Public PTS

[pup]

Post em' here!

[Kire]

♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆



J I M D E E R

♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆

Says, Thinks

I'm not used to having attention paid to me, more often than not people ignore me for one reason or another - I guess I annoy them or something - and now I've been thrown into a room where there are about twenty people who are supposed to pay attention to only me. Except they're not, of course they're not. It's the end of the day and I'm just the guy from District twelve. By now they would have seen some twenty-two other people try to impress them and possibly a number of them fail spectacularly. I wouldn't even pay attention to me, especially not at this point in the day. My hands were sweaty though I didn't really feel nervous. I just felt foolish, like I was a little kid trying to do a grown man's job.

As I walk in I know only that I know nothing about what I'm doing or going to do and it leaves me just staring up at the Gamemakers. My mind is completely blank of anything useful and I'm not trying very hard to find anything yet. I don't know how long I stood there before I realized I really should do something. It's then that my sense kicks in that standing here is not what I'm supposed to do, and so my brain scrambled to find something, anything, I could do that might show a good side to me. I thought over what I had practiced for the past few days, self-defense, stealth, first aid, none of it would make that much of an impression on the Gamemakers, I was sure. Well, looks like I was going to get some piddly score. Was it even possible to get a zero? Maybe I would get the first one because I was doing jack diddly squat.

I cast my eyes around, searching for a thing that would spark some inspiration in me. Nothing caught me, but I kept searching anyway. I did three laps of the room with my vision - continuing to draw blanks - before following suit with my feet. Still nothing, zilch, zip. I was even underwhelming myself and most certainly wasn't even enough entertainment to compete with the food being brought to the Gamemakers. My stomach rumbled and I tried to hide it, hoping none of them could hear - perhaps their own talking and chewing would cover it - and I wished I had managed to pack even more food into my stomach during breakfast and lunch. If I was hungry already then I would have some difficulties lasting in the arena. Then again, it wasn't like I had never been hungry before, it should be something I was used to.

If I had some of that food I might have been able to show off my eating skills, but of course that wasn't possible. It probably wouldn't have even been that good of a talent anyway, not compared to what the Careers had surely shown off. Instead I was left wandering like an idiot. All I knew how to do was swing a pick at rock and shovel what came off into giant carts. There weren't even any picks otherwise maybe I could have attacked the dummies with it.

Looks like I was the only dummy here.

Giving up, I took the original spot I had occupied and looked once more at the people indulging above me. I tried to catch the eye of at least one of them but I couldn't hold it, so instead I gazed at a general point above their heads and did the biggest shrug of my shoulders that I could manage. As I turned to walk out, thinking I was out of any options, I realized that surely I could use my strength from mining somehow. Suddenly I had spun on my feet and pointed myself towards the axe station. Yanking the weapon up - a little uncertainly, trying to figure out how much I could use it like a pick - I went over to the dummies and imagined they were coal spires. My pickaxe came down to chip coal from the nearest one, leaving a large chunk on the ground at my feet. I lost myself to my mental image, working until three dummies lay in pieces before me.

It was odd working with an axe and not a pick, but with the softer target I managed to pick up the necessary shifts to my form until it became as natural for me as my work in the mines had been. There weren't just limbs splayed out in front of me, there were chunks of flesh, fingers, even the top of one of the dummies' head. Still, I kept my image of coal plastered over them as I scraped all the bits into a pile. I looked at the pile, wondering what I would do next. What do you do with coal? I almost grinned at my own cynical tone.

You burn it.

I snatched the flint and steel from the fire station - hoping not to catch my fingers when I did this, the only flesh I wanted in that pile was the fake kind - and struck it. Sparks sprang from the flint once, twice, three times, before it caught the pile on fire. My miner's instinct was telling me that fire around coal was a bad thing, but I tried to settle and reminded myself that I wasn't in the mines. The fire didn't seem to take all that well to the dummy bits, but it still cremated them and left a nice scorch mark on the floor. If I was at the end then it shouldn't matter as much about what marks I leave behind, though I was sure worse things had been done to these floors.

I looked up at the Gamemakers and let my grin slip free. My face split in a weird sense of joy and I raised my axe in a salute. With that little bit of a thrill I got a bit of surely misplaced confidence. I hefted the axe and took aim at a dummy a ways off. Even though I knew I was going to miss in the back of my mind I still threw it and walked out before I even heard the thud. Curious, though I should have just let it be, I peeked back to see what I had hit. I tried really hard to hide my surprise when I saw it sticking deep into the chest of the dummy. Who's the dummy now?

Looks like I wouldn't be getting a zero after all, I did do something in the end - and pretty well too if I might add. My grin was even larger now as I headed off to my rooms.

♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆ ♦ ✦ ◆

---

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

It was rare that a District Twelve impressed in private training sessions, and that fact held true even for the anomalies that had won from the lowest district about a decade back. They simply did not possess the strength, skill, or determination to wow the gamemakers, because their district was just so terribly insignificant. If she weren't so sadistic, Invidia would probably pity them. But this was the Hunger Games, survival of the fittest, and she was its ringmaster. There's no room for the weak here.

The boy with the doe-ish last name was fairly impressive by Twelve standards, but still nothing serial. The head gamemaker watched as he used an axe—somewhat awkwardly, because he was clearly more accustomed to a miner's pick—to hack up a dummy and create a pile of remains on the gym floor that he subsequently proceeded to burn. Within minutes there was a pile of ashes. "I damn well hope you know how to start a fire, kid, especially in this arena," Nox mumbled, smirking as she thought about what the dark, dank caves in store for these little brats. As the Deer boy left, she contemplated a moment and wrote a 6 next to his name. A middle-of-the-road score for a middle-of-the-road competitor.

[Arrows]

Emery Willton
District 12 Female Tribute

---

Emery sat at the breakfast table viciously rubbing her eyes that surely contained bags beneath them. She had extreme trouble falling asleep last night. Her mind was racing about what the hell she would do for her private training session. She knew she had to catch what little attention she would get from the Game Makers so it had to be big. Simply throwing some knives and running around the center wasn't going to get her a high score. She also wanted to be sure that they realize that she isn't just a little girl. But instead that she was a well trained tribute ready to go out into the arena and fight. Even kill if she needed to. Yet, even though she tossed and turned the night away no idea came to her.

Now as she sat listening to the small talk between her escort and stylist she continued to think. She thought of what she knew she could do well and what she couldn't. Yet she still was drawing a massive blank where the idea should be. Finally she grew so annoyed she stood up from eating and left half way through the meal. She slammed the button to the elevator and it opened upon command. It took her only moments to reach the training center, which luckily was abandoned at the moment except for a few Avoxes. Emery knew she wasn't here to train but instead to think. Her eyes flew around the room from station to station, from corner to corner. Then her eyes fell upon a young avox. Her face hair was that of Emery's color and she even was about Emery's height. The only difference between them really seemed to be the fact that Emery didn't have a layer of thick white makeup on her face.

Then Emery's eyes grew wide with excitement as she bolted over to the avox. She knew she was not permitted to speak to one unless it was an order, and luckily it was. Emery hastily tapped the avox's shoulder grabbing her attention before saying clearly. "You are to meet me over by the entrance just where the Game Makers barely see us at the start of my private training session. Understand?" The avox looked at Emery with eyes wide most likely terrified of what would happen to her. Emery just rolled her eyes before saying softly, "I won't hurt you I promise, just make sure you bring white paint with you to our meeting area." With that Emery was so happy she hugged the stunned Avox before darting off back to her floor.

The rest of the day seemed to soar by as Emery couldn't help thinking of her masterful plan. She wasn't sure if anyone had ever done it before, but it was perfect to grab the Head Game Maker's attention. As time began to slow Emery and Jim were left waiting within the cafeteria as one by one, tributes went in for their sessions. After what seemed like ages, and probably was, Jim was finally called. Now was the moment she had to begin preparation for her own sessions. She ran over to a small mirror and made she her hair was just as the an avox's would be. It wasn't forbidden to wear this hairstyle so no one should question it.

Finally her name was called and Emery confidently walked into the training Center with her head held high. At first Emery stood before the Game Makers waiting for her time to begin. The moment she received the green light she bolted back to her meeting area. Right in the tunnel where the Game Makers could only barely see her, but not what she was doing. Her avox was already waiting for her with the paint she asked for. Emery smirked then began working, she wiped away all of the avox's make up her hands. Then she applied the white paint to her own exactly like the avox had her makeup on before. Then came the fun part, with much resistance Emery and the avox finally switched clothing. Now it would begin, the plan that would either get her killed or praised.

Emery ordered the avox to go and hold the Game Makers' attention by throwing some knives while Emery worker her magic. The avox did as told and went over and began helplessly throwing knives. As Emery, now dressed completely like an avox, made her way over to the Game Makers' stage she hid a knife beneath one of her red sleeves. As she approached the peace keepers guarding the stage her heart hammered with nerves. However, when Emery approached they moved aside to let her though. Her plan was working! Emery made no waste of time weaving carefully though chatting Game Makers until she reached her destination. Directly behind the Head Game Makers, the two were sitting looking what she thought to be highly bored with "Emery's" performance below. Oh if only they had a clue, Emery thought to herself as her eyes locked on a small wooden table between them. With a smirk she revealed her knife, then a split second later brought it down hard into the table. The lesser Game Makers looked at her in horror but she ignored them, it was the Heads she wanted to impress. With a hellish smile she unraveled her hair and flicked her hand to release her copy below. Who if they really paid attention to might have been able to realize it wasn't actually Emery. Then she leaned forward and whispered softly to them both, "I just infiltrated your so called secure area past highly trained peace keepers. Now just imagine just what I can do to the other tributes."

With those words still hanging heavy, Emery flicked her hair then began marching away. Only just before exiting did she turn back around and spoke loudly, "Don't you dare underestimate me like they will." Then and only then did Emery leave the Training Center feeling more empowered than ever before. More like she actually could win, actually could kill.

---

i keep my head up tight
i make my plans at night
and i don't sleep
i don't sleep
i don't sleep til it's light

from the desk of

Dom Copperview

---

Words could never describe the feeling of relief that accompanied reaching District Twelve. Private Training day was a long and grueling marathon of disappointment, one that Dom had sat through in full every year for the past decade and a half. It didn't even matter that District Twelve seldom broached the realm of impressive, and didn't even matter that the Head Gamemaker had acquired a certain distaste for the poorest district after their repeated victories had nearly cost Dom her career — and perhaps her head — back at the beginning of her tenure. The day was almost done and nothing could lessen that sweet victory.

At fourteen, Emery Willton was young, and by no means imposing. Her attempt at throwing knives was abysmal, to say the least, and Dom felt her focus slipping. If you don't know what you're doing, it's better to hang on to them, she might've said, but it wasn't her job to give each of her tributes an equal chance. Equal attention, perhaps, but this late in the day anyone could forgive a lapse in focus. Dom gave her concentration over first to the notebook in front of her, then to the minor commotion in her peripheral vision. Not again, she groaned inwardly, attention snapped to one of the deputy gamemakers just in time to see a knife flashing past him for the second time that day.

The blade slammed into the table with a hard thunk and for a split second, Dom's stony countenance took on an actual expression: an eye twitch, accompanied by a sigh resignation to the fact that, no, they couldn't go a single Games without someone putting holes in her damn mahogany table. (At least it was just the one this time, rather than the dozen or so Motel Hunt had gouged in the wood during Dom's last stint as Head Gamemaker.) She ground her teeth. The tribute spoke:

"I just infiltrated your so-called secure area past highly trained peacekeepers. Now just imagine just what I can do to the other tributes."

The girl was escorted out, as was the complicit avox. They were both headed toward the same place, although the mute servant would be taking a more direct route toward her final destination. Disinterested, Dom clicked her pen a few times before jotting down a few notes on Emery's page.

"Somehow I doubt the others would give an 'avox' in the arena a second thought before killing them," she remarked to Invidia. "They seem to have a certain fondness for killing them as it is." Still, she had to applaud the creativity of the attempt, and was willing to reward Emery with a generous 7 — though the cooperative avox in question would soon come to find out there were worse things to lose than a tongue.

[kousei ♚]

ANIMUSVALENTINE

I'll seek you out
Flay you alive
One more word and you won't survive
And I'm not scared
Of your stolen power
I see right through you any hour

My stomach's doing back flips.

This morning I'd forced myself to eat, the porridge I'd been scoffing down for the past few days suddenly seemed quite unappealing this morning. But it'd be bad if I had spent all my life complaining about not getting enough food and when I am getting enough food I don't eat it. It would be stupid and wouldn't make a smidgen of sense so I ate it all but slowly, my stomach pretty much dictated the pace I ate at the whole morning. I'd changed into my training uniform in sullen silence and went down to the waiting area without really saying a word to anyone.

I'm not really excited to be prancing around just to impress some glittered up Capitolites. It's not that I particularly harboured a resentment to many of the Capitolites, in a way I actually admired the Gamemakers for their creativeness and talents in the recent years I'd been watching the games. I'd sat behind my tiny television and watched with a strange curiosity to know more. How exactly are those mutts made? How does this particular trap do this?Wow I couldn't of thought of that. But now that I'm going to have to experience these traps and mutts it's not exactly very appealing to me.

And now I have to prance about and get scored on how good I do it.

Great, just great.

And to make it worse I'm going to be one of the last to go, unfortunately they're going from District one up. Usually I would've preferred to just get it over with right away but it seems the Capitol has some kind of thing for it's careers. So I sat down for what seemed like an eternity before the robotic voice finally said my name. "Animus Valentine. I exhaled and lurched onto my feet and began walking towards the empty training room where I found everything laid out just for me.

All for me.

I glanced up at the Game makers but then glanced back down, wanting to avoid their intimidating stares. No, none of that. I force myself to look up and meet their stares back. "Animus Valentine, District nine. But please jut call me Animus," I say simply and glance around the room, I spot jars of tar lined up in one section of the room, I spot a long coil of rope in another part of the room and some firewood. Like a machine my brain kick starts into creative mode and ideas are all formed in my head.

Too bland. Too simple. Too difficult. Not enough time.

I stride up to the long coil of rope and grab it and unwind it, I stride over to the jars of tar and grab exactly four of them and set them down. I stride over to the fire making station and grab a piece of wood and a match and stride back over to the jars and set it next to them. Yes, this is enough I hope. I didn't exactly have much time to think this completely through but it's about improvising, I can't plan for everything in the arena. Using one of the pieces of rope I tie it around the jar.

If the Game makers want destruction I'll give them plenty of it, and more. I open three of the other jars (so I only have the roped one) and begin pouring their contents on the ground, in a thick, black trail leading all the way to a bunch of dummies. "Don't worry, I believe nothing is done without a purpose and trust me, I don't do anything without a purpose behind it." I explain before I grab another dummy and drag it so it's where the trail starts. This is taking too long, how about I forget the roped jar. No, it has to be perfect. I grab the piece of firewood and strike the match and set the wood alight. This will burn long enough I hope.

I throw the rope over the rafters and hoist the jar of tar up so it's suspended in the air and I'm holding the rope keeping it from falling on top of the dummy's head. "You're not the only ones who can cause destruction." I say calmly before releasing the rope and allowing the jar of tar to fall. CRASH! Is all that's heard as the jar shattered against the dummy's head and the jar of tar contents begins to spill all down it.

My heart begins thudding in my chest like a drum as I grab the burning piece of fire wood in my hand. "Behold!" I scream before throwing the piece of wood full force at the dummy with tar spilled all over it.

And then my deadly chain begins. The tar soaked dummy catches on fire almost instantly but the tar trail next to it also gets caught on fire and the flames follow the trail all the way to the other two, three, four dummies and they're caught on fire as well. "I created this." I state simply, loud enough for the Game makers to hear, as the fiery flames begin to consume at the five dummies like an angry beast, it roars so loudly I can hardly hear myself think.

A smile carves itself onto my lips.

I'm a genius, my mind is the definition of perfection.

I walk towards the door, leaving my fiery truth behind me.

My competition will burn in hell.

Song: Eyes on fire - Blue foundation

WC:902

Narrative
"Speech"
Thoughts

_______________________________

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

In recent Games, fire had grown increasingly popular. More and more tributes were using flame to their advantage, and jars of highly flammable tar had become quite the sponsorship staple. It made sense that contenders were choosing to show their mastery of this element in their private sessions, too, but unfortunately Gamemaker Nox's attention span for popular training fads declined with frequency of performance. Fire had to really wow her to clinch a good score.

The District Nine male had a solid performance, but Invidia could see some holes in his strategy. She doubted his ability to create a trap like this when dealing with real tributes in a real arena. Did he have the gall? Likely not. Would have have the sponsors? Definitely not. He'd have to do more to catch the eye of the rich elite.

"You're not the only ones who can cause destruction," announced the boy as the room erupted in flames. Invidia scowled and tapped her foot impatiently. "Maybe not, but I sure as hell can cause a lot more of it than you can." The head gamemaker thought in particular of her crown jewels, Davy Jones and Maleficent, king and queen of all her beastly children. Would this Games have its own kraken or jabberwocky? Maybe, but that was for her to know and Animus Valentine and his playmates to find out. She wrote a 6 beside his name. He had some promise, but still quite a ways to go.

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

[googlefont="Satisfy:400;"]

Esme Truus

There's a hero
If you look inside your heart
You don't have to be afraid;

Throughout my time at the Capitol, I've slowly learnt that I hate the Capitol more and more each and every day. Today ain't no different. Today is the last day of training, and it's my only chance to show the gamemakers what I'm capable of. I don't think I'm capable of anything, though. All I know is what Pa taught me at home 'bout slaughtering farm animals, but what good would that do me here? These are humans. They ain't animals like the Capitol makes us out as. I don't think I could ever kill one, but that may change once the games begin. I'll probably attack people and try to kill people just like everyone else. And I don't want to kill anyone 'cause there ain't a single one of us that deserves death. Nobody does.

Since I'm from Ten, I'm probably gonna be one of the last people to go into the private training session, and I ain't gonna lie, I'm scared out of my mind. I'm terrified 'bout what would happen once I walk through those doors. The gamemakers would probably laugh at me 'cause my size. Size shouldn't matter, though, 'cause I could probably stay ducked down low and hide from all the other tributes until I'm the last one left, but it ain't gonna be that easy. I can already tell. I can feel my heart hammering inside my chest over and over like Kirk hitting his palm with that hammer earlier in the week. That was only a misunderstanding, and I'm glad it all worked out in the end, but I know it won't last for ever. Sometime throughout the games at least three of us gonna die. And that's the brutal truth.

"Esme Truus."

My heart drops into my stomach as I slowly climb to my feet. My hands shake at my side as I look around at the remaining tributes. I wanna go to my room and hide away from everyone like the small child I am, but I can't. I can't run away now 'cause they are waiting for me. Step by step I forced myself to take deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. I can't let the gamemakers see how scared I am of them 'cause it'll only make this more fun. I take one last deep breath before entering the gym. It'll be strange being in there all by myself, but truth is I won't be by myself 'cause they are watching me. They want to see what I can or can't do. Truth be told, it'll probably be more of what I can't do.

I look around the training center at the weapons. I ain't good at holding any of those 'cause they don't belong in my hands, and it's a horrible feeling knowing that one of those'll be in my hand in a couple days. I look over at the other stations. First aid, painting, climbing, and much, much more trying to decide quickly what I can do. Maybe I don't need to show off with a weapon. Maybe I can show them something I already know how to do. Maybe I could show them how to slaughter a pig since that's whats gonna be happening in a couple days anyway. We'll all be held like pigs. And twenty-three of us gonna be killed. Ain't nothing gonna ever change that. At least I can show them I ain't gonna be messed with 'cause my size. I stop in the center of the training center before turning my gaze towards them.

"Esme Truus. District Ten."

In a quick second, I look around the gym trying to find something that I'm good at. I ain't good at much, but one thing I consider myself good at is the art of slaughtering animals. I look at the dummies spread throughout the room. Some of them are far to large for me to move, and I can only imagine how heavy they are, but my eyes stop on the nice first aid dummies. The ones that have the fake blood inside of them. A large grin spreads across my face as I turn towards the weapon rack. These weapons don't belong in my hand, but I can't do nothing 'bout it right now 'cause this is a show, and I gotta do what I can to at least show Ma and Pa that I ain't giving up just yet. The warhammers are huge, but I figure they are needed for me to do the job of slaughtering the pig. I slowly make my way over towards the hammers.

My eyes stay focused on the floor 'cause I ain't 'bout to look those filthy humans in the eyes. They are gonna be cheering for our death in a just a couple days, and I can't look at them. My hand wraps around the handle, and I pound the hammer into my hand just like Kirk did when he saw Animus and Crusader standing over top me. This one will work just fine. I also grab a single knife from the rack. Sometimes Pa used his knife to slit the cow's throat. It ain't nothing to brag 'bout, but I've seen so much death of animals that it ain't bothering me anymore. I can't let it bother me 'cause I won't wanna help Pa anymore. What I'd do to be home with him right now eating that pig we slaughtered just a couple days before the reaping.

With both weapons in hand, I move away from the weapon rack, and I move across the floor towards the first aid station. A large grin spread wide across my face 'cause this is gonna be fun. I can't wait to see how they react, but in all truth, they probably ain't gonna care 'cause they care more about the slaughter of innocent children. Sometimes I wonder what they would think if their children were the ones reaped and placed in the games, but I ain't ever gonna know 'cause this is the game I've been reaped for, and my death lurks just around the corner. I hate it, but I can't do a thing to change it, so I might as well show them something they'll never forget. Don't want them to forget a thing 'bout me, but I'm sure they will the moment my cannon sounds.

I stop in front of one of the first aid dummies, and I knock it to the ground 'cause it's much easier for me to work on something that ain't so tall, and I turn to another dummy, and I do the same thing. I lay the hammer and the knife down on the floor beside them 'cause I ain't ready for neither of those yet, and I ain't gonna be ready for a bit. I gotta tell them a story 'bout how the pigs are slaughtered. Maybe I'll make them lose interest in eating any meat for a while, but that ain't very likely. For the first time since I've been in the Capitol, I allow myself to look at the gamemakers. They ain't meant to be scary, but knowing that they are the ones prepping my death wasn't good, and not gonna lie, it terrifies me.

"Back home in District Ten, Ma and Pa own a farm, and I help out with it. Pa slaughters our own pigs and cows 'cause someone has to. And I help him." The words formed easily in my mind, and I was very happy to know that they made sense as I spoke them 'cause it's a miracle within itself. Talking to others here at the Capitol ain't been easy for me, but I tried to force myself the chance to speak. "When Pa would take the pigs to slaughter, he would lead it behind him. The pig didn't have no idea where it was going, so it followed without any problems. The moment we got to the place of slaughter, Pa would have me take the pig by the ears. Like this." I reached down and grabbed a hold of ears of one of the dummy's just like I did for the pigs, and I immediately felt like I was back home.

"Once I had the pig by the ears, it would squeal." I proceeded to make the squealing noise the pig makes, and I didn't stop 'cause it didn't feel right to stop since that pig didn't stop until it was dead. "Then Pa would walk up behind the pig with a huge hammer, and he'd raise it high above his head before striking the pig in the head." I let go of the dummy's ears, and I grab the hammer. I raise it high above my head just like Pa did. He always avoided looking at the pig as he brought the hammer down, but I couldn't look away 'cause it was like I was letting the poor pig die in disgrace, and that can't happen. So I brought the hammer down with as much force as I could, cracking through the skull of the first aid dummy. The sound was nothing like the sound of a pig's skull crushing, and I was glad for that. "This ain't a good show 'cause the brain didn't splatter across the ground. It was pink and all gooey and mushy, and that was the best part."

With the hammer in hand, I turn towards the other dummy that I knocked over. I ain't gonna even give time for anyone to think 'bout what I'm doing. I raise the hammer high above my head and I bring it down striking the dummy's head over and over again smashing it's skull into nothing. This was the gamemakers. I ain't having no respect for them 'cause of what they are doing. Never had I disrespected a person, but these guys don't deserve it. I ain't gonna take it from them 'cause they are the ones that want me dead. And if I can only imagine the heads of the tributes as one of their faces, I ain't gonna have no problem killing the person. I only stop smashing the dummy's head in when there wasn't nothing left to smash. The hammer slides out of my hand onto the floor covered with the fake blood, and I lean forward and pick up the knife.

"You might be wondering what I'm gonna do with this knife. Well, let me show you." I lower myself over the first dummy that I hit in the head, and I take the knife and gouge out it's eyes. It didn't need them anymore. If this was a pig, the pig would be dead. But this was only a dummy. It wasn't nothing special. And I can't count the many pigs that I've slaughtered before in my life. I ain't able to. Not that I'd want to 'cause they are dead just like I'd be dead in a matter of seconds. It ain't nothing to brag 'bout. I wipe the blade of the knife against my pants cleaning the blood off it. Pa said that's the best thing to do. Clear the blood and don't take it home. I stood up and turn towards the gamemakers one more time with a huge grin spreading wide across my face.

"All I gotta do is remind myself we're all a bunch of pigs here. 'Cause that's what ya want. We're just a bunch of pigs getting ready for slaughter, and it ain't gonna change."

And with that I left 'cause I had nothing else to say.

Ooc stuff

template by Anzie

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

Gamemaker Nox had had quite a bit of correspondence with District Ten in the past, as she had worked for a long time on the muttation development team. When creating new beasties, Ten's livestock were often researched, experimented on, and adapted. That didn't mean she had a particular affinity for Ten's people, though; no, just for their experience with all things four-legged. Ten's people—well, they were all dumb as bricks, to put it bluntly.

The female tribute launched into some monologue about helping out on her parents' farm back home, what else is new, and announced that she assisted in preparing their livestock for slaughter. What happened next was entirely predictable, and Invidia watched, fairly bored, as Esme Truus gave a demonstration of the slaughtering procedure using a dummy rather than an animal. She broke its skull and gouged its eyes and explained it all in her strange little accent, which Invidia found exceedingly irritating.

Esme left the gym with the usual foreboding line—"All I gotta do is remind myself we're all a bunch of pigs here. 'Cause that's what ya want. We're just a bunch of pigs getting ready for slaughter, and it ain't gonna change." Then she was gone, and the head gamemaker shot Dom, who was seated beside her, a knowing look. "That's all well and good, country bumpkin, but what you don't seem to realize is that unlike your pig friends, these tributes will fight back." She wrote in a 5 next to the girl's name. "So don't be shocked when you find that you're the one whose corpse is hanging in the slaughterhouse."

[Python]

Pearl Millison

”In this family I won’t accept anything below a 9.”

Her mother would always describe what she expected of her daughters if either of them were to end up in the Games like she had, but now that it was actually happening the pressure was enough to crush her spine and leave her for dead before she could even step foot into the arena. Pearl swallowed the knot in her throat as the metallic doors split her reflection in half, and revealed to her the eerily silent stage of weapons, mannequins, targets, supplies, trees, nets, pools – anything a career could dream of. It was all in this room, organized neatly in front of a concave stage sectioned off from the rest of the training center. Here stood the pedestals on which the Gamemakers lounged like kings and queens with a bird’s eye view of their subjects. Her fate rested on their shoulders, and she had never felt so insignificant.

Mother said it was polite to address her superiors and acknowledge their scrutiny, but her voice was lost beneath waves of nervous energy. It’s okay, she thought. She needed to focus anyway, and facing their steel gazes would only intimidate her. The first step to success was to ban their presence from her immediate thoughts, and narrow her attention to the task at hand.

Her first stop, the knife station.

She strapped two holders to each thigh – five slots in each – and left two empty to occupy her hands with the light-weight metal. The maneuvers were simple; right arm overhand stroke, left arm diagonal stroke, left fingers withdraw knife from right holder, left arm diagonal stroke the opposite direction, right fingers withdraw knife from left holder, spin, right arm horizontal stroke. She counted each thump after every thrust – one, two, three, four. Four bullseyes on the cardboard target. It was basic training, the very first thing she had learned when her mother had introduced her to knives. Scars still littered her hands from the initial misuse, but those accidents were in the past.

She withdrew her fifth knife, slipped it between her teeth, and hopped onto a balance beam.

According to her mother, acrobatics was crucial to training. How could one stay light on their feet if they couldn’t maintain a sense of balance? How could one dodge their opponent’s attacks if they couldn’t move fluidly like wine in a glass? It all made sense to her, the ideals and advantages behind it all. It still didn’t make her the killer her mother wanted her to be, but it gave her a means for lasting longer than the rest if she tried like Diamond and Garnet had begged her to. ”Promise?”

She promised.

Silicon dummies resided to her left, and the Gamemakers’ gazes burned her right side. Left hand planted forward, she angled her body over it, landed gingerly on her feet – one in front of the other across the narrow structure – withdrew the blade from her teeth, and let it loose on the first dummy. It sank into the chest, where a heart would be guarded behind skin and ribs. It was the first organ she had learned to puncture, and the first method of murder she had practiced under her mother’s tyrannical supervision. She stalled only to watch where the knife had landed, and started to spin across the balance beam, tip toeing her way down as another knife found its way into her grip. She paused, looked, and hurled her sixth knife into an eye.

She slipped out her seventh and eighth knives. She stepped back once, twice, then backflipped, watching the world spin until her feet landed harshly against the beam. Two tosses later and she was looking at a blinded dummy, standing stock still beside the other two. She stepped down from the beam and grabbed her two remaining blades.

The hyper realistic dummies were mounted to the floor, staring robotically at the opposite wall in a single row. She started to make her way towards them, sweat beading across the nape of her neck, then suddenly broke into a sprint before she reached the halfway point. She could almost hear her mother’s voice shrieking into her skeleton: ”You have to be perfect, Pearl. You understand me?”

She sprang and wrapped her legs around the dummy’s neck, hanging parallel with her head below the groin, and crossed her arms over in two simultaneous swipes – one blade for each femoral artery. The razor edges ripped into skin and vessel membranes, staining her blonde hair with artificial blood until she released her grip and flipped back upright. The blood rush to her brain made her feel dizzy, but she was used to it. Mother’s “Reaping boot camp” would not allow for any hindrance to her abilities, no matter what sorts of strange stunts she was forced to learn.

The tip of her knife bit into the brachial artery of the next dummy, and as she hooked her arm around the bleeding limb and twisted it behind the thing – not him or her, not a living, breathing human being – she reached up with her left hand and plunged the second blade just below the chin and into the base of the skull. For a moment, she thought of the towering tribute Crusader Rhodes, and how she could never accomplish this maneuver with him. Even if she did have the heart for maiming human beings, he was too large. He could crush her skull in his bare hands if he wanted.

She released the dummy and tried to breathe.

Last one. She hadn’t counted the seconds or the minutes. She didn’t know if the Gamemakers were genuinely interested in her performance, or were waiting impatiently for her to finish.

Either way, her mother would be waiting for her outside, ready to drill her with questions.

She purposely dropped one of the knives and watched it slide across the floor. It gleamed below fluorescent lights in front of the last dummy, decorating the deadly weapon with a metallic glow between crimson stains. She slipped the other knife away, and lunged into a running start. One front handspring later the discarded knife was back in her hand, and she twisted to draw a gory line across the dummy’s neck. Artificial blood sprayed her face, and she breathed deeply.

Avoiding the Gamemaker’s gazes, she sauntered over to the knife rack and returned the two bloodied blades and their holders. Then, she finally looked up at them, praying that she could hide her fear behind a robotic façade. She bowed once, ponytail dangling in front of her eyes.

”Thank you.”

She walked out breathless.

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

The District One female was, more often than not, Invidia's favorite. Maybe it had something to do with the fierce bitch persona—no, maybe not, because Dom was a fierce bitch who more pissed her off more often than not—or perhaps it was because they came at the front of the training pack, so she didn't have time to be bored and unimpressed with other tributes first. Either way, the head gamemaker was in a fairly good mood as blonde bombshell Pearl Millison strolled into the room, cool and confident. Show me what you got, Princess.

Her skill with a knife was, of course, astounding. The lithe tribute's limbs sliced through the air with obvious ease as she performed the sorts of acrobatic maneuvers that few competitors had ever taken the time to master. Beyond that, she knew exactly where to place her blade. The dummies had perfect replicas of fully functioning circulatory systems, and after years of gamemaking Invidia knew every vein, every artery, every lethal point on a human body, and it was fairly clear that Pearl did, too.

"Well, I'm impressed," Invidia announced to her fellow Gamemakers as the fighter stood in the middle of the room, done with her show, fists clenched and covered in blood. "Let's hope she's just as astounding in the arena." A 9 was penciled in beside her name. It was a careful choice; sometimes double digits could make a tribute too cocky.

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

I do not have a plan.

There have been rumors of course of the amazing feats that tributes that have come before us have performed. Legends have been shared down the lines and down the years to explain away the high or low numbers that our ancestors have received before us. I am easy prey to lies. Despite the amount of times I have been played with, been lied to in my short life, I am altogether too trusting and it is going to get me killed one day. Most likely some time next week.

I have listened to tales, romanticized fantasies of what might have gone on in the seemingly inconsequential room I enter now, steps so soft, so careful that if I shut my eyes it is as if I am not walking at all, no sound is being made. My body moves forward and the rest of me with it but we go where we dare not look.

This small amount of minutes that I have allotted to me, the actions that I take here will define my future.

People expect a high number of course, I am the District Two boy, a Career. It is time to make good my self-imposed title and do what is expected of me or die trying. Just because I never signed up for the role in the first place does not mean that I can fail without worry. My father will follow me to my place in Hell if I fail him here, if I ruin our family name with shame and dishonour. No, I have to do well her. Do well Asa, or do not bother returning home.

I head over to the archery section immediately, my fingers dancing over the Compound and Long bow, wrapping themselves around the riser of the Recurve bow. It takes a little more effort to fire than the Compound; in fact the Compound nearly does the work for you. I find however that the Compound allows less accuracy. The Recurve bow puts itself entirely into the hands of the shooter. It takes skill, strength, more focus. The draw time that it allows is less but that does not matter, I never take all that much time.

I grab a quiver of arrows, fingers reaching into the bag that hangs beside my quiver of eight, pulling another one out and making my own quiver an even nine. I believe in being prepared.

You're taking too long, speed it up.

My cheeks warm at the thought and I duck my head slightly, making my way over to the hologram setup. The program allows for hunting practice with projectiles. I do not know how it works, catching my arrows when they hit the hologram in mid-air. It is not my job to know this, just to hit the targets. I put the line of thought aside, it will only serve to distract.

Calmly, I punch the amount of arrows I hold into the system, setting the difficulty to the hardest setting it has. That is when the butterflies begin to form themselves in my stomach, the moment my fingers turn the dial into the red. I try not to think about it, to calm them but it feels nearly impossible. So I let it rule me. Adrenaline surges through me from the nerves that insist upon arriving. I use it to my advantage.

I stand on the allotted platform, One hand on my bow, the other flexed at my side, ready to reach up to take the first arrow from my quiver. You aren't worth anything if you can't draw fast Asa. Memories of spending mornings in the courtyard, reaching up over and over again to draw the arrows out of my quiver one by one, as fast as I could. I wasn't allowed to stop until I could get my time down from the previous morning's by at least ten seconds.

The faster I got, the harder it got. Sometimes I'd be out there in the morning mists for hours, fingers going numb and back aching.

It was worth it.

I duck as the first hologram appears to my left with lightening speed, tossing an invisible axe that will give me unwanted points if it 'hits' me. The bowstring twangs as the arrow leaves the bow, my fingers unhooking from around the taught cord, already reaching up for another arrow. I do not have to look at the first hologram to know that it has just exploded into bits, my arrow having pierced it through the chest; a fatal wound. The second and third attackers are already here.

I know that they cannot touch me but it is scary still.

Even if they could at all, they would never reach me in time. I am too fast.

I notch two arrows, letting one fly to hit the second attacker in the eyeball, marking it's death in an explosion of bits. The third one is taken down with an arrow to the neck, a disturbing animation of fake blood spurting out of it's neck before it disappears in a shower of bits and my arrow falls to the ground with a rattle.

I roll to the ground, out of the way as my fourth attacker rushes forward. I flip my bow sideways in my hand and take one end in both hands, swinging it hard across the back of the fourth attacker's head. The force sends its head forward with a horribly fake sounding 'snap', it disappears accordingly. I have to recover fast, reaching back for another two arrows as my fifth attacker appears to my right. I shoot both at once, they hit it clean through the stomach and the middle of its chest. The stumble backwards is nearly too realistic before it also disappears in a shower of bits.

It is thrilling.

The sixth appears in my blind spot, to the left. I do not see it there until it is nearly upon me. I grab an arrow from my quiver but I do not notch it, instead I wrap my fingers around the middle and when the hologram man is nearly upon me, I slip to the side, shoving the arrow head neatly into the chest of the hologram as it runs past. It explodes before its next holographic footfall.

I do not have time to catch my breath before the seventh is materializing only two feet away. My fingers shoot up and grab the arrow, notching it and letting it fly almost before it can fully materialize. The force of my pull and it's proximity creates a glitch in the system, sending the arrow straight through. The hologram stutters and disappears. The eighth attacker is farther away and has learned how to dodge. It moves to the side, ducking and jumping in an effort to avoid my arrow but I am better than the computer. I shoot the arrow into the air, aiming it so that it should fall wide of it but the hologram's next jump sends it straight into my line of fire.

I catch a glimpse of the ninth attacker, a flicker of colour to the right in my field of vision. Swiveling on my left heel, my arrow is notched and the bow pulled back, the arrow shot before I remember that the program was set for eight opponents, there were none left.

My arrow hits the edge of the stage with a resounding thud, the corpse struggling weakly beneath the arrow head for a few precious seconds before going limp in death. It does not explode in a shower of bits. The program is quiet, the silence only marred by the sound of my breathing.

I didn't mean to do it.

In that moment, I had been so lost in the thrill of the fight that I had shot an arrow without even thinking about it.

I leave the other arrows behind, they are meaningless in comparison to the real blood that I have spilled today. I step forward lightly, years of stealth training, years of wanting to stay out of the way of my family's wrath making it second nature for me to stride forwards with barely a sound.

I regard the embedded arrow, the wood splintered around it. It pins the feeble creature in such a way that it is reminds one of the curiosity shops in Two. I wonder how the Monarch Butterfly even found itself in the training room. I suppose it must have meandered over from the camouflage section, or possibly someone left a window open and in an unfortunate turn of events it found itself in one of the most dangerous rooms in the building.

Either way, it is dead beneath the head of my arrow, a pinned specimen for the wealthy and idle to view in their free time.

Like us.

We are the bugs, the thin-shelled beatles soon to join our sisters and brethren behind our glass house, a pin stuck through us, carefully labeled.

The tip of my arrow had caught the creature right in it's center. Its legs are curled in agony around it's body, the wings stuck out to the sides, still bright, still cheerful. A permanent smile even in death, a permanence even in death, this is what my father was chasing all along. He never really wanted our name to go down in history as a Victor's. He just wanted us to go down in history as having competed for our place in this world. Losing his sons in the process didn't seem to matter to him.

I have more in common with that butterfly than I do with my own brother.

I place the bow on the ground, the empty quiver beside it.

Making my way to the assorted items table I grab a roll of tape, sticking my hand through, turning the metallic silver into a bracelet. I then go to the camouflage station and steal a can of black paint. Working quickly because I only have minutes left, I rip a small piece of tape off and dip the smallest brush I can find into the paint.

I write my name with precision, careful not to smudge my work. This move is foolhardy and could cost me everything I have just done to prove that I was worthy of a good mark. This small act of the strongest defiance I could ever hope to perform overshadowing everything else.

When finished, I press the the homemade name tag against the hardwood of the stage, just underneath my arrow, below the corpse of the butterfly.

I will join it soon.

It is inevitable.

I d o n ' t
w a n t to
b e
your
h e r o

[presto][/presto]

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

Crusader Rhodes
district 11 male of the 68th hunger games

This is boring. It really is because all I'm doing right now is sitting outside the gym waiting for my name. I've watched several go in before me, but none of them have come out. I can only guess they come out a different way than going in. In all honesty, I just want to go in and get this done. I want to show the gamemakers that they have nothing on me, and that they don't own me. The last thing I want them thinking is I'm a pawn in the game they are planning. I'm not a pawn, and I'll do whatever I can to prove them wrong. Sometimes, especially now, I wish I was from a high district because I would have been done by now, but I can't always get what I want, and right now, I must learn patience.

"Crusader Rhodes."

Finally, it's my turn. I jump to my feet without looking around at the other tributes, and I march inside the training center. A large grin spread across my face as my pace quickens. I've been planning for a long time to show the game makers up, and now is my chance because they aren't allowed to share what I've done with anyone. It's the perfect chance to make a mess. It's the perfect chance to piss them off, and that's my goal. What are they going to do to me? Make my life a living hell? I believe they've already done so. The moment I was reaped and shipped off to a battle to the death, yeah, I think it's time someone made their life a living hell, and that someone will be me. I don't care what they think. They can learn to respect the people living in the districts. Man, this will be fun.

I don't speak to them. Instead, I head straight towards a table that has several lengths of rope resting upon it. I grab everyone of them, and I move over towards the fire starting station. I'm going to need a lot of tar for this because it has to work out perfectly. I set the ropes down on the table, and I dump a lot of tar on the table on top of them coating them. I don't care if that's there last bit of supply. They can always replace it. It won't be hard seeing they have all the time, and the money in the world, and me, well, I may only have a few days left to live, and I plan on making the best of it. I grab a pack of matches off the table, and I place them in my pocket. I don't need them yet, but I will soon.

I went across the gym over to the weapon rack where I picked up a knife. Not that I need this, but I might. Better be safe than sorry. I went back to the ropes that were now coated in tar. The grin that spread across my face grows larger with each passing second. Part of me wondered what the game makers were thinking about this smile, but the other part of me won over. I don't care what they think about me smiling. It doesn't matter at all. I pick the ropes up and I move over towards the first light fixture. Oh this is going to be amazing. I can't wait for this. I check out the length of the light and I realize I won't be able to reach it, so I head back over towards the weapon rack, and this time I pick up a bow, and a couple quivers of arrows.

The moment I stand back at my location, I hold onto an end of the rope, and I tie the other to the tip the arrow. I'm not aiming to shoot the light out, but if I could just hit below it, or even above it so the arrow stuck to it. I take a deep breath, and I aim. I missed the first time, but that didn't stop me from trying again. I had to remember what I practiced in the gym, and this time when I shoot I hit the target. The grin keeps spreading wider across my face. I put the bow on my back, and I move towards the center of the gym. I push a table to the center so I'll have something to tie the rope off to. Once I'm at the center of the gym, I cut the rope and tie it off to the table. The fun is only beginning, and I can't wait.

Once that first one is done, I move to the next light fixture and repeat the process until every light fixture in the gym is connected to a rope with tar on it. I throw the knife I had off to the side, and the access rope I had, I take back to the center of the gym. I tie each roped to the extra rope, and I drop it down in the center of the floor. I push the table away because it's no longer needed. For the first time since I've been in the private training session, I look towards the game makers. I remove the box of matches from my pocket. "Now you see me." I strike the match against the box, and I place it against all the ropes with the tar on it. I stand back away from the ropes as flames start dancing towards everyone of the light fixtures.

That's when I hear the sound of the light fixtures shattering. Glass rains from the sky hitting the floor. I watch as the lights start dimming little by little until they are finally gone. And like that that fire burns out leaving the gym in complete darkness. The grin now spreads from ear to ear as I make my way over towards the exit of the gym. "Now you don't." That's the last thing I say to them. It's all I'll ever say to them, cause it doesn't matter what they say now. I just wrecked one of the most prized rooms at the training center. I listen to the door as it shuts behind me. I can't wait for the workers to fix the lights, and for the game makers to realize that I'm gone. I don't care if they hate because they already do. Oh well. That's done, and yes, I had a lot of fun.

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

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

Invidia often likened District Eleven to a baby bird trying to fly, but failing over and over again. Over the last handful of Games it had struggled to make itself noticed, with a mixture of mediocre, forgettable tributes and serious contenders who made it far before their demise. Officials like President Snow were, of course, happy with this, because after that scary streak of Twelves, lower district victors were preferred few and far between. Gamemaker Nox, however, prided herself on her overt defiance of anyone who told her what to do, particularly the president. She wouldn't mind seeing an Eleven rise to the top.

That being said, though, she was fairly certain Crusader Rhodes wouldn't be that Eleven. In fact, she was prepared to make sure of it after he messed with the light fixtures, causing a fiery explosion and a sudden burst of darkness. The head gamemaker groaned loudly and barked orders to the avoxes and technicians on standby. Someone would clean up the glass and have the lights in working order soon, but she was sick and tired of Tributes messing with the gym itself. I want to see you show me your own skills. You have no place dismantling my kingdom.

But what to score him? A low score or a high score would gain him attention, but that was exactly what he wanted. After some debate with Dom, she settled on a 7. It was middle-of-the-road, but high enough to give him a few pats on the back for creativity's sake. It wouldn't set him apart. "You better watch your back, Rhodes," she hissed into the darkness, just moments before the lights flickered on once again.

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

B A R N A B A S   S T R O U D

Blue socks were balled within his hands, the final lifeline to a home that scarce existed anymore. He wouldn’t bring them into that chamber; Barnabas refused to taint the innocence remaining in the light blue fabric. He wasn’t a fighter, barely having touched a weapon before arriving to the Capitol. He wasn’t a rebel, holding no exceptional urge to shove his hatred for the Capitol in the faces of his Gamemakers. It seemed a stupid idea, anyways. The boy's only true talent was helping others, and somehow in a world as egocentric as Panem, he doubted it’d get him far.

Lucan Stroud appeared to hear the intruder enter the premises, as his body was found in the hallway leading to the master bedroom. The perpetrator (seen fleeing the house by witnesses sometime in the early morning) was armed with a six inch steak knife, found to be lodged in Mr. Stroud’s skull.

Barnabas’ hands were clenched into fists, finger nails creating half-moons upon his sweaty palms. They shook, not out of fear, but of strain to keep them closed. The door slammed shut behind him, a single note to break the heavy silence and to announce his presence to what were the equivalent of Gods to him now. He was not so foolish as to believe they cared enough about him to wish for an introduction. They knew his name and his number and cared for little else. In truth, he cared as little for them as they for him. He’d much rather believe them faceless deities than living, breathing people just like him. Ones who willingly sent twenty-three to their deaths without the bat of an eye. His footsteps were uneven as he walked to the endless rows of weaponry. Hand tracing the hilt of each blade as he searched.

A struggle had taken place before the masked-man managed to get the upper hand. Several neighbors report hearing shouting sometime in the night, but it was not a rare occurrence as Mr. and Mrs. Stroud were famous for marital spouts. Both of Lucan’s wrists were fractured as well as his skull. The burglar most likely threw him to the ground, knocking him unconscious before delivering the killing blow.

He had found it, the silver blade was all too sharp, all too real. The medical station held his next prop, a small silver scalpel that was soon concealed within his belt loop. Doubts, thick and rapid, rained upon him. He could feel their eyes on him, burning into the back of his neck as he strode to the dummies he had prior practiced medicinal techniques upon. They were near perfect replicas, silicone skin concealing “bone” and “blood”, a human body he would soon be mutilating. I can’t do it. He repeated the phrase in an empty mind as he took weighted steps toward his victim. Barnabas couldn’t even pretend to take a life. He wasn’t a fighter. He was weak.

Creating telltale imprints of his shoes in Mr. Stroud’s blood, the burglar made his way to the room Lucan Stroud had died protecting. Only to find Margery Stroud cowering to the right of the bed. Having left his primary weapon in Mr. Stroud, the perpetrator was armed with a small scalpel, presumably stolen from Mr. Stroud’s medical cabinet. Their neighbors report hearing him scream at the woman to give him everything she had, and Mrs. Stroud’s only reply an inquiry about her husband. At this point the authorities were contacted promptly.

The dummy was sent crashing into a wall, Barnabas’ fist sinking into its cheek. He had read the report nearly a thousand times over, a sympathetic peacekeeper sneaking it to him after his constant begging to know what had happened. ”You’re fifteen, you can handle this.” Her words were to reassure herself more than Barnabas. He could almost see his father’s face within the dummy’s, the same lifeless eyes regarding him. Again and again and again the boy’s hand abused the fake man. “Blood” rushing to the surface of his cheek to create a bruise that was more black than blue. Every punch hurt hims, tears coming to the corners of his eyes. But he will not cry.

His foot brought the silicone man to the ground, head crashing against the cement with a sickening crack. Pinning the dummy, he dug his knees into its palms, various fingers wielding to his weight with sounds that made him want to vomit. Bringing the blade high into the air, he struck with all his strength. The hilt tore the callouses upon his hands as he clumsily snaked the knife into the broken skull. It hurt more than anything he’d ever experienced. This was not the end, he knew. Barnabas was not a fighter. Never before had he raised a hand against another. Yet, he tried to keep his face smooth as stone. It was not about being strong right now, it was about appearing that way and hoping by some miracle he grew to be such.

It is assumed the burglar heard the commotion outside and decided to flee, leaving Mrs. Stroud half alive. After attempting to slit her throat and realizing his cut had been to shallow, he plunged the scalpel into her stomach and fled out of the window. Not before locking the bedroom door, however, leaving Mrs. Stroud alone in the room for half an hour. By the time authorities gained entry to the room Margery had bled out. The burglar made off with her prized possession, a gold chain necklace as well as other family jewels.

The next dummy was treated almost tenderly. No fists, no brutal strikes. He drew the scalpel across its neck, bile rising quickly in his throat as fake blood gushed onto his hand. Barnabas could feel the jugular against his knife, but he dared not cut any deeper instead thrusting the blood stained tool into its abdomen. His strikes were not to kill this time.

His hands wrapped around the dummy's neck, tears almost painful to hold back. It hit the ground face first, blood slowly creating a lake around the lifeless body. It wasn’t dead, it wouldn't be for a while.

”Meet my mom.” Barnabas gestured to the dummy drowning in thick red paste upon the floor, ”And my dad.” he motioned toward the other, eyes so like his father still opened wide. The boy refused to look to the glass where his Gods were hidden, holding himself together best he could. 

As of right now, there are no suspects.

”I never did find out who did this to them.” As soon as he stepped foot outside of the room, Barnabas Stroud burst into tears.

{and these little things define us
forever, forever;

[charade]

Kirk Marshall

district ten male

I wanna live my life to the fullest, make the most out of being young

And when I'm laying down on my deathbed, I'll be proud of every story told

The room was cold and sterile. Kirk decided quickly that he did not like the room at all. It was clean, but too clean. It was lifeless, devoid of any of the things that made a place feel like people actually used it. He glanced up at the gamemakers and blinked. They looked like tough people. The kind that didn’t impress easy and wouldn’t hesitate to let their displeasure be known. Going in, he hadn’t known what to expect. Private training sessions were private for a reason. There was no telling what any of the other tributes had done. even tributes from past games. The grading process was kept very hush-hush, and only one in twenty-four tributes would ever really get the chance to talk about it outside of the Capitol.

Ya gotta show them what you’re good at. he told himself. Kirk stared blankly at all of the things in the room and brooded. A couple years working under a blacksmith had made him strong, but he couldn’t very well make anything here like he could at the forge. Or could he? He could make a fire for sure, and there were a couple hammers. But where would he get materials? His eyes wandered over various types of weapons before coming to a stop by the ranged ammunition. The crossbow bolts were small metal cylinders with points on one end. Why, if he bent them...

An idea blazed to life in his head and he stalked over to the fire making materials with a single-minded purpose. In no time at all, he had a nicely sized fire going; it was child’s play after years of doing the same at the forge. Kirk tossed three of the bolts into it, leaving them to heat up while he gathered the other materials; namely by detaching one of the weapon racks, grabbing a warhammer from the blunt weapons rack and setting up one of the old fashioned dummies straight up against the far wall. Then he made a pair of makeshift tongs by grabbing two long knives and holding them like a pair of scissors. Grabbing one of the red-hot bolts with them, he dropped it onto the rack, ignoring the sizzle, Then, he hefted the hammer and began his work.

TNNK

TNNK

TNNK

TNNK

TNNK

Kirk rained blows on the crossbow bolt, bending and flattening it until it crudely resembled a horseshoe. Then he picked it up with his “tongs” again and cooled it off in the pool the room had, before repeating the process for the other two. It didn't take as long as it would have back home, mainly because he was rushing, but even with the speed he knew he didn't have much time left. The shelf didn’t take kindly to all the blows; Kirk doubted it would be useful for anything ever again. “Now, correct me if ah’m wrong, bet ah’ll bet y’all ain’t never seen this before.” It was a game he had played back when he started his apprenticeship; best played when the Smith wasn’t there to see him mess around. Kirk steadied his stance, putting one foot behind him and hefting the hammer.

Then, without warning, he snatched one of the impromptu horseshoes and threw it into the air, he watched it falling back down and then used the hammer to smack it with a hard clang once it was within reach. His strike proved true, sending the little metal u spiraling across the room until it thudded off of the dummy he had set up, leaving a sizable dent in its chest area. Kirk smiled with pride. His aim had always been good, and the targets he had built in ten were a good deal smaller than the dummy, so it was easier than he expected to hit what he was aiming for. He repeated the process with the second one, launching it forward and watching impassively until it lodged itself in the equivalent of a kneecap.

The third one, he had a little more fun with. Instead of throwing into the air, he balanced ii on the flat side of the hammer and then tipped the shoe into the air, playing catch with himself as the horseshoe bounced off of the top a couple times. After a few more bounces he hit it hard, sending into the neck of the dummy. That was it, he was out of things to hit to the dummy and was sweating with the exertion of moving the huge warhammer back and forth. But he was still holding the weapon. Time fer the grand finale. he told himself. Snatches of what the carnies shouted at the county fair back in district ten blared in his ears. Step right up and test your strength! Ring the bell and win a prize! The concept was the same, even if the execution was different.

Kirk turned the hammer sideways and gripped it by the end before whirling around to gather momentum and then letting go. The hammer spun end over end three times, slamming into the dummy’s head so hard that both head and hammer got stuck in the newly formed dent in the wall just as the buzzer rang. Kirk whistled a low note at his own handiwork before turning to the gamemakers. Not knowing what else to say, (and honestly, talking himself up sounded a mite pretentious at that point)Kirk smiled warmly and grabbed the top of his his hat, lifting it up in a salute and then carefully placing it back on his head. He left the room right after, already eager to discuss sessions with Esme.

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

By the time they reached District Ten, Gamemaker Nox and the rest of her team had been sitting in that godforsaken training gym for far too long. She had mostly finished her plate of food, and there were a couple of idiot junior Gamemakers who had made a contest of seeing how loudly they could talk about her before she confronted them. They had stopped after she'd given them a grotesque glare, but as was typical, she was still seething over it.

The Ten boy worked for a while, and Invidia actually found herself mildly interested; he was welding crossbow bolts into horseshoes, and metalworking was admittedly not common in the training gym. Give me more, boy. What are you going to do with them? "Now, correct me if ah'm wrong, bet ah'll bet y'all ain't never seen this before." Invidia groaned the moment he spoke; it was always better when the Tens didn't open their mouths. She loathed their accents.

A moment later, though, Invidia was ready to excuse his dialect as she watched him whack the horseshoes with great strength, and then eventually chucked the hammer itself with deadly accuracy. Skill with a ranged weapon—however crude his strategy was—was rare yet always effective. "All right, y'all, I can dig it," she announced to the rest of the Gamemakers in a crude mockery of his accent, penning an 8 next to his name. He would be one to watch.

[rook]

PATRICIA VALFIERNO

Living in a cruel world, drudging with my feet in the snow
On a day out, and it's a night now
Doctor, I've been walking by the side of the road
For a long time, and I'm going out of my mind.

Eyes closed, mind open. I put on a mask of absolute confidence, removing every ounce of negativity from my body. All the doubts and worries banished, just like that. If I am to succeed here today, this needs to go perfectly. So long as everything goes according to plan, I will leave this room smiling. There is no room for error. Not one mistake. It should do. I learned from the best. District Three, two years ago - Nabil Faouzi taught me everything I know about systems advancements and hardware. Three's as about as advanced as it gets outside of the Capitol, so I can't doubt my knowledge. I just have to trust in it.

LED system, three dimensions. Invisible lights cross paths and become visible at cross-sections, producing three dimensional graphical images known as holograms. Hundreds and thousands of individual lights installed on the walls and floors of the training center, all linked together by one supermassive central processing unit. The CPU of course has many sub-processors to control specific sections and pass on the binary command, 1/0, on/off. This system is advanced, make no mistake about it, but that's its downfall. Sometimes a system like this is too clever. It's too human.

Artificial intelligence is the study of evolutionary algorithms and systems. It was incredibly popular before the war, and even now it is used by the Capitol to solve many problems in medicinal studies and in industrial environments. No doubt there is a system in place here more advanced than I can fathom. They say that the Capitol has computers that can process more data per second than the human brain. If so, then surely it has an interface that can deal with new problems based on a history of old problems. Trial and error. Patchwork computing. I'm relying on that. I have lived my life fooling humans, and they reckon that the best computers strongly resemble that of the human brain. So, they should be just as easy to fool, then?

My name is called. I swallow any remaining nerves and stand up tall. This is my moment. My five minutes of glory. It's make or break - A high score will get me sponsors, and that can be the difference between life and death inside the arena. I walk into the great expanse of the training center. It seems so barren without the Tributes. Usually it is filled with the sounds of shouting, fighting and the occasional laugh. Now the silence leans on my chest, forcing a sweat from my brow.

The Gamemakers glare at me from behind their forcefield curtain. Their own little bubble of safety. I screw up my face, only wishing I could feel as safe as them. They drink blood wine from bone glasses, and look at me as if I am a piece of meat. Even in here it feels like everyone wants me dead. With a smirk, I'll show them I'm worth betting on.

"Hello, my name is Patricia Valfierno, and I'm from District Five." I let my hands cup behind my back formally, as my legs part to stand at ease.
"Are you sitting comfortably?" I smile darkly, pacing slowly towards the weapon rack. Oh how I bet they would love to see me grab a sword and tear a dummy to pieces. How boring. I have spent most of this week examining the floor tiles, rather than training for my survival. Hardly good preparation, but that's my choice. I like to know my enemy, and it's not those other kids, it's the authority in front of me.

I pluck a knife from the rack, switching between backhand and forehand until I am happy with the weight and feel of it. Instead of getting to work on a dummy, I pace diagonally towards the Gamemakers. I stare at the lines between the tiles, counting in my head carefully. I walk back and double check my count. It matches, so I am certain that I am in the right place. I fall to my knees and run my hand down the side of the floor tile. With my left hand I jab the knife into the crack, just like I did a few days back.

"Subsystems to the main hologram central processing unit, the quantity of which I am unsure. The location of one I am certain." I yank with the knife, prying up the tile to reveal the hologram LED's and intricate wiring. Beneath that is a small silver component, undoubtedly one of the smaller sub processing units.
"Now, a system as large as this must have an artificial intelligence algorithmic computer, am I right?" I don't wait for an answer, judging the size and strength of the small unit, "If a component of the system were to be removed, then the computer would automatically look to fix it. To do that it would draw from the other processors to compensate from the black spot educed by the missing component." The redirection of power. This is not a ring circuit, no they wouldn't be that stupid. If one goes down, the others still work, and so does the system to an extent. Perhaps it is more strained, and thus weaker, but it still works.

Come on Leon. You're my trump card here. I place a hand on the sub processor and yank it out, wires and all. I grin, holding up the component like a kid at show-and-tell. I can only pray that the rest works as planned. I gave last year's Victor clear instructions on what to do next, and providing he does that, we both win.
"Now, I ordered holograms for my personal session, so any second now they should kick in, even with the missing processor. You know what that means? It means your computer is going to have to reconfigure the system to compensate for the hardware error. It's an adaptive system, I know that. Yet, like anything, its complexity is its downfall. It has got to do a soft reset to reconfigure and apply the changes."

You better be in the engineering room Leon. I don't care how many people you've had to knock out, my future is at stake! I grit my teeth, praying silently. The system tries to boot up, the holograms spark into life for a few seconds, before glitching out. I grin like a fool.
"Oh dear," I laugh, "Looks like the reconfiguration was unsuccessful - I wonder why?" I start to pace with a genuine confidence for once, "I would say that someone has cancelled the soft reset and forced the system into a hard reset. Now, you don't do hard resets here, because you need all of this running all of the time. You can't afford for the entire damn system to just shut down!" I laugh sarcastically, "And yet the code I gave Leon is a basic command line instruction that forces a hard reset, I'm sure you're familiar with it, and your systems administrator is probably rolling in his unconscious dreams as my friend types it in and hits enter, any second... Now!"

On queue, the lights go out. The forcefield shrivels up like paper set on fire, fizzling out to nothing. I pause for a few, long seconds, letting the silence sink in. It worked. Leon did it. My plan worked! I grin from ear to ear, switching my knife grip to backhand and walking towards the Gamemakers.
"Looks like you've just been shut down," I walk through where the forcefield used to be and into the private space of the Gamemakers. Well done Leon. He's done all I asked of him, and it has all worked to perfection. We caused a temporary blackout, maybe just for a few minutes before the hard reset is complete and the system restarts, but it's enough time for me to get past the forcefield and to where I want to be. One Gamemaker shouts down a communications device, calling for Peacekeepers. I smile - They are afraid. I want them to be afraid, like the twenty-four of us kids. I want them to experience that. They have every reason to be scared - I'm unpredictable, and for once I have the upper hand on them. I conned the system and I have them where I want them. I am in control.

I point my knife at the nearest Gamemaker. Are you still sitting comfortably? The sweat running down his powdered face suggests that he isn't. I wouldn't be surprised if he had pissed himself too.
"You don't think I have the guts to kill someone? You're wrong." My smile fades. When it comes down to it, I know I will be able to kill. I won't even hesitate, because I'm a survivor. My parents left me and my sister to die. I've been fighting for years. The Hunger Games are just another chapter in this long struggle, and I've never given up before. Why start now?
"I don't have the guts not to."

Peacekeeper hands constrict around my arms and shoulders, forcing me to let go of the knife and drop to my knees. My fun is over, it seems, but I'm still smiling. Even if they give me a low score for this, I know that I have planted fear in their minds, as they planted it in mine last week. They have but a taste of fear. The military units drag me out of the room, but I hold my grasp on their attention, locking eyes with them all the way out.

I'm evolving. On the train I spent the night in a foetal position, crying my heart out. My first night here I crawled around my room, looking for new places to vomit. When they throw me out of the training center and order me back to my floor, I walk normally for the first time, with complete peace of mind. Soon I will be running - Then they will have something to fear.

Sitting on a rooftop, crazy days are coming again
I'll be running, but I'll be hidden in the masquerade
So far from me now, but oh I can hear the sound
Can't you hear the bells singing alone? You will hear it on the radio

words: 1662, graphics: rook
theme: hear the bells by porter robinson

score: 2

[Deleted]

[presto][/presto]

C H A L E V I A N E

{ I can say I'll hope
it will be worth
what I give up ;

She saw him last night.

Head on the puffed up pillow, engulfed and swallowed by the feathery sea inside of it, eyes snapped shut and tied closed with skyscraper and city tormented strings. She'd tried to step out onto the roof to fulfill her desperation for the kiss of the moon and it's starry counterparts, but the pollution of the Capitol had swallowed them whole, and she could not look past the dingy haze of the city, for it disrupted the shine of the orb in the sky, it caused discomfort, and it caused change.

Cha Leviane did not handle change well.

And it was something she had looked over when she sent ripples through the crowd of the reaping, when she sat as Shelby poured her heart out to her, counting the ripples that every slam of her fist would make instead of listening to her own family, when she sat next to Finn and counted scratches instead of the memories of her past. She had overlooked the fact that everything would change, there would be no hammock to quell her thoughts at night, there would be no moonlight to spur dreams and flashbacks, there would be no distractions or queries in the Capitol, there would not be Shelby asking to watch the sunrise with her, there would not be her parents assuring it was all just dreams {even though everyone knew it was more than just that}. There would be nothing to stand in her way, blocking out the view of the moon and the stars.

Besides, of course, the fact that the moon and stars were blocked by dust and pollution.

she stared long and hard at it, like a child focused so intently on something that they just couldn’t look away, she stared and stared, half-heartedly forcing herself to believe that sooner or later the blanket of pollution would lift from the moon, and she would be greeted with the same site of the moon that she had so long cherished for so many years. She stared and stared, until tears formed in her eyes.

And the tears stayed there, for she realized in that moment that she would never get to see the moon like she had seen it so many times before ever again, and as she sulked back to her room, legs of lead carrying a body crushed under the weight of now long-gone memories and desires, she contemplated going back the next night, mind still wavering on the edge of accepting that it would never be the same. But in the end, she looked past the desperation for galaxies and the face of the moon, and instead chose to throw her head onto her pillow, tears still clinging onto her eyelids.

She was out like the light of the moon.

And that is when she saw

It was blurry, like a drawing smudged with a finger. Flashes of white before darkness would consume it. Distorted, like vibrating water in a glass, damaged, like a scratched up tray on a train. Foggy, polluted, and through it all their stood a figure, clad in white, mouth zipped shut. Truly, a zipper closed off his mouth from the rest of the world, metal tinge reflecting whatever light source was shining on it. His outfit was white, but it was wrinkled, not proportional, the shirt too small, the pants too large, the end of his pants reaching the ground instead of his ankles. He was white, pale, hair cut short, white skin contrasting against the dark void in which he stood-floated. She watched from afar, no sense of reality running through her. And he watched too, undistinguishable eyes looking at her, through her, as if there were monsters standing behind her, grinning with sharpened fangs and blood dripping fingers. And part of her wanted to twist her body to stare at them face to face, for the zipper mouthed man in front of her held a look so convincing, so true and so real, that it would take an idiot not to believe it.

But she did not turn around, for she did not get the chance to. Because, as fate would have it’s way, the man in front of her turned monster.

His hands reached to the zipper closing off his mouth, white, barren knuckles squeezing the tag before ripping it across his mouth, the zip of his own mouth reaching her ears a split second later.

And then, there was blood.

Pouring out of his mouth as the zipper let it, drowning his white, too big too small clothes in a sea of red, dripping down into the void surrounding them, tainting his skin red with the paint of his own body. And for a single second, it was as if his body was crushed under a weight so heavy that it forced out his innards and crushed bones like toothpicks, eyes gouged out and body mangled, wrangled, forced into oblivion.

She woke up bleeding sweat, the bed drenched with body fluids and her breathing heavy, eyes focused on nothing but the darkness in front of her. Her hands shook, her body was numb, her skin oily with sweat. But she smiled, for the memories she had cherished for so long had come back to her like a dog to it’s owner. She had been right, Shelby had been wrong.

She carried her thoughts with her, locked inside the chest of her mind through the building, through the training center, through the time spent waiting for her name to be called for private training sessions, and through the doorway.

You see, Cha Leviane had spent little time contemplating what the dream actually meant, and for the majority of the morning she had smiled about it, not because the dream had meaning but because the dream was there. It existed again, the memories were back and with it came her life {though, the irony is that that life would soon be squashed again}. But she had not spent any time on what a zipper mouthed, blood spewing crushed up and mangled piece of skin and bones meant to her, and it was not until she entered the room, eyes of the Gamemaker’s raining down on her that she realized this, and the smile that had been plastered on her face was wiped clean, torn from her face like her soul from the body before it. That was Cha Leviane's first mistake.

The second, was that she had no idea what she was going to do. And that was both Games wise and session wise. true, she had spent her week at the first aid station, and testing her knowledge of plants from a book she had read once in her desperate hunt for herself, learning how to make herself into a Capitol killer. But while her brain absorbed this like a sponge, forced to remember anything and everything her mind had wandered elsewhere, into other galaxies and universes, focusing on the truth rather than training scores.

She walked in a clean slate, devoid of ideas and with a stare as blank as the face of an avox.

They watched her, eyes piercing through her, wanting, expecting.

Mindlessly, she pulled the map Shelby left with her out of her pocket, unfolding the circular diagram and staring long and hard at the constellations printed on it, hands shaking and eyes wavering.

Mindlessly, she made her way over to the paints and picks out the brightest one there is, a white-blue, scarcely used, like new. And from there, as she ran her fingers along the map's surface, eyes glancing down at it every few seconds to make sure her bony fingers still possessed it, she went about clearing the tables of weapons and bandages and swords and knives from the center of the room, clearing a large, misshapen circle for herself.

Then, she drew.

Finger reaching into the paint every few seconds, eyes shooting down at the map as she copied each and every line, each and every dot of the starry night onto the ground, fingers no longer shaking as a determined look danced across her face, eyes going from ground to map, ground to map over and over again until finally, she finished.

It was a zombified, brainless act, and as she stood in the middle of the painted star map, clock still ticking with more than enough time, she let the paper map fall from her grasp, paper floating to the ground, a small part of it landing in the bright paint. Her eyes shot up, locking with the Gamemaker's, matching their questioning looks with one of her own, for her hands had begun to tremble again, and her eyes wavered, looking down at the ground before up again, over and over-

A sneeze came from the corner of the room.

It was off, missing something, too high pitched, sound distorted but it was there. All eyes shot to the corner, where an avox, clad in white stood, fear branded onto his face as he regained his composure, Death tapping on his shoulder and his eyes filled with fear.

But whereas the Gamemakers scowled, Cha Leviane gasped.

For that was it. The white outfit, pants to his ankle, shirt neatly fitting. Mouth zipped tight with lips that would never open. This was it, this was him. Not him for the boy in the corner was far too young, but that was it. That was it that was it that was it.

"Avox." She whispered, quietly at first, lips barely parting.

"Avox." She repeats, louder this time, enough so that the Gamemakers can hear her.

"He was an avox. An avox, he was an avox thats what he was. An avox. Ha!" She's speaking out of pure memory right now, any sense of reality and coherent thought turned to off, squashed by the painful bliss of finally figuring it out, finally figuring everything out. Her mind races, trying to comprehend the fact that that was it, everything she had been searching for was answered, laid out on the table, right in front of her.

Now it was her turn to finish was she started.

Her legs move by themselves, the word "Avox" slipping from her mouth as she makes her way over to the table of knives, eyes staring at nothing, bags under them readily apparent. Her fingers trace lines over the knives, finally resting on the sharpest, shortest one. Her gaze shifts to the avox in the corner, bewilderment etched onto his face at the girl in front of him, and she smiles, believing whole heartedly that a connection has been made between the two through her simple words.

White tipped knuckled brace the knife, trembling hand holding it as she makes her way back to the center of the crudely drawn, drying star map in the room. Her legs give just in the center, and as she meets the ground, legs folded indian style the knife raises to her mouth, one hand pulling out her tonuge while the other rested the knife against it.

Avox.

Tears shot forth from her eyes as soon as her hand cut into her tongue, pain exploding from the source and blood splattering to the ground, mixing with the bright blue.

Avox.

It's like a hot knife through butter, and even though her hands shake and her eyes water and everything is becoming darker and darker and redder and redder she can't help but admire how easy it is. No wonder the Capitol has so many of them.

Avox.

The last thing she recalls, before the world leapt into darkness washer tongue falling into her lap, carrying blood with it, and as the knife slipped from her grasp she collapsed, pain and shock blending into a single knockout punch.

Cha Leviane never came back out of that room, for she had lost herself in galaxies and universes, inside her mind.

The stretcher creaks a little as she's carried to the emergency room.

[presto][/presto]

*GM reply here*

[Traid]

Ryin Sileece - D3F

It seemed as if it took forever for it to be Ryin's turn to impress the panel. She had little hope for herself, and a look of sorrow was constantly on her face in the waiting room. She knew better than to show her fear to the other tributes, but right now there was nothing more important than doing well and getting a good score. She had to live life in the moment, even in the arena. She needed to prove herself to both the public, and the other tributes.

Suddenly, it was her turn. It seemed as if no time had passed and it was already her turn. Ryin stepped up from her bench and looks to the tributes to both sides of her. With a sigh of breath, she walked into the centre.

Without a moment to spare, Ryin straightened her back with great posture and marched in with confidence. It was almost as if she were a completely new person. Her eyes showed an obvious hate towards the spectators, but she kept her mouth and body language to herself. Ryin looked around quickly for anything in her repertoire. A certain weapon, a certain essential, anything. Ryin really was not prepared for this, but her confidence made it hard to tell she was unprepared. Ryin looked each observer in the eyes, with a smooth motion across the room. Then, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Eyes shooting open, Ryin ran across the room with quite a good sprint. She ended up near a thick coil of rope. Taking the rope, she tied a knot in it. She took a blunt baton and tied it to the end of it. She then picked up six bricks, one by one, and placed them in two piles of three on the floor. After doing this, she placed the rope with the end tied to the baton between the two brick piles. Pulling the other end of the rope, the baton would tightly press against the back of the bricks. It wasn't going anywhere. She continued to do this with two more sets of bricks and two more batons. There were now three sets of each, all with the baton at the end farthest away from Ryin. The ropes formed a point, Ryin being where each end of the rope would meet.

Time was running out, Ryin had to act fast.

Ryin then threw the other end of each rope over the ceiling support bars and made sure it was held extremely tight, so that if it the bricks were lifted from the baton end of the rope as Ryin was pulling on the end hanging from the ceiling, the baton would fly over the support pole and fall with great speed towards where Ryin was currently standing.

Ryin ran to a table that was close to her and found two machetes. She picked up the machetes and used two pieces of short rope to tie them to each of her forearms. She looked down to her arms and back up at the people watching her.

"Use your imagination. Tree bark, thin rocks, anything." She said, shrugging.

Then, Ryin spotted light axes, decent for throwing. She took six off the table and brang them to the spot where each rope hung. Grabbing onto the rope hanging to the right, she picked up one axe. She looked and gave a smirk, tugging on the rope with her full strength, she threw the throwing axe at the pile of bricks and baton on the other end of the rope.

The axe completely missed the bricks. Ryin's eyes widened, but without looking at the observers to even see if they were laughing at her, she picked up a second axe. She narrowed her eyes and imagined herself hitting the brick pile with her bare hands. She then threw it. It hit the bricks, and with Ryin pulling as hard as she could with a firm stance on the ground, the baton flew over the ceiling beams and started to speed down at her. She dropped the rope and raised her arm, deflecting the baton with barely a push-back. Her stance was strong.

She quickly picked up the second one, tugged the rope on the left, and threw. It hit first try this time, the baton flew over and at Ryin. She lifted her other arm and deflected it the opposite way this time. Lastly, she picked up two axes, throwing them at the brick pile in the centre, and with extreme reflexes, reached up and pulled the rope right in front of her. She raised her arms in an x-shape and the last baton pinged off her arms.

She slowly lowered her arms to her sides, breathing heavily. She was looking at the ground. She raised her eyes first, then her whole head towards the observers. With a bow of the head and shoulders, she turned around and walked out of the scoring session.

GM Reply Here (Score was 8)

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

Blaire Sycamore

District 5 - Fifteen - Sycamore House

This was fucking stupid.

What the hell do they expect a worthless brat like me to do?

How Laila had managed a 10 is beyond me. Sure, she was a special girl - bratty, loud, and generally a pain that frankly it is hard to live without - but damn this is impossible. Or maybe I am just generally terrible at everything except hitting things really hard and throwing things really far. And running. I can run away from anything. My dad, my house, the orphanage, my problems, the world - it's an art I have mastered.

But these people don't want to see me run. They want to see me stand tall (Five feet and four inches tall to be exact. Maybe 5'5" depending on how the stylists do my hair.), fight a few Careers with a blade I don't know how to use, and bleed. Bleed to death to be more specific. And if I was really honest with myself, I didn't want that to happen. In truth, I'm nothing more than a boy that wants to go home. I want to go see Ruth. I want to believe I didn't lie to her when I said it would be okay. But I have to accept this. My imminent death. I mean, it is already staring me blatantly in the face, laughing. Waiting.

Ripred I need to quit being a little, emotional shit stain or I am going to bore these Gamekeepers to death. (Would that make me a Victor? I know it sure would make me feel better ...)

I force myself forward, one foot after the other, my sturdy combat boots that were just a tad too big clomping loudly on the ground. I probably look like a weird, muscle-y ten year old. I run my hand through my hair, feeling angry at myself for not being taller. Bigger, stronger, stronger, stronger damn it all why can't I be stronger, braver? Ruth flashes through my mind as I walk past the station with all the organic paints and berry juice. I look away, knowing full well that is where she would be if she were here.

But she isn't. I am.

I make my way over to the spears, grabbing a few of the meaner, heavier looking variety and tossing them in a pile before grabbing some axes and a few other blunt weapons and throwing them in the pile as well. I line up a few dummies, the kind that splatter fake blood if you cut deep enough, and grab an axe from the pile. I swing as hard as I can at the dummies head, splitting the skull in two, the axe wedged in, blood oozing and splattered all over my face. "One." I count aloud, my breathing coming faster now as I pick up weapon after weapon - pikes, lances, axes, hammers, maces, spears - and jab them into the dummies in the most grotesque way I can, counting all the way up until I get to "Twenty-three."

But I know this isn't enough. It isn't enough to be strong or to slice and jab and split dummies in half - No. I need more. More.

I am panting now, my sweat mixing with the fake blood on my skin, and that rage and bitterness that I try so hard to keep hidden - you know, for Ruth's sake - is oozing out of me just as the blood is oozing from the dummies lined up across the training center.

I grab rope and some netting, remembering one of the tricks Septimus had played on me, and rigging it all to resemble the trap that had put me up in a tree for hours. I set it all up, the triggering mechanism, the hooks, the counterweight (an already bleeding dummie from before, more of the sticky blood pouring onto my clothes), all of it, disguising it as best as I can with what I have.

And then I gesture to have an avox let in. A younger boy by the looks of it walks in, maybe even younger than me, and I take him by the hand, sitting down in the middle of the room, my hands trembling and my smile wavering. "How old are you kid?" And he holds up both of his hands, all ten fingers raised up at me and I take a deep breath. Play the game Blaire. Play the game just as you always have. I chuckle.

"I remember being ten. Me and my sister we would always play this game. Tag. Do you know how to play?" He nods, and despite his missing tongue, he smiles a wide smile, his face genuinely lit up by the proposition. So innocent he doesn't even understand what this is.

"You're it!" I yell, running away from him as fast as I can. Running and running just as I always have. And I don't realize it until I hear a tiny scream and the snapping of ropes pulling taut that tears are running down my face. I swipe at them angrily, feeling that anger and bitterness rising again in my throat. These people - these people are changing me, making me cruel, turning me into a monster.

I grab wood from the fire station, my throat closing as the wood piles up and up and up beneath the boy dangling above in the trap. "Once upon a time there was a little orphan boy." I grab jars of tar and shattered them all over the wood, grabbing anything - any chemicals and really green wood that will smoke. I toss some paint in, some more wood, anything that will kill I need to kill. That is how you win. Kill.

I throw a blanket over the netting of the trap, watching as the boys pleading eyes disappear from view. An orphaned boy with no voice, right? (Now who does that sound like Blaire? Who does that sound like you bastard? "You worthless bastard!" my father screams at me, a belt snapping across my back.)

"Now this boy he lived in a house where his dad hated him and his sister. So they ran away from him, from the world. They ended up in a place filled with useless, unloved people." I grab flint from the fire making station, spitting my next words as I slowly make my way back to the wood pile. The boy is screaming again. I try not to listen.

"One day, this house full of unloved children caught on fire. Every child escaped, every child - useless and unloved as they were - escaped death." A spark flies onto the tar and it ignites quickly, a dark, black, inky smoke rising from the pile. A pile of wood named 'Sycamore.'

"But we all should've died. It would've been better that way." And as the toxic smoke rises to meet the boy, all of the burning chemicals being trapped beneath the blanket, I hear the screams mixed with choking gasps and coughs. "All of us stupid, worthless orphans should've died!" I yell as the fire roars. "Then I wouldn't be here, Laila wouldn't have been sliced to bits, and you wouldn't be inhaling a deadly amount of smoke."

And as the fire continues to rage and the screams begin to fade I turn on my heels and walk out of the door. Running away. Always and forever running away. Not brave enough to face death.

"The end."

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

Invidia was unimpressed. The head Gamemaker tapped her clawlike nails on the table impatiently as she watched the boy from District Five—a relation of Laila Sycamore, former tribute—jabbing various pointy things into the skull of twenty-three dummies. Anger issues, she scribbled down into her notes, pursing her lips in irritation. How often had she seen a mediocre tribute resort to these measures in private sessions? It was practically a requirement that every Games had one poor misguided soul who took his frustration out on inanimate objects hoping it would "impress" the Gamemakers. Boring. Show me something different, kid.

And then different he did, so different that Gamemaker Nox had difficulty following the chain of events. Suddenly there was an avox—just a boy, mind you, the kind who served them food and looked down at his toes the whole time to keep from catching the eyes of those who were far superior to him—hanging in a net over a fire that Mr. Anger Management had somehow lit. Without waiting to be dismissed, the tribute ran from the room.

Invidia cursed under her breath. "I always hate the ones who try and put on a show," she muttered to Dom, rolling her eyes and scribbling a 6 down under Blaire Sycamore's name as training hands scrambled to clean up the mess Sycamore had made and rescue the shrieking avox. She had a particularly theatrical death in mind for the District Five male.

[Death]

[googlefont="Love Ya Like A Sister:400"]+ k i a  s o u l +
district three tribute

For Your, the Gamemaker's, Consideration:
A Private Training Session

| my words | your words | your thoughts | their words |

Your features contort with a quickly silenced and stifled horror at the first wail.

She’s screaming, if you can call the garbled sounds she’s making a scream. Blood wells from the slit at her throat, bubbling and slipping through the delicate crack in the pale, white flesh.

Turning back to the table behind you, you draw a large packet out of the depths of the kit and pull away at the tabs as quickly as your spider-fingers can handle. The blood dribbles quickly down her throat, pooling at the ridge of her clavicle.

And then, the hallucination is gone. It’s not Porsche anymore. You breathe a sigh of relief. No more crying or screaming or begging or pleading.

You hadn’t given this private training session a thought until Sparky mentioned something about it before you’d started getting ready. Staring at your reflection in the mirror as you brushed your teeth, you wondered what the hell kind of special talents a district three boy could offer to the Gamemakers of Panem’s Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games. They’re veterans.

They’ve probably seen anything and everything come through here, the loud voice murmured in the back of your mind. It seemed to come from the base of your skull and you briefly remembered that that’s where the survival part of your brain resided, or something like that. What’s something I can do for them? I mean… a good score would be nice. But… I don’t know, Kia. What’s your strategy? Do you even have one you oaf?

You’d sifted through you entire bank of knowledge. Your mind palace. And it was empty.

Well, not empty. There was that whole wing devoted to sex positions. That was a nice wing. You’d made a mental note to revisit that area as soon as you got the chance. But, you know, giving a sexual education and enjoyment lesson speak to a couple of Capitol Gamemakers probably wouldn’t come off well.

Although, it would be worth just to see if I could get some kind of reaction. Maybe a derisive laugh? That would be fun. I could end it with, “And that’s how babies are made” or something. But… no. Sounds like I’d be asking for trouble.

You’d rubbed the stubble that’d been forming on your jawline before reaching for a razor.

Oh, boy, a razor. They must really trust you or something, Kia, you think as you squirt some squirming shaving cream into one palm. Maybe Derek could permanently remove that for me before I head into the games.

After dabbing some of the white, froamy (heh froamy—like frothy, but foamy) chemical-laden goopy stuff onto the offending areas of your face, you rinsed your hands and then when to work with the razor.

Then, pain. Ouch. Shit.

Some blood surfaced quickly against your skin, bright and obvious against the white cream of the numbing soapy substance. It really wasn't Shaving Cream. Cream was a delicious product found within the milk of certain mammals. And Shaving Cream was most certainly not delicious. You preferred the more technically correct "Shaving Soap." You sissy.

But rather than sticking to thinking about the correct terminology for shaving cream, your mind wandered back to the thin line of blood beading out of your skin.

And as you were sticking a bandage to the certain part of the skin, just above the right side of your jawline, an idea had hit you harder than a career tribute.

So here you were. Slicing open an anatomically realistic dummy-- its nondescript and androgynous features allowing numerous possibilities of identity for your mind to play with. And you don't like it when you mind has free reign to play. Because instead of playing, it was more like prancing. In a garden of insanity. While wearing a pink tutu. And holding a human skull. While sipping a sweet, steaming cup of tea.

At least you were patching it up. That was the point of your needless cruelty to a bloody (literally bloody) anatomical dummy. Since first aid was really the only thing you knew the first thing about and could demonstrate at least semi-properly.

Under the clear coating of occlusive dressing that you'd probably never actually have available to use in the games, the incision you'd made into the dummy's neck bled slowly and unhappily. Someone in the Games would probably just die. But it was a dummy. And dummies didn't die.

Next, to demonstrate a deep puncture wound.

You move from around the table and look at the dummy you'd hung from one of the available stands. And you pick up a bow. It's smooth and cool against your gently sweating palms. You run you hands across its aerodynamic curves. 

The word curves makes you think of a woman. And thinking of a woman makes you think about doing it. Ripred, you feel like an addict. The feeling of guilty lust rolls through you.

Instead of picking up a curvaceous female specimen, you pick up an arrow, which is the next closest thing, considering that they can both hurt you very brutally if you treat them incorrectly.

When you look up, a delicate and young face stares back at you, her mouth slightly agape in horror. Rather than the dummy being tied by its neck and hung haphazardly on the stand, Toyota dangles there, her arms tied above her head and wrists bound. You can't tell what it is she dangles from, but whatever it is, it wouldn't make logical sense if you delve any further.

"Oh dear Ripred, please, Kia," Toyota shrieks, tears like exceedingly pale opals streaking down her cheeks in tiny puddles and rivers. "Did I do something wrong? Please! It doesn't have to be this way. You don't have to--" 

A high-pitched squeal. Like a rabbit being dismembered like a fox. The arrow embeds itself with a dull thud into Toya's-- the dummy's chest cavity.

Her hair drapes down her back in ribbons and curls and then blood spills down her chest. You'd been lucky to have hit her at all. You'd been aiming for the chest, but a stomach wound would have to suffice.

Tears roll down her cheeks and you try your absolute hardest to keep your face blank and stony. She's an anatomical dummy, dammit, not your little sister, you remind yourself over and over again.

But her constant whimpering and intakes of breath and tears and sniffles make that impossible.

It's like your parents all over again. Except, instead of being an onlooker, forced to watch while a brute skinned them alive slowly, relishing the delicious pain and pooling of blood on their hides and the floor at their feet, you are that brute. 

Suddenly, you feel dirty. And nauseous. And you consider not finishing with the plan. First a jugular wound. Then a puncture wound. Then a deep sword wound to an extremity. 

Suck it up, Kia. That's not your sister. You're half-way through. Just finish the job, you moron.

You unhinge the dummy from the stand it dangles from and, at least for a moment, Toyota is gone. If you were lucky, she wouldn't come back and you could get on with your sadistic private session with the Gamemakers (Boy does that sound kinky...) and then forget all about it.

The weight in your arms feels like you're carrying a real person. A real live, dead person. It flops unhelpfully in your arms and by the time you set it on the table, your light blue shirt is stained with blood.

The face stares blankly back at you as you secure the arrow with tape. The pool of blood appearing at the site of entry tells you all you need to know. They probably would have died. You pad the area with gauze and some well-meaning cotton balls before going and picking up a sword.

It's heavy. Heavier than you'd imagined. But nothing you can't handle. It's just a little clunky. And you're a little clunky and oh, thank Ripred, you've made it back to the dummy safely. You breathe a sigh of relief.

I should totally go down in history as the tribute who died in their private training session. I wonder if I'd get a 12 or a 0.

You heft the sword in your hands and pull it up over your head like it's a battle ax instead. Bugatti stares back up at you. That gorgeous face making you heart skip a beat. Sure, maybe you wanted him. You weren't related. But... no. You drove the thoughts from your mind. Never any of your siblings.

He looks up at you, a silent pain dragging his features into an oblivion of misery. "You don't have to do this, brother. Please."

"I'm sorry, brother. It's basic survival," you murmur. The sword swings down, and you use most of your force to prevent it from severing the leg. You just want a deep cut. A clean one that can have stitches.

Bugatti screams at the flesh bursts open with scarlet, that your brain wants you to think is just paint, but at the same time real blood. A dull metallic scent fills your nostrils.

Dirty. Disgusting. Sadistic. Brute. Animal. Coward. Child.

Words of abuse run through your head. One for each stitch. You try to ignore Bugatti's sharp intake of breath for every time your needle hooks into his flesh and then out of it, dragging a long line of suture behind it.

Murderer. Killer. Torturer. Freak.

As the last stitch is put in place, you look back at the dummy's face. Bugatti's face has begun to fade. And your heart rate begins to relax, the frantic sprint of your heart cutting back to a simple jog as you take deep breaths and wipe the blood off on your pants.

You walk back up near the Gamemakers. You hadn't looked at them since you'd entered. Even then, it was only a glance and short bark of "Kia Soul, District Three."

But this time, you stare. You meet all of their eyes. Each gaze. You try squinting your eyes. You narrow them until you can barely see anything.

You turn your head to one side and close one eye. You wiggle and arch your eyebrows. You flutter your eyelashes. Anything you can do to get out a reaction. Then, you grin. A sudden grin. And a laugh. You can't help it. You're losing it in your own private training session.

With a short bow, tucking one leg behind the other and making your hand elegantly reach out to them, you stand straight and smile crooked and say, "And that concludes my demonstration of first aid and the art of awkward staring. Have a fantastic day and thanks for your time."

Funny thing was, you were thinking as you bounced out the door, the grin still plastered to your face, that you completely meant what you said. You wanted them to have a fantastic day. And you didn't know why.

You shrugged.

No use dwelling on it. It's behind you now. Keep moving forward. Maybe towards Sparky... would she be on our floor right now? I should go see if she'd be interested in trying out some of those sex positions I was gonna show the Gamemakers.

And with that thought, you left the blood and the madness back in the session. Sure, you carried it with you, like that royally stained shirt. But that was in the past. And you were Kia of the Present.

Another grin. You wished you could do a front flip down the hallways.

Mental note: win Games so can learn gymnastics.

**GM Post Shall Be Edited In Here**