Public PTS

[pup]

(I was bored with no homework so I spent my time after school making this)

I wait outside, waiting, waiting, waiting, knowing that soon enough I will be told to show what about me will make these games a good one. What makes these games bloody, or gory, or something else just as stupid just to impress these stupid gamemakers. I sighed and tried to relax, thinking about what she might do. I didn't have a mentor or anything and so she must need something good. Show how good of an actress you are. said a small voice in my head. It sounded like Preston's voice. He had been in my head ever since I had to leave him when I volunteered to save someone's life. A plan started to form in my mind. A plan that she would never do at home would have had awful consequences. Some of the words I would need to say would go far already for me. Some words I had never said before, and wasn't eager to say. I calmed myself and took some deep breaths, like any good actress should. Then I unclenched my fists as a weird sound thing said, "Lily Hope. You may come in." I narrow my eyes and look as angry as possible. My costume was set up.

I walk in and see that some gamemakers were eating while watching me. Studying me, as if I would suddenly burst into flames, do a cartwheel, then turn into a squirrel and eat their hearts out, or something like that. The second to last thing I actually slightly wanted to do. I always try to get in character. "You can stop looking at me like that." I say sharply to them, "I'm not going to do a strip tease for you bitches if that's what your wondering." I sigh in my head. If Preston could see me now he would be startled and surprised. No more scared little girl struggling to lift a sword in the training center. Now I am the bad little Lily who is ready to tear your heart out. I walk over to the knot tying station and quickly tie a few knots to make little ropes. It was just like the weaving I had learned to do in district eight. I still felt the inquisitive eyes still on the back of my head with a slight bit of amusement in them. "You can stop watching me like I'm on a Petri dish fuckers." I had been told what a Petri dish was by one of my friends back in district eight who made stuff like that. Apparently in old days scientists should let dangerous bacteria and such grow in them as they study them. I look up at the rungs from the ceiling as I turn away from my ropes. I walk over to the knife station and I stick two knives into the ropes so they both hung at the ends of them. I quickly went over to the climbing station and climbed to the highest point, holding the ropes in my teeth, being careful to not let the knives touch me. My small, agile body moved quickly as I started to claim upside down from the top of the building, hanging by the metal rafters. I tie my long ropes onto them and let them fall I then slide down so my hands are at the knife handles.

I grin and let myself start to swing around. I knock everything I come into contact to down. I then reach one dummy and let my hand slide towards it, the knife cutting into its head, rewarding me with a shower of fake blood. I don't cringe. My first act is almost over. My ropes stretch as far as they can, before they start to swing me back again. I do the same with another, dummy, and another, then I decide to finish as I know my time is about to be done. I let my self let go from the swinging ropes, leaving the ropes still swinging, but leaving me in a small flight. I land on the ground with the smallest of grunts and let my arms catch me. I get back up and dust myself off. I don't even bother to look at the gamemakers as I start to walk away. A buzzer beeps, signaling I have finished, and I walk out.

After I walk out, I let my trembling commence, along with my intermission.

______________________

Too many sharks
not enough blood in the waves

For such a young tribute, Lily Hope seems alarmingly inappropriate.

She’s got attitude, I’ll give her that, but she opens up her training session with a terse "I'm not going to do a strip tease for you bitches if that's what you’re wondering,” and already I feel altogether too uncomfortable.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Charlie take a shot.

Granted, it’s understandable that tributes aren’t fond of Gamemakers, but this is a life-or-death situation, and already it seems like Lily Hope doesn’t care about the impression that she makes. Perhaps she’s too young to know how to act in order to survive?

As she moves towards one of the stations and begins to work, I’m at least impressed that she has the ability to tie a knot. Still.. she makes another comment.

"You can stop watching me like I'm on a Petri dish, fuckers."

Would she rather we ignore her? Would she rather be a tribute that the Gamemakers don’t care about? Because that’s what the comment sounds like to me. It’s our job to observe and take note of each tribute’s skills, and if she doesn’t want us to evaluate her..

So, for the next few minutes, I ignore her and pay attention to my food.

That is, until she starts swinging from the ceiling on the rope. I can see knives attached to the end, and she uses them to take out dummies just below her. It’s not an easy feat, that’s for sure; she’s got the upper body strength to carry herself and move about the rope, but maybe that’s just because she’s so young.

A moment later, she drops to the ground and walks out without another word (thank goodness), and I look at my co-Gamemaker with wide eyes before taking down some notes.

6

[Arrows]

Just Don't Die

Kirito could feel his heart racing faster and faster with each passing second. Every single tick of the clock above him sent shrills of nerves through his body. He had to be perfect. He literally had no room for error on such a big night, especially with what he had planned. Even Katelyn seemed a little worried as he departed from here to come to this hell. This none stop waiting as one tribute after another all went in for their private training sessions. Kirito knew from what Katelyn had told him that he had to really get their attention if he wanted to avoid a weak score. Hopefully he would be able to grasp the Game Makers attention, if not then to hell with it anyway.

Eventually Kirito sat in utter silence as the final tribute ahead of him vanished into the center. The severity of the silence that surrounded him was overwhelming, not to mention the crushing fear that gripped to him like a soaked batch of clothes. Maybe he actually was soaked from all the sweat that was forming all over the brim on his fore head and under his arms. Just waiting was killing him and yet some how he was suppose to go into that center and impress the Game Makers. Why couldn't he just be back home in District Eleven?

With a sudden jolt Kirito was on his feet at the mechanical call of his own name through the speakers. For a brief moment Kirito stood upon the threshold of the door before finally stepping inside...

As quickly as Kirito could he ran over to the plant station. He knew he only had a short amount of time to set up before the Game Makers gave up on him entirely. He was the lowest district tribute after all. Swiftly his hands grabbed multiple kinds of plants along with a grinding stone and two small bowls. Once Kirito had acquired all of these supplies he made his way to the area directly in front of the Game Maker's pavilion.

Thankfully due to all his experience Kirito was able to mash and mix the liquid solution he wanted in one of the bowls in what he believed was about a minute. With his special concoction now complete he held it up for the Game Makers to see clearly, "What I have just made is a liquid mixture of Nightlock, Castor, and Wolfsbane which I am sure ya both know are all highly deadly. Howeva in this here solution they create a fast actin' poisun that will killa human in only ten minutes. I will now drink this mixture and cure myself before I die. It I don' well then that is one less tribute yall have ta worry about." With a wink Kirito shakily lifted the mixture to his lips and engulfed the bitter tasting liquid.

Within just a minute Kirito could already feel his stomach twisting in attempt to expel the mixture but Kirito would not allow himself to throw up. He had to show strength and focus. So shakily he began to crush several off the needed plants into the next bowl with the stone. However with each passing second it became harder and harder for Kirito to distinguish which plant was which. Rirpred pray he didn't fuck it up.

Five minutes in and Kirito was officially shaking viciously and had one hell of a headache however he was nearly done adding the last bit of juice to his antidote. With a cough of firey pain Kirito tried to force himself from falling victim to the darkness that was encroaching his vision. Tansy, check, Blood Flower, check, Burdock, check, and, and shit, oh, fever few, right, hopefully. With his semi list completed Kirito, now violently shaking, slowly raised the bowl to his lips and downed the solution as fast as he could.

The second the sweet tasting nectar fell down his throat Kirito fell down to the ground breathing heavily. As he laid there he focused solely on breathing. One breath. To breath. Two Breaths. Three Breaths. Eventually a minute passed and Kirito could feel his headache vanishing and his shaking stopping. Slowly he found his way back to his feet and faced the Game Makers. Shakily he bowed before saying, "I hope that was entertain' enough for yall." Then he slowly walked out of the center with his head held as high as he could.

______________________

Too many sharks
not enough blood in the waves

When Kirito Miristioma enters the room, he’s in a hurry. I don’t really blame him – he’s one of the last tributes made to enter their private sessions, and he must think we're losing attention. Now, I can’t speak for Charlie, but I’m still on the edge of my seat, looking for every opportunity to analyze the tributes presented before me. Thus far, some have looked strong and others weak, but only time will tell how Kirito fares in the big picture.

The boy runs over to the plants station, quickly concocting something questionable in a bowl. What is he creating? I don’t know until he tells me, and that’s the problem when your private training session revolves around plants; it’s not quite as dramatic.

That is, until Kirito explains himself.

”What I have just made is a liquid mixture of Nightlock, Castor, and Wolfsbane which I am sure ya both know are all highly deadly. Howeva in this here solution they create a fast actin' poisun that will killa human in only ten minutes. I will now drink this mixture and cure myself before I die. It I don' well then that is one less tribute yall have ta worry about."

Frantically, I look around to get somebody to stop him, but then I think better of it.

Kirito drinks up and gets to work, though it’s still a dull thing to watch, mixing together plants.

Who’s to say that he even drank something poisonous in the first place? The boy could just be lying. Nevertheless, I watch as he shakily continues his work, hoping in the back of my mind that we won’t have to start off with 23 tributes instead of 24. I wonder what we would do..

A minute later, the antidote is finished, and Kirito swallows it in a hurry.

"I hope that was entertain' enough for yall," he says with a bow, striding out of the room the way he came.

To be honest, plants aren’t terribly entertaining, but it’s useful to know that Kirito Miristioma understands how to create – and fight – poison. Still, his actions seem almost self-damaging, and I wonder if he’s in the right mind to survive and make it out of the Arena, or if he’ll make a daring choice – much like he did today – only to pay the deadly consequences if he gets it wrong.

5

---

[Avalon]

Stella Summit | Word Count: 2259

["Please don't let me drown."]

It was mornings like these that I felt grateful for the early morning shifts that I had grown so accustomed to. Spending whole days, from even before the rise of the sun, even before the awakening of birds chirping against your ear drums sending their subtle message to rise and shine. My days fluctuated time wise, sending me home at either the peak of the night, or even sunset. It all warped together, and by the end of the night, I would lie in bed, preparing myself for a hopeful decent nights sleep. It was in those few hours that I found the most peace, which had always came from within. It was a precious time to journey into, and when it was disturbed, when I woke, I was sent back to the shop to prepare for yet another long day. I wasn't one to complain though, I loved my job, I loved the little old wooden shop that contained creaky flooring and dust particles that were only truly visible when the slightest beam of sunlight slipped through the cracks.


This was all too astonishing, happening so quickly and I didn't even know how to react, not in the slightest bit. Never in a million years, not even eternity would I had imagined myself sitting in a room with such a specific variety of twenty-three other adolescents, those who were all facing the same challenge as me. Tap. Tap. Tapping against the hard, cold concrete floor that covered the surface of the dull, gray, gloomy room was the only audible noise. No one turned their head, no one dared to spit words from their mouth, but they all just sat forward. The tension was bone chilling, sending a shadow over everyone that sat in this room, only to set them free at the call of their name over a monotone, robotic voice.

It felt like I sat alone in this room, as though the other bodies that sat along side me never even existed in the first place as they upped and went through the double doors. Alone. I felt trapped between four concrete walls, surrounding me, enclosing me from the outside world. One lone door sat along one side of the walls, a steel door, one that only opened upon command of the voice from within. There were no windows in this room to peak out of, no. Nothing to show me the outside, nothing to show me what was to come out of all of this. I was blind to it all, incapable to tell what was going on around me, incapable to reassure myself that there is a better place outside the walls I have been so enclosed in for seventeen years... no wait. 120 minutes? 


Twelve names with faces bound to match each and every one of them. They all rise and shuffle to through the metal doors, some with more eager expressions than others. It was the careers that you could nitpick from the bunch of us, they were the ones who had the most experience with this, gaining knowledge and physical advantage over the rest of us. Their stereotypical, bland personalities were so cookie cutter shaped, and they all seemed to always possess the same 'better-than-you.' trait. During the pre-games was always the entrance to their domain, setting intimidation in the eyes of competitors, and gaining enemies in the process that they could slaughter later when they got the chance.

The rest of us were like tossed coins, hard to tell which side it would end up on, and there were usually only two sides to the spectrum. Some of the non-career tributes had the tendency to refuse to fight, refuse to kill. They saw it as disgusting, a disgrace on their name and the name of their family, but it was inevitable. Meanwhile there was always the hidden sadistic, bloodthirsty little tribute that hid their cruel disposition well behind their soft spoken demeanor. It was them that came to acceptance that there was no way around the games, but to kill. It was them that refused to be seen as weak, they refused to hide the whole games with expecting to come out alive. That isn't how it works. There is always that one person that everyone needs to kill if they wanted to leave the arena alive. There was no way you're coming out alive with a sparkling clean slate, you're destined to dirty your hands in the process.

["Which will I be?"]

"Stella Summit. District Seven."

And there it is.
12 faces had gone by, each receiving a chance at success or failure, and it was finally my time. 120 minutes had gone by, each ticking moment had struck me with nerves. It was a safe bet to assume that I wasn't the only being with butterflies that fluttered vigorously within my abdomen, forcing me to cover my stomach with my hands. As I raised from my seat, the world seemed to become a blur, and if I looked anywhere else but straight ahead of my direction, it would only become worse. The faces of all the others that sat alongside, or behind me, became a distant memory that I was trying my very hardest to forget. I couldn't think of them at a time like this, only of myself. Call it selfish, but I wasn't necessarily concerned with the outcome of the rest of them. To keep striving I had to focus on myself and what benefits me in the long run.


Click. Clack. Click.
The echoing sound of my heels clicking against the slick concrete flooring of the waiting room sent chills up my spine. Nothing else was capable to remind me of my surroundings, as I was only focused on how louder and louder the clicking grew with each step— inch I grew gradually closer. My mind had the concentration to tone everything else out, and for that I was thankful, because the eyes that must've been gazing at me could cause me to break. It felt like I was being held at gunpoint, and all I could do it tense up, words were incapable to flow out of my very being, getting stuck like vomit in my throat, pushing and threatening to come out if I even dared to open my mouth.

"Stella Summit— District Seven."

Word vomit was forcing itself against my throat, suffocating me in it's tight grasp. It felt almost impossible for the words to escape my lips. I watch as the one— two game makers print something down on a clipboard, permanently etching whatever their fingers trace with their pens. No assuring smile, shift of the eyes, nothing. Nothing had been given as an open invitation to begin my training, except the fixed, blatant stares that eyed me down like predator to prey. The most base nature known to man.


And finally it had come.
A reassuring nod of the head by the male game maker, that sat ahead of me, and clearing of the throat sent me on my journey to whatever the hell I had planned to do. I took a second, or rather a few, to peer around the training center, gathering and taking in what it had to offer me. Quickly grabbing my attention was the hand to hand combat station, as well as the first aid station that were set up near the back. Hand to hand fighting was never my strong point in life, however back in District Seven I had gotten into mere scruffs with others, and it was more useful to show what I knew than something illogical like how 'amazing' my swordplay was.


Despite my prosthetic arm, I am stronger than what people see me for. As I proceed to the square mats that are laid along the slick floor of the center, positioned all the way in the back, I focus solely on what to make out of this. One thing that I suppose was in my benefit from my childhood was that I have a moderately high pain threshold. I'm not just "the girl with the prosthetic arm." I am much more than that, I have a name. I am Stella. I am stronger than what people set me up to be. I don't take pity in my past and I don't expect others to underestimate me for it.

"Defense or attack?"

"Both. Just a normal fight, please."

"Alright, I'll go easy on you."

"Please don't.

With a nod of approval, the trainer adjusted his position to his fighting stance. I watched as he did so, I couldn't help but notice he had a more formal positioning, one that I wasn't very familiar with. With no hesitation to waste any time, I got into my stance, taking a deep breathe and signalling that I was ready. Being on the small and quick side, I could easily get a first hit attack in. Watching his feet was a key factor that I learned during my training days here in the Capitol, learning that if he was retreating, then he wouldn't be attacking, while if he was was advancing I would have to become ready.


I take a step forward, in an attempt to close the distance between the two of us which would increase the impact of a direct hit. His stance he held kept his hands positioned at his face and chest, leaving anywhere else vulnerable to an attack. Normally people wouldn't expect an attack straight towards the throat first, so this gives me a slight advantage. With swift movement of my dominant arm, I feel the joints in my fingers that lie closest to my knuckles connect with the cartilage of his throat. There was more impact added than normal, and with such a hit there was a chance to cut off air from getting into his windpipe for a slight second or two. In worst cases there would be damage to it. I watched as the trainer stumbled backwards, coughing several times once the hit had taken it's full force. 


It had taken him not only but a few seconds to recover, taking thundering steps towards me. Sending a right hook straight towards my jawline, I made the attempt to retreat. Taking several steps in rhythm with his, I wasn't capable of evading the blow completely. I winced immediately as pain blossomed life flowers through the side of my chin that lead up to my jaw. A slight yelp surpassed my lips involuntarily, and I could feel the water begin to fill up my eyes. "Suck it up! You're stronger than that!" They say your worst critic is yourself, and this is something I needed to force upon myself. I refused to be seen as weak in the eyes of anyone, for as much as I have been through, this will not hinder me.


Neglecting the potential bruising that could possibly be forming along my face, I advance forward in a fit of anger and rage. The mix, along with adrenaline, was a dangerous one, known to send whoever it coursed through into a complete state of violence. It didn't take me much longer to completely recover from such a blow to the face, and I was back to my stance with slight time wasted. In this time, the trainer attempts another blow to the face, but I was more prepared for it this time around. He swung his closed, large fist back around and in a horizontal motion towards my cheekbone. Taking the choice to run in the same path as it was coming, I maneuver around his side, the fist missing it's target completely. As he takes his final step forward in completion of the failed attack, I force the heel of my foot into the crevice of his leg. As I did so, he involuntarily collapsed from the force, sending his knee into the ground, and by the thumping sound I could tell his knee cap was slightly damaged. However, if this is the case, he was capable of keeping his composure.


His next incoming attack was one that completely caught me off guard. Once he raised to his two feet from the ground he took only a second to plan out how this would work out. Twisting his body around on one foot he sent lifted his opposite foot and kicked towards me with the raising one. It took me too long to realize what was going on, and by the time I did his foot had finally made complete contact with my rib cage. The direct attack and force sent me hurdling towards the ground beneath me. The whiplash behind the kick set a fiery pain through my rib cage and soaring throughout my body. The pain was almost unbearable, and it was quite shameful how I reacted to it. I felt at a loss of breath, heaving into my now corrupted lungs that begs for the oxygen that had just been forced away from them. I began crying, the tears finally managing to escape my eyes, and they were flowing. It wasn't an effect of the pain that was coursing through my body, but simply because I didn't want to do this anymore. I want to go back home. I want to go back to the shop. I want to go back to my room, I'd rather be trapped by four walls than be here. Crying was a symbol of the weak, but it wasn't something I cared about right now.

"Would you like to continue?"

"N—No. I think I'm done."

["Get up. You're weak. You're nothing."]

["Daddy. Daddy I'm sorry..."]

"I'm not weak. I promise."

credit to nat of adoxography.

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

Stella Summit is the first of the District 7 group, and as Charlie finishes her course of veal marsala, she doesn't know what to expect. The girl has a prosthetic arm, already disadvantaged before the battle has even begun.

But perhaps not - there's been an entire slew of Victors and top 8 tributes who've made it far with disabilities. 54th Victor Arbor Halt couldn't see, 57th Victor Heron Kimberling lost both her legs on Day 2 and somehow clambered her way to the crown. There's precedent, don't count her out just yet, Garnet, she thinks to herself as the girl heads towards a hand-to-hand combat trainer.

"Alright, I'll go easy on you."

"Please don't.

Charlie's eyebrow raises, and she sets down her glass of Merlot.

Summit must know how much of an expert this trainer is - the Hunger Games recruiters only hire the best in the country. But as the girl goes directly for his throat, Charlie finds herself leaning forward, ever so slightly. Is she this good? He roars forward and clocks her right in the jaw. But Summit roars back, doing his next attack and forcing her heel into the trainer's leg. Wow.

The fight's over far too quickly though, as the girl from seven is kicked towards the ground with tears spurting from her eyes - she's done. Charlie takes a look at the clock: there's so much time left. But Stella ends it there, leaving the room.

Charlie turns to Warren. The girl's good, much better than Charlie would have given her credit for. But she's still too slow, only getting punches when in the zone - and she was overwhelmed after the second strong attack. If she did that in the games, it'd be game over.

However, Charlie notes, a trainer like that won't be in the games either. And sometimes, all someone needs to persevere is just a bit more confidence.

I want to see what you can do, Summit. She jots down a 7.

G A M E M A K E R

[Deleted]

N O A H  B O W E R S

For a week's time, I shed my skin and grew anew and lost my 'Noah,' and instead became alone. It's evolution - survival. Adaptation. It hasn't been truly alone, it's been a set of adaptations, a chain of blueprints and redhands, living off of nicotine words and venom breaths. There was no mentor handed to me like a How 2 Live 4 Dummies guidebook, only myself, and Lethe with her kind-spoken words. It was grabbing and taking and late night whispers and weak breakfasts, I had bigger plans. For a week, I lived automated days and conscious nights. 

It's how I lived.

I whispered into the folds of my hands, cold air in a metal room. Scores, only six letters, one syllable - one week's time. "Matches, uh, paper clips n'duct tape - match box, strikers, flames," faint on my skin. Spoken in exhales, waiting for my turn in a room, torn apart by gentle eyes, but it's what I was alive for. Trained like cattle, I laughed at the two boys from district ten, for they reaped what they sowed. A smirk and a smile, pockets full of posies. I was born a sheep. 

Black eye and a busted lip, Orion's knee still breaks against my ribs and then I realized I didn't want to die a sheep, I only wanted to live long enough to find a way to become a wolf among us. Maya fixed my eye and Kiena fixed my soul, one night of alcohol and three nights of planning, sullen. Sully. Whispered words and laughter mixed with smog to Lethe, I trust her. In the internal clockwork built to keep me alive, a constant ti-tock, ti-tock, ti-tock to remind me that my body is not my own, I trust her.

Salt, buried to burn in my cells themselves feel like nitrogen against my lip. Orion doesn't stare at me, he's gone, in and out like breaths of wind in my fluttering stomach. I feel like I'm close to choking on feathers. It's Wyatt, last time I checked, Imp's tap tap tapping and Lily's breathing, it's better than the girl inside has. There's only little noise - chattering of teeth and shaking legs, the rhythm of my whispers tickling against the palm of my right hand.

White noise is all I can call home.

Of my first life, home is something I always thought I knew. A sister's red knuckles and a mother's smooth palms, at one point I thought they were all I had, and that the smoke that ran in our veins was pureblood. Good blood. Maya and Lethe smelled like my brand of smoke, smelled like family. A two syllable word, simple beyond the constant whisper of "candles too, uh, matches n'dye, n'candle wicks."

Somewhere laying in that abandoned Camo Station right now is a sister, knuckles painted red and drawn on hair straying short - that's how she told me to cut it. Bailey never loved long hair, but she could bite rust and nail and swallow, tolerating was in her genes like the constant whispering in my skin inscribed like coding into the wiring of my veins. I drew a barber together for my sister and for a new brother, because in the black of my mind I wasn't understanding the dust she forever left me in. 

Lethe, Kiena, Wyatt, Sue and Maya, and I was still under seize of a singular sister I lost time ago. Maybe that's why I'll forever be only a sheep.

There's a break, the constant ebb and flow of bodies cracked under the weight of Imp stepping from her chair. The gears shifting and locking in my body churning in my gut - I'm afraid. It's a simple routine, factory boy's word pressed against my memory in faint whispers. I remember, every word in that past life, every word spoken to Noah in soft innocence, the recipe list of how to survive gathered by Lethe and I, and yet I'm still afraid. A palindrome playing in my ears, I began with fear and I end with fear - it's simple. 

My heart locks with the door's reopening and Imp's release, time trapped in my lungs only. Halt in whispers and it's simple, I stand, a simple brush past Imp. Smoke in my heart and an apocalypse in my pocket, my heart's ticking with the passing sand and time feels in my bones like a rapture of innocence. I complete the palindrome.

Simple.

Inside the air is thick, inside, it's exposed. Living eighteen on the outside and a singular day inside, it's a dragonheart and a gear shift click, my hands in my pockets fiddling with objects and homemade canisters. Lethe's touch haunts the tape, halves of soda cans and a rubber band around my wrist and tap tap taping of soles against steel floor. I. am. afraid. 

Of this beast, of this life, of this freedom - one week ago I was stripped by the flesh of Noah, I was given my own choices I believed, my own sinking thought, and I'm not. I'm living, I'm breathing, an automated machine of How 2 Live, it's adaptions. It's evolution and clicking of gears and, "ars'n," I whisper into the cold air.

Fingers lock in my pockets, grabbing from the items prepared, "dyes, n'matches n'strikers. Match box." Fire on a stick, I strip it of it's covering grabbing one and placing the collection of the others in my pocket. Tap tap tapping intensified with eyes set on a dummy, slamming the body against the ground in one motion and striking the match. It's a past life, Noah, and I pick through my pockets, ripping duct tape from a can cut in half and filled with salt, sugar and baking soda and place them on the fire.

All I need is a burn.

They smell like Lethe, capitol air and powder, and the smoke in our veins, it smells like home for once. One half home and one half fear, but there is no escaping this past; I must slay this beast.

There's a burning in my lip, the ravine blue and purple stinging with the pops of sugar and salt, I breathe. It burns, the smoke in my wounds, stinging cuts and bruised ribs with Orion's touch, but I'm okay, I'm alive - I'm terrified. I sit on the floor, Crushing pink dye with the other half of the soda can, I rip my right sleeve off, tearing a corner for plugging and the rest to filter my breathing. My veins are of smoke, but my lungs are not.

I stuff the straw with cotton, my mouth with my sleeve. It feels like clockwork, automated, a sense of life I'm ever coming accustomed to; ripping strikers off match boxes and I bend the paper clip into a halo. The first I've seen so far. I bite the rubber band from my wrist, still blessed with the smell of Lethe's capitol perfume and it keeps me cold. One half family will save me from one half fear, the beast burning on a simple flame. Matches circle the straw and I enclose them with the strikes.

"Push p'n." 

Pen in hand I pour ashes into second of a series of halved soda cans - makeshift mischief of a lone misfit, it's the best I got. Breathe, inhale, exhale, blood-like smell eating away at my nose with the upbringing of burnt steel; I place my push pin in the center of molten baking goods and pink dye. The light step beating of my heart as my stopwatch, I pray for five minutes at most. 

A jog for duct tape, a jog back, arson waits for no one. I cover the can with tape, bottle up to pin. I breathe, "ars'n." An exhale in my skin, cells clinging onto the scent, but I breathe free as I pull the pin and drop the can full vertical. 

I. Am. Afraid.

Pink rises like white noise, my eyes locked with the gamemakers for the first time. "Noah Bowers, d'strict eight," a cloud in a can and I hold the sleeve to my mouth. It's whistle, a demon's release summoned from the can and it's a constant scream; five minutes at best. Ti-tock, ti-tock, ti-tock, I can't measure hours on the beats of my hearts, breathing hard as the smoke consumes me whole. I must fight this beast. 

As the cloud takes seize on all I know, I run back to the table, grabbing dyes like their my first name. They're my past, dyes are where I come from like ten with sheep, I am the wool - pink in my hand and pink in my eyes, my lungs. I breathe rigged. Eyes steady, heart steady, I take my breathe - "five m'nutes, five m'nutes only, please-" bartering with unsteady arms. Smoke clogs the mind, that's why I cage it in my veins. The smell is noxious, it's Andromeda and Foxes and stained and tainted. 

It's sin.

I slide to the weapon center, now in the cloud's control. It'll die soon - "jus, jus five m'nutes" - my hand slides, dye to weapon, dye to blade, steel licking my skin like dogs. Factory boys and knuckles girls and here I stand, bomb maker and vandalizer, it's how I breathe. Lethe had blessed me with a future, something more than factories, and I chose bombs. She's a mother's word, and I built bombs with sulfur, how does that work? 

My hands are stained, pink, like reflections of work, hilts scraping my skin as I grab between them to dye with quick work. Five minutes isn't eternity, but it's enough to live. Spears, flails, swords, knives, bows, clubs - I press pink on flails, skin on swords. And I laugh, like the train ride with Imp and Lily and hiding bags in vents, I laugh, trying to bite my tongue to avoid smoke in my mouth, the filter tight between the teeth. 

I'm so fucked.

The cloud retreats, my arm nearly exposed from the weapon rack - it's my departure. It's Bailey's absence and Cody's sly words, A good grasp of weapon selection now pink within my presence, dyeing is my name sake. Smoke is my past. Factory boy, oh what a claim, I run behind my canister of clouds, pink whizzing and sputtering with the train whistle dying down to a hum. It's all dying down, five minutes up. 

It parts, my homemade sanctuary and the cloud flees to the skies to reveal only me. Only Noah, only a factory boy now painted pink, dye up to my elbows and I created a scene. I forged no plan, this, this was the only plan I had, pink weapons and pink smoke and pink me.

"Family n'smoke, they wait fur no'one." 

I breathe easy, and with one half fear, one half family, I'm afraid, and I lived. And I leave.

[ ele is a table goddess ]

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

After Lily Hope's uncomfortable remarks, Charlie Garnet hopes that Noah Bowers will be able to reel her back into her job (the shot she downed was a bit too strong and it's slowly getting harder to focus on one object at a time). The boy dashes around, muttering objects to himself in almost what seems to be an ingredient list.

What did he whisper? She can't hear (Arson, the Gamemaker behind her whispers). there's a contraption being created out of the most random items - powders and cans and rubber bands. Matches. Do we want another Capulet incident? The cleaning crew took a while to fix that.

Then he drops the cluster of materials, and pink smoke rises all around him. "Noah Bowers, d'strict eight,"

The room's engulfed in this pink toxin and Charlie has half a mind to stop this session early and call in the bomb squad, lest Bowers passes out in his own concoction (he's all over the place, and any attack to his nervous system seems to be possibly fatal). She looks at the timer, just out of reach from pink tendrils. Five minutes.

Bowers echoes her remarks, and she hears clattering and what in the world is going on? The room's still hazy but she knows this isn't due to the alcohol. But little by little the cloud of smoke vanishes, until all that's left is Bowers and a ridiculous amount of weapons dyed pink.

"Family n'smoke, they wait fur no'one."

Eyebrows raise, and Charlie's impressed. A smokescreen like that can change the game entirely - Bowers could jump in and out, stealing as many items as he wanted. That is, if he stopped talking while doing so. And if he could find all of that in an arena.

Perhaps he can. She writes down an 8.

G A M E M A K E R

[Deleted]

W Y A T T  O ' C O N N O R

No time wasted with names passing that metallic voice calls me one second too quickly and I’m stumbling towards the door, wasting away with the fade of its echo. No time for names and introductions I watch seconds pass with the wasting of my breath, one exhale and my mother’s voice still lingers in my mind, (“Wyatt, you are depressed.”)

Iamyouareiamyouareiamyouareiam—

“Victors don’t come from district six.” One sentence and I’m scrambling—no time for novelties and I’m pacing once again, “No history of victory to be found we’ve crossed the line from trying too hard to fucking up too often and you could call my bluff if I said I believed anything different about this year. History threatens to doom us if we don’t study it but ten coffins later and I’m quite confident we’re already fucked.” One pause and I’m watching for a reaction I’ll never get; it’s a story they’re burdened to hear and destined to forget, but ten minutes pacing and I still have words to spill about the place of the living grave, “See, in District Six we measure our failures by the filling of our graveyards.”

Three coffins to fill this year and I can guarantee we won’t struggle to meet the quota. Three paces left and my sight trains on the combat station I’ve avoided the full extent of the week. Sword in hand and heart heavy I pull a body from the wall, deadweight—looks like I finally relate to something I’ve found in the last seven days, “If we go back just a year we have Marchello Donner and Ellexias Verisity, fighting for a courage they never had— the girl from seven said it best and I’ll be damned if she didn’t know she was digging their graves.” Tragedy fades with time and so will I.

Stories were supposed to peak at the highest point of action, but I have nothing to tell but a tragedy, and so I begin to saw through cloth and flesh alike, one trickle of blood down skin and my words slur into their previous desperation, “Ellexias Verisity never knew what standing strong was, void of independence and two legs,” and the first limb falls here, landing against my foot with a thud that sends me moving to the other side of the torso before continuing, “she was dependent on the faces that faded on days one and six.” The second leg falls and I drop the blade in exchange for a jar of red paint across the room, words catching between breaths expended, “We turn fears and nightmares into one and the same, and she did just this, unable to differentiate between fiction and reality she is now buried under smog and smoke missing what she needed most—” Red staining my wrist I scrawl a six upon the legless body’s torso, stepping back only for a moment before crossing it out in the same stain of red, “victors don’t come from District Six.”

Caught in the reprimands I was, making my way back to the sword I had dropped before resting my weight upon it, “Marchello Donner had the heart of a lamb and the mind of a lion, walking with a limp that couldn’t be fixed by anything other than death.” I keep hold of the sword and hobble back to a line of daggers, selecting the shortest before returning to the same crossed dummy, dipping the dagger in paint before proceeding to draw a thin neck across the body’s neck, “Blood pouring from his neck he never breathed truth again, a prayer never heard and never cared for, he was held captive by the flip of a coin we never put in his coffin— too weak to combine heart and mind—” Dropping at my feet the sword falls but I hold the dagger, red staining my skin like the wounds I could not bring myself to scratch against my own skin—(“Can you do anything right, Wyatt?”)

I thrust the dagger into the torso, right in the middle of the large red six, “everyone knows that’s a victor’s greatest trait, and truly, victors do not come from district six.”

Counting backwards I attempt, still noting the words on the wall as I struggle to unscrew the lid from a jar of tar, red slurring with black like drunken words I can never take back. I scrawl a six on the floor in tar, striking a match to set the world alight—as if six was the only thing to ever exist in the pages of a damned world, “Galaxy Rose-Clements gave District Six the worst kind of false hope that has ever existed, that which stirs in the hearts of the people when success is on the line.” Encapsulated in fire I watch without any attempts to fan the small flames at my feet, “One failure later and we still are yet to find a proper place to bury the victory of that victor, for light was never truly shed upon the situation, just the conformation of the fact that victors don’t come from District Six.” Flames licking my heels I turn my back on it to the light I’ve never wanted to see, one step and I’m plunged into a darkness I’ve dreaded as well.

Sixty-eight and I’m scrambling, that scratch upon the wall behind my bed nothing more than a shout into a void long since lost, “Tauankia Ojai was lost somewhere among the clutter and chaos, five seconds too late to a death that had already been planned months in advance. Two years later and no one remembers truly where he’s buried, a general coffer and a scoff go hand in hand if you visit the grave—here lies the forgotten one less chance at a victor we’ll never have—they don’t come from District Six anyway.”

The half-full jar of paint still lies unmarred by the sword that drew out its first contents, and with the thought of flames still at my heels I pour it out at my feet—red tinged my vision more than once before but now it lingered, staining porcelain skin that was meant to go unmarred. I drag it across my stomach, a numeral scrawled one time too many and suddenly it’s the symbol of unholy.

Sixty-seven and I’m drowning, “Sonja Arcapello watched a sword sink into her stomach full to the hilt before falling for a life that never was, six days spent bone dry and she still had the audacity to bleed out like she was the river of hope slowly drying up in that god forsaken desert, one step from dying three days past and she still managed to deprive us of the hope that a victor would come from District Six—” I gesture to the mark on my neck, “you think we would’ve learned by now.”

Scrambling past the ashes and shades of red I clamber a few feet up the rope—no physical strength to be found I struggle at any point past the first expenditure of energy, struggling to speak through gritted teeth, “Cystine Crystal and Ivana Vox never made it long enough for a world to remember their names, unmarked tombstones with weeds growing over the coffin they’ve never settled easy, bitter syllables on a tired people’s tongue—we never even thought to call them victors, since we knew the story anyway.”

The last syllable stumbles and I fall, grasping at the air that rushes past.

Back colliding with the ground and I’m facing reality for the first time since I’ve entered the room, and after seconds waste I pull myself to my feet, my father’s words in my own voice resounding, (“Wyatt, can you do anything right?”)

I stumble back to the place where I began, taking a seat among the ash and red until the room stops spinning like the words that jumble from my head to make themselves known, “Willis Keeni and Lyric Woulf fell by the same hand two days in succession, the true precedent to the disappointments of the 69th just like every goddamn year prior.” One step and I threaten to fall, forced to my feet by the call of the red that drips from the dagger still caught in the torso of the body still standing by the wall.

Leaning heavily against it I hold up a hand, five fingers and I’m counting scratches on the wall again, “Blond hair and that killer stare you’d think they would’ve had a higher kill total than what I can count on one hand.” I ball my hand into a fist finger by finger, countdown from five and I’m still falling, but then again, I can never remember when I rose in the first place, I close my eyes, the room spinning into nothing I can see wood and nail alike, “We crowned their coffins because we had nowhere else to put our eagerness.” The edges of my vision blur into fear and I open my eyes in a panic, the room tinged with streaks of light I can’t identify, and with desperation alone I focus on the faces above me to steady my thoughts before continuing, “We knew that victors didn’t come from District Six, we just pretended ignorance was on the side of the innocent.”

My ability to focus returns and I make one last trip to the almost desecrated piece of cloth and metal, still staring back at me with the large six, the red bleeding against flesh like a felt-tipped pen. The dagger was lost to my thought but the sword still lays where I had tossed it in the beginning, and with trembling hands I pick it up and steady it on my shoulder—one exhale and I begin to saw through the neat line on the neck that I had etched prior, “Crushed skull, crushed hopes, and a cracking cannon we lost Sticky Washington as fast as we had learned his name.” Muscles ache and body crying I step away for a moment to catch a breath, leaving the sword sticking straight out like an arrow on the bull’s eye. I stand next to the sword, holding my arm out in comparison as I keep my eyes trained on ears that by now could have very likely lost interest, “Killed by a girl whose weapon was larger than her body and she never said sorry. None of them did. It was almost like they knew that victors didn’t come from District Six.”

I turn my attention back to the blade still sunk in flesh and I continue my final task, eventually content with the noise the dropping head makes against the linoleum floor.

Three paces and I’m headed back towards the center of the room, seconds wasting in my wake. Attention turned I address them in a more direct manner, “Three chances now; three chances to fuck it up and I’ll be damned if we don’t, for all we have going for us is a girl who misses her sister too much to realize death is at hand and a boy who has trust issues that cut so deep even he can’t stitch the wound.”

People say lying is dangerous, but if this stands than they’ve never told the truth.

Thinking back to the solemn train ride I can’t help but shrug, defeat laced into desperation and I’m stumbling one last time, “You’ve got me too, but goddamn if I’m as useless as them all, for I’ve heard worthless too many times to count and I can tell you the origin of the word. If you spell worthless you spell Wyatt O’Connor and you spell every insult in the fucking book.”

Seconds wasting in my wake I turn for the door, red marred into ash and I am dwindling, a spark put to waste in the midst of reality. One hand on the door I turn back to the audience already dissipated, my voice rising in volume until I can feel my words shaking deep within my chest, “Victors don’t come from District Six, anyway.”

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

To be quite honest, Charlie doesn't know how to react to Wyatt O'Connor's self-disparaging monologue.

But she listens. Because the dead man walking in front of her (or so he claims) deserves to have his words be heard. She can sense that many of the Gamemakers have turned away, groaning at yet another "long winded soliloquy - there's one every fucking year, Garnet. Just come and try this roast beef it's absolutely divine."

She turns back towards Wyatt, setting her drink down as well. Don't tell me what to do.

He's harsh. Bitter. Cynical. Realistic. And deep down, Charlie admires him for his bluntness - if she had half the courage that he had, who knows what she could have accomplished? Who knows what she could have done? Her fingers trace her shoulder, the scar as bumpy and grotesque as ever.

However, a cynical mind alone won't get him out of the arena, and his climbing skills were piss poor. There was absolutely no show of strength, what he could do in the arena, what he would do in the arena, and based on his musings he certainly wouldn't be pairing with his district partners.

The cleaning crew enters as O'Connor leaves and Charlie sighs, turning back to see a cluster of Gamemakers huddled around a brisket.

I suppose it's just up to me and you, Warren, she thinks, and sketches a ? next to the tribute's name. Hours later, it's changed to a 4.

G A M E M A K E R

[flyss]

Necessity

Preston march garrity

Buy me a house of gold

It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song.
You can't believe it; you were always singing along.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can't remember; you try to feel the beat.


Biting my nails had always been a habit of mine, but even in this instance of stress, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Too many people are watching, I told myself. Too many people are going to see how  w e a k  you are. So instead of succumbing to something that would have possibly helped me pull myself together, I kept myself prim and proper and presentable because god forbid I be a child for once. 

For what felt like hours, I watched faces enter the room only to be led to something more stressful than the reaping itself. Everything that was to be done in front of those Gamemakers would determine, ultimately, how well I would do in the games. A simple single- or double, if I'm lucky- digit number could tell me how many sponsors I'd have supporting me, how many tributes I'd have following me, how many deaths I'd have haunting me. It hurt my head to think about the direness of this event and for that, I nearly cursed everyone in the room.

From the corner of my eyes, I could see another kid walk into the doors of the room and once again, the silent procession of teenagers moved a spot over on the bench. By now, there was only one other person in front of me, and with the sheer amount of thoughts barreling through my head, I didn’t bother to look over and see if it was either Nat or Gunner. After several more minutes of waiting and yet another body getting up to leave me, I finally took a long look toward the door and the peacekeepers guarding it. 

I knew I was next, but despite, I didn't quite know what I was going to do with myself once inside. Something to showcase my accuracy and strength, I had decided when I was younger while pretending to play 'games' with my 'friends'. Now, though, after having witnessed such happenings first-hand, I wasn't sure whether or not this would be wise. Would it be enough to get me where I wanted to be? Would I be able to actually survive longer because of my ability to play god-damned sports? I doubt it.

I was snapped out of my thoughts by a sharp voice calling out my name.

"Preston Garrity, District Four."

With a silent nod, I stood to my feet and allowed the man to look over me once before letting me through the giant doors to where certain decisions would be made. As if it was possible, the room seemed larger than ever, most likely due to its vacancy. Hesitantly, I allowed my vision to trail up to where the Gamemakers sat before swallowing hard and making my way to the first throwing object I could find. 

Knives dotted my eyesight, and with calloused fingers from years upon years of hard work, I picked up a few of which seemed to fit my hands best. As I let my feet lead me to a dummy, I racked my brain for exactly what to do again. Certainly I hadn't forgotten? However, as I began to set my feet in front of one that seemed to be at a reasonable distance, everything I was reluctant to remember came crashing back down to earth. After waiting for a moment, I moved my hand to position and let muscle memory do the rest.

Within moments, the knife was flying flying flying through the air like a bird- the essence of freedom I would never taste after today. As the blade loosely lodged itself in the mannequin's shoulder, every part of my brain reminded me quietly that this number would define everything about me for the days and possible weeks to come. Focus, I whispered to myself before taking my place again. With slightly more precision than last time, I let the piercing metal flee from the confines of my grasp.

A sigh of relief escaped the plumpness of my lips at the sight of its firm lodge in the recipients chest. If I could do that during the games, maybe- possibly- I could find myself surviving longer than only the blood bath. Even then, the chances of me getting decent throwing knives was slim. Despite, I took one of my last two knives I had grabbed in sweaty palm and readied myself to throw, my feet at a slightly further mark than last time. With the breath of everything that had worked up to this, I let my weight shift forward, the knife escaping from my fingertips without effort. 

With a the thick sound of slicing fabric brushing through the air like the wind, I couldn't help but notice that the usually-melee weapon had found its way into a place I doubted I could have gotten with anything aside from luck. Sticking out from the harshness of the silicon head, was the dull lacquer of the throwing knife; I couldn't help but let a barely-noticeable grin break out across my cheeks. After looking back to the Gamemakers and nodding briefly, I almost turned to leave. 

Almost. 

In the waistband of my pants rest the last knife I had failed to use, and without command, my feet began to move toward the trapping station. This area was something I hadn't taken the time to explore during my days here, but also something so vaguely familiar to me that my fingers knew exactly what to do; like clockwork, I grabbed six sticks of shorter length, one of longer, two sturdy-looking twigs, and a generous amount of rope.

With forced confidence, I made my way to a nearby area which consisted of a smaller-scale simulated environment and kneeled, setting my supplies down gently on the ground beside. What I planned on attempting was a fairly simple setup that my father had taught me in order to trap and kill animals- something dangerous, but not too difficult for the hands of a nine year old simply trying to protect their family's supply of game.

After taking a deep breath, I got to work, figuring that I didn't have much time left to doddle on something so vital. My hands moved effortlessly to pick up my share of small sticks, placing four of them in a square formation and the other two reasonably away, a foot and a half separating them from each other's length. After staring at my progress for a few seconds, I pondered if this was the true layout of the trap; however, for the sake of time, I shook the thought off and continued on, grabbing a pre-cut strand of rope and tying the bottom left stick of the lower cluster to the top right one. 

So far, everything seemed to be going to plan and after grabbing the longest stick to be placed on top of what I had just tied, I began to fasten it, doing the same motion as previously but with the two opposite ones. Moving back slightly to admire my work, I nodded in firm and moved in to secure the length of it to the right further-out placed stake. Luckily for me, I had picked a decently agile stick and when I tied it in place by the thinner strand of string and some of the twigs, it bent with ease. To finish it off, I connected the knife- carefully, may I add- to the end of the longer stick so when the string, once connected, is pulled, it would swing forward and stab whatever stand in its wakes. 

As I moved to stand and test my work, I took cautioned measure to tie it up and set it, so whenever I was ready to attempt at showing off my skills, the mechanisms would work properly. With nimble movement, I grabbed a log nearest to me and moved behind the trap as not to be caught when it began to slide into action. My hands shook as I moved the log forcefully into the string, causing the knife to swing into it and stay lodged there as firm as could be. With yet another genuine smile, I turned to the Gamemakers, swallowing hard before turning toward the door. 

For the first time during my stay in the Capitol, I felt like I had done something right. 

You spend half of your life trying to fall behind.
You're using your headphones to drown out your mind.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can't remember; you try to move your feet.

Word count: 1449

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

Four throwing knives seem to stand in the way between Preston Garrity and his score, and Charlie Garnet is a little wary. There's been a pattern of tributes not showing them quite enough this year to warrant the score they probably deserve. And throwing knives, as deadly as they can be, are difficult to use in the best conditions, not to mention wind direction or fatigue or the slightly heavier mass of blood that might adhere to the blade in combat.

Preston's first knife hits the shoulder and while it's much better than anything Charlie could have done it's still not good enough. The next one is significantly more fatal, right in the heart - and the third one would be instant. Not bad, she writes down on her notepad, her eyes focused on Garrity's last knife.

But it's not thrown. Instead, the District Four tribute heads over to the trapping station and Charlie's leans forward in her seat, fingers grabbing at a mozzarella stick. It's a simple contraption, made of a few sticks and one knife - stuff so easy to find in your typical arena that it shouldn't be too difficult to replicate. As Preston moves the log into way, the knife slams down and stays there. Charlie smirks, and by the look on his face she can tell the District Four boy is relieved.

As Preston leaves, Charlie looks down at her paper, adding two more words and a number.

Not bad at all. 8

G A M E M A K E R

[Asher Rainer d7m {Royal}]

Something beautiful

ASHER RAINER

or something free?

TAG:WORDS: 654 Notes: PRIVATE TRAINING SESSIONS AND TRAINING CENTER

Was he scared? Of course he was. This was his time, his make or break moment in these Games. Or was it?

Asher always considered the real need for Training Scores. It was just a number, a single digit, and sometimes two digit number that seemed to define your ability to kill others in these Games, to win. But did it really matter?

Victors have come from the entire spectrum of these numbers. Some have scored extremely low, and the other victors have scored insanely high scores that would seem to ensure victory. Asher considered this as he watched the Career Districts walk in to have their skills examined by the Gamemakers. In actuality, Asher didn't think he would try to hard to make his score extremely high.

Make it to high, and the others target you.

Make it to low, and the others target you.

Asher shook his head. Was his reasoning good? He doubted it. He thought of a more broad term, that accurately fit the Games.

Be a tribute, and they target you.

Asher watched as Gunner took the short trip into the stations. He didn't know what to hope for- for her to completely blow the Gamemakers away, or make them think of her as a crazy, incapable bitch. She could probably make them think of her as either.

Then came Preston- his small form walking into the area makes Asher's heart ache. He wanted to protect him, to make sure he lives... that he goes home.

Then Sue was called. Asher stretched, not knowing exactly what his move was going to be.

"Asher Rainer, District Seven." The announcement came, and Asher walked solemnly towards the door.

Taking a step in, Asher breathes in at the expansive area that was laid out for him. 

Not to bad, not to good. Right in the middle...

Asher immediately took a step towards the weapons rack, gripping the largest ax he could find- heavy and metal. He turned around, looking at the Gamemakers eyes, as they scanned him, watching every muscle twitch, every step he takes.

I can do this. Move it, Asher.

Asher took a swift step forward, his ax already smacking quickly at the head of a dummy. The head came off, slicing vertically.

That's what you call good, Asher? Come on, hitting a stable target with an ax is nothing.

Asher readied himself, and began walking towards the hologram room. Dashing, he makes it there before time runs to long. He walks in, never having seen this kind of technology before. Lines of lights draw these holographic forms.

And they have weapons. Asher isn't sure how dangerous the holographic weapons were, and Asher's nervousness quickly dissolved into adrenaline.

Three holograms dashed at Asher, all holding large shapes that resembled swords. Asher watched in horror as the weapon came inches from his face, and his instinct kicked in, his ax coming upwards, then downwards onto the head of the first hologram, splitting the form into mini cubes on the ground, shortly after disappearing.

Asher suddenly had a surge of confidence as the first hologram fell. Maybe he won't die so quick in the Games...

The next two came as the second wave at once, both swinging their swords at a diagonal arc towards Asher, who threw his ax in the between them, the swords pushing down on the now horizontal ax.

Asher used his brute strength to throw the two off of him, their weapons clanging to the grounds as they land on their holographic asses.

End them.

Asher threw his ax downwards, and it pierces the ground into the chest of the first hologram, and it splits outwards, cubes flying in several directions.

Asher leaves the ax in the ground, and walks over to the second, and slams his heavy boot into the head of the second hologram, and it splits as well.

A bell somewhere rings, and Asher knows his session is over. Hopefully, he impressed the Gamemakers a little bit, enough to make his family have a little hope for him at home.

______________________

Too many sharks
not enough blood in the waves

Asher Rainer, District Seven.

Predictably, immediately upon entering the room, Asher walks towards the weapon station and picks up an axe.

(Because we’ve never seen a District Seven tribute handle an axe before.)

Still, more credit to the sevens – they’re well-known for taking their experience from home and applying it to the Games, and sometimes they can be just as competent as those from the upper Districts, minus the fact that they haven’t attained a victor.

Now, it’s time to see if Asher Rainer has what it takes to win.

In just a quick moment, he slashes the head off of a dummy full-force with his axe, and I find myself nodding in approval. He has the strength, clearly, but I want to know how well he’ll do when faced with someone who isn’t standing still like a doll.

As if in answer, the boy from seven changes his mind and steps toward the hologram room, readying himself for an attack. The first hologram rushes forward with a sword, and Asher responds in turn, slamming his axe down onto its head, removing one threat from the equation almost instantly. Two hologram attackers are left, and for a moment I think the boy might not be prepared for them. They fly at him simultaneously, but he takes their attack in stride, axe pressing against sword as he throws them back.

One takes an axe to the chest, and the other a heavy boot to the face.

Asher Rainer’s time runs out, and I’m left to ponder how well he’ll fight in the Arena when he’s bloodied and weak. Clearly he can defend himself, but what does he know of survival?

8

[*]

Does, Says, Thinks

"You can do this. Chief is rooting for you." Tiny fingers run across the top of her uniform pants. The silk like fabric teasing her skin with such fine material that will soon be exchanged for that of an appropriate uniform for fighting in the games. All of that didn't really matter in the end as long as it did the job. The dark fabric covering her legs seem to be the only thing of focus after only a few names have been called to enter the center to show off for the gamemakers. That was until another name had been called. That's when her honey brown eyes darted up to watch yet another desend into the abyss never to return. The moment the door shut, the anticipation had taken it's toll.

Standing from the chair, the girl finally made it to her two feet, solidly representing how short she was compared to the others. Her mind completely entranced with the idea that she had came up with for the moment she would step forth into the unknown and in front of the judgements of the ones to give her a so called 'score' on her abilities. It's always easier to watch someone perform then to do it ones self. She had a plan though. She would simply show what she'd learned to do from an early age.

"Olivia Revenue. District 2."

Attention drawn, Olivia pushed herself away from the wall. She didn't dare look into the eyes of anyone else, but kept her chin up and eyes forward. So it began, that long trek down the vacant, plain hallway toward her destiny of sorts. Her fingers twitched excitedly as she reached the door to the center and once inside, she already began mapping out the plans. Her feet set the pace to go in front of the gamemakers all the while, she never even glanced in their direction. This wasn't about pleasing them. It wasn't about making an impression. She was sure that out of the other twenty three that they will see, what could she do that that would be above the others? What could she even do that would leave them with just a tiny hint of interest for her?

Satisfied with the weapons she saw, she travels in silence pass the area holding the most influencial people and going straight to the rack of various weapons. She knew that being a career had it's moments of fame to the capitol, but this was going to be the one that decided it all.

Olivia stretched her arm outward, snatching up the metal staff on the end into her hand, along with two other weapons in similiarity. She held them with a tight grip, not giving them the satisfaction to clink together at the top. The differences being that of the blades on each of the two long poles. All three of the weapons were held tightly in her grasp until she walked away and into the mass of dummies in the training field. Without any form of kindness, she let the first of the three weapons fall from her calloused fingers to the feet of the white training dummy and walked away.

"One." She spat out in a loud enough voice that it seems to echo throughout the entire center. The distance between the first weapon and the other needed to reach a good fifteen feet before she precariously dropped yet another of the bladed poles in front of another one of the unsuspecting dummies and continued to walk away.

"Two." Her voice chimed out yet again, but still her eyes never landed upon the box of people that she could only hope would show interest enough to watch. With two weapons dropped, the only one that she was holding was the metal stick that was just a few inches taller than she. Her fingers tapping gently against the pole in tune with each step that she made toward the center pile of uneven steps all conjugated together to make an uneven playing field. Once at the top, she finally made a motion for someone to come forward and the trainer, bo staff in hand, appeared in front of the gamemakers and silence followed until Olivia got into a stance as any bo staff fighter would.

With legs spaced apart, she began crouching just so and let metal staff stretched outward to the length of her outstretched arm, held completely still and waiting. Her chest moving slowly with each intake of breath awaiting the padded trainer that slowly made his way over to where she was currenly. The trainer that came forth, took his position on one of the uneven steps and just as he settled with the staff elongated near his side, Olivia gave him a nod.

"THREE."

The two staff weilders began to dance without another wasted moment. Vibrations were sent through each metal pole as the contact between the two became a loud, melodious clash of metal against metal. The echoes of the contact made the once quiet center now a sound of action. Grunts of power pushed through Olivia's lips at rapid speed as she manuevers herself down the steps and two steps to the left using her own weapon to parry the hits that came her way. On the third swing, she narrowly missed being hit with the end of the staff, feeling the wind against her scalp. Her tiny body evaded each strike against her. Inadvertently, the trainer gave her the most perfect opportunity in order to use her own staff to drop her body downward and sweep the staff against the back of the trainer's knees sending him toppling over and to the bottom of the uneven steps.

With a quick, light step, she met the trainer on the bottom step, forcing him to block several times, before Olivia managed to get in a decent swing on the man. The sound of the positive gave notice to the hit against the padded armour on the man's shoulder and then using the staff in a windmill formation, brought it around to jab it into the chest of the guy to force out an audible grunt of pain.

With one more quick maneuver, she rolled the staff around her neck and back into a position for one more strike. Seconds were given to the trainer so that he could roll out of harms way and parry her attack. Then he began to drive her back with a barage of strikes and pokes. Each one was deflected with her own staff by a set of side blocks and overhead blocks.

With a palm spin, she meets his metal staff with hers, and forces it out of his hands, letting the staff hit the floor in defeat with one final hit to the mans armour'd head.

"Two." She shouts.

Rolling away from the trainer, a weapon exchange is made with the poleaxe that she had dropped by the second dummies foot. Just as quickly as she picked it up, the metal glinted from the bladed weapon as the she circled it around her wrist, allowing the weapon to gain momentum before slicing through the arm of the unarmed manaquin in front of her. Spinning on her heels, momentum began to build and released the same pain for the training dummy opposite of her. The head of her white enemy was left hanging on by a thread.

Olivia traveled quickly through the next three in her way, slicing through various limbs with them all hitting the ground as she did so. Upon reaching her fifth, she forcibly brought the staff at an angle leaving it sticking out of the head.

With one simple movement, Olivia traded for the final weapon, the glaive, she had dropped first. The final target was dead faster before she could even blink, forcing the end of the bladed weapon to penetrate through the shoulder of the victim until it became embedded into the belly. Olivia halted. She was frozen in time with her hands held tightly onto the weapon.

"Breath." she whispered to herself, jerking the weapon from the dummy and surveying her work. A moment later, she shout out the final number.

"One."

Breathless.

Chest heaving.

Shoulders drooping in exhaustion.

Olivia's forehead beaded with sweat and only with a heavy breath of air then did she turn and finally meet with the Gamemakers, to whom may or may not have watched the entire demonstration. To her, it didn't matter if they did or not, but she performed to the best of her ability and she was satisfied with the outcome. A quick glance back to the two dummies she mauled with the bladed poles, she sneered at them before turning her attention back to the gamemakers in question. With a gentle nod, she bowed very lightly and stood once more.

"Olivia Revenue. District two. It's been a pleasure." She turned on her heels and walked out of the room, letting the glaive fall from her grip the moment she disappeared out of sight.

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

It's still early in the morning but Charlie's already on her second mimosa. Everyone else is on their third though, so I'm alright. In walks Olivia Revenue, the third girl from two - with Johnwayne and Lyon having gone right before her, Revenue has drawn the short end of the draw. She's got to wow to get most of the Gamemakers to even remember her. Charlie whips out her pen.

Olivia starts by grabbing a staff, a poleaxe and a glaive, dropping the latter two in front of dummies and starting a countdown. She calls for a trainer with her only remaining weapon and they begin to fight with a loud "THREE".

The girl's good, that much is clear. She and the trainer fight on the uneven steps for some time, exchanging blows until he topples to the bottom of the stairs, and soon she's disarmed him. "TWO" and Olivia grabs the poleaxe, beginning her massacre of even more dummies (Charlie vaguely wonders how much of the Training Center's budget is dedicated to replacing things that are broken), leaving her weapon lodged in the head of her last victim. But quick as a whip, the girl from 2 grabs the final weapon and lodges it at a painful angle through the shoulder and out of the belly of a final dummy.

"One."

She's done, and Charlie's added 6 strokes to the tally of "dummies fallen victim to the Private Training Session".

Renvue's certainly good, she managed to disarm the trainer. And she's quick on the turnaround too. But she's exhausted by the end of this bout, and Charlie knows that there will be much more, much worse battles to be won if Olivia Revenue is to become the victor of the 70th Hunger Games. And dummies can only go so far, can the girl manage to make those blows on moving targets?

Charlie writes down a 7.

G A M E M A K E R

[Deleted]

private training suession hehe

sue tate

district seven male

When he was younger, his Grandmother would tell him tall tales. Fire pit crackles and the creaks of her rocking chair would accompany the whistle of her voice in his ears, every word pouring out of her lips and tempting his eardrums. Before her memories plunged into the abyss, his Grandmother had been able to tell nearly fifty of those spun tall tales, each one plucked from her memory and twisted and shaped into story. 

"She can tell at least a hundred." He'd tell people, with a grin on his face. 

There were many a kind of stories, some long, some short, every one tall. Some threw his imagination into lands unknown, industrial cityscapes, moonlit oceans.

His favorites came from the dense forests of District Seven, stories moulded from the branches of the trees they cut down, written in the blood of the roots that they tore up with their work. He'd sit, with the flames from the fire to his right dancing across his face, bouncing off his eyelids and, if looked at the right way, distorting his entire face completely.

Legs crossed, hands in lap, each story would begin with the all too familiar words 

"Many a'people know about the forests of District Seven, but not many know of-" 

Lip bites and wide eyes, every word took him by his neck and dragged him closer, further into the story of his grandmother's words. 

Branchwranglers, she called them branchranglers. 

"There's been many lumberjacks who have been found half-crushed to death under a fallen branch." 

Fallen branch? They say.
""Must have been a fallen branch." They say." 

And she'd laugh, cackles ringing along with the fire, and after a little while he'd laugh too, beardless face, sinless face giggling at something he would never understand.

But then the light of the flames would switch, and her face would grow dim. 

"But no one ever knows, it was the branchwranglers." 

Internal gasps and childish fear, he'd withdraw from the story before being dragged right back in. 

"They're nasty little things, about the size of a small monkey, with a snout like an axe." 

Shudders, shudders.

"When you hear three wacks it's too late, they've got you with a branch." 

And then she'd lean in closer, and closer, flames dissipating in her face. 

"Remember Sue, when you're older and working in the forests, always keep an eye above you." 

---

He dreamt of the forests, dark and dreary. And he dreamt of the moon staring down at him as he stands alone in their moonlit shadows, feet buried in the lies he tells. 

One heartbeat, two blinks, 

three roots rip from their dormancy and entangle him in a sick game of rag doll, ripping through skin and flesh and finally, bone. They lift him up and up and up into the air, body limp, branches running through his bloodstream. 

They force his head up to the moon, but what he see's is not the snow ball that sits in the sky every night, no. Sue Tate sat in that sky, face carved into the surface of the moon, eyes staring down at him. 

He writhes, head turning before being snapped back into place. 

And, the face in the moon suddenly shatters, glass shards raining down onto his skin, pinging off his body. 

They burn, strangely. But as he looks down, eyes dropping to the grounds of his own district, he realizes that

while he is still tangled in their grasp

the forest has lit itself on fire.

And it burns oh god it burns, and just as his body is about to melt skin from bone

he snaps awake, and the sweat that had been building up on his forehead flies from its place, raining down onto sweat soaked sheets. 

Three quick, heavy breaths.

---

It's five thirty in the morning when the sunlight crawls in through an open window, dagger in it's hand, footsteps tracing a path around the creaky floorboards. It looms over him for a single second, before stabbing that dagger straight through the District Seven's eyes.

He jolts awake.

It's the day of his pre-judgement, Gamemaker eyes driving holes through his figure as he did whatever, whatever he could to impress them. Their escort had told them that it would be the most important number of their entire lives.

She didn't know the number of lies he'd told.

Then again, neither did he.

He avoids the mirror in his room with extra caution, head down eyes down soul down on the ground, tracing paths through the room so as to not step on those damned floorboards that seemed to be popping up all over the place. 

Burning forests and snarling branches, thats what this city reminds him of. 

He tilts his head as their escort leads him to building where private sessions were held, hands rubbing snapped shut eyelids. 

"Now, remember to-" 

He'd zoned out at the mention of remembrance, and as each tribute takes their seat inside the waiting room his head leans back against the padded chair, eyes snapping shut. In here, there were no snarling shadows or broken glass mirrors to ensnare him, to remind him. 

That is, until Sue Tate realizes that he has no idea what he is going to do.

Eyes snap open and mind snaps in two, hands crunching against the armrest of the chair. The ceiling and it's lights become his source of inspiration, as the names count down one by one towards him. The ceiling lights hang by wire threads. 

He squints. He also hangs by a thread.

"Sue Tate, District Seven." 

From ceiling lights to the opposite wall to the ground below back up, his eyes snap towards the door. 

One step, two step. The door slides open on three.

It's like the training center, except a lot more bare and void of life. He feels Gamemaker stares rain down on him, the tribute from seven. 

The tribute from Seven, who has no idea what he is going to do. 

He was hanging from a thread just like those lights. 

And something hits him, whether it's good or bad. 

"Sue Tate. Seven" 

And the timer counts down his moments until judgement. 

He laces rope between his fingers first, knot after knot after knot. One thread, two thread, three threads. Over and over, over and over. 

The occasional glance at the clock and the beads of sweat running down his sideburns into his beard are the only things that remind him to keep going. His grandmother's voice rings through his head, pounding against the edges of his skull with her stories. 

But then, he hears the voice of someone else. 

Orville King, metaphoric mastermind. 

"A kid I met back in Seven, he tested me to see if I had a strong neck." 

He announces, back turned to the Gamemakers as he finishes the trap, laying it out around a group of training dummies. 

One breath, two breath. He grabs a hatchet from the weapons station and drives the handle into his mouth, chomping down on it and making sue it will stay in place without slicing his cheek. 

And then he make a mad dash towards the climbing net. 

It was always the unsuspecting lumberjacks that got caught up in a branchwrangler's tricks, and for many years he feared it'd be himself getting crushed under their branches.

He jumps full speed into the net, all of his body weight thrown at the rope net. It swings back and forth, but his body shoots up the training obstacle, every muscle in his body straining from the effort. 

"I could climb a three hundred foot tree." He'd say calmly to his fellow workers. 

The hatchet clatters against his teeth, the tribute's saliva dripping down off the handle as he reaches the top of the climbing net. 

One breath one moment to look at the clock is all he allows himself before he pulls himself into the rafters of the ceiling, climbing through metal bar and beam until he's directly above the trap and dummies, a hanging light right next to him. 

He wonders if the Gamemakers could see him climbing the entire time, or if they lost his lies somewhere in the rafters of the ceiling. 

Either way, they'd see Sue's shoe fall from above, hitting the trap he'd set with enough accuracy as his luck. 

Its a vicious snarl as the ropes tighten and drag the dummies into the net trap, their artificial limbs clanking against each other. 

One dummy slips through a hole, but its neck catches and it hangs itself from the trap.

"Must not've had a strong neck." He says.

The dagger is intertwined between his fingers, ripped from his mouth, saliva and all. 

"When you hear three wacks it's too late, they've got you with a branch."  

One wack. 

His knuckles whiten as his grip on the weapon increases.

Two. 

He drives blade into wire, and the light starts to teeter back and forth above the trap. 

One grip tighten, two heartbeats-

Three. 

The light falls down down down and shatters against the trap, glass showers and electric currents exploding from the device. And he watches as the light explodes in flame, melting flesh off of lifeless, soulless beings. 

The timer beeps three times as his training session ends.

His feet touch the ground on the third one.

Breath heavy, palms sweaty, he tosses the hatchet onto the ground, flames from the burning pile of net and dummies dancing across his face.

"You gotta speak to them sideways." 

Whatever that means, Orville.

"Also, I cut down the tree in the middle of the Tribute Center courtyard a couple nights ago." 

Sideways it is. He thinks, as he leaves the room. 

70th hunger games

made by a n z i e

______________________

Too many sharks
not enough blood in the waves

”Sue Tate. Seven,” the boy introduces himself, and he steps quickly to pick up some rope, tying knots more furiously than any tribute I’ve seen so far. After a few minutes, it’s apparent that he’s making a net for a trap, and I lean back in my chair and watch as he sets it around an assortment of dummies. The trap seems very clever, and I love it when tributes present us with something more.. creative.

"A kid I met back in Seven, he tested me to see if I had a strong neck."

I’m not the least bit surprised when the boy from Seven picks up a hatchet from the weapons station, though I think it must be painful to carry a weapon of any sort in your teeth for a long period of time. But Sue Tate seems perfectly able to handle it as he takes to the rafters, climbing up and up with an ease that can only suggest years of practice.

It’s more difficult to see him up there, but from far above we see his shoe fly to the ground, right onto the handmade trap. In a second, the dummies are caught, and one’s even hanging by its neck. If the dummy were alive, I’m almost sure that it would strangle to death.

”Must not have had a strong neck,” Sue says, and he starts hitting at a light with his weapon, straight above the dummies caught in his trap below.

After three hits, the light falls, shattering glass and spreading fire across the dummies’ bodies, and Sue reaches the ground moments later as his time is up.

With one last comment, he tells us he cut down the tree in the middle of the courtyard, and I’m left with a reassurance that Sue Tate from District Seven is more competent than most, with an ability to create clever traps and a strength and dexterity that can hardly be rivaled.

10

[ghosty]

It's a change when I'm trying to impress someone with my skills, not trying to hide them in the fears of being hunted by everyone, for being better than them at something. But I knew they wouldn't do that, there isn't a hope in hell that will happen, that I'd do something better than eighteen year-olds who've been training for this in every second of their lives prior to this moment. They're the master of what they do, and that's inflicting pain upon people, in front of the entire nation. And I'm just me, a 13 year-old, who's most violent act was merely a prank gone wrong. But it involved a Peacekeeper. To some, that would make me a traitor. To myself, I wasn't overthrowing a leader, just merely the wrong place, at the wrong time for the Peacekeeper. The bad thing is, that I never saw him again to apologise to him, for wounding him so bad. I changed his life, but not in a good way. I ruined it. And this performance, this audition decides whether I can survive beyond the first day. It'll decide how the people like me. And hopefully, I'll make people like me. And then, well, I'll just be a number, and the higher it is, the longer I'll last.

Each and every person leaves one by one, until it's me and the hat upon my head, never let that go, and few others left, but all the while, my mind is racing, what the hell am I going to do to impress them? And then 'Abel MacLaren.' I no longer feel in control of my body, losing control of the only thing that I called my own. Maybe it's the fear of showing off the skills that are non-existent to the people who'll be calling the shots of the fight of my life. An impression is all they need, to make them like me, remember me. They might even help tilt the odds in my favour if I impress them enough, but that I can't quite see happening. All that I have is me and my traps, which were only used for pranks back home. Now, using them to help me win? That, I'm not sure about. But the moment that I enter the empty room, I know that traps are the only thing that I can do.

I want to impress Sam with my score, give him the chance to hope about me getting sponsors, and then getting out of the arena, alive. I know that I won't, but he needs to believe that I will, just so that he carries on. So that both of us won't die inside the moment that I enter the bloodbath. I just have to do that. And then, I snap out, and rush around, gathering up all of the equipment that I need. String, check. Pegs, check. Lidded jar, check.  Lighter fluid, check. Flint, check. And I drag over one of the station stands, and the punch bag, with the bag hanging above my head height, completely perfect for making what I had in mind. Filling the jar with lighter fluid, I click the lid on tightly, making sure nothing leaks, and attach a peg onto the top. Using a piece of string, I loop the jar around the punch bag support, and let it hang upside down. And to my complete relief, it hangs, and nothing leaks. Adding another string, I push it through the peg, and put another one down the side of the station stand, keeping it taut to it, and then two on the floor, around ankle height. Perfect for a tripwire. And even the smallest touch will set it off.

I let the smile that I've been hiding inside, out. I could as well be at home now, working in my room on the next project to best prank someone else. I love it, how to make the next part work against the first, and how for both to be triggered at the same time. It's fascinating. It really is. And the next stage is what I'm working on now, how to make the fluid light, when it's over the target. And the flint on the ground gave me an idea. Make a spark. And picking up a battery that one of the stations had, a night fighting one, from one of the torches that was just lying there, and some steel wool from the the Fire Starting station. I remember Sam telling me, that if you have those two, you can start a fire. And remembering his words, I stamp on the battery, breaking the covering on the outside of the battery. It's the thing that I need to do, along with stripping back the insulator, leaving the wires hanging out of the end. When they touch, the spark comes out of the end is the thing that lights the wool, and causes the fire. We only ever had a few batteries, and most of them went into the torches at home, so we can check on the animals in the middle of the night if they made a lot of noise. But he showed me this, just before one of them died. I was sat there, the wonders of what I was seeing made me interested in what he was doing.

But I lay another tripwire, and attach one of the wires to it, and then attached the other to the wool, then attached that to the floor. And I made sure that the tripwire pushed the wires together, and I walked away smiling. The dummy's which were on wheels was the last thing that I pulled across now, and finally, with my task done, I call to the people who're watching over me. 'Hope you enjoy the firework show, Gamemakers.' And in that moment, I lined up the dummy with the first wire, and pushed. I heard the snapping of wires the moment I turned away, and by the time I heard the crackle of fire, I was already at the door. And just like the dummy, I'd let anything burn now.

______________________

Too many sharks
not enough blood in the waves

I don’t know much about Abel MacLaren, though I question if he’ll be able to survive in the Arena, particularly because he’s from a lower District. Now, that doesn’t always guarantee a victory – considering that several victors have come from some of the lower districts - but when your job is working with animals all day, the skills don’t always translate to something useful.

Other than slaughtering animals, I suppose..

Still, I give Abel MacLaren the benefit of the doubt; it would be foolish of me to write off a tribute before they even start their session, and when the boy enters the room, he’s clearly got a plan. That can’t be said for every tribute that’s graced us with their presence thus far; some of them look like little lost puppies, looking around at the stations or refusing to utilize any of them at all.

We want to know if the tributes have what it takes to survive the Arena, and if a tribute struggles to make up their mind about what to do.. that means, to me, that they don’t have an outstanding skill that immediately jumps to mind.

But the boy from Ten knows what he’s doing, and I watch as he scrambles around the room, gathering supplies.

Abel MacLaren is creating a trap.

When he’s done, he tells us he hopes we’ll enjoy the fireworks show, and he pushes a wheeled dummy across the wire.

As fire tears the dummy’s body to pieces, I write a 9 next to Abel MacLaren’s name. If he does anything like this when he’s in the Arena, I have no doubt that he’ll be an interesting one to follow.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

[googlefont="Arya:400"]

	CIRCE LYON
	ACT I DISTRICT TWO. THE LOVER'S BEDROOM. She stalks into the room, chewing on her lower lip. The blood wells, rusting her teeth. It’s with no small amount of pleasure that she finds her instructions were followed. He even left her a little note. For a moment, the fourth wall breaks. Circe lifts her head, cool gaze piercing the electric barrier. “Circe Lyon, of District Two.” She announces, and then forgets. When she pauses at the table, she is not a tribute, some nameless face in a sea of memories. She is Romeo. One hand smudges enjoy into oblivion, and the other reaches for her own throat. She hooks two fingers into her lower lip, pulls away crimson. She smears the Lyon’s blood across the mannequin’s lip, a bit of poison penance. ACT II. THE CAPITOL. TRAINING CENTER. When she pirouettes, her arms are extended six inches, to the tips of her daggers. She spins once, twice, released. The dagger buries itself into the forehead of a mannequin, propelled by her dance. She steps and lifts, arabesque. The pointed toes behind her sweep upward, flipping back the chin of another mannequin. Every dagger she draws finds its home in a bullseye ballet. The rhythm shifts. One. Two. Three. This dance is an old one. She moves forward, backwards, constantly out of the reach of the encroaching holograms. A gentle turn here, a duck of the head there. No light grazes her skin, even though her daggers are sheathed. The waltz guides her to safety across the center, but when the count ends, she still has her arms extended. She does not know when to stop. The waltz is meant to be paired with a lover. Circe does not yet know how to temper the extremity of death. She comes to a halt, arms crossed over her chest, daggers framing her face. Her breath comes quickly, so quickly. Where has her lover gone? “Wherefore art thou, Jaime Juliet?” ACT III. THE CAPITOL. THE GRAVEYARD. She draws bandages across her wrists, threads a needle and stitches a heart to her uniform, above where hers might have once been. She almost can't remember. With her symbolic heart patched, she returns to the graveyard of mannequins. They lie still, akimbo, decapitated. One by one she collects her daggers, filling her belt, her calf straps, the sheaths that support her spine. At last, it is time. They have led her here, to this chapel. And there he lies. With their enemies vanquished, the star-cross'd twins have naught else. She climbs gingerly onto the table, as though not to disturb his slumber. When she takes his chin and turns it to her, she cannot help but become Romeo and Juliet, Circe and Jaime. When she kisses him, she tastes herself. “Thy lips are warm.” Her lips coated in Lyon's blood, she lifts a dagger. It does not look happy. "There rust," she whispers, and drives it to her chest, twisting. But it is only a sewn heart she carves away, the fabric coarse and lifeless. She presses it over his lips, sealing away poison and death. "Pardon me or punish me, for my tale of woe," she says, her voice barely a whisper. She settles, drawing his arm around her, entangling their legs. When she breathes, she breathes for both of them. The fluorescent lights of the center blot out all else. Beyond them, she thinks she can almost see the only thing keeping her from her beloved. "I defy you, stars." There she remains, until the table, their grave, is wheeled out of the room.
	district 2 female of the 70th Hunger Games

______________________

Too many sharks
not enough blood in the waves

”Circe Lyon, of District Two.”

She starts her private training session impressively, biting into her lip and pulling away blood, which she wipes across the dummy’s face.

When she moves, she presents to us a deadly dance, holding a knife in each hand, releasing them at dummies as she maneuvers across the training center floor. And then, swiftly gliding towards the hologram room, her dance changes. When the holograms make a move towards her, she simply ducks out of the way in her elegant dance, presenting herself as indestructible – the kind of person who understands the movements of her attackers.

Circe Lyon seems to have a flare for the dramatic, wrapping bandages around her wrists and stitching a little cloth heart to her uniform. It’s as if she’s reciting lines, but the meaning of her dialogue is lost on me. I don’t understand why she’s presenting this to us when her dance suggested such skill.

After a great deal of time, someone actually has to roll the table out of the room.

Though I’m not much of a romantic and can’t fathom why she would present such a tale to us, I see the quality behind her dancing and what it means for Circe as a tribute. She’s so precise and graceful that the holograms didn’t even touch her, and her aim with knives can’t be compared.

10.

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

	ORION HAMMERFELL
	Today is the last day of training, and it's definitely the most stressful knowing I'll be in front of the Gamemakers showing them what I can do, but when I think about it, I'm not sure what I can do. I'm not much of a fighter. I'm a healer. I love helping people. I love saving them, but right now I can't even save myself. On one side of me sits Circe. She has a much higher chance of winning than I do. Along with Elya and Olivia. Everyone here could beat me actually. Sighing to myself I lean forward, only to hear Circe's voice breaking the silence surrounding me. "Hey, big guy, I need you to do something for me. If it's convenient, leave a mannequin on a table near the entrance. I'll take care of the rest... and I'll owe you one. A Lyonness always repays her debts." "I could do that." Why she would want to mannequin left at the entrance is beyond my wildest dreams, but I'll grant her wish. Maybe it'll keep her from killing me before she absolutely has to. But after the short conversation between the two of us the silence grows more and more with each passing second. It's nerve wracking and terrifying, yet I fight to keep a calm appearance. After all a lot of people here look at me like I'm a career, and I must keep that mask on. It's at that moment a robotic voice announced my name meaning it's my turn. Butterflies dance in my stomach as I quickly move myself through the door into the training room. My mind races as I'm not entirely sure what to do, but looking at everything here, I get a wonderful idea. One I hope will make a lasting impression. One area that's interested me is the hologram training. A extremely unique place to test one's skills against a variety of difficulties. In one way the holograms look interesting, but in others it looks very intimidating. Especially with everyone gathered around. My eyes rest on one of those. One used for sword fighting. With a grim smile plastered against my lips, I move towards it. I mess with the settings such as fighting two opponents at once along with maximum difficulty, and I slowly step inside. The timer is set for eight minutes. Enough time to fight and to patch myself up afterwards. I take a deep breath, and I'm ready to go. I should have put the settings to as easy as can be, yet what would that show the game makers? I need to live up to my brother's name even if I am only half the fighter he had been. With a deep breathe, I eye the two holograms coming for me. I lash out with my sword receiving a gash to the cheek in the process. Blood immediately pours down my face partially blinding me in my right eye. Still I fight on. I wipe some of the blood away from my eye before blocking a few swift strokes from the holograms. They're definitely living up to the difficulty I set them at. My hand tightens around the sword. I barely have a moment to ponder how to strike next when two swift strokes lash out at me. I block one, but the other cuts into my stomach. Nothing too serious. I don't feel much blood so it must be a minor wound. Another blow from one of the holograms breaks my nose. I want to scream out in pain so much only just managing to hold it in. Once again I go on the offensive attacking with speed and precision. Severing the arm off one hologram and gashing the back of another. I take a few steps backward to regroup on the defensive end. I'm about to prepare to ward off more attacks when the holograms disappear. The eight minutes must be up. Without hesitation, I head towards the first aid station. I suffered some nasty wounds. The pace of the fight had been extremely fast. The stomach wound I suffered must be worse than I thought. Just walking is a challenge. Arriving at the first aid station, I immediately grab some gauze and press down on the gash spread across my stomach before grabbing some tape to tighten it down. Applying pressure to control the bleeding was one of the first things I learned from healing. Once I have the gauze tapped down right, I move on to gash across my check. I slowly place some gauze on it controlling the bleeding. At first it soaks through the gauze I had on it, so I gently apply more. Within a few minutes it's stopped, and I tape some tape to it. And then I move on to the most painful part. My broken nose. Just touching it with my finger causes pain. Slowly I pinch the bridge of my nose leaning my head forward. I've seen people lean their head backwards and all that does is cause the blood to run down the back if their throat. I wish I had some ice in here, but sadly I don't see any. Sighing to myself I try not to show any pain as I pinch the broken bone. It hurts, more than I ever imagined, but at least now the bleeding is slowing down. Once it's done, I look up at the Gamemakers hoping they saw and understand what I'm capable of doing. I give them a nod before leaving. My time is up. I drag a mannequin and leave it on a table near the entrance. I write the message 'enjoy' with my own blood before finally exiting.
	district 2 male of the 70th Hunger Games

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

There's a lot riding on Orion Hammerfell's shoulders - the tribute's brother is still on the minds of many from the Capitol (and that's a feat, considering how quickly names are exchanged and forgotten in parties filled with stardust and liquid fire) and with three others from District 2, the pressure to be equal competition must be massive.

Charlie finishes her drink as Orion walks in, and the boy heads straight towards the holograms. The Gamemakers are noted that it's been switched to the highest setting, and Charlie's frankly a little worried. The holograms can actually cause some damage to the tribute, and while the GMs have the power to stop the program in an emergency, few actually want to do so, preferring to let the situation play itself out.

Two sword-wielding holograms attack Hammerfell, slicking the tribute in the cheek. Blood runs down his cheek as he parries and fights his way through the 8 minutes. Both holograms suddenly attack at once, one driving its sword deep within Orion's stomach. Charlie looks at the other Gamemakers - most are enthralled, none moving towards the emergency switch.

But he manages to sever a limb and gash a back, and the eight minutes finally close just as they're about to attack again. Immediately he turns to the first aid center apply pressure and adding gauze and tape. Finally he stops his nose from bleeding (it was clearly broken, Charlie knows that much from her anatomy classes), gives a curt nod, and leaves.

Orion Hammerfell has guts, and a strength to push through pain - that was real damage he was given there and he didn't give up. Instead he fought back; if anything, the pain made him stronger. And his ability to do more than slash something with a sword is commendable. Oftentimes, it's not how well you fight but how well you take care of yourself that can spell out the difference between life and death.

Impressed and still shaking (she motions for another mimosa), Charlie jots down a 9. Keep up that willpower and we might see you come back a victor.

G A M E M A K E R

[aya]

Elya Johnwayne

well you were a magazine, i was a plain-jane
just walking the sidewalks all covered in rain
love to just get into some of your stories
me and all of my plain-jane glory

Going into her Private Training Session, Elya Johnwayne had a wealth of knowledge at her disposal: that the Gamemakers hated when tributes trashed the training center and hated even worse when Avoxes were made casualties of the short session; that in the past week there hadn't been a single thing in the training center that she couldn't turn lethal (aside from, perhaps, some of the tributes); that Dan had reigned in his temper enough to earn a respectable ten.

She was silent as she entered, save for each decisive click of her boots on the marble. When she reached the center of the room, she turned and faced the Gamemakers. "I was once threatened with expulsion from an archery tournament," she told them, hands folded across her chest. "The judge informed me that wearing an eye patch was cheating, insisting it was an unfair advantage to help me aim better with my non-dominant eye." She pulled off her eye patch and tossed it at the base of the panel, revealing the scar-covered empty socket.

"I do not fight fair," she conceded. "It's not in my best interest to. But I don't need any advantage, fair or otherwise."

It was true: Elya, like Dan before her, could beat anyone in a fair fight. Her brother never fought fair; she seldom stooped to his level. Never needed to. She had trained long enough, hard enough that any dirty tricks were uncalled for. Every fight that she won — that is, every fight that she was in — in the last three years was a clean, decisive victory. Well-fought and well-earned.

She called for the sword fighting instructor to spar with, slipping a small spile into her pocket from near the plants station and banding a dagger to her thigh while she waited. From the racks of weapons, she selected the hand-and-a-half sword that she'd favored for training, and handed it hilt-first to the red-haired trainer who emerged. It was an excellent weapon, well balanced, versatile enough to be managed with one hand, but large enough to support more powerful two-handed strikes. She would miss the blade in the arena.

For herself, Elya selected a blunted foil. Scarcely more than a slim steel rod, it was a short, slim, ineffective weapon in almost every capacity. The Gamemakers would know it the same as she did. Bend then break, it would do little to stop the bastard blade she'd armed the trainer with. Right handed though she was, she wielded the weapon with her left. The trainer would target her blind side, anyhow.

They squared off, neither so much as breathing. "Come," she demanded, and the trainer charged. His blade cut and slashed at her, but the bastard sword made contact with nothing. Elya was too quick. She sidestepped every swing, retreating and avoiding. The foil danced around the larger weapon, taunting, drawing his strike further and further left. They danced to the edge of the mat, then off it, the redhead in the lead.

Subtle at first, then less so, she began to imply there was a gap in her defenses, showed an unguarded flank. After thirty seconds of his frustrating inaction, she gave up hinting. Instead, she threw her sword in his face. So hardwired was the trainer's instinct to block that he made the fatal mistake of attempting to swat the flying steel out of his way.

In a blur, Elya's right hand came up and met the man in the throat. Bastard sword and foil both went spiraling across the room as she felt his windpipe crumple beneath her strike. Unable to draw a breath, he collapsed to the ground, eyes bulging.

Kneeling over the man, she pulled the spile from her pocket, unstrapped the dagger from her thigh. Likely the Gamemakers had already summoned medical assistance for their actively-suffocating employee, but Elya wasn't about to give them any more reason to see that her plate malfunctioned during countdown.

Tilting his head back, she felt for the indentation between his ruined Adam's apple and lower cartilage. Deftly, precisely, she drew the dagger over his throat, a thin slit to save a life, in contrast to the trademark red smiles that meant only death. Blood pooled from the wound as she pinched the incision open, staining her fingers, staining the floor beneath the unconscious trainer. She slid the thin metal tube into his neck and —

With a sucking sound, air rushed in his lungs. Letting an accomplished sigh escape her throat, Elya stood. Drops of the trainer's blood trailed down her wrists and fell from her the tips of her fingers. Barely aware that she was doing it, the one eyed girl drew two diagonal stripes across her empty socket, intersecting in the cavity.

"Precision," she explained, wiping the rest of the blood off of her hands and onto her pants and dismissing herself from the room.

{ i'd like that eye patch back }

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

"I was once threatened with expulsion from an archery tournament. The judge informed me that wearing an eye patch was cheating, insisting it was an unfair advantage to help me aim better with my non-dominant eye."

Elya Johnwayne proceeds to toss her eyepatch to the ground, and much is clear. Of course Elya Johnwayne doesn't fight fair, she's already been handed an unlucky hand. The girl from 2's bio is brushed aside however, as she begins her session.

Out of all twenty-four tributes in the Training Center, Charlie Garnet has been noticing a select few. Elya Johnwayne is one of those tributes. Sister to the legendary cowboy, great with a sword, one to watch out for. Currently grabbing a spire from the table, giving her favorite sword to a trainer and grabbing a frankly awful weapon for herself.

"Is she using her non-dominant hand?" Charlie whispers to no one.

They're off - the trainer swipes at Elya with rapid-fire succession but she dodges every stroke, and the tango leaves the dancefloor. If this goes well, Elya Johnwayne doesn't need to fight fair, because she'll be able to beat anyone with the odds stacked against her. Swipe after swipe, dodge after dodge. Charlie notices that one of Elya's flanks is unguarded; the trainer however, does not. But the opening grows wider and wider, almost as if Johnwayne is waiting for him to pounce.

He doesn't, so she ends it herself, sending her sword towards his face and her fist towards his throat. He goes down, his violet-hued face clearly visible from the balcony and Charlie's about to call the emergency medics in when the girl from 2 intervenes.

A hidden dagger. A cut. A spire pushed into a neck. A gasp of air. An x-marks the spot.

"Precision."

Precise is most certainly the correct word to use for Elya Johnwayne. Every single facet of that session was calculated, all the variables accounted for. But when the plan went astray she forced it back in line. She can take away life as easily as she can save it. And so Charlie draws two precise lines next to Elya's name. 11.

You're gonna go far, kid.

G A M E M A K E R

[L△LIA]

GUNNER LA TORRE like you've been shot bang bang bang Gunner La Torre is ten-years-old, holding a gun between the eyes of a blindfolded man. He's on his knees with his hands tied behind his back and they're the same height like this, the girl's father towering above them both as he keeps a steady hand on his daughter's shoulder. Today he told her she was ready. He was right. BANG. The heavy sound of the door closing rings throughout the Training Center as the infamous daughter of District Four's most violent drug lord swaggers in. Hips swinging, there's a rhythm of confidence in her footsteps that will continue to echo even after she's gone. Every part of her except her mouth screams. She is a vision of neon and gold chains with a smirk that dares anyone watching to look away. Walking past the weapons station, she grabs a pair of pliers and a belt of throwing knives. The first is shoved into the waistband of her pants as the other is haphazardly slung across one shoulder without so much as a pause, continuing straight on to a lineup of realistic practice dummies with their backs against the wall, as if they already know she's coming for them. They're filled with fake blood and fake organs and fake bones, but they represent reality. When she reaches her targets, she's cut the bottom of her shirt away, tearing it into two ragged lengths of scrap fabric. The first is used to secure the dummy's hands behind its back as she kicks its creaking legs out, bringing it to its knees. The other is tied around the eyes as a blindfold. This is death, execution style. Fingers pressed between the eyes, held out in the shape of a gun, when she murmurs, "now, Gunner," it's not her own voice that she hears, but her father's. He sounds so full of pride that she can feel it in her chest. BANG. And she drops her thumb like pulling the trigger, the recoil of her memory's gun jolting her hand away as the other swings forward with a knife still wrapped up in her fist. The blade sinks into the bullseye between the eyes, blood sputtering up onto her knuckles. When she steps back, she doesn't waste time wiping the red away, grabbing the next dummy by the throat and hurling it into the nearest table. Bottles of rubbing alcohol, rolls of bandages, and survival kits fly out in all directions — a catastrophe of irony. Gunner plops down on the dummy's chest, knees above its shoulders and one foot on either side of the head. Picking up a bottle of rubbing alcohol in each hand, she bites the twin caps off with her teeth and begins to pour the alcohol into the plastic mouth gasping in fear before her. The flood of burning liquid gushes up and out of the nose and ear holes, streaming from everywhere into a puddle around her shoes. When those bottles are empty, she pops open two more and even though the dummy is mute, she remembers the sound of its screams. After swallowing a gallon of vodka, there's no more room left in the man for things like air. Gunner drops the empty jug to the ground and turns to where her father is sitting on the other side of the room in calm conversation. "What made you guys think you could come to my daughter's first Reaping and attempt to use her to threaten me?" He asks this in the same voice other people use while idly wondering about the weather. A series of slow cracking sounds reverberate throughout the room, punctuated by incoherent shrieking. There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. It will be hours, maybe even days until the La Torre household is quiet again. Getting to her feet with a sigh that sounds like been-there-done-that boredom, she picks up one of the displaced survival kits laying at her feet. It's a backpack and she unzips it, rifling through the contents and tossing out most of it as uninteresting. A water jug goes flying over her shoulder, followed by some kind of tarp meant for making shelter. When she finds the matches, she slings the empty backpack over her shoulder to free her hands — then, with a flick the drowned dummy's head is alight. The plastic head burns small, lonely, and ignored as Gunner walks away, pulling the pliers from the waist of her pants like whipping out a gun on the bad side of town. Clocking the next dummy upside the jaw, this one too falls to the ground, except this time onto its stomach. The girl takes a seat on its back before yanking one of the hands into her lap and clamping the end of the first finger into the mouth of the pliers. The distal phalange snaps free with a loud CRACK, followed by the immediate and proximal bones. This is just one of the many reasons Gunner La Torre fancies herself as something of an anatomy expert. "Ten. Eleven. Twelve," she begins counting aloud, systematically breaking each bone in the hand individually, just like her father taught her. There are twenty-seven bones in each hand and it can take mere minutes or hours to turn them all into splinters, depending on preference. This particular La Torre — besides being on a time limit — has always preferred to get business over and done with as quickly as possible, so it doesn't take long. When both hands are done, she begins smashing the pliers into the ribs, one at a time. "Sixty-two. Sixty-three. Sixty-four." She doesn't stand until they're all done, rolling the dummy over before walking away to take no mercy on her last remaining victim. Halfway there, she turns back with a trio of throwing knives in her hand, whirling the blades into the limp body she left behind and hitting each of the three major targets: Head. Chest. Groin. The baseball bat collides with the family jewels of a kid stupid enough to try to steal Gunner's. He's carrying a backpack full of stolen crystal meth and she reaches out to grab it before it can hit the ground with him, before the fragile diamonds inside can shatter to worthless dust. "I don't enjoy this," she says and it's hard to tell if she means being stolen from or swinging the bat into his body, over and over and over again. It doesn't really matter either way, because both of these things are happening. This is life. Slipping the backpack off her shoulder, the yawning mouth goes over the dummy's head in one smooth motion before she zips it tightly closed around the neck. If these dummies were made with vocal chords that worked, the cries would be muffled. Now, like then, screaming wouldn't save anyone and Gunner is so used to the sound that she's not so sure they're not. Maybe these plastic mouths are howling at the top of their plastic lungs and she can't tell it apart from the whirring breath of the air conditioner or the shuffling feet of the Gamemaker's avoxes. Background noise. Steel crowbars lack the same light-weight grace of aluminum baseball bats and the one Gunner picks up is heavy in her hands. It doesn't get any lighter as she starts swinging it against the head trapped inside the backpack. The fake skull cracks and she keeps going. Over and over and over and still she doesn't relent. Bone shatters, eye sockets and jaw are remade into the rubble of fiction, and the brain is pulverized to jelly. The backpack falls to the ground when there's nothing solid left to hold it up. It drips with liquified make-believe, but Gunner isn't pretending. Scooping up the soggy backpack, she slings it over her shoulder once again and walks away from the massacre. The only memory left in her head is the sound of Elya Johnwayne's voice — I think you can kill me better than that — and she laughs to herself like she just heard the funniest joke of her life. Unapologetic with swagger, she's still hip-swing self-confidence, casually tossing the remaining throwing knives over her shoulder, leaving a trail of blood and blades. Drip. Clatter. Drip. Breadcrumbs for anyone ballsy enough to chase after; warnings for those familiar with her family name. The door slams shut behind her. BANG. Only the ignorant would say Gunner La Torre was able to do all of this because it wasn't real.

C H A R L I E     G A R N E T

Gunner La Torre is a sight to behold, clad in chains and neon as bright as her personality - she screams notice me, because I'm worth it and if she's anything like her biography states, she most certainly is. Daughter to the most infamous drug lord in District 4, surely she's got quite a few tricks up her sleeve besides the confidence that oozes out of her like lava, threatening to burn anyone in her way.

Charlie puts down her drink for this one.

She grabs throwing knives and a pair of plier (what an odd choice, Charlie notes) and by the time she's made it to the first dummy she's ripped her shirt in half, tying its hands behind its back and kicking out its legs. Its eyes are blindfolded, and as Gunner La Torre executes her first dummy it's like a gunshot has rung out and blood spatter spreads out in supersonic shards.

The second dummy is tossed into the first aid table with a crash and poisoned with three bottles of rubbing alcohol before being set alight without so much as a pause - she's almost bored, the way she moves onto her next target.

She knocks it to the ground and here come the pliers, as Gunner La Torre sits on her victim's stomach and begins to break bone after bone after bone. She counts off, and perhaps the Gamemakers who are not trained in the human anatomy have no idea what she's talking about. But Charlie does, and the biomed major counts along with her, eyes widening after each SNAP.

"Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four" and with the ribs broken Charlie thinks that La Torre must be done. But it's a red herring, as she turns around and whips three throwing knives into major organs.

The backpack that's been swinging around her back is zipped over the next dummy's head and as Gunner bashes its head in with a crowbar Charlie knows that she can't possibly have thought of this from mere chance. The confidence is too real, the nonchalance is too prominent. She laughs. Gunner La Torre has done this before, and she thrives on it.

The girl from 4 exits as loudly as her entrance, the bloody backpack still in her possession. No one attempts to follow her. It's silent for a while, until Charlie utters a single word.

"Fuck."

Eleven.

G A M E M A K E R

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

LXX

I owe no explanations for my flaws. I do not have to justify my mistakes, my past or my insecurities. We are not living in an eternity, for the time we have now is precious and should be treasured like an undying love so deep, you feel it with every beat of your pulse. It can all fade, it can all melt away like a snowflake that perishes with your gentle touch. I've always thought it would be someone else to turn the tables and cause havoc on a being once so pristine and crystal; but it's now that I stand here I realise there is no 'someone else'.

There's only me.

_

They say 'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth'. I'm beginning to wonder if people will see the consequences of this. An eye for another, and you'll make someone disabled. Repeat it again and a person will be blinded. It's like sanity has been blinded by all these enigmatic and tedious quotes; sanity has been slaughtered before it's mother's eyes as she watches it struggle in fifty shades of burning reds; sanity is dead.

There is no sanity any more.

We've all lost parts of us: our gentle ways, our family-orientated traits. It's not like there's a point to us as individuals in this era. We are stolen like a worm and carried by a mighty bird to place where we are so vulnerable and fragile, so much so that the dropping of a pin can make us shatter into a thousand pieces. Being broken, is a good thing however. A thousand pieces of you are forced to be sharp and fight back to anyone who dares come near you. It's a good thing.

I exit from the comfort of a clean elevator and expose myself into a world where even the tiniest things can influence how long the metaphoric clock above your head counts down for. Some of us will be able to barter ourselves a lifetime, others will fall into a slump of mess and have their days numbered, the seconds counting down with every thought that runs through their mind.

My eyes shift around the large room, examining each station with a monotonous rolling of the eyes. I retain a 'been there, done that' attitude, something I'd learnt from the hours of training at these stations. It becomes a involuntary routine — even though some of them did sign up for this.

I begin by presenting myself with the basic things. The knot-tying and fire-making, some of which I still hadn't mastered. My hands feel calloused as I tie a noose knot in the prickled rope and step back with a disheartened face. I quickly move on and look between the bushes and plants. Some look exotic, some I am accustomed to. And before me, I've got ninety-nine berries but a nightlock isn't one. I know it, I'm sure.

I'm caught off guard for a moment or two and wander myself over to the long rack of swords. There's ten, I count, each one with a subtle difference. On the far left there is a sword which curves like a crescent moon before coming to a brutal point and, to the far right there is a typical sword which is made from a single piece of long, cold metal which looks so deadly, I smirk a little. I drift over to the crescent-shaped sword and feel it against my palm. I close my eyes and inhale, before letting out a quick exhale and taking a couple paces back.

The weight of it feels decent; and my mind begins to beg the question exactly how heavy, though I remind her this is not the time nor place. If I am to die in this process, know that curiosity did not kill the cat, but it is my killer. So many endless trains of useless thoughts - I often feel I'm drowning in them. I digress.

Back in nine, I would spend hours prancing around my house doing all sorts of different rolls and movement. Cartwheel after cartwheel, dance after dance; oh, how I longed to be like one of those pretty girls the people report about when they return from the sports games. Though, I was deprived of a ribbon to dance with, I had no flow of a silken pink behind me as I flew through the air like a dove. Just a couple pieces of long grass, tied together with another smaller piece which wasn't nearly as enough fun.

What do I have now? A sword. I have a memory which is fogged, but allows me to remember a routine. I feel like a child lost in a war-zone who knows what must be done so that she can live, so that she can breathe again. My feet take me before one of the dummies on the other side of the room and I stare at it blankly. Contemplating, judging and believing.

I sew the sequence together in my mind before exhaling the tension from my muscles and letting my fury bloom from my limbs.

The routine spills out of me like an overturned glass of water, and I perform the routine which is a place of such happy memories that shall now be burnt - the ashes that remained only diseased with a meaning so cruel and harsh, I dare think of it. I step, step, turn, jump and twirl through the air; my sword held in my right hand as I glide. It fades into a repeat of such before I lower myself into the splits, and into a forward roll.

My eyes feel like a new moon unveiled like art to the growing audience of stars. The nerves I feel are like no other surge I've felt before. The sword so close to my face, shaving past all four corners of my being as I tumble. I feel tangled in a curse cast by the darkest of villains, a storm of blackbirds, hailing from the skies like meteorites. A sword, the sword: a vicious and remorseless reminder that it's kill or be killed.

I rise from the roll and swiftly turn it into a cartwheel, going in circles, once, twice - until I'm just the right distance away. The dummy is limp and spiritless and seems to already be dead; perhaps killed by an earlier tribute. I move from my cartwheel and stab away at it, each seconds blinking into the next as the stuffing falls from the wounds I have created. No mercy shown, no regret.

That one is for the death of Mystic Trotter, the murder of Chaske Parks. 

I prance over to another, slicing at the legs of the dummy with my sword.

The late Animus Valentine and Meghan Cooper. 

I kick towards the one furthest to the right, cutting out my fists and feet; my sword finding its way to my mouth throughout the process.

I want to avenge May Rhodes and Nocturne Vargas. 

Every one of their faces is gone, and all that remains from our home is Colgate O'Leary, a survivor: the hope my dying fingers clutch onto.

I just my hope my grip grows stronger.

I turn and stride away from them, knowing that beyond the tranquillity of my shoulder is a mess.

My brow bone feels damp with sweat. Is that it, can the curtain be lowered on this performance? I can only hope that my innocent and raw actions can reflect a reasonable score. For the love of a girl, for the happiness of a family, for the success of an alliance.

I sweetly smile to those watching me, giving a wink to one of the men standing behind the gamesmakers. My mouth opens and short, sharp words roll from my lips.

"Maya Xiaoqing."

And so I begin my vogaye back to the elevator. I pass the varous stations which my hands have tried to master with detail and intricacy on my way out and I say a silent prayer as I watch them glide past me like the pond skates making their way down a river.

I dart my head over my shoulder, looking up to the balcony where they gaze down upon you. I notice they are still watching - so I decide to make the most of my final, cold seconds in the room. I bend down and extends my arms onto the ground, kicking up through the air with my feet until I feel my weight equally distributed on my two hands.

And as I dance out on my hands, I feel like the lamb who fell in love with the lion. As fragile as a crunchy leaf in autumn, broken: like a smile worn by a victor and a resurgence of excitement making me feel as if I'm in the seventh heaven.

_

Crash against me waves of wither, intoxicate me with your strength and influence; bring forth the sun to burn through my layers and poison my innards with a wretched wildfire. Let me the snow freeze me like a loveable rogue, timeless in beauty.

Expose me to the magic.

Expose me to the sin.

—

______________________

Too many sharks
not enough blood in the waves

When Maya Xiaoqing enters the room, she looks bored, and I’m getting there too. This isn’t helped by the fact that the first thing she does is walk over to the knot-tying station. Almost nothing good can come out of a tribute who starts off tying knots for their session, and it only gets worse when she travels to the plant area.

I’m already losing hope for this session, and the girl from Nine seems to be unsure of what to do or where to go.

After another moment, she walks to another section of the room and picks up a sword, eyeing it like she can’t quite figure out the balance of it.

Without much warning, Maya Xiaoqing steps toward a dummy and begins to dance, jumping and twirling, until she breaks into the splits and rolls forward, cartwheeling gracefully toward a dummy. I watch as she stabs at it, shoving the sword at its body again and again, until she moves on to another. She slices at its legs and dances again, ruining another dummy with her blade.

When she’s done, she smiles up at us, all polite and friendly, as if she didn’t just dance her way around and wield a sword with grace. But before she leaves the room, she plants her hands on the ground and swings her legs back up, and Maya Xiaoqing walks out of the room on her hands.

I'm pleasantly surprised, so I make a note by the edge of her name.

9