Public Training Sessions

[Kire]

You guys know the drill.

Third Person, First Person, Says, Thinks

Sitting and staring at blank faces backed by blank walls couldn't be entertaining to anyone. The wait was especially boring to him - he was itching for something to do, some havoc to cause, but each time he attempted anything the peacekeeper would come over and nearly sit on him until he leaned back against the wall. Sure, he could have taken out the peacekeeper, stabbed him or slit his throat. He might have even snagged the gun off of the man's belt and blown a hole in the idiot's skull but that would have only offered him a slight moment of enjoyment. The commotion that his action would cause might be interesting for a time, but eventually the scrambling would settle into him being put back into a straight jacket until he was sent into the arena. At least while he was free he could find other means of entertaining himself.

He shot the girl beside him a dark grin. Having chosen her and two other girls as allies - or more accurately as interesting, attractive bait that might be able to aid him - he had certainly dredged up a type of diversion that made even all of this waiting bearable. For a show intent on the entertainment of an entire country, the Hunger Games were quite boring to be a part of. He could almost count the days, moments, hours until he might finally be unleashed. Right now he was an animal in a cage, and nothing made him more dangerous than being pushed into a corner.

This was the day when all the scared boys and girls got to stand in front of the Gamemakers and demonstrate why it is that they are the one who will live. How boring, how stupid. Surely these two people could design the proceedings so that the tributes might at least be entertained. All of the nonsense about not being allowed to fight until being put in the arena - the lack of efficiency irked him strongly. Had he been given the opportunity, all twenty-three of his "fellows" would have bled to death already. Still, he supposed the lengthened time to drive fear into the others was at least somewhat of a distraction for how much nothing was happening.

Sliding down the bench was utterly ridiculous looking, and yet every few minutes I was told to do so. The vision of the guard's blood pearling down the man's fat neck was so strong that I absently wondered if I had simply gone ahead and slit the peacekeeper's throat. I hadn't, and so everything continued as normal. God I hate normal.

A buzzy intercom crackled with his name. Resigned to boredom, and ready to simply walk in one door and out of the other, he stood and entered. The room was spotless - much too spotless for a training room, but he supposed that was to cover any trace of the tactics demonstrated by the previous tributes. As if he cared what they had done, inexperienced as they were. Had any of them killed someone before, probably not. He had, and he knew the ways that were the quickest, the slowest, the messiest. No one's special talents would save them from him.

Nothing, there was nothing here worth his time. That most assuredly included the Gamemakers, who all peered at him like he was going to perform a spectacle. His brows drew together slightly as he reminded himself that this was indeed the point. Look at them, sitting there and looking down on him like they were gods. Foolish. Cynicism showed in his smirk, eyes looking directly at the two Head Gamemakers as he simply stood there for a moment. Was this even worth his time? No, not really. Still, he had nothing else to do. Going back to his rooms was an even more boring prospect than simply having a staring contest with the Gamemakers. A test of wills, but no that was not worth his time either.

The pretty avox standing by the wall on the other hand, he could have some fun with her. "You," he didn't bother with even a gesture, she would know he meant her, "come here." The fear in her eyes told her that she knew a command like that never meant a good thing. So others had killed in their sessions before. That was both surprising and a little bit bothersome. Even so, the itch to kill, to spill blood and release the growing boredom that threatened to send him insane was sparked. Like a match to tinder, his need lit up in a burst of flame. The avox came to stand before him despite her obvious fear. He reveled in it, looking at her with narrowed eyes and sneering darkly at her. She started to shake and he let out a sigh - too easy, he had hoped for a challenge. Systematically, he took two strides, picked up a knife, and took two strides back to stand in front of the girl.

"Right, or left?" He asked the question even knowing she couldn't speak. She would answer him, the question was simple enough for that. Startled, she raised her right hand. He moved forward, gripped her left arm, and drove his knife blade into the middle of her forearm. Shame she didn't have a tongue, the scream would have been better. Even so, the sound of the beastly wail she let out brought a smile to his face. He manipulated the knife from one side to another, pushing the two bones apart. The avox stopped screaming and went pale. He withdrew the knife slowly, looking into the face of the avox. Silently, he dared her to hold his eyes. She couldn't. Weak. They're all weak. His knife bit again, this time into her right shoulder. The point scraped bone, jerked, and then continued as he put his weight behind it. Mercilessly, he pulled sideways on the knife. With a wonderful rending sound the shoulder moved and fell out of place.

She tried to scream again but he shushed her with a hand over her mouth. The knife plunged into her gut, settling to the hilt in the spot just below the sternum. He withdrew his hand because he didn't have to worry about her screaming now. The blade withdrew easily until the point caught on the lowest rib and he had to yank lightly. A gurgle came from the avox, but once more he paid her no mind. Grabbing a handful of her hair, he pulled her head back and cut her throat from ear to ear in a single, smooth movement. Crimson warmth sprayed at him like a shower. Drops struck his face and chest, turning him red. Slitting the jugular veins was a messy business, but one that was always fascinating. The colour had fled her body long before he had opened her neck, but what little there had been was gone.

He gave them a broad grin in imitation of the red sneer that gaped in the avox's throat, the blood on his face dribbling down in a slow trail. Play god from on high, but you, too, will die.

He left, a pool of blood and a mangled body the marks of his passage. Shame they would simply be wiped away. Finally, he wasn't quite so bored anymore.

---

from the desk of
Dom Copperview

---

This wasn't her first Krearns boy. Wasn't Glamour's, either. She had copied over her notes on the last one into the margin of her notebook — Jay, 6, axes: hacked up dummies. Died Day 2. Middle of the road - by no means one of the District Four standouts she'd had in her recent Games. (She narrowed her eyes in irritation, recalling a glaive burying itself point-first in the neck of the last tribute she'd scored as an eleven.)

Her glare remained as Someith initiated a staring contest with the bench, but Dom Copperview's displeasure transcended the tribute's obvious attempt to intimidate the Gamemakers. Your pathetic life is in my hands, boy, she did not say, her long fingers idly stirring the mug of tea that steamed in front of her. Don't fuck this up.

As he called for an avox and selected a long knife from the nearby table, however, Dom realized that was inevitable.

This wasn't her first unimaginative mutilation of a perfectly good avox. Scowl deepening, she brought her tea to her lips, and took a sip while the District Four drew screams from the mute servant. It showed her nothing. Any idiot could carve up a submissive target and think himself above it.

"Gruesome, perhaps," she remarked to Glamour when the deed was done and the boy shepherded away from the blood-covered corpse, "but tasteless, and quite frankly uninspired." She traded her teacup for a pen and inked a halfhearted 6 into her notebook.

[arx!!]

Jequirity Eckhart

♫

in this white wave

I've only set foot out of my room twice of my own accord. Each morning I'm forced into an intricate dance with the escort; I pull away, he shoves me out the door. I only wish I didn't have to attend any of these things. All I want to do is lay in bed, cuddled in the sheets, pretending that all the pillows I ordered are my siblings and parents around me. Ripred, I just want to go home. I don't even mind that the next time I will be home is in a casket. At least I can count on my family to show up at the funeral, to play beautiful songs as my lifeless body is lowered into the ground. I'd never be asked to say another word if I was dead.

Death. I should be dead already, should've died 2 years ago. Cheat death once and she retaliates tenfold. I run my finger along the long trail of scar tissue on my arm. I hear her voice in my head, even to this day. ("Tell me, what's your biggest fear?") I can hear my blood dripping, pooling. I can feel the knife digging into my skin, tracing lines all over my body: up my arms, down my thighs, across my chest, an intricate trail that would soon become the map that controlled my life. That lady, she broke me; she is my greatest fear. She created me.

I take a shuddering breath as the memory passes and the scar comes to an end at my finger tip. I rub my face into my shoulder, trying to makes the tears go away. But I can already feel that my eyes are red and puffy. It was too late to cover it with make-up, too late to make myself look strong. ("Jequirity Eckhart.") My name was already being called.

They think I'm here for my Private Training Station. All the other tributes, the Gamemakers, they will think that these tears mean I fear them. But they cannot compare to death herself. I've stared her straight in the eyes, let her twist her knife in my skin, let her silence me for all eternity. I let her destroy me; I know death. And I know just how much she loved making a road map of scars on my body.

I didn't come here to get a good training score. I didn't come here to impress the Gamemakers today. I came so that I could destroy the evidence, the evidence that I had been kissed by death, that I feared death. I came to destroy it. I came for a knife.

I don't pause in my mission despite the chill of the air in the Training Center and my shaking hands. I have to do this, it's the only way --- the only fucking way...

I haven't been able to look at a knife without my heart racing since then. And now I'm approaching the station I had deliberately avoid for two weeks, decorated with glistening blades all freshly sharpened and begging to pierce flesh. I lunge at the nearest one, fearing only that I will back out if I don't do this right now, right fucking now, do it!

The blade shakes in my hand, catching the light and reflecting it back around the room. I gasp for air (I wasn't breathing?) my hands shaking as I point the tip of the blade at my arm. The scars glare at me, the new pink skin reminding me that I'm nothing but damaged goods. She made me that way. Death, death, death. My Moms couldn't save me, my sisters couldn't save me --- I have to save myself.

I have to cut the strings that have tethered me for so long, a puppet of fear, a puppet of death. Cut, cut, cut. Come on, this is nothing. Nothing! Fucking coward, do it! Not too deep, only deep enough to scar, just --- CUT!

The hesitation.

Too long. I've waited too long.

There are already Peacekeepers approaching. They see me pointing a knife at myself, thinking I mean to die here before they can kill me in the Arena, thinking I mean to ruin their plans. Can't have me dying before the Arena. Too much of a mess. Too complicated. Ripred forbid a child dies without them having something to do with it.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!"

I dig the knife into my skin, over the scar, erasing the work done years ago. My work is jagged, nothing compared to the skilled artistry from before. I manage only to get to the "Q."

I'm disarmed almost immediately. I kick, scream, claw, bite, but it doesn't matter. They are stronger than me, dragging me away before I can finish what I had come to do.

What I had failed to do.

And then the tears start to fall.

Jeq. In crooked letters across my left arm, the blood drips. But people are already rushing to fix it, to fix me.

Little do they know they are crushing me, not mending me. This was it. My last chance to help myself break free has gone and past. I would never get that close again. I had never come so close to overcoming my fears as I did today. And now its over. And I'm falling. Deeper, deeper ...

Death, you have conquered me.

in this silence, i believe

ooc: apologies for the typical self harm pts x:

---

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

He isn’t nearly drunk enough to be halfway through the Private Training Sessions. When the Avox circles around to refill his flute, he leans close to her little mouth and whispers, “see that there’s something more than simply champagne in my next glass.” She nods and he’s satisfied with a few bubbles, even if he’s entirely unsatisfied with everything else. If possible, Dom Copperview is even more inane companion than Cadence Fortissimo - and this time, he intends to do something about it.

Jack Eckhart enters, shaking and scrambling. Her movements are so jerky, she could be a marionette on a string. But he isn’t the one making her dance and so he’s only vaguely interested in what she’s doing, right up until she starts carving into her own flesh. Glamour grabs the nearest tablet, rewinds the footage even as Jack is dragged out of the Center. He replays the few seconds, zooming in.

It is pure art, the way Jack cleaves the past from her own flesh. He turns the tablet to Dom, but she’s already given a number that sounds entirely too low to him. “Jack is worth more than that -” he’s saying, even as the lights flicker to announce the next tribute.

Glamour huffs and while Dom is distracted, he marks a 5 in the permanent record.

[pup]

the response from the gms will be edited in <333

Paige Hope

Lily. I miss Lily. People have been looking at me all weird ever since I volunteered to save a life, just like Lily did. At least, that is what I convinced myself I did. The truth is though, I saved Gina Linoone not because I was brave, it was because I was too cowardly to keep on living. Warren Whip and Charlie Garnet. On this day of last year, they were watching Lily in this same room, evaluating her strengths and weaknesses to find out how to hurt her more. More than how much I hurt her. I never said goodbye. The voice cuts across my mind and I cringe. I hadn't gone through those oak doors to say goodbye to Lily. I had told myself it was to ensure that she would come back, so that we would be able to leave this world together as sisters, not seperated by miles upon miles in a hell that you can never escape.

Now I am going to that same hell. It might be dressed diferently, and not covered in wheels, but it is the same thing. When Lily and I made masks and put them on, we were still just Lily and Paige, not a lion or a bear. Those were the good times though when we pretended we were other people. I can remember Lily dancing around the room, pretending to slay a dragon as I roared and breathed fire towards Lily. I was never the lead actress though. That was Lily. I was the brain behind the brawn. I was the writer of our stories. I feel a pain throb in my chest as my heart cries out for that which is dead and gone, my brave little Lily. I won't see her again until I come out dead in a casket, buried beneath Lily with my name and games day I died painted on the box. I can just imagine myself following my sister to hell to greet Circe Lyon and Orion Hammerfell where we will have a wonderful time.

I sit on a chair now, engrossed in these thoughts, my mind imagining what we might do there with Circe and Orion now that we were all dead. This is how the mind of an author, an artist works. Shaping stories in their heads that become real life. I hear my name being called, which forces my wandering mind back into reality where I face a threat. Glamour Kinkade and Dom Copperview. They are the same as Warren Whip and Charlie Garnet. They are just like the arena in which I will be flown to soon enough. Different face, same thing. Just like the two monsters of last year, they are like an awful, carnivourus curse upon the land of Panam which I will save alongside Lily.

I feel my legs underneath me start to move unwillingly. I do not want to go inside there under the awful stare of them. I hear a slam behind me, and I am trapped inside. I think about what Lily must have done, maybe she did a little skit for them. What I am going to do though I do not know yet. Then it hits me. I am going to tell them a story. The best story in the world, with the realest and best character ever created by me. The Bad Little Lily.

I ignore the gaze of the gamemakers and I set up what I will use. After making a few stops to a few stations I bring them all to the center of the floor. A dummy from swordfighting, a quill from animal recognition, a red dye from camoflauge, and two short ropes from the knot tying. Those are all the ingredients I need. I tie the dummy's feet and arms to two tables and sit on top of it, as if it was a real human, to prevent struggeling. An author needs a steady desk.

I carefully dip my quill in the red dye and start to write my story in my crisp neat handwriting. After a few minutes my timer rings, but that was enough time to finish my story, I get up and saunter out of the room, allowing the gamemakers to see my masterpeice.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in an awful home. It was small and whenever she stepped outside her face would contort in disgust as the awful stench of smog and pollution would hit her nose. Now this place she lived was ruled by and awful dragon as white as snow that destroyed everything it touched. One day, Lily decided she had enough of the awful place she lived in, and she left, running away as fast as she could. Lily changed her name too. No longer Lily, as she was now under her new name now. "The Bad Little Lily." Lily started on a quest to destroy the dragon as white as snow. She destroyed his minions at every chance she could get. One day though, she decided it was time to destroy the dragon. Once she finally made it to the castle she was captured by two guards whose names were Garnet and Whip. The dragon ordered her to be thrown into an awful hell, and those guards did as they were told like the good little puppets they were. Lily went through many hardships in the hell that she was thrown into, and one day she broke out and faced the dragon. "Your days of oppresion are over!" She screamed at the dragon. It blew ice cold fire at her, attempting to freeze her, but she didged succsefully. After six days of fighting she finaly gave up, and was frozen in a block of ice.

Now Lily had a sister you see. Her name was Paige. Paige wanted revenge on the dragon that froze her sister. She went on the same quest as her, and when she reached the gates, she was stopped and thrown into the hell again, but by two different guards. Their names were Dom and Glamour. They were the new puppets of the dragon. Warren and Garnet were destroyed for failing at keeping Lily contained. Paige escaped, just as Lily did, but after she escaped and confronted the dragon, she won. She slew the dragon and the kingdom all yelled a chorus of hoorays. Unfortunatly though, Lily had died in her frozen block. Paige was so angry she destroyed the two new puppets of the dragon. She could never be happy again though. That is why she did not live happily ever after.

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

F I R E   A N D   G O L D

DUSTYN CHASE

I N   O U R   E Y E S .

The proof that Dustyn Chase was not going to survive began the moment a vaguely human voice beckoned him forward.

He was number three of twenty-four, and a career from District Two. Glamour and Dom and all the others he had studied about: he believed that was Capricious King on the end wearing black, and near the middle appeared to be Candance Lepidoptera -- they were all going to expect excellence from him and the fact of the matter was that he wasn't excellent.

He just hoped he was a good enough actor.

"Hello everyone," he said with a warm, inviting tone. He could have just as easily broken right then: cried about the turn of events that had flipped his life over and exposed its vulnerable side, stormed out of the room, watched as the first ever number zero appeared next to his face on the television, but he didn't. He smiled.

It probably wasn't what was expected of him. He knew for a fact it wasn't what was expected of him, actually. But he was not a boy born without a heart and, acting or not, he never would be. "I'm Dustyn Chase. If it's alright with you all, I'll begin now." He unfolded his hands and spun around.

He would burn quite a bit of time fetching ropes and nets and weights, fastening traps left and right: some out in plain sight, others obscured by leaves near the plant station or in the wading pool on the edge of the vast room, but he did it. Traps littered the place like children in a candy shop. He was not a good warrior. But what was he good at?

("I don't know why I even bother hiding.

You find me every time.")

"If it wouldn't be a huge inconvenience, would you mind lending me your trainers?" he spoke directly to the head gamemakers, his eyes alternating between the two of them. "All of them?" He started to ensure them their safety but, first, they had taken his own peace of mind away and second, it would have lessened the appeal of what he planned on doing. "Also, I would like the avoxes to join me." He said instead.

In a matter of minutes, a crowd stood before him: trainers and avoxes alike, and he beamed at all of them, despite their horrified or bored or uncomfortable looks of reply. "Okay, I'm going to close my eyes and count to twenty. When I open them, I'm going to try and find you!"

He was not Dustyn Chase: King of the arena.

He was Dustyn Chase: King of Hide-and-Seek.

Without another word, he turned around, covered his eyes with his hands, and started counting.

"One, two, three..." At first, he heard no movement, but eventually a chorus of footfalls rained around the room. He heard some running, some walking, and he also heard a few excited gasps. It was nice to remind people of their youth because that was supposed to be the best time of a person's life. (A person who didn't end up where he was, anyway.) "Eleven, twelve..." He heard shouts of fright as one, two, three of his traps did their duties well. He heard them trigger behind him, and heard the laughter of those whose friends were the ones trapped.

"Seventeen, eighteen..." It had gone silent, meaning they had all found their hiding spots. "Nineteen, twenty!"

No sooner than the word left his mouth he was sprinting. He hefted up a spear along the way to his first trap, where a long-haired avox dangled helplessly in the air, a strong blush on her face. He made a show of poking her with his spear as he passed. "Dead!"

His next trap held not one but two avoxes, one large man and one overly frail woman. Poke, poke. "Dead! Dead!"

For a second, he pictured the last trap holding Glamour Kinkade, despite it being the trainer from the rope-tying station.

When he held up the spear, he was tempted to drive it through the man's chest. Glamour was half of the duo that led this operation. He was in charge of it all. He would decide when Dustyn needed to die, or if he needed to at all in a few days. Instead he smiled and moved along. "Dead!" he said.

One by one, he caught the others. Some screamed protest when he would poke them with his spear. Others looked like they were ready to shoot themselves from boredom. By the time it was over, he felt a thousand times better and some of the others who had played seemed a bit brighter as well.

After cutting those he caught down and they had all taken back their rightful places in the world, Dustyn bowed. "Twenty of you: all dead." He went back to eyeing Glamour and Dom. "Thank you for watching, Gamemakers."

And he disappeared just as the ringer for his time went off.

Perfect.

table by elegant

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

Glamour stared sourly, resolutely at the glass that divided him from the bleak training center. Around him, his entourage buzzed, filling up the conversation even if he took no part in it. He turned once to admonish them, and then thought the better of it. Some of the press had been invited and no doubt Capricious King was already plotting a way to turn this whole day against him, which sadly would not be difficult. He could not clear his thoughts, could not force himself to be fully present.

Although the eye candy helped.

Dustyn Chase entered with style, addressing them directly, demanding that Glamour turn over his attention. He sighed, so softly it barely whispered over his lips, and relented. For the next hour he watched the District Two tribute build, set and fill his traps. The boy was meticulous and gleeful, baiting the willing and taunting the dead. Glamour ran the backs of his knuckles along his chin as Dustyn exited with a flourish.

"Well that was... informative," he said, if only to offer something up to the wide eyes of his entourage. Privately, he thought that Dustyn's math came a little short. Allies just as easily wear the heavy crown. Glamour drummed his nails over the tablet, nodded to a whisper from Dom. For once, they were in perfect agreement. "A 7 for young Master Chase. I think we'll be watching him much more closely now."

also pt. 2 lol

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

LETICIA

There was no hope for people like me.

All that I had before was set to ruin. Picture perfect friendships and school work that soared like a bird, notes and scribbles cut out of my memory like I was a doctor's patient. I stood back and poured the petrol over what I had and flicked that one, single spark onto it and watched it go up—

—and not stop rising.

Inked dots on skin and lace around my neck, blue down my chest and white up my leg. Thick fabric, thin fabric, cold sheets and sleepless nights; the Capitol forced me to morph into a mould which I wasn't ready for. To be in the public eye and feel nervous wasn't what they wanted, to weep like a dowager in the twilight didn't make good entertainment. It didn't make good entertainment unless that tribute was on the receiving end of an arrow or knife or spear or sword or flail or flaming axe.

In the real world, I wasn't ready for any of this. I just wanted to return home and hug my sister for that one more second, I just wanted to apologise to my mother for all those times I'd told her I'd cleaned the plates but never did. I just want to stroke that scrawny cat and say 'goodbye' to all the little things which you think you won't miss. Buttercups growing in my flower boxes and the constant mooing of cattle: the sounds, the feelings, the goosebumps down my back and up my neck—I wasn't ready for spotlights and expectation.

I just wanted to get a cow and call her Daisy and let her be the milk to my cereal.

—x—

"Leticia Tibideaux, District 10." I call out. My voice box once restrained in a strangling cage now flutters free from the chains. It's secure here: there's no pasted faces of typical brutes and tributes who look like they haven't seen a full moon. On this ground, there's me and them and for the first time I feel as if the playing field has become level.

A flurry of cattle racing past me, each one labelled with scribbled notes of survival techniques. Climbing, fighting, swords and archery, plants: edible and medicinal, camouflage-how to live and how to keep on living. Thoughts made treacherous by the concept that these skills are what will be keep me alive, or see me murdered in the acid exhaled from our lungs.

But in this room, I'm caught up in a web and sucked out of my skin. All around me are reminders that there is only one crown for a fractured skull. Fragments of hope go down in flames and it's going to be for ever and more. Ashes at my feet and in my palms; I'm distracted from the things which would have shown I'm a survivor and that my chances are just as good as anyone else's.

Techniques and tips untangle from my mind as easily as they slipped in.

I look over to the dummies, my feet cutting through the air to bring me towards them. I stand at their feet, my hand lifting to brush their cheeks. A blank canvas, bodies emptied with a shell of a heart and a dying candle for a voice. And around me, in a room of stark black and white, I draw out the colour.

Supplies at my fingertips and corpses waiting for a makeover.

With my efforts rising, I pull the dummies to the middle of the room. I make a circle of them and count eighteen, nineteen, twenty of them. Brushes sit to the right and a palette of colours join them hand in hand and I spy a world of opportunity. I waltz over from the camouflage station and take a dummy in my arms and bring them over.

Target one: Ruth Foster.

She hadn't been a person who caught my attention, and so I used the colours to create a general face and drew a '1F' on her back to show the gamesmakers just who she was.

Target two: Septys Lexig. A face which did manage to file itself into my mind. The brushes ease into my hand and I paint his face onto the dummy. A convincing attempt in my eyes but for me, it wasn't about doing their facial structure and appearance justice. It was about making an impression.

I continue on, targets three to twenty. Names from District Three to Twelve, male and female. The only names which were left out were that of the ones to fall back on: friends. Myself, Draco, Dustyn and Cody. The people who made me feel like it was something worth fighting for, even if it meant killing.

I sit them down, orderly and fashioned. It is as if they are sat without a care in the world. It is as if they are oblivious to the fact that we're all going to die in the next dew days and there was nothing we could do. But still, they sat with pride. Faces portrayed with a blank expression each told a story worth listening to.

A story so loud that broken ears could hear.

A moment is stolen from me as my eyes shift over to the gamesmakers. They seem uninterested and my heart plummets from it's high horse. Battered and bruised and left in the blue to face the hooves of it's lost siblings. Blood from an organ, but I do nothing but clench my fingers in the frustration of it all.

I dance across the floor - determination surging like electric through my veins to show that I'm not their possession. I'm Noelia's and she's mine, and once upon a fairytale, there was nothing that could keep us apart. Skin roughed by the crowds in the Capitol made rugged, torn. Exposed to the naivety and innocence of the people who use us as entertainment.

In this moment, I'm not just a girl who wants to go home.

I'm a girl who thinks that home is the only way out.

And so, when I pick up a bow and notch an arrow into it, it feels wrong. Brass squeals of wrongs orchestrated into a chorus do not make it a beautiful song - and it doesn't make it right. Sighs and crusting memories are joined by the alienated feeling I'm feeling as I aim high at the string of the dangling light in this room.

On this ground, my two feet make a stand.

Porcelain arms reluctantly pulled back as the string fills with tension.

A single movement of collective fingers remove themselves from the string and an arrow of metallic dreams soars through the air. Like an angel fallen rising back to the skies; its wings cut through the strings life has attached.

The steel point chops through the wires bringing life to the ceiling light, and the structure falls as quickly as the empire at my feet. A new kind of sparks fly: blue and purple and they rain down from the loose wires like it's monsoon season. And as my eyes follow the rectangular frame be attacked by gravity, I watch as my collection of marionette tributes are crushed.

I don't flinch. There's no need to flinch.

The scent of smoke dances in to the conditioned breeze. Intoxicating me, choking me like I hadn't been strangled by the pressure of everything. It permeates the room, curling up towards the ceiling leaving me to stand in the ash and dust. Plumes of grey shifting around like ghosts leave me no escape, because it's still here.

Lingering.

Wrecking balls cause havoc inside my head: nerves stringing on for an eternity, cells rabid with the intake of smoke and hormones high on the billowing gas. Invisible holes burning my insides and I can feel the pain like it's a pinch on my skin.

I place the bow back neatly and leave the shower of sparks, crisp dummies and childish flames alone. I close my eyes as I turn to walk away, because I don't want to see them talking and making notes and comparing notes and comparing numbers. I don't want any of it.

I just want to go home.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

Glamour wasn't drunk enough to prevent him from focusing; it was that he chose not to. Certainly he had been more inebriated for the 67th showing, especially after his future victor crowned and decapitated an effigy. He slipped without even knowing into the past. Four long years and they felt like more than a blink. He had sat upon the same chair, an equally cold and distant woman at his side, and observed from his perch, champagne flute in hand.

Only then, he'd been falling a little bit in love.

Glamour blinked, heavily mascara'd eyelashes falling slowly. Leticia Tibideaux announced herself, voice strangled but clear enough. He preferred tributes who called attention to themselves, who demanded that he paid attention. That was the first step in building respect, just as he demanded attention from President Snow. He drummed his fingers along the side of his glass as he watched the District Ten girl. Slow. Very slow. She was not as provocative as some of the earlier sessions but he felt sure she was building to - something.

His entourage hissed and cackled, mocking the girl's attempts to rearrange the room. But Glamour said nothing. Sometimes, slow, quiet shows end with fire.

Leticia's ends with a spark.

Glamour smiled, clapping politely for the undeniable beauty. "Well, we know she's got good aim." He checked his notes, marking a little question mark beside her name and Dustyn's. Twenty. Not Twenty-Three. The smile curved, twisting into something far darker. "We might need to include a maths training station for the next Games," he whispered before marking the official sheet. "I want to see much more from Miss Tibideaux. An 8 for the District Ten!"

[ali]

Daria Staite {district four tribute}

We've opened our eyes and its changing the view Oh, what are we gonna do? We've opened the door, now its all coming through

Daria watched the clock. It was a foolish thing to do, sit watching the hands of the clock slow move across its face at a pace a snail would even beat. Even the second hand which usually raced round the clock had slowed until it felt like it was barely moving at all. Daria knew she should just look away, that a watched pot never boils, but her eyes were glued to the ticking hands of the clock which hung in the lunchroom-turned-waiting-area; the dance of time was enticed her, hypnotised her until she couldn’t look away. The storm was coming to its first pinnacle, everything up until now was culminating in the thrashing waves which boiled and threatened to pull Daria under. She was treading water, desperate to keep afloat as the water foamed and swelled around her a the wind reeled and lightning flashed across the grey speckled sky, giving her light in the darkness of this hurricane. Each flash of light was another inhale, another exhale, another moment of keeping alive. That is all I can do, she thought as she continued to watch the clock. The spell that the clock had cast over Daria, a gentle sigh of magic to keep her watching the clock, was suddenly broken by Tyler giving her a gentle nudge. The sudden contact caused her to jump, almost as if a bolt of lightning had struck her, and to stand at an attention, like a soldier in the ranks. That's all that I am now? A soldier for my own war? The deaf girl thought as she took a deep breath in order to make sure she was steady, to ensure that she wouldn’t drown in the swirling vastness of the ocean inside her; the ocean was overwhelming but she had been fighting it for many years, she was accustomed to its ferocity. She was still afraid though. She tried not let the fear show, taking one glance at the clock as if the lingering spell still remained, as fear guided her to the set of doors into the training room. Each step was human, but underneath it was being guided by a string, a string that rose above her head like she were a puppet, and her master was fear. Fear was good at hiding his presence, Daria knew he was there, Daria could feel him breathing in her ear, the strong hand on her shoulder every time she wanted to look away; fear made her wear a mask and the strings were taught around her limbs as he guided her through the world that she had come to know. The doors opened before her, like the sun rose above the world at dawn, and fear had Daria hold her head high- to keep her from sinking beneath the sea- her eyes forward- so that she would not look behind her and see the darkness that lay behind her in the ocean- and her expression clean of emotion; this was her mask. Fear was nicely hidden right beneath the skin, unbeknownst to those around her. Daria took her final step through the doors and they closed behind her, but her steps didn’t stop there. She kept on walking, fear kept on driving her like cattle through the fields of 10, her feets drumming against the ground in a steady and gentle motion. What do I do? she asked herself as fear suddenly guided her towards the blades station. Daria had practiced with the shining silver weapons, a crown of metal in their stands, but it was not her best station. It was not something she was proud of, most of the weapons were just as tall as her and caused her to droop when she held them but as her brain began to think of how to impress the two Gamemakers, who watched from their booth, things began to click into place. Her hands brushed against the hilt’s of the sword’s, their cool leather texture felt rough against her fingertips as they caressed each handle as she tried seeing which would best fit her grip. Her hands skipped one but then it paused and withdrew and returned to the one she had aimlessly missed. Daria’s head tilted, ocean blue eyes blinking as her hand grasped the sword in her hand and drew it from its home, the vibrations of metal brushing against metal zinged through her fingertips. This sword was small, slender, a glistening silver so clear that it acted as a mirror, and Daria could see her reflection in its blade; she tested its weight in her hand before she took a step back and looked at the members of the training team around the room. Her eyes fell on the self-defence instructor and she raised her free hand and pointed her finger at him before she curled it, beckoning. Come here she beckoned with her finger as she took a few steps back to the center of the floor. She wanted to show the Gamemakers her skills, and that was just what she wanted to do; no show business, just point blank truth of her aptitude at self defence which was by far her best skill. The instructor, who too took a sword from the rack, would know what to do; they had done this exercise before but Daria felt like he would be less easy on her this time round. This time would be faster, less planned, more sporadic, Daria would have to think on her feet. As Daria tried to estimate the instructors move, he was lunging at her, teeth bared and sword raised. The girl was surprised and fear flashed through the mask she wore- only briefly- before she moved herself to counteract the blow that rushed towards her face. The swords connected and lighting flashed within the storm, lighting up the world in a flurry of bright and sudden light. Daria could see, through the reflections in both of the silver blades, that her mask, the hold fear had on her emotions, were slowly washing away like sand on a beach in amongst the storm. The instructor moved again, and Daria had no choice but the parry his blow. The swords met again, the vibrations of the twanging metal shook through the handle and through Daria’s body; another strike of lighting, another strike against her in this hurricane. The small girl struggled to push the instructors sword aside, her arms shaking as she pushed and pushed to try twist the sword away. With one final shove, she sent herself and the instructor reeling backwards, as the tension between the two swords snapped on her final mighty shove of her own sword. Stumbling backwards, Daria watched as the instructor readied himself again. She went to prepare her sword, to defend herself, but found herself at a loss. Glancing to her side, much to her terror, her sword was lodged in the table which held all the edible and poisonous plants. As if her mask was made of glass, it shattered in the moment she saw that the sword was nicely wedged into the wood. For a moment Daria was engulfed by the ocean and she found herself gasping for breath in the sea spray and foam as her blue eyes glanced to the instructor who was moving for her at an increasing speed. Wide eyes, Daria tugged and tugged at the sword. Come on! she thought as the instructor was suddenly upon her. Suddenly, Daria felt like she lost control as the sword sprung from the wooden table; fear was at the reins again and he was doing his best to hide the slip up, to hide the revelation that Daria was afraid. The girl from four watched as the silver sword moved with her arms, momentum from being trapped driving them both, in an arc like fashion past the instructors face and- somehow knocking his sword from his hands. The girl was surprised, so much so that her jaw nearly dropped at her apparent victory against the 6 foot instructor but her face darkened when she saw that the blade of her sword was no longer shiny, pure silver. It was dripping in red, fresh, oozing blood. Her eyes moved slowly, cautiously, a breath caught in her chest like a bird trapped in a cage, like a scream lost to the wind of a storm, from the trickle of blood to the instructor who had both hands clamped to the side of his cheek with his mouth wide open. There was a reason his sword so easily gave into her weak swing. He’s screaming she thought, her eyes widening as she saw trickles of blood beginning to slither down his arm from the wound on his cheek. Daria wasn’t sure how much time she had left but she didn’t care; she needed to stop the bleeding and she needed to do it fast. Dropping her sword, Daria dashed, quickly and logically, to the first aid stand. The girl tried to remember what she had been taught that week about how to stitch someone up. Her hands moved from item to item as she thought of each step in her head. First, you need to clean the wound her hand grasped a water bottle and a fresh cloth. Secondly you need a needle and thread her hand grabbed that too before it moved towards the next item Thirdly you need rubbing alcohol to sterilise your… her hand floated over nothing. Daria paused as her eyes scanned the table for the rubbing alcohol she needed. It wasn’t there. She quickly checked under the table but she was at a loss, the rubbing alcohol was absent from the table. Is this some sort of trick?! Daria thought as she tried to figure out a solution to her problem. Shrugging to herself, she grabbed some gauze and medical tape before she turned to head to the poor instructor who was still bleeding but something caught her eye. Flint, tinder, kindling. Daria suddenly remembered another way to sterilize her needle; it was as if the sun had broke through the blanket of cloud which clung to the wide expanse of ocean. The corner of Daria’s lips twitched as she carried her medical supplies to where the instructor was before dashing back over to grab the flint, tinder and kindling. Her eyes darted up at the man, whose mouth was still agape in screaming- most likely, Daria couldn’t hear his cries- before she looked down at the flint she held tightly in her hands. You can do this she thought, smashing the two pieces of flint together over the kindling. Nothing. Again. Nothing. The storm was becoming more brash, more pronounce, Daria’s hands were beginning to shake but she persevered like she always had. She smashed the two pieces of flint together once more and sparks flew. Once more and the kindling was gently smoking. Daria had no time to marvel at her achievement as she quickly built up the little fire so that it would burn long enough so that she could sterilize the needle. Rising from her feet, Daria doused the cloth in water before turning to the instructor. She frowned at him, giving him a look of drop the hand; when he didn’t understand or failed to recognise her sharp stare, she tugged down his hands to reveal the deep gash on the side of his cheek. Daria flinched briefly, before she took courage and cleaned away the blood with her cloth. The more she cleaned, the more she realized how deep this wound actually was. He’d be left with a scar but she had no doubt the Capitol would fix him up after she made a mess of his face. The Instructor squirmed and put his hands to his cheek again after a few simple dabs. Daria scowled, dropping the cloth and turning to the needle and thread. Picking up the needle, she twisted it in between her fingers as if it were her new sword, appreciating its glistening pureness in the light of the twinkling fire. Daria glanced at the instructor and pointed harshly to the floor as if to say sit; this time he listened as she shoved the point of the needle into the flame for a few seconds. She held it there long enough to look as if she knew what she were doing, before she pulled it out. Sterilized, Daria threaded the needle before turning to the instructor. The small girl moved over to the man and pushed him so that he were lying on the ground. Sorry about this she shot a sympathetic glance at the poor man as she straddled his chest so that his arms couldn’t flail about while she stuck a fairly warm sharp pointy thing into his face it’s for your own good. Fear was clearly in control again as her hand sternly turned his head so that his cheek was facing her. She could feel him struggling beneath him, squirming like a trapped animal, but she couldn’t give in. She never gave into her father, so she wouldn’t stop giving in now. Taking a deep breath, Daria readied the needle at the man’s cheek. One last sympathetic glance before she began to stitch him haphazardly on the floor of the training center. She could tell he was screaming again, his mouth a jar made it difficult for Daria to neatly close the gash but after several in and under and in and under movements, just as if she were doing sewing by hand at home, she had closed it. It wasn’t the best but it was okay. Clambering off his chest, Daria brushed off her hands, taking a few steps back. She did nothing more, only briefly glance to the gamemakers before she swiftly exited into the elevator. The moment the doors closed and she was hidden from view, Daria let out a sigh of relief, resting her head against the cool glass walls as her hands shook violently at her sides. It was over but its only just begun.

-

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

He would have paid attention to Daria Staite even if she had not come from Four. She is petite but full of presence, moving with confidence that few others have displayed so far in their sessions. He's intrigued enough to tune out the chatter in the room, to put the tablet down and simply watch. He's intrigued, but when she curls her finger and beckons the instructor, Glamour's breath catches.

It's just how Leon invites him back to bed in the mornings.

The fight that follows is no practice sparring. There are excellent parries and thrusts, and there are mistakes. Rather than wallow or apologize or rage, Daria proves herself a worthy opponent. She works quickly to mend the instructor, despite his screams of pain. Glamour makes a note on the tablet to have his stitches re-sewn before he is released. He cannot afford to have a coward in his employ.

Her work is not neat, but it is clean.

"Thank you, Miss Staite," he says as she exits. It's the first time he's thanked a tribute all day. He leans close to confer with Dom - closer than he's sure she'd like. After a moment, he nods and taps the tablet. "A very solid performance. Hopefully that's not the last bloodshed by our little beckoner. An 8 for the District Four tribute."

[flyss]

LAY YOUR WEAPONS DOWN
THEY'RE CALLING OFF THE WAR

I hate how small I've become- how little I've let them make me- because every time I take a stuttering, shattered, shaken breath in, I feel their heartbeat pounding forte in my ears, a crescendo of thunder breaking down the barriers I've put up into a magnitude of mirrors- laughing, looming, leering mirrors- each of which plague me with an empty shudder that has been designed for nothing but to haunt. 

But that isn't what I'm used to (I'd like to make myself believe) so I take it with a smile and force it down my throat as if it weren't the boa constricter keeping me in a chokehold, as if it weren't a force to be reckoned with, because there's only so much you can do when taking a breath is a luxury, rather than a right. 

Right now is one of those times that I wish my airways weren't a toll road, that my living mechanisms didn't come with a price that I couldn't afford. My pocketbook is an empty resource, but even that isn't a comfort I'm allowed in this moment, when their faces mock me from what seems like an infinity above, stardust not even touching the brink of lost safety because when you have a name like Neptune and a nothingness like mine, no matter how big you are, you will never be a planet, let alone a star. 

I cough once and let what's left of their vision wash over me. 

Neptune Liefde, District Twelve. My fingers are a mess, my signs sloppy and without care, but I know they won't notice because I doubt a boy like me- the last thing between them and a feast bigger than my imagination- holds their attention; they're bored with the circus they've put on, and they're saddened by the fact that the edge of their seats will never caress them in the excited manner they wish it to. What a damn pity that my testament to death isn't exhilarating enough for them.

When I turn to move, my feet nearly take me to the door and out of this malformed level of hell, the chance for me getting anything better than the default 1 lower than the wretched screaming of my estimated lifespan. But I stay, hoping to prove myself from the very foundations of this room, to bring the floor to the ceiling as if I owned, to defeat the idea that the strong don't come from District Twelve. 

But I am not strong, so I grab an axe from the rack and run my fingers over the glossed handle, admiring both the beauty and pain that this object possesses and nearly slam-dunk dropping it to the ground, its weight electrocuting me with the image of home, the image of where I want to be right now. Now is not the time, though, to think of firewood burning with the scent of grass and leaves, to think about the thick taste of gravy that my mother would cook every-so-often from the pennies we gathered in the sofa-cushions, to think about the shutters closed tight and the sobs of family that cares too little and too much at the same time ringing through the stale air like thunder, no- now is the time to puff out my chest and pretend like I'm bigger than I am, surrounded by school friends in the mines, playing tricks when the peacekeeper's backs are turned on us for even a second. 

I am a dragon with my fire-breath and fevered cheeks. 

My first movement is short, eyes cast downward like shadows on the ground, testing the water with a toe in and a head in at the same time; I am a wall but I'm crumbling under the pressure of failure. What do I really have to lose, though, with my glass eyes, and glass smile, and glass bones, and glass voice? Absolutely nothing, and that brings me comfort when I begin to twirl the axe between my hands, slowly at first, then gradually faster. 

I think back to my friends with each of my movements, the bets we used to have about who could do the best tricks crushing me with a nostalgic loss that pounds deep in the confines of my ribs; my fists tighten on the handle of the axe as I spin it around my neck, hoping that I can make them proud, hoping that now that my life falls on it, I can finally make them proud. 

But there's no pride, I remind myself, in being forced. 

So I choke, and lose grip, and send my axe flying a few feet in front of me, the sharp clang of steel shattering into a deafening chorus of 'you failed' at the feet of my shadow. In that moment, I wish I could scream, I wish that I could express my frustration in ways other than silent tears cascading down my face, but I know that I can't and haven't been able to since I was nearly seven. With pained strides I walk up to the weapon and pick it up once again, this time shutting my eyes in anger and gripping the handle so roughly that I could've broken the prowess into the fragility of space.

I'm so tired, I think to myself as I take a deep breath and use my entire mass to fling the metalic sharpness across the room into oblivion, my eyes remaining plastered shut until the weapon is long gone and my fingers feel rough and transparent from the heated stains it left.

I swallow hard and take a step toward the door, my eyes brimming with a wetness I won't let show at this point. 

I'm so tired of playing this rigged game.

ON ACCOUNT OF LOSING SIGHT
OF WHAT WE'RE FIGHTING FOR

✿

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

Glamour is sloppily, obnoxiously drunk by the time Neptune Liefde's name is announced. Worse, Glamour knows it. Seconds before the last boy's entrance, he knocks over a vodka soda belonging to a member of his entourage. When an avox quickly replaces it, Glamour deliberately lifts the glass and overturns it.

At least, he thinks he does it deliberately. His movements are so languid, to extended and fluid, that nothing looks deliberate. He is reduced to a toddler, limbs flailing, lips smacking. He says something, but it comes out as gibberish, even to his inebriated ears. He laughs raucously, and he can see the whites of the eyes of his entourage.

They dare to be embarrassed by him. Perhaps for him.

It's the clang that stirs something on the border of coherence. Glamour only witnesses Neptune's defeat and his dismissal. He shrugs, ready to mark a 1 when Dom offers up a higher number.

"But he missed!" Glamour protests. He gestures wildly to the axe on the ground, encourages the minions clustered around him to agree. They do not. The room is silent except for his sputtering.

He's ready to mark a 1 anyhow no matter what Dom "Stick Up Her Ass" Copperview thinks. But when he taps the tablet, the official score is already entered. Glamour scowls. "They're going to think we only know how to give out a 4. Get that boy out of my sight. And for President Snow's sake someone teach him how to talk before the Bloodbath!"

[Deleted]

cody bowers-fox

My heritage is one of mediocracy.

Not, meritocracy, mind you, for no achievement could bring social mobility to a line of ancestry caught in the still space between points x and y. We were the damned to find luster in objects that still shone dull, to search for the glimmers of hope that were hidden in the dirt latching to the skin underneath our fingernails. My brother scratched his wishes upon his skin like tattoos scrawled in an ink that would not bleed with the waning of time, declaring his lineage for all to see and pretending that it was something other than a burden.

Owen Bowers-Fox may have been shaded in a different tone of grey, but his veins were still home to blood that was defined by the lineage that ran within its cells.

My brother had been the one straying line on the family lineage that had strove towards perfection of a higher sort, for he had a liking of the finer things, those of art and poetry and philosophy. He believed in a world so unattainably perfect that no picture he sketched upon its surface would ever be complete enough to encapsulate what stood before him.

And correct he was.

He ripped paper from edge to edge, snapped pencils during the 2 A.M.’s and then pretended that no one noticed the shavings of graphite that littered the floor like tearstains on the edges of his paper. My brother was the straying line on the family tree, inheriting the name of eight in place of Owen and wearing it upon his sleeve like he could look at a definition less than perfect and not feel the drop of a heartbeat in his chest.

My brother and I wrote our definitions by the standards of different dictionaries, for he saw the world through a concave lens, press the glass to your eye and all to be seen is negativity through blurred vision. I saw the world in a foggier view, much greyer than he would note but ever such the same without the variance of staying hidden behind the lines.

I did not wish to find clearer vision in the finer sights, but inheritance is accidental and there is no way to set aside his tombstone without brushing off the fine layer of dust that has covered up the words etched by a bleeding palm, “There is nothing to be found in the finality of failure.”

I suppose I am not looking for anything, then.

And nothing I am to trying to find can be sought after in the empty space between myself and the door to the training center, paced apart between the time my brother last left it and now, still lingering on the rising intonation of unanswered questions and the answers that were better left unsaid.

My name metallic on the tongue that speaks it— I do not wait for the bite of copper to bleed across my lip, I am sure of its presence as my arms lock against the brace of cold metal meeting my skin.

Eight paces to the right and my voice falls across a hollow hall, for there is no life to be found in the carcasses of dead men walking, “I was going to tell you that your system is biased, but I suppose I’d be wasting my breath, and believe me, I am already counting the last of those.”

Blood of a brother flowing between the cracks in my skin— his guilt still flows through labored veins long after his coffin had been buried beneath the weight of my own. I find my place with my feet pressed firmly to the floor like I find no fear in the possibility of it giving way like my own faith— I stopped believing in anything I could not see when my brother looked me in the eye and promised me that he would not return.

There is no god I wish to believe that creates his reality through dysfunction.

As I begin to pace backwards I take a piece of rope from the nearest table, fashioning an outer loop with a free hand while the other wrapped a handle in its place, “My brother was nothing worth fighting for,” A pause as the words bite at my flesh like copper on my tongue— the only way to die now was bleeding out, “He played the part of sacrifice in a modern age, fell in love with a boy who is now living at his expense, and died by fire at the hands of a girl who never knew how to strike a match until she set foot in that wasteland.” By this point, a single match held between two fingers, a noose fashioned by the hands of the sarcastic and the cynical, and two jars of tar are held between loose arms, setting them aside in favor of wooden crates caught by the corner of an eye.

“I’d describe the situation as poor at best, if you were looking for honest opinions.”

First crate pulled out and set in center by hands sure to find the side effect of splinters in the passing hour, I do not find company in the silence that ensues as I make the return trip for numbers two and three, “But my brother was placed under the diplomacy of a system that was put in place to ensure his demise.” Four set aside— I am sure to line the edges with the contents of the first jar of tar set aside, smearing the lines between sanity and intelligence even beyond my own recognition.

A return trip for crate number five leaves me straining, tired muscles in constant protest of being worked with what they knew truly had no purpose. A noise of struggle falls from my lips as I push it atop the first row, dreading the process knowing that two others had to follow.

But the lines of sanity and intellect are blurred, and between the two I find resolve in my brother’s obsession with imperfections, those etched upon his own bones and those carved in the ribs of others.

A second row formed by crates numbering three I climb atop their surface and smear tar once again, the only thing cementing them the last tremors of my confidence and the ground that lay below. Stumbling down once the task was complete I found only a loss of sense and coherence in place of my brother’s beating heart— inheritance to pass to the next of blood, should there ever be a place of passing to begin with.

A third trip for crates numbered eight and nine leaves me resting once they have been dragged into place, sitting atop their edges as I stare down at ground too far below to count the space between, and as I begin to speak through clenched teeth I find neutrality in the words I speak, “My brother did something of a unique nature here. He gained the favor of someone or did something truly spectacular— unlikely, but I’m yet to rule it out.”

Two steps carefully placed and I begin the descent, laying hands on a final crate before dragging it into place with a final sigh of relief and leaning against it with a light shoulder, “I am not my brother. I am the inheritance of his mediocracy, yes, but I do not see the world with the same sharp eye that he did.”

A descent down towards the dummy still resting in its initial place and there are tears threatening to spill over as I scrawl upon the face with the last bits of black remaining in almost empty jars. “My brother believed that he could best a system set against him, but I know better.”

A fashioned noose slipped over its neck I ascend the pyramid of crates a final time, tossing the loose end of rope over a rafter until the slack is set where the dummy was left sitting atop the tallest crate, facing away from myself and the others behind me.

Less than graceful on the way down I take hold of the match and strike it against the nearest surface, eager to watch it light and less than so to watch flames take hold, and so I keep my eyes trained upon the ground as I toss the match towards fire’s catalyst— tar and wood are only as good as that by which they are consumed, and step back as flames begin to spread.

They catch on contact, beginning to consume the first layer of wood and tar until they have a foothold on the second, and only then do I begin to see the speed with which they were approaching the last barrier between myself and a final second to separate myself from the burden of my heritage.

Final crate consumed leaves the surface beneath it crumbling, until the last structures of framework gave way and each begin to fall one into the next, leaving the rope tied taut dangling the limp body of the burdened.

From its place of height it begins to turn with the inertia of chaos, and the side scribbled upon swivels to face forward, my name clearly found in the arrangement of letters upon it.

“I know better than to battle a system that is set in place solely for the purpose of my demise.”

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

He should have been face first on the floor, given amount of booze he'd inhaled over the past several hours. An IV drip would have been more efficient. Despite the limitation of having to take the time to sip the bubbles, Glamour had done admirably in his efforts to discover the bottom of every glass. Yes, he should have been face first on the floor, but every now and again the drunken haze cleared.

His pale eyes snapped to the Training Center entry doors when Cody Bowers-Fox was announced. His very own Name-Thing, come to play at last. Glamour lifted a hand, silencing his entourage. "I would hear every word he has to speak," he murmured and as though in response, Cody began his story.

Glamour is equally enraptured and enraged by it.

He snorts at the notion that the first Name-Thing was not worthy. How little you know about your own kin, he thinks but does not interrupt the narrative, not even when the brazen Name-Thing baits him. Glamour's eyes narrow to slits at the mention of Leon. He leans back against the red velvet of his throne, one hand casually resting over his mouth. He fights to keep his posture languid, to relax his exterior, even as the rest of him burns.

Beware that I may take the bait and kill you quickly, Name-Thing.

Empty threats, unspoken, for now. When Cody leaves, he takes his eloquence with him. "Pretty," Glamour says at length, perhaps preferring to the pyramid, perhaps to the boy, perhaps to his speech. He sniffs, turning the tablet over to Dom. "Do you think an 8 would suit our little orator? Or do you think it's too much for someone at the edge of their own demise?"

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

Ablaze.

Crackling, like a million swords of lightning slashing into the howling night. Dancing, on a ballroom floor of kerosene, each tongue of fire swaying to a deathly melody. Flickering, struggling for life beneath the cloak of darkness.

I swear, the day I was born, I lit up in flames.

And it never gives way, not even when I have crumbled. It fades, but it is the only constant in my insignificant life. The clouds of smoke rising into the air carry the embers from my feathers, even when the ashes have turned cold beneath the valleys of snow.

Ablaze.

Always.

I burn, beautifully, with each breath I take.

I was burning the day I spoke my first words. I was burning when they called my name. I was burning when I collapsed into Colgate and Cordelia. I was burning, as I burn now, when a voice like a sharp, hollow winter wind demands my presence.

"Hannah O'Leary, District Nine."

My hand tightens around the borrowed items in the black tote bag of District Nine's escort, Gloria.

["Gloria, would you mind if I took these into my private training session?"

"Oh! Um, sure! Will they be coming back?"

"Do you care?"

"Well, they're always replaceable, but -"

"Perfect. Thanks."]

When the doors slide open, I am stone - or at least, I pretend to be. A marching statue of a solider, heading off with ice in their step to the beginnings of doom. I will burn today, and I will not blaze alone.

The Gamemakers are perched upon their thrones, adorned with Capitol extravagance and beauty that can only be crafted artificially. They may as well be wearing crowns on their heads, with the power and blood cupped in their hands.

It is a shame they will not be joining me in the flames.

Perhaps infernos would suit them.

My steps are steady, contrary to my mustang heart. Every fiber of my being throbs with fear under the scrutinizing gaze of the Gamemakers. They are the Fates now, and I am their thread, spinning spinning spinning until they decide it is time for me to be severed. In these precious, short moments, they will evaluate the worth of the victor's sister.

I turn to face them, a calm, kind smile dimpling my face - but it glimmers with the undertone of a sly smirk. The stone is lifted for a moment, and I allow them a glimpse at the bleeding humanity that still lives in District Nine's new trophy tribute. But the agony, the fear, is tucked away in its makeshift prison cell.

With a mischievous wink of my eye, the first tug of the curtain in front of the slowly unfolding scheme, the soft clouds roll away, and they are left with stone once more.

I immediately make a beeline for the flint and firewood, set off to the side from the weapons whose glinting blades beckon me like a million whispers of wind - Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. But there is a fork in the road, one trail pulling me to the weapons, the other to the flames.

Something new surfaces in my mind, and I quickly grab hold of as many knives as I can carry in two hands with a bag slung over my shoulder. And I don't stop again, not for a curtsy or an introduction - they know who I am - or another smile at the Gamemakers.

My body drops to the ground with the tote bag, and I quickly unload its contents, shielding them from the eyes of the Gamemakers with my back.

Plushies.

Twenty-four plushies, each resembling one 71st tribute.

(I am afraid Gloria will have to make another trip to the merchandise shop after my training session.)

Someith Krearns, Leticia Tibideaux, Jequirity Eckhart, Annora Taylor, Dustyn Chase, Leo Everitt, Saxton Hale, Beretta Corléon (and her alluring hair), Cody Bowers-Fox, and so on into death row - each made into a ridiculously cute plushie. But the stuffed tribute replicas do not capture the horror I see in their eyes. They are portrayed as cheerful children, waltzing in a paradise - but this is a lie, this is the opposite of the reality.

These plushies, these grinning, revoltingly blissful plushies, are the exact image of how Snow and his Gamemakers must wish for us to be seen as in the Capitol. But in the districts, in our own eyes, we are a pile of bones floating down a crimson river.

My hands nearly curl in repulsion as they come into contact with each tribute plushie, especially my own.

Several moments pass, and there is only silence and my quick hands. I can nearly feel their boredom burning into my back as time drags on -

tick tock, Hannah!

And at last, the flint lights a piece of wood sitting in the fireplace, constructing my torch.

My gaze latches onto a row of trainers standing solemnly along the sides of the room, each of them watching me intently.

"Each of you, come forward," I say, rising to my feet, torch in hand. It is not a request, stated oh so sweetly and closed with a please. It is a demand, slicing the air with cold precision.

With reluctance, they follow my order.

And I whisper my instructions, the words lost to the ears of my judges.

The trainers disperse, each with a few plushies in each hand, and the first knife is ignited.

- - -

They are flying -

they are like comets, thrust into the air with swift grace. Impaled and shot down in the midst of heights and glory by a blade, with fire that leaps onto the soft fabric of the tribute duplicate and gradually devours its button eyes and cotton insides. And they plummet, brilliant fallen stars, to the ground, leaving a trail of smoke in their wake.

One, two, three plushies, soaring into the air all at once -

One, two, three flaming knives -

slice slice slice,

and the mock tributes meet their end.

The exaggeratedly adorable duplicates of Ruth Foster, Kitty Keeni, and Harbinger Rhodes, succumb to the flames and surrender to the ash and embers.

The crackling of the ravenous flames, like hushed gunshots, is music to my ears.

My show finishes with fireworks, five tribute plushies tossed up up up, for me to ignite them into torches and tear them into ruins. Hannah O'Leary is among them, but I pay no mind to her wide blue eyes, made to look heartbreakingly adorable - but they just look like a pair of ghosts to me.

I release my knives, alive with beautiful fire that screams for more smoke and ashes. They are weightless in my hands, feathers. Before Colgate taught me everything he knew as a fuck you to the Capitol, weapons felt like stones in my glass hands. But these knives do not drive ice into my bones; they pull nostalgia into my heart, and transport me back to District Nine, where Colgate was my guardian (but he can't protect me, not anymore, not in the arena) and he held my hand through each path I trudged along.

And he is with me in this moment, guiding my steady hand with his own. I can hear his words - "Chin up" - in my head, as my new fireworks fall.

Fire is raining down on us; smoke is creeping into our breath.

But this blazing wonderland is mine, and for once, in a very long time,

I am not afraid.

I once feared fire, ran from its harsh light. But now I long for its touch, so gentle and kind. We are old friends, fire and I, reunited in a horror story.

All twenty-four tribute plushies burn and begin to combust on the floor, where I have set aside my knives and blown out my torch. Crouching low as the time spirals down the drain, I draw long black lines with the charred end of the extinguished torch.

And I step away, leaving the flames to devour their prey and the Gamemakers to weigh my worth in their golden scales.

ALL OF US, it reads, my words written in bold, charcoal letters, in the center of the ring of burning plushies.

No one ever leaves the Arena,

not the victor,

not the twenty-three tributes, sent home in a wooden box.

All of us. We are all their chess pieces, we are all theirs. We are all just bones to scatter and bury and break. We are all just drops of blood on a very stained, very large, and very old tablecloth.

All of us.

And I recede, turning to the sliding doors without another word or glance at the kings and queens lounged on their thrones. I remain stone on the outside, even as my fear of the arena attempts a new riot, even as my agony for all I have lost threatens to turn me into its puppet.

(Agony will have to battle Glamour Kinkade and Dom Copperview for ownership of my strings.)

Today, I have burned with my plushie victims. Today, I am Hannah, I am burning, behind a stone barrier.

Only one thought, and one feeling, entwined together as one, prevails through the wall of stone I have stacked between myself and the waiting world.

All of us.

It rings out in my mind as the doors close behind me, like the red curtains closing after a show in the theater.

if i'm a flame, i'm a forest fire speaking

savage tongues as i emerge from the hills
i am an avalanche, i am unchained
i'm awoken, i'll unleash hell

❧

{ table: zoë }

---

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

When the full list of tributes had been placed into his hands - lettered in gold and embossed onto vellum - Glamour had been almost as excited by the middle of the list as the beginning. How could he not be? He had his very own Name-Thing and Lurch's little sister. He'd already talked about both Hannah and Cody plenty over the course of many interviews and press releases. We're very excited by the possibilities.

Not that he thought either could win, but it was an intriguing possibility nevertheless.

Hannah entered with a back clutched in pale white fingers, her gaze flickering like a flame over the Gamemakers' perch. He waved lazily to her. She spun, winked, and so the show commenced. Glamour found himself edging forward over the course of the hour, so that by the grand finale, he was very nearly seated on the floor instead of his throne.

Possibilities.

When she leaves, Glamour starts to laugh from his belly. "Ah well, at least Hannah O'Leary can count." He fiddles with the tablet, listening to Dom's insights. He likes fire. He's always liked fire. If Lurch told his little sister that, well, perhaps they'd have a few more shows to look forward to.

Possibilities.

In the end, he scratches a number into the official sheet. "A 7 for the possibilities the District Nine tribute affords us."

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

Mother, make me
Make me a bird of prey
So I can rise above this, let it fall away
Mother, make me
Make me a song so sweet
Heaven trembles, fallen at our feet

My distaste for this whole fuckin situation is off the charts.

I’m one of the last names on this goddamn list, so these Gamemakers aren’t gonna give shit to my name, no matter what I do. I bide my time in the waiting room, pulling from a bottle of whiskey so I can feel a burning in my chest, and they call out name after name after stupid name, the sound all dull and monotone. Nobody’s talking, nobody’s laughing, nobody’s living, and there ain’t nothing in this place to keep me sane before I head into that room.

When it’s my turn, I tip the bottle back for another drink and rise from my chair, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and rubbing at the skin on my cheeks so the color springs up nice and red. With a long-legged stride and swinging hips and a bottle clutched tightly in my fist, I step into the room and pause there, meeting the eyes of the few Gamemakers who still have the courtesy to afford me some attention. I am not so afraid of them, and I do not feel the need to prove myself.

”My name is Annora Taylor,” I say, loud and proud, smiling wide as I take another pull from the bottle. ”I brought you a gift.”

The one thing my Mama taught me was how to please.

Grinning slyly, I step toward the Gamemakers and gently set the bottle of whiskey down in front of them like I’m making an offering to the gods.

I meet their eyes one by one.

A minute later I’m holding a knife, and I’m standing right in front of the Gamemakers with the sharp tip of the blade pressed against my pointer-finger. Blood drips crimson out of the small wound, and I brush it up against my lips to paint them red so I can look like a nice fine lady indeed.

My gaze is wicked as it passes over an array of dummies lined up side-by-side. There’s twenty-three in all, with nice little bows of rope tied around their necks.

All that’s missing is the wrapping paper.

When I kiss each of the twenty-three on the cheek, the gentle imprint of my blood-red lips lingers on, a testament to my love and my power over pleasure, a symbol rather than a demonstration. On this day, I have no skirts to hike up over my thighs, no gentle skin to caress, no man or woman to please just to prove that I am capable.

With each kiss, I lodge a knife into my dummy victim’s throat.

Twenty-three kisses, twenty-three knives, twenty-three gifts to the Gamemakers.

The only thing I have to offer them is my unwavering devotion to the entertainment of the masses and my willingness to do what they want of me, and I am not afraid.

I am not afraid.

I am so willing. 

I meet the Gamemakers’ eyes one by one, smiling with blood-soaked lips.

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

One of the ingenues in his entourage massages Glamour's shoulders as Annora Taylor announces herself. Annora reveals her gift just out of reach of the glass and electricity. Glamour smirks. The ingenue digs into a knot in his left trapezius. He seizes her petite hand, twisting it. The girl gasps as Glamour dismisses her. "I think I'm going to like this session," he says by way of apology.

As it turns out, he likes it very much.

When Annora paints her lips in blood, Glamour mimics the motion with gloss. When she's done kissing and smiling, Glamour taps his pink coated lips with the tips of his fingers and blows her a kiss. Dom is grumbling about how she didn't do much of anything. Glamour tsks. "That, my dear Gamemaker, is art. We need more artists in this arena. I mean we aren't just looking to kill all of these tributes, right? If we were, could just line them up and -" He forms a pistol with his long fingers, aims right at the whiskey bottle Annora Taylor left, and flicks his thumb.

He glances at Dom, registers her expression, and rolls his eyes. "Not happening. We need a show. A story. And I think Annora Taylor can give us one. A 7 for Miss Red Lips Taylor."

[mat]

[googlefont="Astloch:400"]

rodrick benstaloe

The nineteen tribute’s names that were called before me are all fake. None of them are any more than characters written in a fictional story. I can only hope that emotions will not be a key part of this journey, and if it is, then that will be a true nightmare. All twenty-four of us have to fight for each other; even if they are fake, they still have a story behind them. Hopefully, it doesn’t have to come into play.

My legs vibrate on the long bench like chair that now only a few of us are sitting on. The truth is, I’m nervous. I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of these special people. I slowly inhale and exhale in hopes that I won’t be as fidgety when I have to show them what I am worth. I am worth a sufficient amount in my opinion, but not everyone thinks the same in dreams, even if I am the star.

These people I have to show myself off to have seen many people like me. As Rodney would say, ‘A man with a sweet bod’, can get people to appreciate me. But other than that, there’s nothing really special about me. I’m just a country boy, pretty boy, nice boy. Good thing Daddy taught me to grow up with the manners of a gentleman. Even in my dreams, I still try and be nice because you never know when karma might strike you.

I haven’t heard the Dream Master when I’ve fallen asleep lately. It seems like he has abandoned me in the times I need him most. Perhaps it is because I got upset that he put me in this position. I wish he could come back and guide me through the Games. I’ve liked this dream up a few days ago, and after that, things seemed to get a lot worse.

It’s been a few minutes since the last person walked into the room of hell and horrors. I don’t want to go in there. Can’t we just skip this part of the dream, please? I don’t want to make a fool of myself!

My name is called on a loud speaker, and I wish that I could run the other way. I can’t. I can’t be a coward in the face of the devil. That’s easy prey for a predator to pounce upon. I get up. I scream in my mind yet see calm outside. This may be just a few moments, but it will truly be pivotal in this path through my dreams. Don’t screw this up. Don’t fuck yourself. These people can practically choose whether to give your life or death. Just breathe. Don’t make a fool of yourself, Rodrick. What would Rodney think of you if he saw this? Make him proud.

I slowly make my formal debut to the people watching. I hope they don’t see the fear in my eyes as I look directly toward them. I wish there was some way to occupy myself while proving to them that I am more than just a tall fit boy. ”Howdy,” I begin to make my opening speech to them, and right away I feel like I messed up. Typical person from District Ten. The others speak with a different accent, not as heavy as mine, but probably more snobbish. ”I’m Rodrick, from District Ten? Hope y’all are havin’ a good day, uh,” I’m at a loss for words, so I just finish with one word. ”okay.”

I don’t know what to do first. I feel the sweat building itself upon my forehead, and the nervousness drains down to my chest. It feels hot, or is it just me? I quickly take my shirt off, hoping that they don’t mind. The room seems relatively cool, but it’s as if my body in baking under the bright sun. I can hear my heart pumping blood to keep me from fainting. This is the first time the spotlight has been truly on me, and now that I stand here, I wish I wasn’t as much as an attention hog as I was back home. Back there, Mama and Daddy asked me every hour if I was feeling okay. They did it as if they were concerned for my well-being. Now that I have to willingly be the centre of attention, there’s a lot of pressure.

I tap my feet, trying to come up with something with the slightest bit of impressiveness. I haven’t really put into consideration what I was good at in the training and what I wasn’t. I just did what I did because I had no other choice. A line of rope is straight up and down. Perhaps that is feasible, and it wouldn’t be too hard to feat. I gently place my shirt on the cart with a rack of axes. I crack my knuckles before I go up to tackle the rope. I count to three to myself, and then I bend my legs down and jump, creating a firm grip on the rope. Now comes the harder part. In order to call it a success, I have to climb all the way to the top which is basically a wall.

It’s probably to mimic climbing a tree. I’ve done that before, but the tree was definitely not like this rope. Trees are stable; with the rope, you’re dangling for dear life, hoping you don’t fall and kill yourself already. I don’t find it too difficult, especially when you don’t take your time. I set myself to a fairly fast pace, pressing the bottoms of my shoes on the rope to make sure I don’t slide off. Each step I take, I feel as if something’s falling off of me, but I can’t exactly tell what. I decide to ignore it and keep going. I’m almost to the top when there is something surrounding my shoes, I look down. Stunned, I release my feet from the rope and my pants slide down and land on the floor. Shit. Wow. What an idiot I am. I try not to call myself out aloud. Maybe they’re too carried away to notice that I practically made a fool out of myself.

I try and slide down as quickly as possible, and the pain that I feel as I lower myself without letting go is not the only pain I have felt. I burns, but my head burnt harder as I saw my last true life plant itself down head first onto solid, hard ground. But now, there isn’t as much pain as my feet land firmly on the ground. I quickly rub my hands together, letting the brush burn’s pain release itself early so I don’t have to deal with it later on. I slip my pants back on, and also put my shirt back on. Don’t be awkward like that. I can only hope that they appreciated the slight humor, but now I have to truly prove my worth.

I pull up the short-sleeved shirt, so now there looks to be no sleeves. It’s very hot in here, and I have to let as much skin show, hoping that any move I make will allow a breeze to cool myself off. I still have time to show them that I didn’t make a total fool out of myself. The Dream Master really wants to make a mockery out of me, but I won’t let him. He can’t keep winning. He’s already given me so much worry and pain. I have to be on the winning side for once against him. I want to be in control. Victory will be mine, whether it be now, in a minute, in a day. I will show my supremacy against the Dream Master, one way or another. I grab a set of throwing axes, hoping that today, my aim will fine. Four axes, four sets of targets I have the chance to hit.

The first ax is hopefully just a warmup, but if it’s not, it will probably be a complete failure. I breathe, taking one step forward. I want to launch it to the head, or maybe the neck or heart. I would never do this shamelessly to a human being, but as of this moment, I have to look shameless. I look back at the people watching, hoping they’re still paying attention. I sway the axe once, twice, thrice.. now I raise the axe above my head, trying to take as little hesitation as possible. Go, you idiot! I pull it as far back as possible, and then whip it forward. It is only a second before it hits a solid. I flinch, hoping it doesn’t swing back and chop my head off. Two seconds later, I open my eyes and see it landed on the hips.

Now ax number two’s handle is firmly placed in my hand. I try to aim higher. The hip would be a nice place to land a weapon, it could definitely stall an enemy. I want to show them that I’m not just muscles. I have actual strength. If I have to be a showoff to prove my worth, then I definitely will. I tap my feet in sync with my axe, and I throw is as hard as I can. This one I can feel a bit prouder with. It lands a bit off the body image, but its right below the crotch and between the legs. That would definitely hurt a male tribute unless they are like the incredible hulk.

Axes three and four better get some higher aim, or I won’t consider this a success in my book. The third ax feels slightly lighter than the other two, which makes the grasp different. I guess I have to learn to compromise. One, two, three, I send the axe launching to the target. This I feel like is a success. The ax brutally ripped itself into the third target’s neck. I can’t help but smile. I reached my goal with one ax to spare. I look at one of the trainers, who is supposed to be there to make sure nothing shitty happens while we’re strutting our stuff.

I give him a death stare. He was the one, the one that yelled at Daria for backing away from Training. That isn’t how to treat anyone, even if you are an instructor. ”You should be taught how to respect people,” I snap at him, readying to throw the ax directly into his skull. Don’t be an idiot. What would they think if you murdered him? They’d give you shit! My smile turns into a pout. Just as I ready to throw the ax at the instructor, I turn and flick the weapon the other way, towards the target. Now this one hits where the crotch would be. ”Gotcha,” I laugh at the instructor. I guess I can get a bang at the crotch without even needing to aim. I hope they appreciate accidents that bring off fun vibes because that is all I feel like I accomplished.

As my show seems to come to a close, I realize that I could’ve killed that trainer, but I took pity on him. I slid down the rope and felt physical pain from the burns. I haven’t felt that harsh of pain since before then. In fact, I haven’t felt any pain until now. Mama and Daddy have been protecting me all this time, why? Because I am truly fragile? Because nothing I’ve been thinking is a dream? My parents have been giving me what I want because they’ve taken pity on me. I haven’t been dreaming, have I? I’ve been lied to.

Oh ripred, no. I can’t actually die. Hell no, oh goodness please no. I don’t want to die, shit, shit!

I make one last stare at the two people watching. I wink with one eye, blink twice, and head towards the door.

Stop, you’re just overreacting. They’re trying to make you think it isn’t a dream.

It’s just a dream.

It’s just a dream.

It’s just a dream that I want to wake up from.

--

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

Glamour swung his head back and forth, shaking his head melodramatically, as soon as Rodrick Bentsaloe began to speak. What was it about the outer districts that so poisoned their children's mouths? Glamour's own puckered in response to the boy's accent, to the okay end of his introduction. But at least he could talk, which should have been a low bar to clear, but wasn't. Not these Games. They had more mutes on their hands than killers, which was going to be a problem.

Glamour was looking for someone to give him a story, and he'd even settle for someone who referred to him as y'all. Especially if the mouth forming that atrocious word was attached to a trim half-naked form. Clearly not every mentor was too wrapped up in their spawn to take note of his preferences. He jotted a reminder to send Saffron Lowe and Patricia Valfierno some chocolates.

The boy climbs and Dom mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like physics even though Glamour is very certain they should care more about physicality when Rodrick Benstaloe loses his pants.

Glamour giggles then hiccups, the champagne getting the better of him. "Oh I like this boy," he murmurs and surprisingly doesn't hear any dissent from his Co-Gamemaker. The tribute builds his performance, warming up with the axes until his aim is absolutely lethal. There's a moment when the entire room draws a breath. They hold.

The trainer is life is spared.

They exhale.

Glamour flinches at the exact placement of the final axe. He uses the flinch as an excuse to pour himself more champagne. He takes a sip, listening to Dom, and then hiccups once more. "Y'all'd've thought we'd seen the last good show for today." He lays the accent on thick, waits for the adoring laughter of his entourage to die. "But that, my friends, was pure theater. A 9 for the handsome boy from District Ten!"

[Muffinface]

Maybe I'll see you again when it's snowing in Venice,
And I will be on my way home.

"Septys, tell us a story."

While some of his fellow tributes tremble in fear, or tingle with excitement, Sepyts' Career-building roots take hold. Private Training Sessions are described as the most enjoyable part of pre-game training by more than one of his trainers, and their words have yet to disappoint. He finds himself hanging on to each and every analogy they use, distant memories flooding back throughout the time in the center. The gymnasium appears rather large without the presence of the other tributes, and he already feels himself spreading out, eyes tumbling across various stations he didn't even know existed here, things they don’t teach in District One. What the fuck is rationing?

A grin comes to his lips- not something twisted or rent from superiority or terror, but a true, honest grin. From the time of his twelfth birthday, Septys had run through a mock PTS about ten or eleven times with soft faced pretend game makers, but this- this was phenomenal, the real deal. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, cells colliding with each other to get to his flesh the fastest, burning his body with eager highlight of his form.

It was not a display of deft killing abilities, but a game- whoever got the highest score earned themselves a half-off coupon for some restaurant past the district center, and that meant a family walk down winding alleys, playing things like 'Eye Spy' and Tag around the tightly clasped hands of their mother and father, brothers bonding in the palms of youth.

The last session he attended was nearly three years ago, before the death of an unconvinced mother.

All of ten years old, he begins to spill a tale to the cluster of humans spread along the king-sized bed, towel tied around his neck as if it were a sheet. "Alright. Once upon a time, there was this beautiful maiden. She was a princess, magnificent, and loved by all her subjects, but she never chose to be a princess. All she wanted was to run and play in the sun, but the King refused to let her- women don’t come home with muddy faces and broken skin."

He stands upon an invisible square placed smack in the middle of the room, his eyes lifting to catch the darkened gaze of two he'd seen before, in years past. He is second during this year’s lineup, and ponders what Ruth may have done during her session. He can’t quite tell if it impressed them or not, and imagined them as the eager, round-faced bearded men who always graded his previous performances.

"Hello, I'm Septys Lexig from District One." he announces, voice projecting easily across his stage, as if he were back home parading across the huge king-sized bed in their parents room the family would collect in to watch his antics. There is no reason to state who he is, they already know. But this is an audition for a play with a lead role fit for kings, and he will kill for his character.

Far too much time passed between the last play and now, but he is ready, regardless of the fingers of circumstance. Digits tingling with excitement, he turns, and struts proudly to the knife station.

"She was such a troublemaker, the King put her at the top of a high tower, where she would grow up alone, with nothing but a vicious, fire-breathing dragon for company. He told her one day, a majestic prince would come to free her from the prison he'd made and she would come home showered in riches and adoration from her people."

Excitedly he digs through the packets of knives, sifting for the perfect tool. His hands fall upon one, solid steel, about the length of his palm and thick as his little finger. The blade itself is jagged, with steep mountains and deep valleys meant for carving and rending. Two fingers rub carefully over the top of the knife, keeping away from the blade- One side holds a slight lip, curving ever so gently to the left. It is invisible to the naked eye, but the inevitable mistake whatever factory imbued this blade with is one he takes thankfully.

Its perfect imperfection grants him an arrow to continue, and his gaze flickers to the medical station. Foot falls not too fast nor too slow carry him across perfectly even tile, his hands falling into the ingredients, searching, digging for anything he can use.

"A prince in a neighboring kingdom, fifth in line for the throne starts preparing, his knights training him on how to kill dragons. He drills for years and years, dreaming of her soft hands on his face, and the gentle caress of her kiss for months before he finally embarks on the journey."

His hands grab at a bottle, carefully tucking it into a pocket. The white label burns in his pants, his lips forming a gentle curve upwards to two points. Its small, barely peeks out over the black fabric of the pants he wears, but there, offering him a grim comfort nonetheless.

He ambles past the medicinal plants, eyes brushing above each of the bundles, fingers gently tracing the edges of the table. Nothing useful here.

Septys continues, beyond trapping, rationing, fire-starting with his hand carefully tapping the surface of each table, poking at this or that, withdrawing once or twice to the soft fabric of his pockets. He's made a large semi-circle throughout the auditorium, and finally comes to a stop before a boxed-off area, mannequins and training dummies dotting the surface like a forest of still humanoids.

"The prince rides day and night, nonstop, barely even sleeping for a week until he arrives at the princess' tower. All seems quiet, and he approaches. Giant, black wings unfurl and collapse upon him, casting a huge shadow with a tremendous ROAR!"

Stationary targets are easy. Even the youngest, weakest career can hit a dummy planted firmly on stiff feet. The games are different- everyone else is moving too, their thoughts, feelings, emotions, instincts clouding their minds. Sometimes that autopilot, trance-like setting can be more dangerous than physically thinking about what one is about to do.

Slim fingers again, tap on the surface of the station table. Glinting upon the very center, a curved button stares back at Septys, the word 'ACTIVATE' in large, white font shining, screaming, calling to be pressed.

An index finger reaches for the thing, and carefully pushes down, until a 'Click' can be heard, and the mannequins begin shuddering to life, shifting, moving side to side, then back to front. Some have hands that lift and clench, as though they were ready to pummel the tribute to the ground. Others stray to the outside edges, cowering, arms thrown over faceless heads and featureless bodies.

Septys stifles a laugh, hand lifting to his lips.

"The gallant prince screams out- 'Let the princess go, she is no longer your prisoner! She will become my bride!' But the dragon opens its maw, and spits fire down on the hapless prince, who is forced to gallop away."

The mannequins remind him of something out of a children's book, a many headed creature that can't quite decide if it wants to run or fight, and he gingerly steps over the threshold into the hurricane of swirling hands and fists.

One comes at him from the left, and he lifts his shoulder to catch the dummy’s forearm in midair with his tight palm, causing it to stop its assault for a moment. The knife clutched firmly in the knuckles of his right fingers slip deep into the thing's jugular, biting down as hard as it possibly could.

A spray pushes out, splattering the male's face, coating his features in a sticky substance as he backs away and allows the frame to collapse into the ground. An answering swing pushes into his shoulder, causing Septys to spin on pointed toes, his left fist clenched tight (thumb on the outside, like training dictates) swinging wide, forcing itself below the chin of the closest monster with all of his weight placed behind the motion.

It too, collapses, though not quite 'dead'- its head twitches upon its shoulders, spasms of electricity alighting its pained fingers. Septys grins down at it, and steps nonchalantly over the 'corpse,' diving down below swinging fists, as another pair rush at him, colliding together in their hurry to fight him.

"The dragon falls to his princess, carefully laying his head beside her while she giggles. 'He was too full of himself.' the dragon explains, the princess' hands running along the beast's shining scales. What the Kingdom didn't know, what the King didn't care to see; the friendship both princess and dragon forged a close bond through the years alone together kept them both alive and afloat. The dragon would do anything to protect his only family-"

The knife slams between two ribs, pointed tendrils of excitement boring into the side of the thing. Its hands reach, though Septys is prepared, his knee jutting into the soft underbelly of the human machine, his hand pushing into where a pure white eye responds, whirling every direction as though sizing him up.

A thumb plunges into the twisting socket, 'Two pounds' of pressure forcing the thing free with a sickening POP until the dummy collapses, pulling itself away from the blade of his knife.

The last bit of humanity in the room charges, its fingers outstretched, confident it too, can enact vengeance for its fallen brothers, sisters, whatever the fuck machines identify as.

Arms dip, dropping down to his pockets while steady hands throw steel and that burning white bottle into the open- the blade of the knife lifts the spinning lid free, cutting the top away from a thirsty body as the stuff dips into his mouth, spilling, pouring over his front.

It falls to the floor, drenching it in alcohol as the knife spins in his fingers, imperfect lip pushing hard over top the elongated fire starter, flurry of sparks rising before the tribute and the body as his hands slam down and out of the way; you could never hold your mother-fucking liquor.

"Cmon Sep, it didn't happen like that."
"Yes it did!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I am the dragon!"

His jaws part ever so slightly, a spray of alcohol, saliva, and oxygen erupting into the air before him. The mixture floats across the ignited magnesium stick and his knife, catching particles of the liquid aflame with a humongous, fizzling, WHOOSH. Millions, trillions of fireflies flutter across the empty space, hungering, sucking anything they can inhale, while enveloping the mannequin in a fiery embrace.

Shadows collapse, folding in on themselves from the massive burst of light, the heat from the fireball billowing over papers from stations nearby, fluttering and flickering to the ground.
He holds his position before the dummy, his hand lowered out of the way while he sprays, eyes narrowing at the thing before him while the light from his fire threatens to take his sight. A sickening odor of melting plastic fills the air, hanging heavy before it, too, collapses to the ground.

Ruined flesh, still alight with bits of flame collapse into the puddle of alcohol the rent bottle dispersed. A second ball of flame swallows the air, ripping away the male’s breath while he stares upwards at the game makers, that same, crooked grin on his lips, heart alight with the fires burning beside him threatening to overtake and engulf the entire stage.

Memories of companions abandoned back in his home district peruse and flutter through the corridors of his mind; oh, what they may say if they could see the impressive explosion his exhalation brought! Sure, their small group did things similar in the past with failed batches of moonshine, never the good stuff because ‘That shit is expensive’ and it was considered a sin to waste such fine alcohol on a mere party trick especially when they could sell it instead of earning a night in bed with a familiar face and open arms.

His hands lift with the blade tight in his fingers, as a few loud beeps echo down, nozzles flashing from the ceiling. Though its isolated to Septys’ corner, a dark, ocean blue liquid seeps down, foaming and fizzling once it contacts the fires below.

Immediately the fires dim and flicker out, while Septys stands, his hair sticking to his face with the gel coating his form and outstretched arms. Still he smiles, and finally, he bows, the gentle curve of his body nothing if not respectful as he announces a pleasant “Thank you!” to the makers.

In his game, Septys wins the coupon.

Oct 8, 2015 20:36:59 GMT -5 aya said:

from the desk of
Dom Copperview

---

While Dom is busy trying to push the dread of how long this day will be if every tribute decides to make a mess even half the size of Ruth Foster's, Septys Lexig from District One strides into the training center introduces himself as such. He quickly makes his way toward the racks and tables of weapons, examining each knife until he finds one to his liking.

Dom had always been fond of the detail-oriented Careers — she can expect technical precision and perfection from them, two traits she values in her tributes. It made them predictable, logical, and easy to reason about. An easy factor to consider in all of her calculations and simulations. A sure thing.

He has her interest before he even begins the onslaught of mannequins. His technique is impressive, his motions fluid and collected. He has her attention before he presses his thumb through the dummy's eye, before he turns the last one into a charred heap with a well-placed fireball straight from his mouth.

"Aiming for the eye again, hmm? Perhaps we'll be seeing a repeat of last year," she muses to Glamour. "And with that fire-breathing display, you'd half expect him to be one of Cricket's protégées."

Dom Copperview is not easily impressed, but Septys Lexig has given her reason to take notice. Her co-Gamemaker is not hard to sway; with a slim smile, she marks down a 10 for the District One.

[L△LIA]

you can't kill that love in me
it's a game, can't be tamed

Anticipation is an art. Electricity lives in the space between lips, not the collision of a kiss. It’s the breath before having something that empowers the God of Wanting and dares every soul in this world to have courage. Bravery, you swear without having to speak a word, will be rewarded.

Your audience already knows your gimmick, having seen close up shots of your predatory eyes. The element of surprise has been stolen and broadcast obsessively, tag lines exclaiming awe for a girl being born with what people here go under the knife for. Capitolites love you like your mother never could, laying claim instead of cringing at the sight of their newborn daughter. You are everything they are while also being different to a point of isolation. The gamemakers watching you know this, having witnessed your face in high definition upon screen after screen.

Actually looking you in the eyes is something else entirely.

Your footsteps possess no echo, softer than ghosts. Royalty walks without making a fuss of itself, confident that even in silence your presence is still the loudest thing in the room, and you do not deign to so much as meet their gaze. You make them hold their breath and ache with curiosity, knowing there is something here to be seen that they are being denied. This is not what they’re used to.

The others who have come before you and continue after are overeager to please while you, Queen Corléon, you pick up a knife sharpener and begin using it as a nail file. Back and forth. Back and forth. The room is so hushed that the slow abrasions are audible. Holding your hand out for inspection, you take a moment to admire your stylist team's handiwork. Your nails are radiant in the light, glinting golden with a tangible realization of your Midas touch. This was your one demand and they wouldn’t have denied you even if they weren’t too distracted with your eye makeup to be bothered about the particulars of your manicure.

Back and forth. Back and forth. The space between your face and those who would dare to judge you grows volatile with your refusal to lean into them, to give them that small glance they’re convinced is meant to be theirs. Setting the file down, you reach into your pocket to pull out a tube of lipstick and proceed to refresh the violent scream of red adorning your mouth. Those lips are mute in a way that makes onlookers wonder if they’ve gone deaf.

As if there has ever been a flaw to fix, you turn to the practice dummy beside you, seeking a second opinion: better now? It is frighteningly human with its false flesh and you look right into its imitation eyes, giving away what should be the gamemakers’ prize, before reaching out with a lover’s touch to trace a perfect, glinting fingertip across its skin.

That skin unzips itself for you.

Like a master thief, you begin at the bottom and meticulously move upward so the mess of your mischief won’t get in your own way. Efficient. From ankle to cheek, that carefully sharpened nail razors flesh into a map of bloodlines, tracing major arteries that gush with enthusiasm for your touch. Thank you for this freedom, the blood says as the body dies, I have always dreamed of air. Precision-thin threads of red drown in the ensuing downpour, their subtle elegance lost as the life that was never there spills, riots, runs rampant.

Drained empty, the dummy falls out of balance and into your hands. There is a quiet, sincere thank you curled into the corners of your mouth as you catch its jaw in the cradle of your palms — you love the ones who die for you the most — and press your lips to the center of a forehead that had nearly escaped this encounter unscathed. This is the moment the world almost didn’t know it was waiting for. Flicking your eyes up to lock your audience into a triangle of annihilation, the smudged blasphemy of your pupils flashes electric.

When you pull your lips away from the lie of that massacred skin, you pull away from everything. Your victim is unceremoniously released into a pool of its own blood, ichored footprints of abandonment left in your wake as you walk out without ever having touched a weapon. Only the signature of your lips stays as a visible mark and its hallowed whisper resonates: You have never been unarmed.

from the desk of
Dom Copperview

---

In her two decades of experience as a Gamemaker, Dom Copperview had accumulated a sizable dataset on every sort of tribute that crossed through her training center and into her arena. There were the timid ones, meek and accepting of their fates - even when they acted brave, those bored her. There were the clever tributes (which she liked) and those that erroneously thought they were clever (which she didn't) and those that were so monumentally stupid that they thought privately mouthing off to the Gamemakers was a good idea.

Beretta Corleon says nothing.

With her two decades of experience as a Gamemaker, Dom Copperview knows that tributes like the one casually filing her nails before them are few and far between. There is a poise, a grace, an elegance that does not come out to play all that often. They never seem to belong with the other tributes, in Dom's arenas. If they belonged in the Capitol, it was at the top of a skyscraper, at the head of a mahogany table, eyes screaming Warning! and closed lips spelling out poison. Dom has had a rare few of tributes like this. She never knows quite what to make of them.

The standard career tribute is her favorite sort: trained, technical, precise. Predictable, more than anything. Easy to reason about. Skillful enough to put up a fight, to put on a good show; disciplined enough to do exactly what Dom expects of them. Some Gamemakers — (she casts a sidelong glance at the tipsy Glamour Kinkade) — find their brutishness droll, but as much as they may insist to the contrary, not a single Gamemaker genuinely likes surprises.

But as Beretta runs her hand over the dummy beside her, paring pseudo-skin from pseudo-sinew as casually as if she were feeling the fabric of its shirt, Dom decides that perhaps not all surprises are terrible.

Glamour agrees, and they quickly decide on a 10.