THE FOUR HORSEMEN {I Got a New World In My View}

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto]

THEY AIN'T GOT NO MUSCLE, NO HUSSLE.

[/presto]

There has always been something soothing about punching and kicking the shit out of a bag. There are no mercy stops with this opponent, all there is is the satisfying thud the bag makes with each hit. I remember how when I was little the bag would barely move with each kick I gave, now it swings each time. I'm always ready for it though, always ready with another of my limbs to introduce it to. My body jarrs with each time, the reaction spreads and sweat streams down my back the longer I go for. It's the first time I've been in the actual training room all week, having spent most of my days just running around being an asshole.

However, when I call myself a career, I mean it.

I haven't lost any of my skill after taking the last few days off. In fact, I'm only more energized then I have ever been. If this bag was my prey, it would have been dead long minutes ago. The side of my foot connects with it and I step back for a minute as it goes swinging off into 'well fuck me' land.

I look around the room full of faces, all bent in concentration at whatever it is they're doing. To be one hundred percent honest, I don't really think I give a shit about anyone in this place. I don't even really know which one is my district partner. I vaguely remember that she volunteered as well, but I wasn't paying attention because I was looking for my parent's faces in the crowd.

I know I should have allies, just because it would make killing everyone else a hell of a lot easier, but I don't really care for the careers. They all look like the same old ones that frequent my training center. They always laughed at my martial arts, always saying they could kill me with a blade before I could touch them. Nah, careers are too full of themselves and I have enough of an ego for a whole army. What I need are people that aren't careers, as in the secret badasses.

When the bag comes swinging back at me I hit it with all my force, headbutting it into Neverland. When I look up again, my eyes are shut and I spin, pointing. I slow to a halt and open my eyes. My finger rests on some guy looking defeated by the knives section. Ripred man, it's gotta be only eight in the morning, brighten up a bit. I study him for a few moments. Allies at first sight? Well, my finger landed on him, so I gotta ask I suppose. I grab a towel off the wall to wipe my sweat with and then fling it around my neck.

It doesn't take long to get there and I've never really been the type to beat around the bush, so, "Hey man, want to be allies?"

[presto]

T I C K TICK T I C K I N G

[/presto]

[rook]

willis keeni

all along the western front
people line up to receive
she got the power in her hand
to shock you like you won't believe

I become increasingly frustrated with this station. The instructor is so patronising that it's making me want to throw the knives at her, instead of the rubber targets. I've done this so many times in the past, but she doesn't realize that. She just keeps talking about how I need to improve. I don't need lecturing on technique or style, just let me hit the damn target, woman. Of course, it's not the woman that's stopping me from hitting those dummies in the chest or face, no. I just like to blame other things, so that I'm not constantly thinking about my tremors all the damn time.

I'd always find ways to distract myself at home, else I'd go mad from it. Simple things, hobbies if you like. I liked to keep active - I'm thinking in past tense, which only shows how pessimistic I am about all of this - I used to go running when things got bad. I could keep my head down, staring at the ground, as I ran through Six. The cardiovascular strain was often enough to negate the effects of my condition. I can't run now though, as much as I'd like to. I'd love to run away from this cursed city full of fools and fake friends. They all act so warm and amiable towards us, but really they want us dead.

I throw three more knives in the general direction of the silhouette targets, and all three whistle wide of the mark. I swear under my breath, waiting for the green light to allow me to walk out to the throwing range and retrieve the knives. They sure are careful to avoid freak accidents in training. I don't think I've ever heard of a Tribute dying before the Games, at least not in my lifetime. It'd be nice to die now, and not have to go through this painful process of training, scoring, ranking, prepping, interviewing, preparing and then eventually killing. I feel like nothing more than a decorated pig, ready to have it's throat slit.

As I get ready to throw again, another Tribute approaches me. He is tall, well built with a natural fitness about him. He has a towel wrapped around his neck, obviously because he has been hard at work getting ready to kill us all. He's a Career, all the evidence suggests. District Four, mesomorphic build, and the brother of Ewe Saw. This is Eye, I know he is ruthless, maybe even crazy, and looking for revenge. Not someone I want to get on the wrong side of. I have to make a good first impression, here.

"Hey man, want to be allies?"

Well, that was easier than I expected.

My muscles tense. Why would Eye Saw want me as an ally? I clearly have no natural talent (at least not sober, and he probably knows nothing about my deadly drunken state) and I'm not exactly a physical presence either. Maybe this is a pity thing, because of Pyrian and Gypsie. If he's asking me to be his ally because we've both lost family members to the Games in the past, then I want nothing to do with him. I refuse to be defined by the mistakes of my psychologically unstable cousins.

"W-What? Why?" I stutter, the words escaping from my mouth before they have fully formed. I swallow and try to regain some composure, "Why do you want to be my ally?"
I don't even know you, and you want to put your life in my hands?

all along the eastern shore
put your circuits in the sea
this is what the world is for
making electricity