halt at the center of the room once more, eyes narrowed at those above me. "What makes a man want to kill a child? You see, I've been searching so desperately for the killer inside them. The children I mean." My fingers find the zipper which lay along my right breast, keeping the suit stuck to my skin. They play with it anxiously, my heart races as if trying to usher me forward. The Capitol weren't ones for talking. "And then it hit me. Like a hammer." A rack of such blunt weapons clatter to the floor. "They aren't. It's all you." More weapons scatter across the floor. "Does this make you feel good? Powerful? Does it make you excited? 'Cause it that's all you want..."  

My lips are suddenly sealed. Leaving my words hanging in the air, my back is them. A melody begins in my head, my hips swaying to the unheard music. The soft unzipping sound reverberates around the silent room. The increasing movement of my body causing the once tight garment to fall to the ground. And soon I face the gamemakers, the fluid motions of my body never stopping. (Put on a show). A grin, showing carefully manicured teeth is bared at them. The music in my head slowly increasing in tempo, mirroring the movement of my body. 

Completely unabashed by my exposed state, legs now unrestricted leap across the floor. The bare soles skillfully avoiding the mess which I had created earlier. One foot carefully stood on tiptoe, my body bends, hands quickly grasping the hilt of a small knife. My toes threatening to collapse upon the blades, I must move quickly. Using my airborne leg to direct my body in the opposite direction, my leg bends. Just as my toes collapse I leap, my hands in a sort of hoop outside of my body, the flat end of the blade laid across my wrist.  

Landing sends a sharp pain through my leg, yet I ignore it's throbbing, continuing my dance until my arms are wrapped around the dummy. My body is soon pressed against it, the knife tracing a path around his navel. Using the stiff man as balance, my leg reaches his shoulder keeping him in place as the knife slides quickly into his back. I soon face the dummy, my moves quickly becoming faster. Less flowing, less order is soon put into my movements as my moves begin to end in furious slashes and quick jabs. My work is nearly compete. The small, precise wounds barely visible to my eyes. (Perhaps the gamemaker's vision is better than mine. ) 

I waltz my way to the stiff man's back once again. A foot, small, suited for dancing, presses against his lower back. Only the slightest pressure is needed to topple him. As his body lands upon the flooring it seems to shatter. Falling into carefully sliced pieces and adding to the mess that I had already made.(Oops) My feet pick their way through the chaos and back into the center of the room a grin spread across my face. I bow to them, my hips giving one last sway before halting completely. For a millisecond the room is once again bathed in silence as my smile only grows wider. "I don't blame you, for what's going to happen to me." I speak softly, wanting to make them strain to hear the words that leave my mouth. "My blood is on my hands alone." I spread my arms, in this moment, unafraid. "Would you rather me curse you? Rather me scream and yell, to tell you that it is you who caused my impending death?" My smile fades "I chose my death, Gamemaker." A laugh escapes me, a humorless laugh. Dry and cracked like this lips which it had escaped. "But, you don't like that do you?"  

I scoop up the clothes heaped upon the floor. Using my remaining strength, I lob them at the gamemakers, my back already turned and feet already moving away too quickly to see if it had met its mark. I open the door, feeling the need to raise a single finger at them before making my way out of the room. The clothes that had once covered my body still in that room. (A souvenir for the wicked.) 

Words: 000 

Template by Kire

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

Well, a strip tease. That's new.

It's enough to make even my eyebrows drift upwards in surprise as the girl from Six gyrates around the room, pulling a training dummy over to use as a prop in whatever insanity this is. My interest is piqued, but it doesn't hit its high point until the dance turns deadly, a flashing kaleidoscope of blades that ends with the dummy in pieces all over the floor.

Miss Lyric Woulf certainly has a flair for the dramatic. And I'll certainly credit her for it. I don't want tributes who can simply kill in the Arena. I want tributes who can kill with style.

Lyric Woulf - 10

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

The loudspeaker blares out my name just like it does for everybody else, but the name doesn't feel like my own.

Colgate O'Leary.

Colgate, not Soap. Not Col.

Colgate.

Even as I rise up and walk towards the doorway, I can't wrap my mind around the word. It sounds like somebody gave me a nickname to make me sound more regal, more bloodthirsty, more cold-hearted, and I wonder if I could be that boy, the kinda boy that slits throats and smiles about it, but I don't know. What I do know is that all people are capable of all things if put under the right pressure, which only needs to be slight, like the gentlest touch of a sword against a piece of flesh to tear a person's body to shreds.

And right here, right now, I feel the force of the Capitol's blade. It cuts into my back and drives me to the threshold of the training center doors, tapping itself on both of my shoulders, reminding me to push them back and stand tall in my pause as if dubbing me a knight ready for battle. It follows my fingers as I brush the hair out of my eyes, traces the lining of my cheekbones as my face begins to harden against the pressure, then strikes the backs of my heels to push me forward, and the last thing I do before I step through the doorway is lift my chin up, strong and proud, like my sister would want.

I won't kill for the Capitol, but I will for my family's survival. I'll be the cruelest killer they've ever seen.

My eyes are on fire as I take those first steps, alive and wide and bright with something they will not understand. My stylists have cleaned me up considerably over the last few days, and I look neat and put together now. I walk just below the Gamemaker tables and stand there for a moment, pulling my token out of my pocket with a crooked-tooth kinda smile, the kind of smile that other people trust. I do not know what I am to the Gamemakers, because I've been laying low for the past few days. At best I am a mystery, at worst an easily forgotten boy. They must be wondering what I am about to do, especially if they've wrongly suspected that I'm just a boy from District Nine that lacks any useful skill.

I stand there with my bottle of bubble mix in hand, untwist the cap, and blow a stream of bubbles into the air. They are calm and peaceful, despite the circumstances, and they float up to the Gamemaker tables with a gentle air about them, soaring higher and higher until they begin to pop in front of their noses, and I grin.

They must think I am gentle, too.

I look up at them for a few more seconds, and then I turn away, my smile drooping until my face goes cold and hard.

When I walk up to the Avox girl standing in the corner, I tower over her. While she might be around my age, I loom above her like a giant, standing at 6'7" where she must only be about 5 feet even. I bend down to whisper in her ear, and when I do I can see her hands shake ever-so-slightly, afraid of me and of what I am asking her to do. Nevertheless, I press the bottle of bubble mix into her hands and nudge her to stand just in front of the Gamemakers, and from then on I set to work.

I pick up a bow and arrows, throwing knives, and throwing axes from the weapoons station and drop them with a loud clatter several yards to the left of the girl, parallel to the Gamemakers and close enough that they can see every move that I take. I make quick work of everything that I have planned, tugging a dummy along on a rope and placing it on the other side of my parallel line, a good distance to the right of the avox girl, who stands waiting with the bottle of bubble mix still pressed within her grasp.

Rushing towards the fire station, I pull tinder and kindling and other things out of the piles of supplies and lug them over to the spot where I left my weapons, and I drop to my knees and begin to work on creating a flame. Even if it's been years, I still know the steps. It helps that I was able to practice some in the training center in the days before this, but really I never had to be reminded. In the good old days back when District Nine was full of hunters, fire was a necessity during the overnights. My parents taught me everything they know, and for this reason it only takes me little over a minute to create a decent flame. I breath in the smoke as if I am greeting an old friend and hold my hands out to warm them for a few seconds, loosening the muscles as I prepare for action.

My hand glides over the bow as I stand, and with the other I unscrew the top to a jar of tar. I dip all of my arrows into the substance and slide them into the quiver that I throw over my shoulder.

I pull one arrow out and dip it into the flames, watching as fire dances before my eyes.

I nod at the Avox girl, who hastily begins to blow a flurry of small bubbles into the air.

With careful precision, I watch and I wait as the bubbles move, some rising and some falling. Some pop within seconds, but others last longer and begin to drift. I keep my eye on the dummy on the other side and nock my arrow, pulling the bowstring back with long arms. At just the right moment, I let the arrow fly.

A single bubble pops in the air, and the arrow keeps going.

It flies and flies and flies, shooting towards the dummy at breakneck speed. With a loud thump it strikes the dummy in the head, propelled so fast that the tip of the arrow goes all the way through the dummy's fake skull. Tar has splattered over what would be its face, and even if the dummy weren't long dead due to the arrow through its skull, it would have burned.

With another nod, I signal for the girl to keep going. She flinches every time I let the projectile go, but the arrows never come close to hitting her. One after another after another shoots through the air with flames trailing perfectly behind them, popping the small bubbles and spraying the faintest hint of liquid over the floor with each strike.

First the bubble, then the dummy. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

Every single one of my arrows goes straight through the dummy's head, but by that point the thing is nearly incinerated. Flames lick at the air as smoke begins to rise, filling the room with an ugly smell, and the eyes of the Avox girl are wide and afraid. She wants to move, wants to curl up and hide back in her corner, I can tell, but I'm not done with her yet.

"Step forward," I say to her, my voice harsh and forceful as I begin to dip the knives into the tar.

She takes a hesitant step, but I shake my head. "Forward a little more, and you can leave the bubbles on the floor now," I order, and she does, though her face shows the worry behind the realization that she's so painfully close to my line of sight.

I smile at her and shake my head. "Don't you worry," I say, my voice soft now. "I'm not a bad guy."

I shuffle away for a moment and bring back another dummy, placing it in front of the one that's now crumbling underneath the steady flame. The smoke stings my eyes as I step back, but I blink away the pain and return to my original position, campfire still blazing beside me.

With a gentle hand, I lift a tar-covered knife out of the pile and delicately hold it into the fire.

And without warning, I throw.

A harsh scream pierces the air, pounding in my ears, and it comes from the Avox girl. I didn't know that avoxes could scream without the use of a tongue, but she does, and the sound reverberates in my chest like thunder.

But she's just afraid; I didn't hit her.

She screamed because the knife passed just in front of her nose, so close to her face that the flames must have tickled for a millisecond in front of her eyes.

The girl looks at me with horror in her expression, but I don't care. Behind her, the knife has stuck deep in the dummy's chest right where its heart should be, and it begins to light up with fire.

"Don't move," I say, my voice dead. "Or you'll get hurt."

She stands stock still, eyes wide, facing perpendicular to me and straight at the Gamemakers.

They must see her fear.

I throw the knives in quick succession now, manuevering to prepare each knife as my fingers grasp at just the right place to keep my hands from burning. The heat emanating from the tar warms my hands and fuels this cruel feeling inside of me, and with each throw the knives get closer and closer to the girl's nose, striking the dummy first in the heart and then the center of the throat.

She is shaking uncontrollably now, tears wracking her body in sobs.

This is for my family.

If I survive, they survive. That's all that matters.

I give the girl a moment to regain her composure, and then I speak. "Step forward, and face me now," I order, smiling at her reassuringly.

She takes a single look at the Gamemakers as if they will save her from the risk that she believes I'm putting her in, but they do nothing.

The avox girl huffs in defeat and moves into my target line, and I begin to drench the throwing axes in tar. It drips off of the blades like blood as I step back and prepare myself, shaking my shoulders and stretching my arms as I ready my aim.

The dummy behind the avox has burned beyond recognition.

I breath in once, then twice, pulling my shoulders back.

Chin up, I tell myself, so I hold my head up, jaw clenched.

My hands are steady as I set the first axe alight.

The movement that I make next is cool and calculated and fluid as my arm swings back with precision, then flies forward again, releasing the axe from my fingertips. My eyes burn as I look along my line of sight, and the axe flips once, twice, three times.

And lands deep in the avox girl's arm.

The scream that follows is worse than anything that I've ever heard in my entire life, so high-pitched and real that it puts the other scream to shame. She cannot speak, cannot curse at me, but oh, does she scream, so loud and so awful and so real that it almost knocks me backward. Almost immediately, blood begins to spill from her wound onto the floor, mixing with the remnants of soap bubbles from just a few minutes ago. A touch of tar has seeped into her uniform and set the cloth ablaze, and she scrambles to take the piece of fabric off in order to keep herself from burning. All the while she's screaming, screaming so loud I can't even hear myself think, and in the back of my mind an awful thought flits through my head so fast I feel bad for just thinking it, thinking that she should just die so she'll shut the hell up.

She's not standing still anymore, scrambling to get her burning shirt off, but I can't stop now.

I dip all of the other axes into the fire and throw one more, and this one lands deep in her thigh. She stumbles with a loud shriek, and I take that opportunity to let another one go.

This one strikes her other arm, tearing a gash so deep that I think I can see bone. I swear I can hear the flesh rip in her arm, but I can't tell over all the screaming. There's nothing she can do, no way that she can defend herself, and all I do is let loose. My next axe flies towards her foot, and now an audible sound tears through the air as the axe slices clean through her right ankle. She doesn't scream now, only cries, scrambling and rolling on the floor to get away from the fire and away from the pain and, most of all, away from me.

The next axe lodges itself deep in her throat, sticking out the other side.

Her screaming stops instantaneously, and the blood begins to pour out. The fire on her shirt spreads to her other articles of clothing, but it doesn't matter, she can't feel it. As the fire engulfs her entire body, she is already dead. I don't see the light leave her eyes and I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to, but she is dead because of me and that is who I am.

I am Colgate.

With one last strike, I stab the tip of the axe into the floor so the handle is standing straight up, and I walk over and pluck my bottle of bubbles from the floor beside the burning girl.

My gait is even as I stride towards the Gamemaker tables and turn to face them. I twist the cap to my token and breath into the wand, releasing another flurry of bubbles into the air.

They float right on above and glide around the Gamemakers' heads, and some pop right in front of their noses. I smile up at them, all crinkly-eyes and ugly crooked teeth, and I wave like a child.

"Hi there," I say, my voice calm and friendly. "You all are looking lovely today."

And I turn around to leave, splatters of blood and soap stuck to the outside of my shoes.

[presto]

stop stalling, make a name for yourself
you better put the pen to paper, charm your way out
if you talk, you better walk, you better back your shit up
with more than good hooks while you're all
u n d e r --- t h e --- g u n

I've liked Colgate O'Leary from the moment I saw him step off the train. He's got a down-home charm about him, almost a Denver Samuels from the 59th Games kind of vibe, and I can use that. Every Arena needs its heroes to go with its villains.

The fact that he's got the skill to go with that personality of his just makes me like him even more.

I watch with delight as he goes through the clever little gimmick of skewering bubbles with projectile weapons, tacking another point-five onto his score with every successful hit. But when he starts tugging the Avox girl into the routine, I drop my damn pen.

When the first weapon hits her, I drop my damn clipboard.

And that's when I realize just how wrong I was about Colgate O'Leary. I had him pigeonholed in the completely wrong corner of moral fiber, completely missed any inkling of what I'd just been shown. I blink numbly as the cleanup crew scuttles in and drags the Avox's bloody corpse out of our line of sight, rubbing a hand across my face and letting out a low whistle. "I think we found our Victor, guys."

Colgate O'Leary is not a hero. He's a villain dressed up as a hero, dressed well enought to even fool me, and that's the most dangerous thing I've ever seen walk through a training gym.

Colgate O'Leary - 12

[/presto]

j a r e t h c o n s t a n t i n e a m e l l

[loren]

lol super late on this but also I dON'T CARE??

[ c l a i r e p a r t r i d g e ]

. vit de district VII .
. une fille seul .
. XIV ans .

"We can't escape, there's no way.
They'll call our names through the speakers.
When they find you they'll retrieve you,
take you where sphered domes will freeze you"

I couldn't say my name afterwards. Not again. Not after the static and echo of the district square's speakers betrayed me and bastardized "Claire Partridge" in its unholy baptism. My life was surrendered  so that another girl could have a year of breathing room before she was robbed just the same.

Those three syllables hurt. They were heavy, like the boulders I couldn't push and the tears that fell in lead mouthfuls the entire train ride to the Capitol. I cried literally over the milk I would never spill. Back at the Partridge home, I could cry out hard enough to have Miss Partridge cuff Enoch by the ear or take Emma by the arm and lead her away. But from under the sound of ugly sobs and shuddering breaths too short to be my last and coughs that sounded like death, a song rang out clear as day but I shrieked out louder to mute it. It was a song that rung between your ears and shoved itself down your throat when you'd love nothing more than to choke on the truth and die than swallow it.

No one gives a flying fuck that you're crying. No one here is going to take the world away. 

The world didn't give two shits about me. 

Well.

Fuck that.

I just wanted a life. One life. My life. And the world or Ripred or the devil or the fat golden baby pissing in the sky down on all of us couldn't even spare me that. Well fuck that! If I can't have my own life, I'll just take as many as I can on my way out.

I kept my eyes trailing the ground as I walked into the room. I found myself unable to muster up the mucous and  spit up "Claire Partridge" nor did I have any desire to. I didn't owe these bitches anything. They didn't give any more of a damn about who I was or could have been than they did about the state of their toes hiding beneath their fattened bellies and prosthetic noses. 

I walked over to a metal table, a picnic spread across it of various knives and blades and cutlery meant to kill a hunger. And a thirst. And pain. And sorrow and lust and curiosity and wistfulness and passion and all that we're given but cannot take with us once our hearts are pierced and Death takes us into his arms with a, "There, there, don't cry. You did well. You did your best. Don't worry, they all are sure to follow."

I picked up a knife that gleamed proudly like a leading politician with the elegance of a silent diamond. It was hooked at the end. I looked down at it and saw half a face reflected in its blade, its blunt end masking the other half in black. Back when "Claire Partridge" was still a name I could call my own, I was really proud of that face. The sliver of a small, fair face with cotton-soft features looking back at me. Big button eyes that felt no love, no pain, but good gosh were they pretty. Golden hair that flowed in gentle spirals I wouldn't let anyone near with a pair of scissors unless they wanted a pair of my own lodged into their neck. Claire Partridge was a doll. A doll dropped on Reaping Day. She died the day her name became an anthem for children to rejoice in because holy hell, thank Ripred I'm not her...

And I'm not her either.

So I began to slash it off. All of it. I grabbed fistfuls of my hair, letting the strands wrap about my fingers begging against this crooked amputation. I pulled so hard some hair just ripped out before the blade could get to them, my scalp was pulled to a taut and the blade kissed it hot and quick in some spots. Thin trickles of blood quietly tiptoeing down about my ears and one settling along my eyelashes; my throat composed some sick, twisted collaboration of a hysterical laugh and a shriek. I just kept grabbing, ripping, slicing, chopping until nothing left remained on my head but little, pathetic tufts here and there saturated in a scarlet bath of my own blood. 

I couldn't stop the laughter; the screaming. They both sound the same when your voice is no longer your own. I knew for a fact I was smiling, but I could taste the seasoned salt of crying. Not the squealing tremors of fear I knew all my life, but the kind of crying that can lift the world's weight off your shoulders and unlock the vice crushing your neck.

I don't remember throwing the blade. I don't remember much from the time between the beginning of my short-lived (Ha! Get it? Because we're all going to die horrible, excruciating deaths really soon.) career as a barber and me licking the blood off my fingers and blowing a kiss to the Gamemakers. But I threw the blade. It lodged itself into a wooden dummy, a good four inches or so deep in its face. 

And so I joined the rest of the world in not giving a fuck about me.

" These beautiful moments we shared together
All end now
They'll make me drink this potion
I'll sleep forever, until I wake under the
t h e  g l a c i a l  g r o u n d  "
x

[ t e m p l a t e b y z o ë ]