Public Training Sessions!

[dars]

Mainly only doing this for the Glamour response tbh:

gavin {♔} barker "You are going to be nervous. Extremely so." Jacquelyn admitted, a look of empathy under her painted face. Underneath the make up, the feathers that decorated her eyelashes, and those over the top dresses was a real person, and I had actually come to enjoy her. She was a lot like me, stuck in a situation she knew it was wrong to enjoy, but still did for some reason, and I found it incredibly easy to talk to her. I sat directly in front of her, draped in not one but two blankets (it was always so cold in the Capitol) listening, taking the occasional mental note, asking a small question here and there. "Who will be in there when I go?" I asked, ignoring the chills that raked across my entire body, shuddering, begging for more heat. "The two head gamemakers, of course, and then a handful of spectators. I do not think they are actually there for anything other than to intimidate you." She leaned forward a bit, brown eyes staring directly into mine. "I do not want you paying any attention anyone except Mr.Kinkade and Ms.Fortissimo, understood?" I nodded, and she looked at the clock. "Mmm, almost eleven o'clock, we had better get you down to Kenav so you can get ready!" Kenav was brilliant, absolutely so, but a bit too arrogant for my own tastes. He had dressed me in something that was actually acceptable for the parade, which I was happy about, but hadn't shut up about it since, which I was not happy about. Jacquelyn and I entered the room to find him facing away from us, orange dreadlocks tied behind his head, dressed in a bright blue suit. "Ah, Mr.Barker! Wonderful to see you." He walked over and planted a kiss on my cheek, which was like a hand shake or a high-five anywhere else, then surveyed me, emerald green eyes and pointed features reminding me of an elf. "Looks like you've lost a little weight. Been eating?" Jacquelyn stormed forward. "I must have told him he needed to eat at least a dozen times!" He smiled at me, then touched my nose. "It's fine, you looked a bit beefy, anyway. Let's get you dressed!" The outfit was simple: a shirt made of stretchy material, mostly black with accents of silver and red, and matching pants. "Gorgeous, though I would have gone with a less morbid color scheme." He spoke to me, but I had nothing to say back to him, so Jacquelyn stepped in to save the day. (I seriously liked this lady.) "Well, he has to be there in the next ten minutes, ready to go?" I took in a full breath of air, staring at my reflection for a second, then nodded. "Yep." Jacquelyn wouldn't let me bring my blankets, so I sat in the waiting room with the other tributes freezing, but part of me wondered why I was so cold. None of the others seemed to be shivering? Perhaps it was just my nerves, but then why wasn't anyone else nervous? One by one names were called, each time metal doors sliding open, then closing once more just as soon as the tribute was on the other side. No one spoke, and I was glad for it. I didn't think I could handle acting like I wasn't having a heart attack in that moment.(Why was I so cold?) Eventually, almost half of the tributes were gone, and all of the seats in front of me were completely devoid of life. "Gavin Barker, please report for individual assessment." called a robotic voice, then the doors slid open with a slow speed that was painful to watch. I was supposed to get up, I was supposed to go in there, but I was frozen in my place. (Why was I so cold?) "You'd better go before the peacekeepers get you!" I warned myself, and finally I could move again. I stood, and walked as slowly as I could and as quickly as I dared until the doors shut behind me with a loud "Click!" that had a sense of finality to it. Continuing on, even when my body begged me to go back, I tried to keep my breathing even. Ignoring my body had become a sort of habit. I had to ignore how much my fingers ached, (why was I so cold?) how much my heart yearned for a place I despised for so long- No. District Seven was a pit in hell, and it was only a matter of time before it burned me to ashes. I had to get out, and I had made the right decision by choosing to be here. I had. I stopped in front of a panel of about six people, only a few, just as Jacquelyn had promised. "Gavin Barker, District Seven." I wasn't sure what to do next, or if they planned on saying anything, so I turned on my heels and began picking up supplies. The first thing on my list was a vile of snake poison, just a small test tube of clear liquid that easily fit in my pocket. Next, a knife kit that attached to my hip, then a hatchet was slung over my back, a rope onto my shoulder, and a ten pound weight in my hand. I carried all of it over to a climbing wall, then went back for not one, not two, but three dummies, ordering them in a perfect line. Breathe, Gavin. I tied one end of the rope to the weight and tossed it up into the air. It landed at the top of the wall with a loud bang, and to be sure it was secure, I tugged on it a few times, then lifted myself and my supplies off of the ground. It was no different than climbing a tree with no low limbs back home, one foot at a time, careful not to fall, and eventually I reached the top. I quickly untied the weight, then started pulling blades out of the pack, one by one lacing them into the woven fabric until the entire thing was riddled with sharp, shiny metal. After making a lasso, (maybe training that week had taught me something after all) I walked over to the edge of the wall, where the dummies still stood perfectly still, and started twirling the make-shift weapon over my head. I tossed it at the dummies and, luckily, it wrapped around one of their plastic heads. I pulled as hard as I could, then jumped down, tackling the dummy in the middle to the ground. I unsheathed my hatchet and swung at the only unscathed dummy, slicing it's head off in one clean sweep, and in the same motion, tossed it at the one I had tackled. It landed squarely in the things chest with a sickening "THUMP" that almost sounded too real. I raced over to the first dummy, who still had the bladed rope squeezed around it's throat, and began beating it, pounding my fists into the soft flesh (It's fake, Gavin, it's fake.) as hard as I could, until pulling one of the only remaining knives out of the package by my side and sinking it all the way to the hilt in he thing's neck. My chest fell in heavy thrusts, and I bowed for the gamemakers, making deliberate eye contact with both Glamour and Cadence, and turned to exit the room. There was only one thing that kept replaying in my mind, over and over and over again. I was still so cold. I wished I had Rowan there to help keep me warm. I wished- Rowan. She was what made me warm now, she was the one who thawed my frozen heart. Now she was miles and miles away, and it seemed that with each step away from her, my heart only grew colder. My heart was freezing all over again, and this time I didn't know if I was going to get to her before it was too late. This time I might have died with ice in my veins.

---

]

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

Oh, but for Glamour Kinkade to have this post every year, if only to witness the transformation from ragamuffin to resplendent. None in the bunch had made the leap quite so far as Gavin Barker. He supposed there had been a reasonable amount of source material, but who could tell underneath all the middle district grime? He hadn't even looked twice at the boy who volunteered. But now, stripped down and cleaned up, he was positively delicious, even if he did appear to be shivering as he entered.

A simple introduction and straight to the task - how quaint. As Gavin turned to gather supplies, Glamour licked his purple-smeared lips. Oh how he wanted just a few moments alone with Gavin. Perhaps more than a few... and he'd had a few words with his stylist, while he was at it. Yes, Gavin would win the Most Improved award at a fashion show, but that was hardly worth its name. The things he could do with that mane of hair, with those puppy dog eyes. But he could! He could, with the uniform, and the arena itself. Oh, what delights were in store for him...

He blinked and found Gavin staring right into his eyes. Glamour chuckled. "Be good now," he said by way of dismissal. He chewed on his lower lip until the doors shut behind the District Seven tribute. "I am going to eat that boy up! Six!" He declared for the records, and thought it was a sight better than Most Improved.

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[Python]

Ingrid Elwyn

She felt like a caged animal. The training center was a prison inside of a prison – The Capitol itself a suffocating confinement with no trees or natural air to breathe, just buildings and paved roads and streets filled with colorful drones that would surely burn in hell once they died their unholy deaths. The rooftop was her only ticket to fresher air than what was inside, but even then there was nothing natural about this place. In the evenings there were no stars, just a blank black sky with a faint moon to wither above the presence of Capitol lights. The rooftop itself gripped her with fear because it was too high, and she had never been so far away from the ground before. Everything about it was ugly and terrifying, but every night she conquered her fear and stood on the rooftop with no dress to billow in the winds. There she would imagine rains that flooded the capitol streets. She could see every building engulfed and every human drowned. She could see corpses drifting along the surface, lining every street corner and neighborhood. This disgusting place needed to be reborn, and all of its citizens taught a lesson.

Surely the world would flood someday, but whether or not Ingrid would be alive to witness the beauty of it was for fate to decide.

When a robotic drawl summoned her into the training room – her bottom feeling sore from sitting on such a hard bench for so long – she passed through the doors with a nervous twitch in her hands. The training room itself was vast, and today it had been prepared with every station for the tributes to perform their talents. More Capitols drones – The Gamemakers and their servants – lined the walls, each gaze more scrutinizing than the other. She didn’t want to impress these people, she wanted to enlighten them. But in order to persuade them to listen she would have to draw their attention, and to do that she must display a skill. The water was her element, her life force and death itself all in one pure mixture. She grabbed one of the anatomically correct dummies – the ones that bled at a knife’s kiss, like her trainers had shown her – tied heavy weights around its ankles and felt herself drawn to the pool like a magnet. She shoved the body into its bowels and watched it sink.

At the array of knives she slipped one blade between her teeth and kicked her shoes off. She need not sprint to the pool to dive – she merely walked to its edge, leapt with her arms above her head and submerged herself beneath the surface, teeth aching with a firm grip on her weapon’s handle. She twirled to the bottom, hazel eyes locked on the blur of the sunken dummy and thrust her blade into its chest once she removed it from her teeth. Down, down, down she raked it, scraping and slicing through soft flesh from the top of its chest to below the left ribcage. Artificial blood stained the water like red ink, its tendrils clouding her vision as she ripped open the flap of skin and slipped both hands beneath the ribcage. With sloppy incisions and aggressive yanking she tore the dummy’s lung from its perch and left it to float among the red fog.

Next, she aimed for its heart.

She relished her lungs’ thirst for air and welcomed the ache. She had trained herself to hold her breath for as long as she possibly could, so she could cherish her minutes beneath the water and let the element embrace her like a mother and her infant. The effort was nothing to her, the pain a natural side effect that brought a smile to her face. It was impossible to see through the clouds of crimson but she could feel the organ beneath her fingertips, and while she tugged the chambers as hard as she could she sliced around the edges where arteries and veins connected it to its host. She felt it loosen, and she felt it give. With a dead, lifelike organ in her grasp she kicked off of the bottom and peaked above the surface. Surrounded by blood, she paddled to the edge and climbed out of the pool with a knife in one hand and a heart in the other.

”Drowning is the purest death,” she raised her voice between breaths unfazed by labor, and held the heart above her head for all to witness. She approached the nearest table and set the organ down. It was still, never once beating for its soulless body. ”But I can’t kill somebody with water using these metal weapons you gave us.” With a single downward stroke she pinned the heart to the table, blade piercing through every layer of fake material. She looked up at her audience with empty eyes, but there was a heat in her chest that led her to the tridents. Her trainer had told her that a trident was a District Four weapon, a weapon from the ocean-dwellers. She envied them and their homeland, she wanted to taste that salty water. She wanted to be like them.

”So,” she continued, gripping one of the silver tridents in both hands. ”I’ll drown them in blood instead.” And then she lunged for the nearest unscathed dummy, thrusting the three prongs into its chest. She remembered asking her trainer how to aim for the lungs, and he had demonstrated rather efficiently. Practice was required for her to mimic the execution properly, and with patience she had mastered it. As the body toppled over blood pooled around the edges of the punctures, dribbling down in thick trails. She quickly yanked the trident out of her target, aimed for his neck and finished her training session with a final thrust. Drown. The tips buried themselves into the trachea, where blood would leak down into the lung that was already drowning. It may not be water, but it’s a fine substitute.

She neglected to grab her shoes as she walked out of the room.

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

The pebbles rattling around his head had turned into stones by the time Ingrid Elwyn graced them with her presence. Glamour stuck his nose into the champagne flute, breathing in so deeply he nearly snorted the amber liquid. It would be an absolute miracle if he made it through this session without a little siesta. After all, he had been working so hard all day long, for hours and hours and hours. And for what, really? To see tongue-less, soul-less cadavers line the floor? At least the air had cleared of the smell of their burning flesh. It would take longer to scrub the image of their blackened, peeling skin from his mind.

Not that the District Eleven tribute was much better to look at. Hadn't her stylists managed to style her hair at all? He tipped the flute back, managed to slosh most of the champagne over his purple painted lips. And then the sound of water.

Glamour narrowed his hazy vision. She had a blade between her teeth - risky but attractive to a camera lens - as she plunged into the dark. Glamour looked up to the screen, projecting from the pool and watched her struggle. No, he watched her fight. He felt the stones tumble from their perch, straight through his core. He could not - would not - give a girl from Eleven a good score. But how could he not, when presented with a survivor?

And then he remembered. The dust, and the cacti, and the canyon. His smile grew coy as Ingrid surfaced. He had her; he knew it. And just like that she slipped through his fingers again, all blood and glory. As she departed, he offered Cadence a pout. "Fine, fine. A seven," he hissed, full of disappointment. "Just this once, little fish," he whispered at the closed door.

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[cass]

A E L I A
{ the ocean is my
h o m e }

I’ve never killed a man before. But I’ve read all about it. Like them sirens that sit on the rocks all high and mighty, dragging the sailors down into the deep depths below. I’m one of those guys, the ugly, but attractive thing upon the rock, people don’t want to see me and yet they’re ready to die when they do.

I mean, I’m too weak to even pick myself up a knife. I tried that the other day. Didn’t work out too well. I dropped it on my foot, cut my shoe up real good. Another thing about this place, they were making me wear shoes, I told them sailors didn’t wear shoes and He wouldn’t like them either. He was telling me that they were no good, I couldn’t feel alive with them on, they prevented me from feeling the world as it was. Gave me a false sense of what I was living for.

But today is the day I was told I had to make a real good impression. But I’m no captain on a ship, I can’t tilt my big hat and tell them all what to do. I can’t wave around a sword and demand others to listen and think of me as some good person. I can’t even lift a sword, and I don’t have a big hat. So when they call my name to go inside I get up all numb and stuff. My steps are odd, kind of like I’m trying to step to high, so as not to trip and all. But these shoes are messing with my sense of feeling. It doesn’t feel right.

I waddle inside, the door slamming shut behind me, this time I can’t pretend it has anything to do with the ocean, because I don’t think the ocean has doors. Maybe it does. But I came all this way just to see the ocean. I asked the lady on the train if I was going to see it and she said maybe, when I reached the Capitol. I think I found it yesterday, when I was walking thought this training centre.

I didn’t want to ask the other kids, though. The kids I had started sitting with were all for hanging together. One of them was always being rude, but He says I should never be rude back to them. So I listen and agree with whatever she calls me. The other ones ain’t so bad, He would like, I think. My siblings back home wouldn’t like them, simply because of the fact that He would.

Oh well.

So anyway, I decided that I would go and ask the professional looking people if that big thing in the corner was the ocean. I mean I had like ten minutes in here by myself, might as well find something out. So I stumble over to it, I can feel them watching me, and I pretend that I am a siren, and they’re ready to drown in my lovely voice. I stop beside it and I am tempted to jump in, but I remember pa telling me once that to swim in the ocean I needed to be able to swim, and I wasn’t sure how to do that yet. So instead I extend a dirt covered arm (that plant station was awfully fun) and I point at it.

”Is that the ocean?” I ask, eyes focused completely on that rippling liquid. I’m not sure how long I stand there staring at the stuff, but my eyes tart hurting in my head and I don’t think I will be getting an answer.

I’m rather disappointed in them.

So I waddle out, maybe the oceans waiting out there for me. It certainly isn’t in here.

---

It had taken longer than Cadence would have liked for the smell of barbecued flesh to be aired out of the room, and she was still going to get herself decontaminated before she went home, but the room was finally tolerable again. Hopefully, whatever the next tribute had to offer would not include more paperwork for Cadence to fill out for avox replacements. As the first district seven entered, the blonde gamemaker leaned forward expectantly. Aelia was a volunteer, just like the previous girl, but while the latter was clearly just deranged, it was possible that this... Vanderwell had a much better reason for volunteering.

"Is that the ocean?"

Then again, disappointment was a feeling that Cadence was starting to get used to.

Aelia simply stood still and watched a corner of the room for the entirety of her session, before plodding out just as quietly.

As if her life didn't depend on it.

As if she had been alone.

Cadence rolled her eyes as she penciled in the lowest score of the day.

A one.

"In retrospect, I suppose that someone has to be the first to die." she muttered as she sagged back into her seat.

[k!ah]

The private training session. Those three words have been drilled into you over and over again. You must impress. You must impress. You must impress. Countless number of people have hammered the nail on the head, have drilled that thought into your mind, making it the only thing that danced in circles now. The voices were gone. Ruby was gone. Impress. Impress. Impress. But how could you impress? You were nothing but a piece of scum in this huge world. The other tributes around you, they were brave, they were strong, they were unyielding. They would impress. By walking into that room behind that taunting wall, you knew that they would impress. All they had to do was flick their wrist and watch the blade fly through the air and nail the target They had been trained for this, years upon years of effort had gone into them, moulding them into the people- machines- that they were today.

You watch as tribute after tribute disappear behind that door, they don't come back out, you don't see them again, but you know they are doing their best to impress. Just like you had too. You didn't want to die, you wanted to beat the voices, to believe in Ruby who had told you that if you put your mind to it, you could do it. You trusted her. She was your guardian, your voice, your advisor. Impress. Thats all I had to do. Impress. How would you impress the strict face of the game maker? Impress. You wished the word would disappear, it tasted stale and old in your mouth. Impress my ass, you think harshly squeezing our eyes shut tightly.

Your name is called and you climb to your feet hastily, your legs slipping slightly causing a delaying in your rising. You curse to yourself, flipping your long hair over one shoulder, acting as though nothing had happened. Once you are on your feet you waddle over to the door that would consume you, hiding you from the tributes that awaited their turn. You don't look over your shoulder as it closes behind you, you only look forwards.

At first you weren’t quite sure what to do, but then your eyes come across the fire station and instantly your mind is flowing with ideas. Fire. Fire is survival. Fire is your survival. Quickly you head over to the station your hands grabbing greedily at the large chucks of wood. You grab as many as your arms could carry moving them over to a lone metal pole that was reaching up into the sky. You place the wood around the pole so that there was only half a meters gap of clear ground between the pole and wood. Then you head over to a station that had some nice looking metal chains. You snatch them up in seconds.

Once the chains are in your hands you quickly march over to one of the Avox’s in the corner of the room. You knew it would be cruel to use someone who was once a district person like yourself. But there was something about this avox, something about the way he held himself that made you feel uncomfortable. A worthy sacrifice. Hastily you wrap the chains around the hands of the surprised avox and tug him over to the pole that stood waiting. Just by looking at it you could tell that there was something not right about what was about to happen. Something that should not be seen by the human eyes.

Once you reach the pole you press the avox against it and wrap the chains around his waist and arms locking him in place. Just for security you run back over to the station which had the chains and padlock the hysterical human in place. There was no escape now. Then you pull you some matches that you had hidden in your pocket. You no longer felt like Sonja the girl who was almost driven insane. You felt like a totally different human begin, in the shell that was known as Sonja.

But then you pause and take a good look at that one avox secured to that pole. How man people had you lost because of the fire the peacekeepers started in your home? You didn't just loose one. No one would have been a miracle. You lost more than one. So instead of striking your match you slide it back into its sheath were you follow up by tucking it into your pocket once again. Before you even realise it you are walking back over to where you had collected you first avox. That one can be mum. You grab a bunch of chains as you walk past, your fingers clinking with the load of metal.

“You can be father,” you whisper the chains closing around the avox’s wrist. “And you can be brother,” you say walking over to the next one tugging along the one you had just secured. “Your brother.” You tighten the chains around his wrist. “And you, lucky last, can be the dog.” You smile at the dog and instant of wrapping the chains around his wrist you wrap them around his neck.

Smiling you lead them, all three of the tongueless people, back over to the pole. It only takes you a moment to wrap the chains around their bodies, securing them in place, and once you do you kiss each of them on the cheek. “I never got to say goodbye to my family, but I’ll say goodbye to you.”

Pulling out a match you strike it against the box and watch as the small sparks slowly grows into a tiny ball of fire. You smile, a smile that was twisted and sick. “Take something of mine, and I’ll take something of yours.” The words are no louder than a whisper, the screams already filling the air. But not the screams of the avox, but screams of your family, screams as the fire took them away from you, as the fire devoured their skin. The screams echo around your my mind endlessly, consuming your every thought. You don't even think as you drop the match onto the pile of wood that encircled the struggling avox, your mind is blank bar from the screaming, from the agony, from the pain.

It only takes a few moments for the dwindling flame to turn into an inferno of heat and when it does all you can do is step back and watch and listen as the avow screams- some sort of animalistic muffled sound- as the fire ate away at there skin, melting the flesh from the bone, as the fire eats away at the people who claimed my family.

You stare into the scorching blaze only for a few more moments before you turn your back on it and walk from the room, the sizzling of human flesh following you in your wake.

---

It was about halfway through the day when Cadence decided to take a small break for lunch, and while there was a table full of decadence for her pleasure, she opted, as she always did, to eat two granola bars and a glass of ice water. Just as she swallowed the last bit of her meal, the automated voice announced the arrival of Sonja Arcopello. Now, Cadence wasn't sure what she expected the tributes from district six to do, assuming they'd either be showing off their medical knowledge or come in high as kites and do nothing of note, and so she was caught a little off guard when Sonja Arcopello opted to chain a trio of avoxes together and set them on fire, all the while muttering to herself.

The scent of burnt flesh assailed Cadence's nostrils, but that wasn't what caused her face to twist into a disgusted grimace. Did tributes not understand just how costly it was to replace avoxes? Not every criminal in the detention center made for a good indentured servant. Perhaps it had been new and original when Peridot Myler had done it; (Oh yes Glamour had told her all about that) but the costs racked up to train new Avoxes since then had skyrocketed. As the avoxes screamed and died, Cadence shook her head. This would never do. Sonja had proved she was willing to kill, and imaginatively so, but it didn't prove jack diddly squat about her skill set. In the arena her victims would fight back, not meekly submit to being hog tied. And killing only got a tribute so far. There were other things to consider.

After conversing quickly with Glamour, the score they decided upon was a five. Not the worst, but certainly not the best. As the district six female left the room, Cadence leaned forward and pushed a call button."Send a clean-up crew post haste. I don't need the stench of burning avox clinging to my clothes all day." One of the Avoxes was still twitching, whether by reflex as the flames cooked his muscles or because he was still alive, she wasn't sure, and she didn't care. What she did care about was the delay Sonja had just caused, because it was going to take a good half hour to get the area back into working order; And if there was one thing that Cadence hated almost as much as stupidity, it was people making her late.

[✨ zozo.]

tiger chautin | district two

In another life I would be dreadfully boring.

There wouldn’t be any laughter or joy or fun. In another life I wouldn’t have a sister to chase away bad dreams or take pictures pulling faces or to bounce around on trampolines until the earth we land on feels like it would fling us into the air too. In another life I wouldn’t be here, about to show off everything I’ve spent my entire life learning, every inch of me bursting to be the best. i don’t think i’d mind not being the best i mean second or third is okay with training scores i could even come last but the only thing that matters is that at the end of the day they’re all dead and i’m alive and numbers wouldn’t matter anymore i just want to make my sister proud i hope she’s proud of me. In another life I would not impress anyone with my skills, nor would I find joy in tumbling and turning and flinging myself and other things up into the air. Nothing would matter. Nothing at all.

(In another life I receive a One and do nothing at all – a sad, sad shell of a girl I refuse to become.)

So when they call my name I bleed rays of light and put on a show fit for a ruler.

I cartwheel into the training centre i am terribly excited that walking or running just won’t suffice and they’d probably be expecting everyone to mope about inside but not me no i’m not just anyone i’m tiger tig tig tig tiger and i am what my sister calls one in a million eye-catching and bright and ready to win and land on my feet, waving at the Gamemakers with a smile so bright I could blind them all. I am bursting with opportunity (we dream of 12’s and putting on a show back in Two, names in lights and our heads in the stars) and get right to work. Skipping through the stations I grab what I need one two three four five six seven knives one two dummies rope a bow and arrow war paint chemicals poison berries a bucket and pour the chemicals into the bucket, crushing up the deadly berry juice and mixing it with paint. The last of it is painted upon my face – four whiskers and a black nose because i am not just anyone i am THE tiger and they will remember me.

Hauling the bucket up to the top of the training centre with the rope, my hands tie a knot in double-time and position the dummies underneath my contraption. I must be boring them now because I think I see one yawn out of the corner of my eye tough crowd i suppose but then again everybody’s a tough crowd except for me i could watch this stuff go on for days and days and days and just never sleep – but the show has only begun.

I toss a knife in the air, once, twice, three times. It spins and spins and lands in my palm each time. Another knife flies into the air and I watch them, testing the waters. juggling is my most favourite thing in the entire world and i’ve spent my life throwing and tumbling and practicing with everything I could find pens pencils fruit shoes forks arrows and bottles and everything else. Grinning, I grab another – three in the air, up and down and up and down, moving forward to stand in front of the dummies. Hypnotised by my knife dance, I break the silence by yelling “SHOULDER!” and flinging one behind me – eyes still on my circus act and not daring to break my gaze. A satisfactory thump! behind me indicates my success and I smile, adding another and another to my show. one knife two three four up up up up keep the momentum one two three four one two three four- “NECK!” -thump! one two three one two three- “EYE!” -one two one two another one two three one two three- “HEART!” -one two one two- “HEART HEART HEART.”

Thump, thump, thump.

But the show’s not over yet.

I somersault, cartwheel, backflip up and over the Gauntlet, climbing the mountain with ease. I soar and tumble through the air and I find myself laughing this is fun fun fun the most fun i’ve had in ages I wish every day could be like this fun fun fun as I reach the top, collecting the bow and single arrow I left at the peak. I catch my breath and string my bow, the arrow-heart around my neck thumping along with my thoughts. ’For Artemis,’ I breathe. (She taught me how to use this thing and how to look on the bright side of life, but most importantly she taught me to keep my chin up and be as brave as I could.) ’To make her proud’.

The arrow flies and slices the rope, depositing the chemical disaster upon my butchered dummies. The plastic boils and sizzles, oozing to the ground a bloody, sticky mess. I jump up, delighted, discarding the bow to my side i did it i actually did it good job tig arty would be proud and I’m proud of myself how excellent I’m jumping up and down in delight fantastic fantastic and race down to my work of art as ecstatic as ever. With a sweep of my arms I barely manage to screech a “Thank you!” before spinning out of the room again, cartwheels all around.

I have a good feeling that I just put on the best show of my life. It’s just the beginning, of course, but the world’s a stage after all.

My stage.

---

Careers.

Probably the best part of Cadence's day. She really wasn't looking forward to seeing what the tributes after district four had to offer, (in all likelihood, nothing) but as the district two female tribute entered the room, she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind and focused. The way Tiger moved was certainly different, and clearly she was well trained when it came to weapons. But it would it stack up in the arena? One thing that tugged at Cadence's mind was the fact that thus far, tributes had focused on frontal attacks on immovable targets, attacks that would be far harder to pull off in the arena.

Still...

Definite points for showmanship. The cartwheels were a nice touch. The facepaint? Not so much. A small part of Cadence wondered if the cartwheels would be as sprightly in the arena after a couple days without food and a missing limb or two. The image of Tiger trying to cartwheel without arms almost brought a smirk to her face. Almost. Instead, Cadence kept her composure and debated the score with her partner for a few minutes. Eventually, they came upon a number they both agreed with. A seven; it was probable that they had Cricket to thank for the display rather than Julian. Every mentor had their signatures. "You know Glamour, I almost half-expected you to make a crack about kitties having claws or some other drivel." If her partner replied, she didn't hear him, already getting her clipboard ready for the next tribute.

[Deleted]

charlotte {♔} brownings Pounding hearts and shaking feet bounced around the hallway with each passing moment, terror seething from the weaker tributes in each sweat drop, one doused in their own bodily fluids; Charlotte, however, felt fine, cool, fucking fantastic. Multiple layers of pants and short fabrics rubbed together unevenly with her crossed legs and her hands nor feet were shaky, the only tremulous part was her wavering mind, continuing to speak the same few words on repeat (calm, stay calm, stay calm damn it) in attempt to keep in one piece until she was free to enter. Which seemed to be taking damned forever considering she was the first person to perform, sitting in the district one female chair for what droned on to be forever, freezing into one position next to Jem, who she didn't care to look at. In fact, she sat in disgust for the rest of her row, Jem, Dan, Tiger wretched careers, like her, but they cling together like an ant colony, like they could barely survive the arena on their own, and those two district three kids were layered in pathetic expressions. Weak, Charlotte could manage to stay perfectly still, besides the faulting courage in her head, even with two jackets, a flannel, a shirt and an undershirt all from the capitol, while the two of them sat shaking like a damn fools. Eventually she was cleared to enter, sweat already beginning to layer a film under the bottom crust of shirt, out of heat admittedly - although, she'd never admit otherwise. The door shut with a slam before flooding her hands into the first jacket's pocket, fondling the sweat off her hands onto the fur; ripred damn for letting her believe wrapping herself with half of the closet was a good idea. Heels clacked against the ground, filling the void of sound in the air in repeated strikes, yet her eyes were kept level to the amassed weapons and mouth closed. Was she supposed to say her name? Obviously they could guess she was district one, so what was the point, the thought filing through her mind before reaching the first dummy and dragging it towards the weapon racks. Fur met with her fingers outside of the pocket, tangling under her nails as she rubbed the left sleeve before ripping it off, showing the leather underneath; the tip of a knife was drilled into the severed cloth, baring the tip through it. A pleasant grin tugged against the corners of her lips as she jammed the knife and cloth onto the dummy, pressing the knife hard into the potato sack skin turning her thumb red with the pressure, mimic blood patting down the gaudy fur. "This is what I think of your fucking fashion sense!" Once again, her nails dug into a fur sleeve, tearing the right sleeve off and shedding blonde-white onto the ground and leather that took guard under it, pinning it too onto the dummy, patching over its matching; red spurting onto the knife like the one Sonja sliced her own hand open with, twisting the knife with the pang of anger raising with the memory of that dumb ass girl from six. She slipped loose of the first layer of clothing, shredding the torso and pinning them with more knives, decorating the dummy into a pin-cushion, ichor camouflaging the thin strands of the jacket to match the lipstick licking her lips. The plan for the session throwing itself out of her mind, simply coming in and talking shit about the clothing she took from the closet provided became a bore, she wanted to destroy it, showing how quickly it became trash. The cow-hide was tougher, chipping one of her nails that Caramel bitch warned her about, but now her hands were shaking, adrenaline blending between her veins from no longer forcing herself to sit down, watching other tributes breaking and tearing while she did nothing but judge instead of taking the stations herself. Being the judge was tiresome, watching people fuck up over and over again as if their life depended on them not being able to fight, and watching some succeed was even worse. The knife she planned to stab the leather with was now positioned in her hand, cutting through the thick of it while still on her (or at least, on the three shirts resting beneath it) before placing it onto the dummy's collar, hanging over its chest like a makeshift ponytail. Repetitious motions became mechanical, ripping, shredding, cutting through the layers of clothes, stabbing cotton cloth to soak up red with a pole sword and fixing flannel plaid onto with a falchion, digging into the skin at every possible vantage point to secure more onto it until she stood in only the lowest layer of a tee and shorts, panting into the tangles of her hair strewn loose across her face. Close to all the blades sat transpierced into the dummy, fastening sleeves, legs, torsos, collars, everything onto it, mocking the ones viewing her, if they even paid any damn attention to it. Composure regained itself slowly, examining whatever the hell she created before turning into the glass pane for the first time. Sweat beads littered across her arms and forehead cooled against the new found freeze with both the heat from material and motion beginning to dissolve, her permanently furred brows attempting to take in a face past the reflections glazed onto it, but failed with the absence of accurate vision. The nerves feasting off her rage and adrenaline chilled at the prospect of confusion, words fumbling uncomfortably in her mouth at the awkward silence; until flustering out a beaded statement before leaving the room, "I am Charlie."

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

It was almost too good to be true: finally, after years of preparation, the Games were about to begin. Just a few minute details to shore up, including the private training session. He hadn't contributed much during the 62nd; he'd been far more interested in the company of the other Gamemakers than the scoring itself. It was only after that he realized he'd given Anarcha too much power. He wouldn't make that mistake again today.

He'd managed to arrive only a few minutes late - if only because his favorite gloss had gone missing - and took up his chair at the front of the viewing stand. He laughed and cooed and winked at the other Gamemakers before ordering mimosas be brought in. He waved the avox off, and then finally turned to his fellow Head Gamemaker. "Let me guess. Water and toast for you?" It was the drabbest combination he could think of. He smirked, basking in the power of the chair. A mimosa appeared in his hand, all neon yellow and bubbles, just as the doors opened to admit the first tribute.

He sipped, watching her manipulate a dummy. And then, he choked. "Don't!" He demanded through the shield, horrified. No matter what he saw the remainder of the day, none of it would be so damaging as watching this punk from District One cut up a beautiful fur coat. He held tightly to the flute, so tightly that the cold seeped from the glass into his palms, his blood. But it wasn't enough to forget the murder that had just taken place.

Glamour flopped back into the chair, his face twisted into sour panes. "Today had better improve. And it's way too late to have her replaced," he whined. He twisted and pouted as Cadence laid out her score reasoning. In the end, Glamour just wanted to put Charlotte Brownings as far from his thoughts as possible. "A six then. And she owes me a coat."

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[jess]

[presto] marianne taylor. fourteen. female. district ten. [/presto] THE ROSES OF THE CIMARRON

The waiting was agonizing as she sat in the waiting room, teeth biting down on nail so many times she didn't know whether she'd have any nails when she reached the arena. The young, blonde girl from District 10, soon to be a mangled corpse being carried back to her district. A failure. Weak. People would never talk about her - she'd be forgotten. Mam wouldn't forget her. Would she? Marianne chewed once more on her nails and looked around the room. All there was in the room was her district partner and the small bench they were seated on. The door lay ahead of her, daring her to enter it. But of course, the boy would have to go first. Even though at the reaping, that annoying Capitol freak said 'Ladies first'. So wasn't it the same in the Capitol? Were men valued over women? Or was it just a random decision? If Mam was here, her hand on Marianne's shoulder, steadily guiding her towards the door, it would all be okay. But she wasn't. Marianne brought her own hand to her shoulder, missing the feeling of her mam. Cuddled up against her on the night before the reaping. The last reaping of the young girl's life. Unless she won, of course. But that wasn't likely. There were twenty four unfortunate tributes, in a giant skydive towards their death, and only one of them discovered they had a parachute at the end. The rest...well, may they rest in peace. Death is quite simple, really, to Marianne. She'd seen death her whole life - death to the cattle. Especially that one cow she especially liked, Mindy. Mindy was a sweet cow, the one with the prettiest eyes. Marianne didn't base everything off beauty. If they were thrown into a beautiful arena, she'd be the first to start running. But she was mesmerized by Mindy's eyes. For weeks she followed around Mindy's daily life, until one day Mindy was gone. That was when Marianne learned where the cows went. Mam had been hiding it from her for years, making sure Marianne wasn't there when the cows died. Marianne never noticed them come and go until Mindy. Then Mam never made an effort to hide it. Every once in a while, Marianne looked out the window and watched a cow die. Because if she did ever end up in the arena, she'd need to have a heart made of ice. Being the youngest tribute in the Games this year, nobody knew what Marianne was capable of. One day Mam asked her if  the death of the cows made her feel bad. Instead of telling the truth, Marianne put on her best smile, and told her, "Let me try." And Mam hesitantly handed Marianne, a fierce little thirteen year old, the blade. And that was when Marianne Taylor committed her first murder. On a cow, yes, but it was still a living thing. She lived in guilt for weeks, and then got over it. Then she got a rush from it. From the satisfying squelch as the body fell to the ground. Pulling the blade from the animal, it dripping blood. So she was okay. All the people were older than her, at least they couldn't make her kill a young child. She was a young child. Fourteen may not be twelve, but it was young. Too young to die. Too young to kill. But she had, and that was the problem. She'd taken an innocent life. But none of that mattered now. Your life ended when you reached the Capitol. Marianne was no different. Mam had never existed. Mindy never existed. The cow she killed never existed. He never existed. He was Marianne's father, the one who had tried to abandon her as a baby, and drown her. He had ruined Mam's life. And for that, Marianne despised him with such a burning passion. She'd hate him more than she'd ever love anyone. If she ever got the chance to love. She'd loved Mam, before her District Ten life ended. But she'd never love a boy, a boy her age, like a couple. She'd never get that opportunity. Back to the thing about death being simple. Here's how it works: someone dies, and everything changes. You go from 'is' to 'was', 'their stuff' becomes 'their old stuff'. Their favourite colour becomes what used to be their favourite colour. Most people had seen death on the TV, in the Hunger Games, but most not in real life. Maybe in the poorer districts like Ten, Eleven and Twelve, where dead bodies sometimes turned up on the street. Hunger, exposure, and such. "Darius Radler, District Ten." Away went her district partner, disappearing behind the metal doors. It'd be her turn next. Her turn to face that hell. Her turn to try...to try and impress the Gamemakers! What was she going to do? She gasped and brought her hands to her hair, like she did when she was stressed. She ran her fingers through the soft locks, washed and styled by the glamorous stylists in the Capitol. After his time was up, he left, and it called her name. "Marianne Taylor, District Ten." Marianne took her deepest breath, and stood up hesitantly. She felt the cramps in her leg and gasped slightly. She'd been sitting for so long. It felt like she would never stand up. Marianne stepped into the room, and saw the Gamemakers up in the higher viewing podium. She felt short compared to them, as she felt short compared to everyone, being 5'3. And the fact that they were up way higher than her. She took her bow, even though the performance hadn't started yet. "Hi," she started, a lump in her throat. Maybe she could play the 'little innocent girl' card. "My name is Marianne Taylor. District Ten girl. And there's really not much to say about me." She looked around at all the stations and headed to the edible plants test. While pressing the buttons and sorting out the edible and inedible plants she'd mastered over the days, she continued to speak. "I'm fourteen, making me the youngest tribute this year. I grew up with my Mam and mostly worked with cows my whole life." She continued to sort the plants into two sections - edible and inedible. "Don't ask me about my dad or I will strangle you." Then she stepped down from the screen and headed towards the fire making station. "Over the past few days in this Capitol place, I've learned quite a few things. I already knew how to kill cows. Milk cows. Basically the kinda stuff you learn from your home district, like the Sevens knowin' how to handle an axe and all. So I didn't do much with food. I'm already good at rationin' food, so I only learned a bit about that. So I focused on fire-makin', which should help, and the edible plants." She was now working on the fire, gathering the pile of sticks and getting everything set up. "Bein' the youngest tribute and all, and probably the smallest, the 'strong' card wouldn't really work. So I'm aiming for sly. Havin' good survival skills, you know? It's crucial." She was working on the fire. She was aiming for friction-based fire making, so she worked on creating as much friction between the two sticks as possible. As she rubbed the sticks together, she wondered what else she could say. "People shouldn't underestimate me 'cause I'm the youngest. I have a lot of skills I don't plan on releasin' anytime soon." The flame flickered and started, and she'd lit the fire. She held up the two sticks to the Gamemakers, and then threw one into the air. It spun around and around. Marianne knew she needed to predict what side it would fall on. She could catch it if it landed on the unlit side, or she could let it land on the floor. She squinted and realized it was going to land on the right side. She caught it one-handed, and the other one quickly followed. She held them up, the flames flickering and burning. An Avox was making its way over to clean up the sticks, expecting Marianne to leave. She clutched the sticks. "Leave it! I'm not finished!" she shouted, and threw the stick. Time seemed to slow down as the Avox's eyes widened, her eyebrows raising and her mouth performing a perfect 'O' as the fire-stick headed straight towards her torso. The flame ignited the Avox's clothes, making the girl scream and Marianne jump backwards. Another Avox was getting a bucket of water to pour onto the Avox, who was batting her clothing, trying to stop the fire. Marianne clamped a hand over her mouth, watching the flames moving in their special ripple... She'd outstayed her welcome. Once the Avox was drenched in water and the fire extinguished, Marianne threw the other stick into the pile and performed a final bow. "Marianne Taylor, District Ten. Thanks for watchin' and all." She spun around and headed straight towards the door, hoping to leave with some regret of what happened, but instead leaving with none. f r i e n d s  w i t h t h e m o n s t e r

------

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

He could feel the champagne's bubbles turning into stones in his head. There had been a day when the hangover passed clean through in the middle of the night, but he'd long since stumbled over the mid-20s line into hangover hell. The worst, the worst he had only recently discovered: the dread day hangover. It was possible, as it turned out, to get so drunk in the morning that you sobered up just in time for dinner and a brutal, full-body ache. And the pebbles knocking around his head were just the start.

A smart, poor man might have reached for water, but Glamour was neither. He hoisted another flute as the District Ten female tribute stretched up to greet them. She was, without a doubt, tiny. Delicate. He could work with that, style her up a few years. But maybe his audience would like an underdog, a little girl so like Saffron Lowe? Except he'd already forgotten her name, and the bubbles were tickling his nose and no help at all with the pebbles, and he really couldn't even follow her accent.

Glamour bent his head to speak to Cadence, as though to whisper, even though his voice boomed. "At this rate, we're going to have to clean out the Detention Center to replenish our avoxes!" He grinned at her, though she remained stoic, and nodded when she passed her judgment. "A score of four for District Ten. Keep 'em coming!"

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[Deleted]

owen {♔} bowers-fox The boys and girls that proceed me range from terrifying to amusing, and I count each and every single one of them. The girl from one goes first, with her dark hair and contentedly, annoyed smirk. She’s followed by the boy from one, and both the girl and boy from two. They all intimidate me to be honest, but it doesn’t take much to do that, so I’m not surprised when I find myself holding my legs down to keep them from shaking. The girls from three and four strike me as people hiding secrets close to their heart, far from my grasp, and so does the boy from three. However, the boy from four—Leon, shoots me a small smile and I recall our previous conversations as he walks by. He’s been nothing but kind to me, but he’s still from a career district, and I know his friendship is only an overlay hiding some form of power, likely to come out when faced with death. The girl and boy from five don’t even shoot me a glance, and it’s not entirely their fault, for I refuse to make eye contact with them. The same goes from the pair of sixes’, and it’s only until the girl from seven passes me that I look up from the floor. She catches my eye momentarily, but I turn away before I can make anything of her, or her of me. The boy from seven doesn’t seem to kindle the same fire that so many before him have, and I find it easier to meet his gaze as our breakfast conversation comes to mind. I don’t know if I could call him a friend, for I don’t think that that word exists in these boundaries, but he is someone I trust more than others. It’s only moments later that the girl who I shared a few words with on the train here walks by, and I do my best to meet her gaze and shoot her a smile. She didn’t deserve this, and I felt the same sorrow in my heart that I hoped Duncan did for me back home. The numbers in the room have dwindled now, leaving only nine others (not including myself). No one has said anything, and I’m sure that if someone dropped a pen three rooms over it would be able to be heard. It’s not that I mind the silence, for it gives me time to think, to ponder over the fact that I’m going to walk into that room and stand there like a complete idiot because I am nothing phenomenal. I’ve never been one to possess strength or wits or anything different because I’ve grown up realizing that I can never achieve what I want—perfection. It’s for that reason that as my name is called I space my steps so that they’re equal and push with both hands against the heavy, steel doors that stand between me and the whole world’s realizing that I am imperfect. My steps resonate against the linoleum and I feel the eyes drawing to me, and I can only imagine pens beginning to scrawl against pure, white paper, tainting it with mistakes that I haven’t made. It only takes one glance around the room to realize that there is nothing there that would in any way make me seem desirable. ”Cody, it’s all wrong! The alignment and the angle and everything about it is simply wrong.” The paper ripped beneath my grip, and I did my best to calmly chunk it off the desk, however, my aim was off and it flew across the room, landing in the middle of Duncan’s empty bed. My hands ran roughly through my messy hair, and I laid my head down on the cold desk and waited for Cody to say something that would take away from my current distress. However, he didn’t say anything, but from the noise he was making I knew that he wasn’t just sitting there. I transferred the tears from my eyes to the sleeve of my shirt, my vision clearing to reveal him smoothing out the piece of paper that I had just previously made an effort to destroy. His words were gentle, yet firm, as he handed the crinkled piece of paper back to me before saying, “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. Everything is imperfect.” I’m sure that I look confused, or at least distraught, as I shakily walk over to the area of the room where miscellaneous paints for camouflage sit and pick up a brush and a few colors. The floor is a canvas draped in night, and I wield colors of the sun as I begin to paint the imperfect scenes that had graced my vision over the last couple of days. The train ride had revealed a world that had been hidden from me up to that point, and the lack of luster in each of the areas we had passed was reflected in the dirt browns and dull golds that crossed the floor at my feet. Blood reds accompanied my thoughts of the training center and its brutality, from those who struck each lifeless dummy with every intention of murder to those who sat on the sidelines in silence and wondered about how it would feel to be in either the place of the murderer or the murdered. I was just about to paint the vibrant pinks and blues that adorned the people of the capitol, when a surge of reality came over me. No one was going to care about this, not the people who sat above me, and not the people who would stand over my grave. My imperfections did not matter to them, and they had no reason to. Everything I did was a work of destruction, not a work of art, and no matter how hard I tried to paint a perfect picture, it would never exist. My imperfections would be the only thing left among the ruins of my demise, and that’s how these people were going to remember me. I stop midway through a stroke of purple before tossing the brush aside and wiping my colored hands on my dark pants. I clamor to my feet, glancing halfheartedly at the scene that sits beneath me. I can count the number of things I’ve messed up, from the shade of the dirt to the blood of the dummies that lay in pieces (no one could be proud of this, not even Cody). There is nothing right about what sits in front of me, and tears threaten to spill from my dark eyes. However, in my desperate attempt to keep my face hidden from the gazes above me, I catch sight of multiple swords lined up perfectly straight. I reach out for one, colors smudging the silver hilt as I hold the handle in one hand and run the other over the blade. I begin to walk back towards the section of floor I’ve already defaced, but before I can get too far away, I turn back and knock my shoulder into the metal rack, causing a surge of pain to shoot down my shoulder and into my arm. The perfectly aligned swords scatter to the floor, falling and landing over each other. Content with the imperfections that have fallen amidst that area, I make my way back to my painting, dragging the tip of the sword still in my hand through the still wet paint. My previous imperfections are marred even further by my anger, and it only takes a moment for a still interpretable picture to be turned into something that even I didn’t understand, and it only drove me further. The sword clatters and slides across the metal floor as it leaves my grasp. It’s not my weapon of choice anymore, no, it’s the little, wooden matches that lay on a table across the room, and I jog to pick them up. They’re smooth and light in my hands, and I take about three of them before picking up a jar of coal black tar and walking back to my smudged section of floor. The jar of tar is heavy in my hands, and I position myself squarely in the middle of the area before holding it high above my head and throwing it to the floor. The black substance erupts from the jar, glass and tar spreading out around my feet. I pick up the discarded sword again and spread the thick substance about, letting its darkness seep over every bit of color I had previously thought would make a statement. I stand back and for the first time since I’ve stepped into the room, look up and address the people staring down at me. I take one of the matches and light it, watching yellow engulf the top as I hold it eye level. It begins to burn down, and just before the flame reaches my finger, I blow it out, dropping the smoking match to the ground at my feet. It takes every ounce of bravery to push things farther than I already have, and I swallow the stutter in my throat before looking to the gamemakers above me, silently urging my voice not to fail me at this point in time. “For a long time, I imagined art to be this perfect thing, something I could never reach, but I’ve decided that that’s not the case. I’ve decided this,” and with that, I struck another match, only holding it for a moment before looking back up to address the people above me again, “is just as good. In fact, I think it’s even better.” And with the last word I let the match fall from my grip, and I watch as flames of red and orange and yellow lick the black surface. I step back a few paces as the flames spread from the central point of diffusion to the outermost edges, where my paintbrush had barely crossed. The colors are buried beneath darkness, the pinks and blues and yellows undistinguishable against the black that suffocates them. I stumble back a bit more, the flames consuming the tar quicker than I had accounted for. It’s silent again, besides the crack of the fire, and I take the moment to simply watch. The flames grow and then dwindle, until only an ember is left at one of the edges. I make my way over to it, pausing a moment before stamping it out. I’m sure I’m a sight for sore eyes, my once clean, crisp uniform coated with smudges of paint and tears streaming down my face. But the image that I display doesn’t matter anymore, for I’ve made the point I aspired to make, and with that I murmur out a “Thank you.” before walking with uneven paces to the heavy, steel doors, and pushing them open with only one hand.

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

The midday slump had hit them all hard, even after Cadence had generously called for a lunch break. Glamour could feel the delicious, albeit heavy, food weighing down the champagne bubbles in his stomach. He burped once, to great fanfare, and even took a little bow before continuing the procession of tributes. It had been an age since he'd bothered to pay attention. Leave it to the Careers to impress and the rest to fail.

Glamour chewed on the tip of his finepoint pen as the District Eight boy entered the room. He glanced at the name on the chart and growned. "How is anyone supposed to remember a hyphenated name when it comes time to sponsor? His parents are so short-sighted," he muttered to Cadence. The boy wandered. Glamour coughed. "Maybe not just his parents."

It takes him forever to get where he's going, but once he's arrived, he is nothing short of beautiful. The pen drops from Glamour's mouth. He leans forward, rapt, as the fire ignites the colors. Glamour can't help but grin at the boy as he makes his little speech. Finally! Finally someone who appreciates beauty, flawed as it is, and instead of destroying a little piece of it, brings it life.

He's quiet as the other Gamemakers debate. "An eight. I won't have any less. This arena needs a good painter. Next!"

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

P O T A T O E A R N E S T

What kin a fella' like me do?

Ain't much I'm real good at, I reckon a lotta folks know that. Zell's been tellin' me that mostly my 'ticular disric dies off real quick anyhow. No one 'specks much from the likes of me. They seen all they wanna see by now. All they really have a care for is ther career disrics I reckon an' I ain't blamin' fer that. Heck, if I were judgin', I wouldn't even stick 'round to watch the other disrics 'cause i'd probably jus' be real disappointed. What are we anyhow? Jus' a bunch of kids who are still recoverin' from the drought to really make a difrence in ther 'rena.

I guess I'm pretty good 'cause I been runnin' a whole farm all alone since Pa an' Ma died. I mean, I always had muscle, when ther drought took 'em all I had ter do was find 'em again. An' I may have lost jus' 'bout everythin' I had but there was still somethin' good outta that drought cause I did find her agin. Well, she did find me, which I 'spose I'm real glad fer 'cause without Opal Sho-Earnest I'd be jus' as dead as my Ma an' Pa, Ripred bless 'em.

But I keep on fergettin' that I ain't believin' in him no more.

When they finally call my name ter enter the room my hands feel all weak when they push me up from my seat. I know I'm nervous but my brain feels like it's not connected proper an' my hands refuse ter shake. I got ther ring that her lips touched on my finger and I've taken ter twistin' it round an' round but fer now it's solid weight is all I need to keep me grounded. She said I need to aim fer a middle number 'cause the numbers don't matter a whole lot but it's better ter be 'bove five 'cause I still need sponsors.

I tried ter think of what I could do ter impress the judges. The only things I ever been good at in my whole life is farmin' an' singin' I 'spose. I ain't gonna be able ter sing the enemy tuh death.

I don't really think I'm kay-pa-bull of killin' anyhow. (I'd like ter be thinkin' I ain't.)

Everyone says that they're ready an' I seen people lookin' at me when we con-ver-sate, sizin' me up, wonderin' how hard I'll be ter take down. Well I kin tell yer that I won't be easy 'cause I got someone who's waitin' fer me ter come out of it alive an' I will keep crawlin' forward 'till there is nowhere else ter go, 'cause I wanna live, real bad. I reckon everyone does though an' that means that I'm gonna have ter do somethin' that I ain't never done before, not even with words.

I'm gonna have ter hurt someone.

The know how of that draws a grim line on my face fer a mouth an when I enter the room ter perform my tricks, I put Potato Earnest, the boy who used ter cry over dead flies away.

I could be showin' em some fancy tricks with a bow or a sword but ter be honest, my prow-ess (as Opal says) ain't with a blade but with a more subtle approach. Real careful and with a feelin' of purpose, I make my way over ter ther plant section an' pull on a pair of gloves 'afore I go 'head an' touch anythin'.

If there's one thing that I know it's ter never trust nature, not in a hunderd years. 'Cause you kin trust a knife ter cut, yer can trust a match ter light, but yer can't trust that grass is gonna grow, yer can't trust people not ter die, an' plants sure as hell ain't trustworthy. Yer can jus' touch some of 'em an' die. A man who don't know his plants ain't got mucha chance. But I been raised in ther dirt, I been learned 'bout plants since I could walk an' so's if you's asked me ter kill a man I could reach inner my garden, an' hand you so many diffren' weapons that yer wouldn't know which one ter choose.

'Cause what people don't know is that weapons come in many shapes an' sizes, that the end ain't always by fire or ice, but sometimes ends in the fac' that someone thought that some Aconite were a carrot or somethin' else silly.

It ain't that I wanna make a statement or somethin' silly. I ain't here to do somethin' real tricky or ter make them think too hard. I'm jus' here ter show them that all I ever done my whole life is fall in love with ther way grass grows an' how the un rises in ther mornin's. I'm jus' here ter show them that things that are from nature ain't as easy ter be tames as they reckon'. Everyone agrees that ther games are somethin' ter keep us docile, like the cattle from ten but jus' 'cause they wan' us ter fear them, it don't mean that we gonna be easy to put fear in. Some of us got everythin' ter lose, an' some of us got nothin' but it can be agreed that we all wanna live.

Still, bind a human too long, cut inter his soul deep enough an you take away the bit of him that makes him nature, you take away his free will an' what he or she is ain't human no more, they jus' like cattle. Ther only difference is ther dead look in their eyes when you ask 'em somethin' an' they cain't even answer 'cause they freedom of speech been taken, they freedom of movement, of love, of life. Livin' that way ain't now way ter live, no how.

An' when I saw Ben, a boy I'd known since we were shorter than corn's first leaf, standin' 'aside my door dressed in the robes of an Avox, lookin' straight through me like he were numb as ice I knew what I had ter do, 'cause the ben I knew was fire, he were dirt, he were sun. He weren't no ice.

With my gloves on, I head to the side panel first, punchin' in the number of Avox I want fer my display. I wonder how many plants I know. Upwards a' thirty at least. I got Opal ter show me my numbers earlier so's that I could do this bit. It takes a secon' ter remember how many the 'kneelin' man with 'er head bent' was equal ter an' how many the circle one were. Twenty. I punch in twenty.

They enter the room, docile an' quiet, breathin' measured, not carin' even what I might do ter them.

So I take my heart an' I put it on my sleeve. I know that what I'm doin' ain't right but I can't preten' no more ter follow the rules if followin' those rules makes me weak an' therefore unable ter get back ter her. Everyone thinks I'm an easy target, too weak, jus' a bumblin' little idiot from eleven who weren't even knowin' what a games was 'till a month ago.

I wish sometimes that I could go back ter the days 'afore I knew that ther world I was livin' in weren't perfect. That's the wishin' of a coward, I gotta be brave, I gotta have a lion in my heart.

Takin' a deep breath, I hurry up 'cause the effects will take a minute or two ter take hold.

Goin' ter the plants bench, I collect a handful of seemingly harmless lookin' herbs, even a 'tater plant that ain't had the chance yet ter grow fully and somethin' that looks a lot like a carrot.

An' as I make my way down the row of Avox, I stare straight inter their eyes, knowin' what I'm doin' here but unwilling ter preten' like it ain't happenin'. I won't shirk away from the things I do, never will. To apologize fer doin' somethin' that yer did to a person, even when yer meant it is cowardice. Ter preten' like yer real sorry is a lie an' Ma always said that tellin' a lie was a terrible sin an' if she ever caught me tellin' one again she'd haul me up in fronta the whole disric' an' gimme a right good boxin'.

Ter make the death of someone less by sayin' yer didn't mean it is like makin' their life a lie, a waste. An' my Ma might be buried fer many months now, but I know ther things she taught me.

As I hand out each plant, I recite ther names and uses in my head.

When I reach the last Avox, all's I got left is my far too green 'tater root.

An' when ther first one falls writhin' ter ther floor, I note the way in which he suffers. He's layin' in a pool 'a his own vomite within' seconds, clawin' at his stomach 'cause he;s tryin' ter stop ther burnin'. I stare at him impassively, notin' the way his eyes bulge, how he's chokin' on his own vomit an' ther floor 'roun him is stained brown. Musta been a pretty strong cut of ther plant then. I recognized the herb by it's pretty flower. A heck of a lotta people take that one for bouquets an' sometimes a leaf or two fin' themselves in ther han' of a child. An' then the child dies, or they live. This time, the Avox will die, an' quickly. Oh-lee-an-der.

An' they fall like dominoes.

Monkshood, Sassafrass, Tansy, Lobelia, Juniper, Hemlock, Fox-glove, Belladonna, Broom, Aconite.

An' some of 'em die quick but only if they lucky. Usually the effects of any plant poison is a very un-com-for-tab-le beginnin', with ther body tryin' ter flush out any toxins real frantic' like. The col-lec-tive image in front of me is of a lot of shit an' vomit comin' out both ends an' not in a comfortable manner. An' the lucky ones will die from that, their Avox bodies too weak to take the con-vul-shuns and burnin' pains that come next. After that comes worser things, like the migraines an' ther organ failurin'.

Then comes ther dyin' bit.

Some of them die in a way that looks real painful, others suf-fo-cate ter death. Some of them scream all crooked past ther hollowness in their mouths. An' they take minutes rather than secon's an' it would be mercy ter take a knife an' slit they throats.

But I ain't doin' that. 'Cause blades just ain't my style, not when yer kin jus' let nature take it's course.

(I ain't murderin' no one, I ain't murderin' no one, I'm settin' 'em free.)

An' the one who's eaten the 'tater tuber I given him is just now fallin' ter his knees, not ther least bit confused. 'Cause Ben an' I know what eatin' raw 'taters an' they leaves kin do to you. "Taters are funny things," I say, workin' hard ter keep my voice level an' nearly failin'. "People think all they are is somethin' ter eat, that they might be a bit starchy but that's all. They rely on 'em as somethin' un-re-mark-ab-bull, nothin' ter be feared of."

Ben starts ter convulse an' I wish I didn't have to watch him but I ain't lookin' away 'cause I'm not throwin' his death away an' I ain't a good liar. "Truth is, Taters are part 'a ther Nightshade family. Nightshade is one of ther worser natchral poisons. Eatin' they leaves or they tubers can result in a painful death." His skin starts goin' all yeller, his eyes bloodshot. "His organs are failin' right 'bout now," I comment.

Goin' back ter the bench, I remove my gloves real careful an' fold them inter themselves so that no one will get a surprise poisoning from the Aconite that I touched. The fac' is, I just killed twenty people without barely liftin' a finger. Maybe wars fer them are won with blood an' muscle, but ter be honest, I'd rather be cut down with a sword than die by plant poison.

People been thinkin' that a boy with a silly name like Po-tay-toe ain't got nothin' fer them ter be afeared of. An' I may be a Ripred fearin' boy, I may be someone eho cried over butterflies with torn wings, but if I have ter be sloggin' through hell jus' ter get back ter my wife, then I will tear up any nightmare, I will perform any trick that I ain't never wanted ter do 'afore, jus' ter keep that smile on her face.

If I gotta become ther devil ter keep her safe, then I will.

I would light the world on fire.

I go when Ben finally stops movin'.

and i was c o m p l a c e n t
when you reached for me
I nodded and said
t a k e m e i n t o h e l l

resources: x x x
disclaimer: In most cases, the fastest killer is monkshood, but I'm viewing it as these ar emutated herbs and move at a much quicker pace.

Potato. Patato. What kind of name was that for a child? Naming them after a tuber that naturally grew underground covered in dirt. A tuber that nearly everyone in the districts ate on a regular basis. Were they trying to say their child would be eaten quickly? Possible. After all, district eleven rarely put on a good show for the Capitol. As expected, he headed for the plant station. Cadence watched the tribute thoughtfully. The gossip around the Capitol was that this Potato might have something going with a district one victor. Opal Shore to be precise. Cadence didn't care about gossip herself, but sometimes it was hard to avoid hearing it.

As Cadence watched, Potato lined up several avoxes in a row and she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. But there were no ropes, no fire, no great spouting geysers of blood. Of course, there were other fluids covering the floor, but she tried to avoid looking at it, hoping that the stench wouldn't cling to her the way the other dead avoxes smell had. The tribute raambled on for a little bit to the last avox standing, and Cadence found herself slightly impressed by his knowledge. She wouldn't have thought that someone from such a low district could figure such a thing out.

And if he managed to replicate it in the arena, say with tributes who thought they were allies? Well, things could get very interesting very fast. Looking over her sheet, Cadence debated how to score it. It was a surprising choice of weapon. Original too. But then there was the matter of having to replace the avoxes in the room for the third or fourth time that day. Did the tributes just all decide that today was kill all the avoxes day while they were waiting in the line outside the room? A grumble towards Glamour's general direction escaped Cadence's lips as she penciled in a seven.

"Bonus points for not leaving as much of a mess as the other tributes."

She pushed the call button and leaned over the mic in disgust.

"Send a clean-up crew. Again." she spat through gritted teeth.

[RIP Cystine Crystal]

.

[pthalorarity]

[Jem Morgan]



I live my life inside a dream,
only waking when I sleep
If I could sell my sorry soul, I would have it all

Jem’s green eyes glittered to life as he was the first to be called into the training center. Moments like these were what show ponies like Jem Morgan were bread for. He was perfectly conditioned to dazzle an audience, and he was well aware it wouldn’t be too hard to catch at least a few of the Gamemakers’ eyes if he played it right. He was also quite confident that his performance would set the bar for the rest of these lowlifes, with perhaps the exception of the cowboy…

He let his sultry stare connect with every gaze of the Gamemakers as he entered the room. He simultaneously stretched and flexed his lean, muscled physique and his lips curled into their usual subtle smirk. He sauntered over to the blades table and without missing a bit rolled into a one handed cartwheel to land before the deadly booth. His first selection included an array of three spears. He turned to the dummy simulator and pressed the on switch for moving humanoid targets. His body crouched into position as he prepared his first throw and his smirk shifted to a sneer.

His first spear connected exactly where he intended: right in the crotch of a running target a good seventy-five meters away. The projected target burst into nothing and he set his eyes on victim number two. Without missing a beat, the second spear flew from his grasp and straight through the dummy’s chest. It exploded with a clatter by which time the third spear was already taking aim. Pushing his limits, he readied for the farthest running target nearing a hundred meters distance. He had been aiming for right between the eyes, but he supposed a direct hit on the left eye wasn’t too shabby as the final hologram shattered into nonexistence.

Round one was complete, and Jem had more to demonstrate than accuracy. He wasn’t going to be taken in close range either. He may not have the bulk of some of these other male tributes, but he had the skill and precision to take down any foe even twice his size. The primary key was pressure points. It was hard to demonstrate that without a partner to reduce to tears though, so he figured his sword-fighting abilities would still get the point across.

Once more turning on the moving target generator, Jem grabbed a longsword and began moving as if to a choreographed dance as he sliced and diced the limbs of his imaginary foes. He gracefully alternated between the blade of the sword and using the hilt as his bludgeon to leave lethal dents in the would be skulls of tributes. When three ganged up on him at once, he maneuvered his way out with a series of well placed elbow jabs and kicks before stabbing two in the heart and leaving the third two wobble around without limbs before slicing it’s head clean off.

Working up a sweat, he used his free hand to pull his shirt up and over his head to reveal his perfectly toned career body. He tossed it nonchalantly up into the Gamemakers’ station and gave one of the women a quick wink before making his way back to the blades stand for a final round up. He grabbed an array of throwing knives that swiftly found themselves into varying locations of major arteries on what dummies remained as they charged at Jem. With the last of the targets dissipated and one knife remaining, he had one more skill to show. He took the knife and delicately sliced into his left forearm. He maintained his smirk up to the Gamemakers despite the subtle gritting of his teeth as the blade tore through his perfectly smooth flesh. This had been the part he really wasn’t looking forward to doing, but careers knew how to patch up and keep going, and he was determined to show that he was more than just that pretty son of the Mayor. He was at the top of the breed.

He made his way to the first aid and quickly patched up his wound with a bit of ointment and stitching. For his finale, he took the throwing dagger in his wounded arm, licking the blade seductively before he took his aim. He turned his alluring green eyes toward Glamour, biting his lip softly for effect as he released his knife into the crotch of a stationary dummy across the room without looking. “See you on the other side,” Jem cooed with half-lidded eyes and his sly grin, addressing the room as a whole. He ran his fingers through his hair, gave a wink and turned to strut away in a manner that he was sure everyone in the room could admire each muscle that lined his backside.

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

Glamour could almost feel his hair wilting under the geyser of steam radiating off the top of his head. The dark secret he held close the shameful truth that while he enjoyed orchestrating the death of tributes, he had no desire to actually be the one killing threatened to come undone. He imagined himself leaping from the stage and taking one of the pretty little knives to Charlotte Brownings' throat.

But he couldn't. No, he wouldn't, that only made him fume even more hotly. For a moment, he listened to the supportive curses, calling her a heathen, a disgrace to her district. And then he turned his back on the other Gamemakers, rotating to sit parallel only to Cadence. "This is not how I wanted to start the day," he said, and then glanced down at his chart. His smile was small and tepid, but at least he smiled. "And it can only improve from here."

And improve it did.

He scooted to the edge of his seat as Jem sauntered into the center, all dazzling eyes and coy smile. He winked, not at all in the mood to behave, and clapped his hands as Jem cartwheeled into action. "Finally," he declared, to no one in particular. Throughout Jem's demonstration, Glamour's gaze never left him once. He couldn't decide, at the end, who was more prey and more predator. For Jem Morgan, Glamour was willing to be both.

The boy's shirt flew right into the lap of one of the lesser minions. She squealed, and Glamour extended his perfectly manicured hand. "That belongs to me." Jem's sweat was still cooling as Glamour tucked it around his neck, fashioning it into a scarf of sorts. He brought the fabric over his lips, beneath his nose as Jem made his final shot.

Glamour looked right at Cadence, to be sure she watched, before he blew the tribute from District One a kiss. "See you there, my pretty friend." It did not surprise him at all, after the doors closed, to find his fellow Gamemakers bickering. Glamour chuckled to himself. No doubt he'd shaved a number or two off of Jem's score by showing so much favoritism. But what did the score matter, in the end? "Fine, fine, you stingy sods. An eight for the delicious boy."

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[Deleted]

[presto]

[/presto]

{JACINDA}

She lost track of time. If there was a clock in the waiting room, she didn't see it or hear its gentle tick tock. She used her time to think of what she was going to do, but every time she thought of an idea, she discarded it after fretting that it wasn't good enough. She wanted to show the Gamemakers that she was worth something, that she was more than a frail, 5'3 girl from a lower district. Even she did not believe that she was worth something, that she was more than what she appeared to be, so how could she possibly convince the Gamemakers that she was special? The question had haunted her for days.

It took a lot of self-restraint not to tug nervously at her hair, which now looked like threads of dark silk thanks to her Capitol stylist, Loribelle. She wanted to claw at her smooth, shaven skin that was devoid of grime and leave trails of red where her manicured nails had been. She knew that Loribelle would scowl at her or scold her for her nervous habits, so she refrained from tugging at her nearly perfect hair or scratching her smooth skin. She settled for lightly tapping her foot on the hard ground.

"Jacinda Zembori," called a monotone robotic voice as the doors to another room silently slid open, beckoning her to enter.

Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest when she realized that it was her turn to show the Gamemakers what she was made of. (All she could think of was soft things—feathers, cotton, velvet, clouds.) Instead of collapsing on the floor and letting a flood of tears escape from her eyes, she rose from her seat and took slow steps towards the open door. She drew in a deep breath and clenched her fists as she mentally prepared herself for taking the first step on the path of inevitable death.

Step. One foot on the path of inevitable death.

There was no turning back. She wanted to run back into the waiting room, into the hallway, and fling herself out of a window, but she couldn't. Peacekeepers would restrain her from committing suicide, and even if she managed to slip through the Peacekeepers' fingers, the force fields below the windows would prevent her death. She was trapped.

She unclenched her fists and adjusted her poor posture so she stood tall as she walked at a normal pace into the room. She could feel the eyes of the Gamemakers burning into her skin, which made her breakfast threaten to spill onto the floor. She was successful in the endeavor of holding back a tsunami of tears, thank Ripred. She had mustered enough strength to prevent her legs from trembling like a sapling during an earthquake, but she could not stop the churning in her stomach and the storm of anger and fear swirling in her head.

When she reached the middle of the room, she turned to the Gamemakers and said, "Jacinda Zembori, District Eight." Her voice boomed throughout the room, certainly loud enough to grab the Gamemakers' attention if they had not been watching her.

She headed straight for the knives, but changed her course when the glint of spears caught her eye. She was very fond of spears. They were light and lethal—the perfect weapon for her. So she grasped a spear in her small hand and raised it, and as she did so, she realized what she wanted.

She wanted these Gamemakers to know that she will not be overlooked like the other lower district tributes, that she will not lay down her weapon and wait for death. She wanted them to understand that she won't be fighting for her life—she'll be fighting for freedom. She wanted them to know that she will get freedom even if she dies. There is freedom in death, because she would not be trapped in the Arena or in District Eight anymore. She would be gone, but she would be free. If she lived through the Games hell on Earth, she wouldn't have to rot in District Eight for the rest of her life. She would have privileges, she would be able to leave District Eight at least once a year.

As she drew her arm back, preparing to release the spear and send it flying at the dummy's heart, she felt confidence bloom and flourish inside of her, providing the courage she needed to send her message to the Gamemakers. But before she let go of the cold, steel weapon, she said, "Death is a beautiful thing." And she thrust the spear at the heart of the dummy.

The spear skewered the dummy with as if it was made of butter.

"Death is a beautiful thing because it sets you free," she continued as she picked up another spear and set her eyes on another dummy. "Freedom is such a rare, desired thing. Most people do not get the chance to be free, and many people who are given the chance to be free don't take it . . . because they are cowards." She took a step back—a risky thing to do—and threw the spear at the dummy's head, where its brain would have been if it were real.

But she missed it by less than a centimeter.

Instead of giving up or letting the miss bring her down, she smiled. "There's always a second chance." With that, she picked up another spear, aimed for the dummy's head once again, and sent the spear flying right through the dummy's head with all of the strength in her arm.

"People should not fear death," she said. "They should live while they can, and embrace death like an old friend when it finally comes, because death does not come to lock you away in darkness—contrary to popular belief—it comes to set you free . . . forever."

After successfully piercing another dummy with a spear—this time in the throat—she moved onto knives after their faint glint caught her eye. She took three knives at first, but gave into the temptation to take one more. She held the three knives in her left hand, and one knife in her right hand. She quickly drew back her arm after carefully adjusting its position, and thrust the knife at the dummy's arm. The knife hit the edge of the dummy's shoulder instead of its arm, to her disappointment. (But at least she hit it.)

"You may suffer as you die," she said as she hit the dummy in the leg with a second knife, and then a third right in the dummy's crotch. "But after suffering comes peace at last." Her words rang out in the room as eery as a death sentence.

And she threw her final knife at the dummy's heart. It pierced the dummy's chest with a light thump.

She turned to the Gamemakers, took a bow, and said confidently, "You're welcome," as if they had thanked her for her sadistic performance.

She sauntered out of the room without another word, her head held high in the air, quite pleased with herself. She felt fulfilled, like she had shown the Gamemakers what she wanted to.

{ZEMBORI}

---

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

Gavin's mane of hair danced alongside sugarplums in his head, remnants of his lunch and the sparkling center of his afternoon. He didn't even notice when the next tribute entered, so engrossed was he in a conversation with one of his minions. The hair, the eyes, even his voice. Everyone had a different favorite part of Gavin Barker. Glamour just hoped that not all the little bits of him ended up in the sand of the arena.

He lifted a painted brow at Jacinda, as she declared her name loud and clear. It certainly wasn't the worst of the bunch. He opened his palm, giving her leave to continue, and found it instantly filled with a fresh glass of champagne. It was at least as entertaining as Jacinda. He tried very hard not to yawn during her pretty little speech. And pretty it was - just like her. She would look marvelous in the outfits he'd helped design. So, there was a point for beauty.

"Ah peace," Glamour murmured as she walked away. "I do believe that spear hit a little close to the heart." He looked at Cadence, wondering if he might have impressed her. After all, the Games were the function, the outcome, the destiny of the peace their ancestors had fought so hard to secure. He smirked, shrugged, and penciled in the score. "A six for our little peacemaker."

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[анзие (Anz)]

 leon krigel

 district four male

He walks in with an empty mind.

The wait outside was both mentally exhausting and unnerving. For one thing, Charlotte had gone into the session overdressed in the sense that didn't involve slinky dresses and came out wearing close to nothing, which begs the question of what the hell was she doing in there? He gave her an odd look as she walked by jauntily, her head held high. For another, the other tributes seemed just as restless as Leon, but they didn't seem worried about what they have to do, like they had a game plan.

On the other hand, Leon's game plan needs some actual planning.

When they called his name, they call him 'Blaise Krigel' and for a long moment he doesn't react but to stare balefully at them. He detests that name, detests the memories it brings of the family he refuses to miss, to wish were with him (except that would be bad, because it means that they'd have to die). So he sits and clenches his fists and glares.

It's only the recognition that the others are going to be still waiting there if he refused to move that he pushes himself off his seat and stalks past the trainer to get to the door with all the dignity of a wet cat.

The room seems larger without the grunting and panting of tributes to fill the silence, and Leon's footsteps echo oddly on the concrete floor. It strikes him as eerie, almost as though he were an ethereal being back in the ghost town where he spent his final days. He wouldn't be surprised if tumbleweed blew right past him just then.

His fingers tap a gentle rhythm on the wall before he pushes off to stand before the gamemakers, dead center. And as he stares up at the gamemakers in their safe little podium, he realizes that it angers him, the way he's placed here for their entertainment, like their lives mean nothing to the city that supposedly liberated them. A slight sneer curls his lip and he bares his teeth at them in a parody of a smile. "Leon Krigel," he drawls, dipping in an elaborately mocking bow. "At your service."

Without waiting for a response he turns and stares down the room. His eyes catch on the plants station, all the little stems laid out neatly by the plants master; he sees next the beat up mannequins and their dead-eyed stare. An idea forms in his head and he almost feels like laughing.

Let's play your game, but let me change the rules.

He drags first the mannequin to center stage, keeping his expression indifferent as he saunters over to the plants station, picking up stem and leaf and joining them with a little slit from his thumbnail. The aimless beat he tapped into the wall is stuck in his head, and Leon starts humming to himself as he works, nimble fingers stringing together the stems like they were his harp, his lyre, his music. And for the first time in a long time he feels hatred-anger-emotion, emotion filling his body and he sings-

Love of two is one
Here but now they're gone
Came the last night of sadness
And it was clear she couldn't go on.

-and though his voice is soft it fills the room, the words falling as easily out of his mouth as though they had already existed in his head this whole time.

Slit, weave, goes the process.

Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew then disappeared
The curtains flew then he appeared, saying don't be afraid
Come on baby; and she had no fear.

The finished laurel in Leon's hands does not go on his head even though he itches to try it on. On his way back his hand reaches out to grasp the handle of the longsword he recalls practicing with, and it slides out of its sheathe with a metallic sound; it scratches the floor as he spins it in his hand.

He stabs the sword into the training mat where it jiggles before remaining upright, and in a deliberate parody of the last Games' crowning, Leon steps up to the mannequin and places the laurel reverently on the inanimate victor's head.

And she ran to him, then they started to fly
They looked backward and said goodbye; she had become like they are
She had taken his hand; she had become like they are
Come on baby-

Leon steps back to admire his handiwork.

Then turns, pulls the sword from the mat, and whirls to cleave the mannequin in two.

It doesn't work out quite the way he wanted it to; the mannequin is made of tougher stuff than he thought, and the sword gets stuck halfway down the mannequin's face, even though he threw all his strength behind it, even though adrenaline rushed wildly through his veins. So he shoves the mannequin back, letting it topple backwards; his delicate laurel had been split in two as well, the leaves scattering as each half breaks apart in falling to the ground.

But the effect is there, and his heart pounds in his ears, and Leon turns slowly to face his captors.

"Don't fear the reaper," he says, and the lyrics in his head fade when he takes his final bow.

 the innocents

template by anzie

---

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

Leon Krigel, at your service.

Oh, how he liked the sound of that. Almost as much as he liked the sound of Leon’s voice. Glamour swayed at first, and then closed his eyes and succumbed to a song. Yes. Yes, this was a story he could tell, of the Career from Four with a lyre of leaves and a voice of spun gold. It wasn’t quite the right symbolism for their arena, but that didn’t matter. Glamour could merge Grecian and Roman and Western influence together with a flick of his wrist. He’d leak it to Poria Rain first, and soon enough the whole Capitol would be taken with the fashion. And Leon Krigel would be his muse.

It’s only the clang of the longsword leaving its sheath that brought Glamour back to the moment. It is quiet and beautiful for a moment, Leon crowning another victor. He didn’t have time to dissect that particular symbol before the mannequin severed, right down to its hips. A smile tickled Glamour’s lips as Leon proved he was not all grace, but some brute as well. Don’t fear the reaper.

“Never,” Glamour promised, brushing a finger over his lips as though to keep the secret. After Leon bowed and took his leave, Glamour swiveled to Cadence. “We’ve nothing to fear from death, hmm? And I’m not sure this crownweaver does either. A nine for Leon Krigel, District Four.”

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[Wonder]

Name?

"District ten male - Darius Radler." A red palette of colour spritzes across his visage, a few drops of salty seawater dripping down the paint-ridden canvas held deeply into his hands. A few shakes here and there, it's been three days. Three days too long. Three, three, three days without a world exposed to an array of colour and madness - there is a sweet delicateness to madness that wraps around the spine, twists and turns until there's finally a moment of desperate euphoria.

He is cold, three blankets wrap his freezing figure in the evenings, three layers of shirts. He is a certain level of consistency, a repetition amongst the endless annual cycle, just three days. "District ten male - Darius Radler." He is - winter, summer, a boy, perhaps? A little mad, a little sane. A flash of colour along a canvas - a cornucopia of colour splashed across liquid bodies, a swarm of colour pastels floating to the top of a sickly green river. Sweat, shiver, shake. Repeat. Sweat, shiver, shake. Repeat. Sweat, shiver, shake. Repeat. It's been just three days since he last said hello to a universe far beyond his gentle understanding, he was a simple, simple - he was a simple sheep shearer after all.

"District ten male - Darius Radler." It was the third time, he heard his name called. A delicate unease and frustration burst out of the four remaining companions after him - don't they know it's just a game? Silly, silly, silly children.

What major challenge and problems did you face? And how did you handle them?”

He wondered how many plants he could try eating over by the hollowed out testing station before he ascended into a fantasy land, one of stories, a painted structure, landscapes - how many leaves of olive green did it take for him to be a tourist? Please - he dragged his feet along the angst riddled slip and slide flooring, no one was there to watch his slippery fingers doused in wonderland. There was no training manager, no other tributes to disrupt his goals - simply him, and the plants.

Crippled, weakened, he watched his two feet shuffle needlessly towards the plants - addiction painted in a silver glowing light, this - this was desperation. There's a ticking in his head, a time bomb, smeared in dark anguish - please, it begs, become susceptible to the need, this is the need, this is what he needs right now. He whispers -

"This has never happened before." Not even audible over the scratching sounds of his toes against the floor. There's a lot of screeching, there's a tunnel in front of his eyes. There's an elastic attached to the back of his sweater that keeps him from moving forward. There's a painting of the mountains of District Ten etched into the back of his mind. There's a clacking, he tried too hard - there was a magic to the narration in his head - it told him to go forward, but it was as though the author was saying, "pull back, just for now" an interjection to the hundreds of voices in his head - not yet, Darius, just not yet. And he understood. It'd been a long time since he'd stayed away this long from his greatest love, but still he pushed forward.

What is your best quality?

A slender voice calls his names in threes, Darius, Darius, Darius. A simple flame bursts through his eardrums, a surge of electricity, he hears her stories through wafts of smoke - once upon a time, there was a young boy by the name of Darius. It is like a quick flash of sense, things that were perfectly insane become normal - and there she stands, baffled and glowing - and there she stands again, at the top of the centre ropes - and there she stands again, poised behind the gamemakers who look as though he was just a simple callous on the fingertips of their day. And there she was, creating a ray of light, singing stories, 'once upon a time, there was a young boy who showed his talents.'

He looked desperately around, there are no sheep - there were no sheers, there were a few medications, but he waited cautiously, not to be too obvious. He struck gold, he struck silver, he struck bronze - he struck fire. He counted sheep in his mind, one, two, three. They were painted against one giant mountain range, and he branded them with his fingertips, they simply sat, so simple like - a simple task, creating a fire. He could do it, 'you can do it' she whispers. He knew how - he knew how, he knew how! He branded sheep with fires to identify them as his, theirs, he knew how to create fire with his voice - he listened to the simple instruction, took flint - he chipped away with a toothy grin, hello, hello, hello! It lights up and he's warm, it sinks through his pores, he's warm for once in three days - it's been three days.

“What are you passionate about?”

Darius whispers slightly to her ghostly figure, she stands shadowy against the wall now, disintegrates like sand through his shaking grasp - come back! He whistles to her, wondering if he is audibly howling or simply grabbing at air, but he can't tell - he sees through a narrow tube now, and she has disappeared, a simple candle blown away with the wind, and there's no wick to relight the flame, just a monster who can no longer breathe. He can't breathe. He realizes he can't breathe, there's a, oh my - he can't breathe.

Smoke twists in his nose - like a cigarette busting through his lungs he seems normal, for once. It escapes through his mouth, but no smoke appears - like an invisible drug. He needs it, them, it, them. He needs to feel alive. He grasps for a hat that does not exist, "I'm sorry, Jordan."

He's not perfection, nor does not strive to be, he is not strong, he seeks his love in drugs and stories past.

“What’s your greatest weakness?”

There is a ticking clock, he hears it's gentle thump. Tick, tick, tick. It stops every third second for a single heart beat, though his is rushing three times as fast. So incredibly fast he feels it exploding through his chest, he is ever-present in his demise.

He sees it.

The plants are in front of him.

He sees them and rushes. A lion after prey, he succumbs to the chase - there they are. Three days, he held on. Three days.

He reaches, and stuffs the first green leaf he sees that might be some sort of drug into his mouth, sweat pouring down his brow, he is weak, powerless. All his effort comes down to a simple plant - and then they grab him.

“What are your goals for the future?”

Toe by toe, dragged away, he coughs up the leaf in confetti pieces - it was nothing. They're hostile to him, they take away his needs, allow a gentle temptress into the arena he's to play in - it was their fault in the end. He would end up dead anyways, why not let him indulge. It'd been three days, three whole days since he'd entered wonderland - and it looked as though it'd be another.

All he'd boiled down to was a lack of sheep, a simple fire, and threads of plants all on the floor - it hadn't even been a suicide attempt.

Goodbye, gamemakers, goodbye.

Why do you want this job?

"I don't."

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

It's late in the day and the bubbles have knocked all the sense right out Glamour, and his stomach is twisting, and the District Ten male tribute is late. Not late, in the way that Glamour always arrives to a party once everyone else has been properly ensconced. No. Late in the my time is more valuable than yours sense of it, the way that makes his skin crawl and lip twitch on the Gamemakers' podium.

"Where is he?" He growls to no one in particular, having been informed that someone had been sent to check on the boy. And just then, just then, the doors open and Darius Radler enters, a waif of a boy although not without his charms, looking hopeless and desperate and aloof all at once. He wanders. Perhaps, he wonders. But Glamour can only feel the hard chair beneath his ass, the stony promise of a hellish hangover, and the truth that Darius Radler has only run in circles.

"Was that poison?" One of the lessers whispered, all concern. Glamour shrugged. If the boy from Ten was capable of killing anyone, it was most likely only himself. He is already broken, late, almost forgotten. And yet there is beauty in the breakdown. "A three for Darius Radler. Let's get the next one in here more quickly, shall we?"

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes

[aya]

Cowboy Dan Johnwayne

cowboy dan's a major player in the cowboy scene
goes to the reservation drinks and gets mean
goes to the desert fires his rifle in the sky
says god if i have to die you will have to die

Officially, the Private Training Session was to highlight what skills and knowledge each tribute gained over their time spent training in the capitol. Dan, of course, had spent the overwhelming majority in his training session antagonizing as many of the other tributes as possible. Though it was practically the only skill he'd even attempted to hone while he'd been there, it didn't take a genius to realize that mouthing off to the Gamemakers was a bad idea. As such, Dan had opted showcase what he'd learned in the eighteen years and eleven months prior.

He said nothing as he entered, casting a glance at the pair of Gamemakers that were front and center. He smirked at the flashier of the two, as if they shared some sort of secret, and wandered over to the table that the ranged weapons were stored on. Casually, he picked up a slingshot, displaying it for the man to see — a reminder that, yes, Dan had been the tribute with guts enough to fire a paint-covered projectile at the attentive Head Gamemaker. After a brief moment, back on the table it went. After all, slingshots were more useless against swords and spears in close quarters than having no weapon at all.

He opted for the former, snagging a single longsword from the rack nearby. Its edges had been dulled — he suspected he wouldn't get the level of cooperation he wanted otherwise. "Get me a trainer to spar with," he demanded, sticking the blade hilt-up between two floor mats. "No wait, two. Skilled ones. The blades instructor and..." he trailed off, examining the glimmering weapons, all stacked neatly in a row. "How about spears." He plucked a dulled trident from amongst its brethren and planted it next to the sword.

"I won't kill them, " he promised, a cheshire grin suggesting otherwise. He wouldn't, of course; the slaughtering of avoxes, while commonplace, was beyond tacky. But the murder of trained employees of the Capitol? Well, that was more cause for a "plate malfunction" than probably anything else he'd thought of before.

Dan rolled a cigar while he waited for the trainers to be summoned, filling it with willow bark in lieu of tobacco. They arrived before he had a chance to smoke it, however, so on the table it remained. With a casual gesture at the weapons he'd picked out for them, the cowboy gave them their instructions: "Pursue me at all costs – don't go easy, and don't be afraid to take every swing you can. I don't bruise easy, and I'm sure as fuck a lot more adept than the dipshits you been trying to corral all week. You better try your fucking best to kill me, otherwise how are they –" a sweep of his arm indicated the panel of Gamemakers looking on "– supposed to know what I'm capable of?"

They seemed to get the point, nodding in agreement as they picked up their weapons. For himself, Dan had selected nothing but his fists, his wits, and every ounce of his experience. He stared them down hard as they settled into their attack positions a mere ten feet away. For a tense moment, nobody so much as breathed — then everyone moved at once, the spear and the sword converging on him as he made his swift retreat to the edge of the ring — then backwards over the ropes, keeping his eyes on them the whole time.

For someone as tall as Dan, it was a rare thing to move like a cat the way that he did. He darted across the room, quick and sure, perfectly aware of every obstacle behind him. After all, knowing your surroundings was the surest way to earn an upper hand in any fight, and the cowboy of District Two had been drinking in every detail of the training center since he first set foot in it.

After he cleared them, Dan knocked over shelves and tables, putting as much in between himself and the two assailants as possible. It wasn't enough to make the pair lose their footing, nor to unsteady them enough that a bull rush would take them out – he'd be skewered by the other the instant he tried. I need to separate them. Instinct lead him over to the fishing station, but he had lacked the time (and, in truth, the patience) to set a proper trap beforehand. Instead, he picked up a crate filled with nets and ropes and fishing line and hurled its contents the swordsman.

The trainer flailed about, tangled in the supplies, but it would not hold him for long. With only seconds to act, Dan closed into striking range, empty crate still in hand. The woman lunged at him, but Cowboy Dan anticipated the strike and caught the points of the fishing spear between the slats of the box. Before she could pull her weapon back, he gave a mighty twist, yanking it from her grasp. He was on top of her before the spear clattered to the floor. She was fully pinned, struggling against the weight of his body, but she had entered Dan's realm of expertise, and could not budge him.

Pinning her chest with his knee and all of his weight and her arms above her head with one hand, he snatched up the trident and buried two of its points on either side of her neck. That ought to give the right impression. She stopped moving, accepting of the fact that he had just killed her. Good, now all that was left to deal with was –

The swordsman was practically on him by the time Dan wheeled around to dispose of his last threat. One net and ten feet separated two, and the trainer was quickly shedding the former. The man charged in attempts to catch the tribute off-guard, but Dan ran on instinct and always managed to react in time. Blink-and-miss-it fast, his hand darted into his pocket and closed around what he'd smuggled out of the dining hall at breakfast. Before the swordsman had a chance to swing, his eyes were suddenly burning from the fistful of salt and pepper that Dan flung in his face.

It was easy after that: a knee to the groin forced the sword from his hand, an elbow to the back brought him down once he was already doubled over. Dan caught him in a headlock, one strong arm dragging the blinded and incapacitated man off toward the plants station where Dan had started his journey. With his left, he brought his cigar to his mouth in celebration, lighting it with a match. The trainer kicked feebly. After two long drags, Dan held his token up to the hand-rolled smoke. The signet on the ring would not get as hot as it needed to from only the cigar, but Dan would wager that was for the best.

"They don't call me Cowboy cause I wrangle cattle," he announced through the corner of his mouth. Carefully, he pressed his ring into the man's neck. It wasn't hot enough to sear the flesh, the way a proper brand would, but the yelp of pain indicated that it still wouldn't feel nice. "They call me that cause I brand them."

He pulled his ring away, revealing an angry red welt in the shape of his four leaf clover. Perfect. He gave the panel a rare grin, his missing tooth on full display. "Shit," he said, admiring his handiwork, "now ain't that lucky." He dropped the trainer to the floor and strolled out of the gym.

{lucky that won't be permanent}

None of us are promised to see tomorrow, and what we do is ours to choose
Forget about the sunrise, fight the sleep in your eyes

Finally, finally, they were on a roll for the day. Glamour giggled shamelessly at a terrible pun one of the lessers had made over Tiger’s name. The beguiling lightness of a champagne drunk made him silly. The golden bubbles were like a spider’s web in that way: delicate, beautiful, and all the more lethal for it. He was so enraptured by the high that he missed Dan Johnwayne could his parents have been any more pedestrian? and his thin smirk. The woman seated behind him knocked his shoulder.

“Owie,” Glamour insisted, and then looked down to see what all the fuss was about. He brought the flute immediately to his mouth, if only to hide a grimace as Dan waved the damned slingshot around like a victor’s crown. Glamour set his teeth to the glass. He wanted to chew right through it, to feel the shards in his gums, to split his tongue in two. But of course, the torture – as ever – remained in his mind.

He lifted a hand to allow the trainers into the room, but Cadence had beaten him to it. He’d often wondered the same thing himself; how was anyone to properly assess a tribute’s potential against plastic and wood? But they couldn’t just be killing people for training actually, as it turned out, they really could. He watched, glass still between his teeth and his free hand absently rubbing at the bruise on his sternum. It was impossible not to be impressed – goddamn awed – at Dan’s skills. He schooled the trainers like they were children.

Glamour even flinched when he kneed the trainer. He shifted in his seat, setting the half-drunk flute down. During the short span of the District Two boy’s session, the room had become stifling, uncomfortably hot and tense, although nothing on the Gamemaker’s podium had changed. Glamour snaked his fingers beneath Jem’s shirt, loosening its hold against his neck. Dan’s voice, piped through one side of his mouth, filled the center. Glamour swallowed, hard, his Adam’s apple threatening to choke him. It was only after Dan – Cowboy Dan – had left that he remembered to breathe.

While the other Gamemakers applauded and roared their approval, Glamour cast a wary eye to Cadence. He’d like to wrangle Dan, right into a coffin. But no other tribute, from the 62nd to the present, had made him feel just so powerless. And that was worth something, even if it twisted him up inside. “Branding? Why didn’t we think of that? I don’t even know where to start with him. But I do know where it ends.” As it turned out, it was not so very difficult for them to agree about some scores. He nodded, massaging his neck as he declared, “A ten for Cowboy Dan, District Two.”

banner credit: fran in converse
lyrics: adam lambert never close our eyes