public training sessions

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

do it fat.

R E E S E L A C H A N C E

 

He wanted to be weightless. He wanted to float away and leave the world behind him and never look back. As he sat in waiting for a chance to show the game makers he was worth something, he had to fight off a smile.

He wanted to leave the world behind? He was certainly in the right place.

At last, his name and a picture of his face lit up on the wall he and the other tributes faced. He blushed. It was just the picture of a boy from District Seven. It wasn't bruises and fragile bones, nor was it unfair restrictions or pitiful looks from people too afraid to go near him. It was just a picture of a boy, and if he wanted, he could keep things that way.

They knew about his disorder, no doubt. Possibly they had his entire medical history laid out on the desk in front of them, but it was still up to him if he let it beat him. It was his job to convince him he was not as sick as he really was.

He stood and entered, mechanical doors filing shut with lightning precision the moment he was past them.

“One last time and we’re free.” Nico had said. The words replayed themselves over and over again as Reese marched into the valley of death.

Free. Free. Free.

He loved the idea.

The room seemed much bigger when the others weren't around. And for some reason, a lot safer. He did not waste time with introductions. He knew he would have blushed and fumbled over the right things to say. He might have even forgotten his own name. And he was just a boy to them, and he would keep it that way.

He scanned his surroundings.

He wanted to become weightless.

He could hear Eva in his head: “Be careful, Reese. Please.”

“Not this time.” He had replied.

He carried four dummies over to the rock-climbing station, situating them so that they looked like friends having a conversation. He knew too well what that looked like, since most of the time, he was forced to watch from the other side of the room.

But he was just a boy to them.

He tied a piece of rope around his waist, then hefted the rest over his shoulder, placed a knife with a serrated edge between his teeth, and tucked a blow dart gun into the waistband of his jeans. He also pocketed a pair of pliers and a hammer for good measure.

And then, he became weightless. Each movement came easier than the next as he scaled the rocky wall. His feet seemed to find a motion and his hands always seemed to know where to go. After he got about halfway to the top, he tied the rope off. He made sure it was as secure as he could get it, and he went on climbing.

Eventually, his legs shaking from exhaustion, he was afraid to look down. He tried his best to swallow it away. He was not a victim. He could be a knight if that was what they wanted him to be and he was there to prove it.

He took in a deep breath, and finished the climb. Once at the top, the height didn't seem quite as scary. In fact, he found it rather fascinating because a thought hit him like a bag of bricks:

Anyone could die from this height.

From up there, where the gamemakers had to tilt their heads to see him, he was equal.

He was just a boy standing on the edge of a ten-foot cliff.

He cleared his throat and got into position. Pulling the mouth of the blow dart gun to his lips, he fired. His dart sunk deep into the back of Dummy #1’s skull. It made a sound like the splintering of wood back home: a sort of cracking noise that always made his stomach feel queasy.

He shot another, this time watching as the dart burrowed into the pit of Dummy #2’s stomach.

He stepped up to the edge of the station, and before he could stop himself, he jumped. For a moment, he thought himself an idiot. Even normal people didn't go jumping off of cliffs.

He was certain he had killed himself before the capitol had the chance, but then his knot didn't unravel and the knife didn't fall from fingers that ached from squeezing so hard.

He kicked his feet out in front of him building momentum as he swung downward. He smashed his knife all the way to the hilt in Dummy #3 as he passed, then used the rest of his momentum to plant his feet in Dummy #4’s chest. He was insane for doing this. Eva would have had a heart attack if she only knew.

The plastic man tumbled backward while Reese did his best to land without cracking his legs in half. After taking only a moment to regain his composure, he skipped over to Dummy #4.

It laid on its back, still rocking to and fro slightly. He sat on top of it, putting all of his weight in his legs so that if the thing were a real person it wouldn't have been able to do anything more than squirm.

“I have a disease. And I can't afford any real doctors, so all I know is that my bones are weak and I always have to be careful. I think maybe I didn't drink enough milk when I was little.”

He huffed. No one cared about his story. No one ever had. He had grown up and watched as the others got to have families and homes, and he was left to rot. He didn't even get to decide if he wanted treatment or not. He didn't get to control a single aspect of his life. But no one cared, except Nico and Eva.

“Wanna know which bones I’ve broken?” He asked the dummy.

He emptied his pockets of the hammer and pliers.

“Seven fingers, which is actually not so bad according to the nurse at the Institute.”

One by one he gripped Dummy #4’s fingers with the pliers and snapped them sideways.

“My right ankle. On both sides. I stepped in a hole. That one hurt.”

He slammed the hammer onto the dummy’s foot twice. Fake blood sputtered from one of the wounds. At least, he hoped it was fake blood.

“My left collarbone,” the hammer thudded against its chest. “Left hip.” Again, his hammer followed suit, then he added: “Bike accident.”

“I could go on but let’s face it: at this point, you’d be begging for death. You would be screaming in agony, and you would have already given up. Do you know why you would give up? Because people don't know what it means to fight. Not like I do.”

He stood from his perch, raising the hammer over his head.

“So, for the first time in my life, I think I'll make my own decisions.” The hammer dented in the dummy’s skull.

“I choose to fight.” He whispered.

T H E  L I G H T  B R I G A D E

 

Zaya Reine

Polished red nails flicker through the folder of the male from District Seven. A sickly boy with a baby face. From his records he didn't stand much of a chance. The other Gamemakers were becoming bored, after all they had seen thirteen other kids already. Zaya was still on edge. She had never been allowed to see the private sessions before. Adrenaline still filled her to be behind closed doors. The boy entered the room and her eyes never left him.

She watched as he climbed. As he assassinated dummy after dummy. His little monologue caught her attention and she watched with glee as he obliterated the dummy listing his past injuries.

“I choose to fight." Miss Reine barely heard the words before he was escorted out and the avoxes began to clean up his handy work. Zaya let out a long breath and realized she had been chewing on her pen the entire time. She reached into her bag for a mirror to make sure her lipstick was still in place.

"Fascinating young man," she said into the mirror, wiping away a tiny smudge with her finger. "I say that's eight material. I hope you two agree."

[pup]

D R A K E    H A R V E S T

 

Entering the training room, the door clicking shut behind him, the boy trots quietly in.

Head hanging as to hide his face, his sweaty hands clench and unclench slightly, the boy moves over to in front of those who were placed there to take his life and rip it to shreds as if they were gods.

Steeling his face, looking up, his dark brown eyes remaining unblinking in the face of those sitting in front of him.
“District Eleven Male.”

He says, just as he was told to say, as if they were going to lose track of who was who by the time he stepped foot in front of him. His small voice betrays the tallness of his body. No one would normally expect such a voice from a boy riddled with muscles from working in the hard district eleven sun all day.

His head bows again in front of the gamemakers, the pitch black locks of hair pressing against his forehead as though they are a cloak protecting him from the near future that is just around the corner.

Soon, he and many others will be soaked in blood from either their own wounds or that of another’s. For now, all he needs to do is put on a show for those sitting above him now until his strong body can’t bear the weight of the blood stains any longer. He just needs to show those who pretend to be gods what he can do to make their job more interesting, even though he truly knows that they aren’t gods but instead are devils because he was about to be dragged down into hell by them.

His legs move from beneath him, spinning him to his side and marching away from the gamemakers, moving him over to the trapping station where he takes a seat on the cold floor.

His hands moves to the table in front of him, where all sorts of different ropes are placed to gently pick up one that is just about as thin and metallic as wire, but as long as a whip. Then he smiled. This is where he was meant to be now. The feel of something he could make into something new in his hands invigorated him.

He could see it in his mind now, the late night at the table in his small room, his candle casting a small glow onto his work as he twisted and knotted and tied to create a work of art. That is what he would do now, he decided. He would do what he had been doing since he was five years old: bringing art into the world.

His hands quickly began to spin the wire into complex patterns, grabbing and twisting and turning. His mind was filled with memories of days long past of his mother standing besides his then small figure, guiding his hands until they reached the proper locations. He smiled and closed his eyes slightly, envisioning what the wire would become, and then he finished.

Looking down at the bird with two nooses for wings, he shivered slightly at the fact that this, just like any other form of art, could kill.

Standing upwards, his eyes darted toward the clock, he had wasted almost all of his time until only just a few minutes were left.


Moving over to the ropes course where wires criss crossed across the ceiling, he climbed and climbed until he reached the top before gently looping the a rope he had tied on the top to one of the ropes on the ceiling before letting it drop.

The lights in the room danced playfully across the thin, bendable metal of the wire as the dove took flight into the air, hovering gently above the whole of the room. It was a symbol for peace and love and compassion and all the things these gamemakers did not know the first thing about, and so to impress them he would need to prove that this wasn’t a tool for compassion, but instead it was a tool to murder.

He climbed back down the ropes course and stopped for a moment to watch the dove hover in the air placently before moving over to a dummy that sat in the middle of the room, awaiting to be pierced by a thousand knives.

It was heavy, but he managed to struggle his way back up to where the dove hovered. He sat gently on the ropes on the ropes course before he bent down, cradling the dummy. He swung so that he was upside down, his legs only barely holding him on. He positioned the dummy’s neck by one of the noose wings, and dropped him.

The dummy was the first kill he had ever made in his life as it dangled loosely by it’s neck trapped on the bird, and hopefully in his mind for him, the last kill he will ever need to make.

Then he dropped, spinning himself gently in the air to land on his knees on the padded ground with a small noise of discomfort before he picked himself back up. He wouldn’t show them his weakness, the pain he really felt inside.

That was when the buzzer sounded, and he walked away, turning his back on the devils that tried to entice him to kill.

D I S T R I C T E L E V E N

beautiful table made by zoe <333

The call her bored would have been the understatement of the century. By the time the District Eleven boy walked into the training center, she couldn't even be bothered to smother her yawns. She let her perfectly glossed lips peel back from her perfectly buffed teeth, looking more like a lioness with each exaggerated expression.

He didn't completely fail. A few times she twisted in her chair, the leather of her outfit creaking. A few times she blinked away the cloying sleepiness clinging to her. He had flair and the ability to kill a plastic dummy, at the very least. But he certainly wasn't her victor, her Harbinger Rhodes.

It was only at the end that she realized he'd spoken exactly three words: District Eleven Male. He was already completely anonymous.

"Should I like know who he is or something? Whatever. The bird thing was sort of cool. You ladies good with a five?" Capricious marked the number down, flourishing the edges even though she was quite sure the nameless boy who had just exited wouldn't care at all.

[kap]

RACHEL VIOLETTE | 74th HUNGER GAMES | DISTRICT TWO FEMALE

The girl thought about the reaping and having volunteered. At first, she couldn't think of why she had done it. It was almost as if it were purely an impulse. Later on, though, when her father said goodbye to her in the Justice Buidling, she knew she had a reason. Her father used to be a career, training for the Games when he was younger, but never volunteered, because he didn't feel ready, and wasn't brave enough. As the years went on, though, without Rachel's mother knowing, Rachel's father encouraged her to train for the Games and volunteer one day. Reluctantly, the girl trained, and her father was glad that she had decided to do so. Over the years, though, Rachel never thought she'd have the courage to volunteer. That day, though, on the day of the 74th reaping, she did. She had yelled the words that had sealed her fate with the Games, and it made her father proud. Was it a good thing that her father was proud of his daughter going into a death match? Rachel wasn't sure if it was or not. Surely most people didn't wish for their loved ones to have to deal with something that they may not survive when they went through it. Was her father right to want her to fight? After all, if she won, she'd bring back glory and riches. If she didn't though... if she didn't, she'd be send back as a corpse.

When Rachel got to the Capitol, however, she began to feel the excitement of the Games. Perhaps it was worth volunteering, even if she didn't end up making it. She would have the opportunity to fight and test herself. Her slight array of skills that she had learned through training at home may come in handy in the arena. Today was the day, however, to show those particular skills to the gamemakers. They were going to judge her, and give her a score, showing how well she did. Young Miss Violette wanted to do well. A good training score would not only satisfy her and get her sponsors, but it would make her father proud.

Rachel's name was called for her private training session, and she rose to her feet, then heading into the room. When she arrived, she announced herself to the gamemakers, and then proceeded to get to work. There was a large array of weapons and other things in the room, but the girl knew exactly what she wanted to do. She didn't train a lot as a career back home, but had done some training, at least, and most of it had involved throwing knives. Also, being rather adventurous, she had some other skills, such as climbing. That would be coming in handy today for her private training session.

Taking three lengths of rope, she cut them each to a good length, and made sure they were strong enough pieces. Rachel hung each rope from the highest points she could reach in the training center, tying them tightly, and set up a training dummy about fifty feet away from the bottom of each rope. She then went over to a table where a variety of knives were set out. Their blades shone in the florescent lights from the training center. Picking up one of the knives, she turned it in her hand, as if examining it. Deciding it would be good for the task, she grabbed that knife and two others, each slightly smaller than the first, and headed over towards the first rope that she had hung up. She set down two of the knives, and kept one in her hand, which was the smallest knife of the three.

Rachel pulled on the rope, being sure it was secure, first. Then, climbing up the rope, cautiously, as she had a knife in her hand, Rachel made her way up to the top of the rope, near the point where it was hanging from. Then, she proceeded to take the knife, aiming towards the dummy that was fifty feet from the bottom of the first rope. Throwing it, the knife knife flew through the air, then impaling itself in the top of the first dummy's head. Rachel then climbed back down to the ground, grabbed the next knife, and headed to the next rope that she had hung up. This knife was slightly bigger than the last, so she had to be more cautious when climbing the second rope.

Making her way up the second rope, the girl was focused on the task at hand. She wasn't letting anything cause her to lose concentration. Rachel, reaching the top of the second rope, then aimed and threw the second knife at the dummy near the bottom. This knife she threw at more of an angle, managing to get it into the neck of this particular dummy. Rachel then decended from the rope and made her way to the last of the three she had set up.

Picking up the last knife, which was bigger than the other two and no doubt going to be harder to throw and climb with, she began to ascend up the final rope that she had hung up in the training center. Barely avoiding cutting herself with the knife at one point, she made it to the top unscathed. It took a moment for her to aim with this knife, trying to determine in her mind how the blade would land in the dummy down below. After a moment, she threw the knife, and it imbedded itself deep into the right shoulder of the final dummy.

When Rachel returned to the ground from the last rope, she left things as they were and thanked the gamemakers for their attentiveness, before then exiting the room. She had used almost all of her time, likely with just about a minute to spare. Proud of how she did, Rachel hoped she would get a good score. It had taken her quite some time to plan out the day's ordeal in the training center. Rachel was confident in her work, however. She expected that she had done well.

---

1020 words
Private Training Session

¤

Azure Herodotus

If Azure were a tribute, she imagined she’d be from District Two. Her childhood obsession with the Hunger Games and her now obsession with controlling them almost directly mirrored the District’s obsession with the glory the Games led to. They weren’t supposed to, Azure knew, but they trained their children from a young age to be swift, deadly and clever. And that’s why Azure always looked forward to District Two. Do you have a hunger like mine, girl? She asked in her head as the District 2 girl walked in.

This girl didn’t hesitate before scaling three sets of rope and throwing her knives down from them towards the dummies. The throws were good—not great by any means, but they’d do the job and having a height was certainly an advantage. Of course, that last throw, into the dummy’s shoulder would only slow down an attacker and then the District Two girl would have it. But, Azure couldn’t help but grind her teeth, as she turned to her clipboard. Attacks from afar was not what she wanted the viewers to see. No guts, no glory, she thought bitterly, you have to get up close, see the death awaken in the eyes. Cracking her neck, and flexing her fingers around her pen, Azure wrote a 6.

[Kire]

Ansgar Todd

He takes his time getting dressed just as he always does. The Capitol has stripped him of his choice in clothing, demanding he wear a particular set of training clothes. Despite this vice, he dresses with care. When he is ready, and only once Ripred signs his approval, does he leave his room and take the elevator down to the main floor. The other tributes are already there, sitting impatiently on the long benches as they wait to enter the training center. He is glared at by the Peacekeeper standing guard but ignores the look. Taking his seat between his district partner - a girl embodying temptation itself and all of the devil's tricks - and another girl he paid no mind to, he placed his elbows on his knees and pressed his palms together. Head bent to touch his forehead to his fingers, he settled into silence and prayer.

Ripred, shade me from the evils of this place. Give me the strength to combat the demons they called up from the pits of hell to torment me. I am your vessel, allow me to show them the glory of you. They ask me to prove myself to them, but the only one I need approval from is you. Guide me to the right course of action. Must I follow their orders? Is this your test? Ripred, I wish to serve only you. A jab to his ribs brought him from his momentary trance. The Peacekeeper glared at him and indicated that he was to move over. Looking to the side, he saw that at least two of the other tributes had gone into the room. The whisp of a silver shape scampered down the length of the bench, coming to rest in the empty spot where he had been indicated. With a muttered thank you to Ripred, he slid down the bench.

Once more coming to rest, he returned to his prayer. Ripred, I am surrounded by people who do not understand the importance of prayer. Forgive me for their interruptions. A cough broke his conversation once again. This time he didn't even look up. Roughly shoving himself along the bench he ended up nearly falling off the far end of it. Seemingly, he was the next one to enter the room. He redoubled in his prayer, seeking a final word of guidance. Ripred, I promised to spread you name to those defiled citizens of the Capitol, and to the sacrifices they demand. How do I accomplish that in a setting such as this? Please, I am yours, guide my hand.

The sound of his name sends a shiver down his spine. The voice was not that of the Peacekeeper, glaring down at him like some undesirable, nor was it the voice of the recordings that played over the speakers. The voice was high pitched, but warm. The sound was all at once tiny and all encompassing. Ripred, I am yours. Standing, he entered the room without a glance at any of the remaining tributes. He sees a dark room with a single ray of light. A flicker of silver clambers along a length of aluminum, his guide and his instruction. Moving to stand by the rack of spears, he picks the exact one that Ripred had indicated to him, turning only then to face the demons sitting above him. "Ripred wills me the strength to banish the damned."

His attention is stolen by another silver shadow which skittered past his feet and to those of a young woman. Her face is aglow with the light of a halo that he cannot see, but he can sense. Gently, he raises an open hand to her and beckons. "Miss, come to me. Let me show you faith again." She is hesitant, scared of the strange boy and wary of stories about avoxes being slain by tributes. He is patient, though, and the look of utter kindness is held in his eyes. He will not hurt her, the promise is in his face. Eventually, she comes to him and places her hand in his. He nods and touches the back of her hand to his forehead. "Ripred bless this lost pup, allow her to find her way back to the mischief." She is becoming frightened now, but his grip on her hand is still soft and warm. He begins slowly leading her to stand in front of the spear station's targets.

Her hand shakes in his but he rubs his thumb over the back of her hand in a soothing manner. Softly, he begins a prayer to Ripred, "Ripred, protect this girl as you protect all of your mischief. Give her the nerve to pass this test." Repeating the prayer over and over in quiet mumbling, he positions the girl. There is a rough foot of target above her head, and nearly three to either side. Standing there, shaking, she looked about as small as a rat herself. He gave her a small, genuine smile of utter faith and walked away from her. When he had once more come to stand beside the rack of spears, he turned to look at her. She was still where he had placed her, and perhaps shaking a little less than before. He gave her an approving look and a nod. The small shoulders relaxed slightly.

Her whole body tensed again as he raised the spear and took aim. Ripred, guide my hand, guide my weapon. Protect this girl as you protect me. Demonstrate to her the power of faith. He locked eyes with her, the promise of benevolence still clear in his face. With a final repetition of his prayer, he loosed the weapon. The hush in the room was only broken by the sound of the weapon moving through the air. Even the breath in his body had stilled. When the thud of impact sounded it drove air back into his lungs. His vision came into focus again and so did the tender smile.

The avox girl stared at him in complete shock. She began to shake again, tears forming in her eyes. Even so, she couldn't crumble to the ground. The spear quivered above her head, resting with a gap of only a couple inches above her scalp. The throw had been so close that a couple of her hair had actually been trapped by the embedded point. Her legs were trembling but she held herself steady. He had promised her no harm, and he had delivered. She could hold her place for him, for Ripred.

Beside him, a flicker of silver clings momentarily to another spear. He seizes this weapon before once more taking aim. Yet again the words of his prayer fill his mind. He aims, locks eyes, and releases the weapon along with his breath. The silence is there again, but more defined. Once more the thud of impact is the break in the spell. He breathes again. This spear is two inches away from her left shoulder, tucked almost perfectly into the corner of neck and shoulder. She has stopped shaking, but the tears are running down her face. The light of the invisible halo makes her face glow with a beautiful luminescence that is stronger than it had been at the start.

Another slip of silver light guides his hand to a third spear. He has embodied his faith wholly by this point, and so has the girl at the other end of the room. His prayer to Ripred never waivers, never falters. He is breathing the words as much as thinking them and when he throws the world holds still for a third time, waiting for the trilogy to be completed. There is no fear in the face of the girl anymore. The third spear rests as the twin to the last one he had thrown. The triangle formed by the three spears frame her head like rays of moonlight. He extends his hand to her and this time she comes immediately. As he had at the start, he touches the back of her hand to his forehead.

Instead of letting her hand go, he turns it palm up in his own. She watches him in utter certainty of her safety, content in knowing he will not cause her harm. Without looking he retrieves the rat skull pendant from under his uniform. Quickly, he presses the fangs of the skull into her wist. With only a little effort, blood is drawn. She does not flinch of pull away and he feels intense pride in her. Blood pools slowly in the valley of her wrist and they both watch for a moment. Then, with great ceremony, he bends his head over her arm and presses the wound to his mouth. The blood is copper on his tongue and he lingers for a long moment, praying. Ripred, I commend this girl to you as a servant of your light. She was a hidden angel but with your guide I have discovered her and given her wings. Allow me to present her as a gift of her gratitude and mine. When he straightens, the two small wounds have stopped bleeding. In fact, without the blood oozing from them they are nearly invisible.

The tears on her face haven't dried yet, and more begin to fall. She can't speak, but the thanks is brilliant on her face. He does not need her words, as the knowledge of her salvation is more than payment enough for simply showing her the way of Ripred again. "You will always have hope." She nods and he releases her. Turning to the demons for a final time, he sees the faces of the damned screaming behind their eyes and that is enough. "Ripred wills me the kindness to find the lost."

He leaves, turning without another word to exit this room. This is a mercy you will never receive. Ripred does not save those who bathe in vice.

- - - - - - - - - - -

In his room, he kneels by his bed and prays.

---

Zaya Reine

The day was dragging on and on. Zaya was not sure how much she had to drink but it was a lot. An avox always stood nearby with a fresh glass fizzing with pink liquid just for her.

When the next tribute came in her eyes were instantly drawn to him. Pale, poise, and there was something in the way he looked up at them. A disdain but not in the usual way tributes dislike Gamemakers. It was something she couldn't place. He spoke, and Zaya gave a tiny gasp. She hoped the other women didn't notice, she didn't want to look to shaken. After all the gore and sweat she had seen today why was she shaken by this tribute?

His token pierced the skin of the avox and she looked at him, entranced. Zaya was almost as enthralled as she was, watching every move the boy made. Fear bubbled in her stomach. The boy put his mouth to the avox's wound and Zaya leaned forward in her seat.

The boy left with more cryptic words and Zaya quickly took a swig from her stemmed glass.

"I'd say an eight," she said, sketching the number into her booklet and trying to sound uninterested. Her eyes flickered to the avox with her far away gaze. He was someone to watch, but perhaps not for the right reasons.

[Python]

Countless hours of her life had been spent in front of a surgical table, gloved hands pressed against nameless corpses. Her scalpel would trace flesh and she would peel back every layer of death until she discovered – for the hundredth time – what composed a human creation. The first time was repulsive. The second time was impressive. After that, it was simple gore and shady business. Sift through dead blood, cut through heartstrings, and freeze every salvageable organ. It all started with a vial of poison and a flat line. Their basement was the devil’s workshop, and traces of their sanity could be found buried between those walls.

It was one of the few places Hyacinth never heard her twin’s voice.

This was another one of those places; gray, sealed, and silent. Celia could not claw her way past her defenses today, but she heard another’s voice instead. A killer, a schemer, another devil hiding behind extravagance – yet there had been something real about him, a vibe she couldn’t detect with the others. He was genuine when he spoke with her. She hadn’t known what to anticipate– bullshit? Expected of most men, but this one didn’t tiptoe around the truth. Vepar Azrael told her exactly how Celia had pissed him off, and why Hyacinth had been maimed as punishment.

Nothing surprised her anymore.

Torturing an Avox? Well within her sister’s repertoire. It was such an above and beyond way to capture a Gamemaker’s attention, yet there was a logic behind it. Was that Celia’s intention? To be logical and impressive? Or was it just fun to you?

The question plagued her as much as the silence did. It crept along her skin and left trails of goosebumps on her arms. She didn’t want to sit in this silver room for another excruciating second, but that was how the cookie crumbled. Twelve was the poorest, the dullest, and would always remain at the tail end of the crowd. There was no “standing out” among these faces, not the way Celia did. But you carry her surname. Isn’t that enough?

An eye-opener perhaps, but names didn’t save people.

”Hyacinth Mortuus, District Twelve.”

It felt like hours had passed since she perched herself at the end of the row, varying how much time she spent staring into space and watching Mitchell fidget. So much time could be allotted to planning ahead, but she was not a creative criminal. All she could think of was knife. And she would not use it to hurt a soul.

She glided silently into the room, taking note of how the Gamemakers deliberately placed themselves at a higher elevation. ”Your faces look lovely from down here,” she said, following her train of thought. Her fingers wrapped themselves around the hilt of a knife. Not too large, not too small. Suited for slaughter, but there would be no lives wasted today.

She paused in front of a dummy; a sack of blood meant to mimic human life. She imagined it dressed in white, staring at her with a liquor bottle in its hand. ”Your secret is safe with me,” it rasped, “If you can pay my price.”

She raced forward and plunged her blade into its heart. Blood spurted at her cheeks. He had been the first man in the cycle to ruin her like a crumpled love letter. Typical men abusing their power. “Keepers of the peace, they were called. It was all a lie, and she stabbed his dummy in the chest for every lie he had spoken. It was overkill, but she could feel rage in her veins like a hurricane.

The second dummy had five o’clock shadow and piercing green eyes. It couldn’t move, but she imagined it lurching forward to grab the strands of her hair. ”Do as I say, bitch,” he hissed. Her blood-painted hand clenched the hilt of the knife, warm and slick. Blood had always been slippery but she would not let her grip falter. His tongue was fire and she wanted him to swallow it, so she angled her arm down, jabbed the blade through the underside of its chin, and twisted. Manufactured blood poured onto her pampered nails, a beauty that only Celia would find calming. With an angry huff, she yanked it out and let the body plummet.

Dummy number three shoved her against a wall, so she thrust her knife into its back to sever the spine.

This was her pretend redemption.

The stronger her heart pounded, the more her cheeks became flushed with dormant anger. Years of this shit dripped from the edge of her blade, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Number four took a slash to its guts, five bled from its jugular for daring to threaten her family, six drowned in its blood for calling her a whore, and seven couldn’t stare her down with empty eye sockets. Every dummy wore a face of her past, and she erased them with blades to their vital organs. They were not worth saving.

Her stamina began to wither at number fifteen, but a whore knew how to conserve her energy. Heart after heart she punctured, whether it was sloppy or calculated. At number ninteteen, she screamed.

Twenty.

She was tired.

Twenty-one.

But it was worth this pain.

Twenty-two.

Satisfaction.

Straddling the final dummy, she kept the knife lodged in its chest and stood up. Her pants were loud and evident, a telling tale of exhaustion. She must’ve resembled a mad person, screaming and stabbing and demolishing with no sense of order. Fake blood splattered the front of her training uniform like an all-encompassing stain, representing the hatred she had built brick-by-brick.

She stood in front of the Gamemakers and caught her breath. ”This is how many people I’ve fucked to keep my family alive.” She gestured to the devastation behind her.

With a sigh, she moved a strand of hair away from her face, and her fingertip painted a red streak across her cheek.

”Thank you.”

[ eleraveagant ]

She could taste the freedom from the tyranny of Private Training Stations, and it tasted like regurgitated french fries. "Are we there yet?" She whined to Azure before patting her belly. "Do you think the fries make me look pregnant?"

Just then, Hyacinth Mortuus' name was announced. Capricious sat up straight, ran her hands through her hair. She couldn't explain it; she'd had the same reaction to Celia Mortuus, the first time she'd seen her tribute's twin. They were beautiful but not in the way Capricious herself was. Understated. Devastated. She was drawn to them like a moth to a flame. So when Hyacinth had been reaped, she'd been waiting for this very moment to see if there was more to her than beauty. Not that Capricious minded in the least if beauty was her best quality.

Hyacinth spoke, as though reading Capricious' mind. "Your faces look lovely from down here.”

Capri kissed the three middle fingers of her right hand and blew the District Twelve girl a kiss. A little warning bell chimed in her head. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up like her predecessor, and not even due to a Career district. The threat of shame sobered her a bit as Hyacinth took the dummies apart systematically. Azure kept count. "So she's like, killing all of the other tributes? That girl has ambition."

"This is how many people I’ve fucked to keep my family alive.”

It was like she and Hyacinth were having a conversation, telepathically. So, Hyacinth wasn't counting future deaths, but past ones - of a sort. Dramatic. Classic. Capricious sighed contentedly. Hyacinth wrapped up, covered in blood and all the more beautiful for it. Capricious flipped on her microphone before she exited. "No, babe, thank you."

She glanced at Zaya and Azure, fluttered long lashes. "Maybe they'll call us the Rebel Gamemakers. You know, for scoring Six and Twelve so high? It's an eleven for our bloody little Mortuus."

[Chevi]

BOLTS SPARK

DISTRICT THREE

The table made a drawn-out, metallic scream as Bolts dragged it over to the wall. He was used to such noises from the shop, and yet it made his skin break out in goosebumps.
He hoped theirs did too.

Silence hung in the air for a moment while he balanced on top of the table and some stacked up boxes, and then there was a resounding crunch as he brought the fist-sized rock, scavenged from one of the survival stations, down on the base of the camera. Silence and wall mounting both shattered. Bolts grabbed the suddenly lifeless piece of technology, and yanked the wires out of the wall. He cradled the camera in the crook of one arm as he hopped off the table, pulled up a chair, and got to work.

He had a limited amount of time to do this. He had to show off his skills, and he was fairly sure that no amount of martial prowess he could exhibit would impress the Gamemakers – in fact, whatever he could think up doing, they had probably seen much better. Atticus had been no help, either. Go figure.
So he decided to stick with what he knew.

He got the idea a couple of days earlier, wandering around and admiring Capitol tech. It both intrigued and frustrated him; he wanted to see inside the equipment all around them, but most of it was secured and masked. In fact, it took him a whole lot of seemingly careless wandering to find a camera that was low enough to reach, and not blended into the wall. The little red lights have been boring into the back of his head like peering eyes all week, and there was distinct satisfaction in smashing one of them blind.

… well, not completely blind.

Bolts swiped useless bits of metal and plastic off the table, and looked up to nod to an Avox standing by. They were present as no more than props; in this case, he had asked… told, one never asked an Avox… told one to set up as he prepared for his demonstration.

Bless the Capitol for state-of-the-art technology. Bolts worked with his back to the room, his profile showing towards the balcony where the Gamemakers sat, offering just enough of an angle that they could see his hands working. He had tinkered with things like this before, mostly out of curiosity, to entertain his little sisters, or simply to see if he could.
“Entertainment” had a whole new meaning now.

It was a good half an hour before he was ready. The contraption, mounted on a pair of safety goggles (a luxury they were not likely to have in the arena), was a strange mix of odds and ends, and the occasional wire re-used as fastening. Already equipped for night vision, the camera provided most of the parts he needed; the LED lights, re-strung and wired to the batteries, would now allow his own eyes to see, instead of staring at him from above. There was some satisfaction in that.

Bolts stood, carefully putting the glasses on with one hand, and picked up a set of throwing knives with the other on his way to stand under the balcony. He still had his back to the room; while he worked, target dummies had been re-arranged by the Avox, looking almost as confused as the guy himself.

Bolts pulled down the glasses in front of his eyes, raised a hand, and the lights went out.

From this point on, it was a matter of speed and precision. The moment the night vision kicked in, he turned to look at the targets, first knife already in hand. It was hard to judge depth, much harder than under normal light, but it would have to do. The point, the surprise, the entertainment, only worked if he did this part fast enough.

One.

The first knife hit a dummy in its side.

Two.

The second hit one in the leg just above the knee.

Three.

The third bounced off the head of a dummy, taking a piece with it.
I hope they are recording this.

Four.

A knife embedded itself deep in another dummy’s guts.

Five. Six.

The two last blades hit the same target, left and right of center, in the chest.

Bolts snapped his fingers. By the time the lights came back on a moment later, he had already pushed the goggles up to his forehead, and let out the breath he had been holding. It took an effort not to look up at the balcony. He knew there was no good way of coming out of that.

So he simply turned around, broke the contraption into pieces, and dropped it in a trash can on his way out.
.

BY CHELSEY

[Avalon]

M Y A R A L O W E

 

(So I literally have NO time to write this PTS full out because it'd be far too long and I work/have school for the next few days so Kay said I can bullet point)

- Myara requests an open, golden birdcage with a clock fastened beneath, as well as three humming birds and a walk-in glass box around the cage with the birds in it.  cage picture reference: Xx

- Myara walks into the session, saying nothing she immediately goes to the plants and medicine station, crushing up herbs mixed with sugar and water in the bowl.

- Moving back to the glass box and closing the door behind her, taking some time she waits patiently for the first hummingbird to hand feed from her palm. After a while she places her hand in the golden cage and lays the bird on a swing dangling in the middle.

- Once the bird is atop the swing she gently closes the cage door before patiently hand feeding the other two before setting them atop the cage itself gently.

- Finally turning to the game makers, she explains the situation.

- Myara points to the birds atop the cage, "Saffron.", "Mace.", before gesturing to the bird stuck inside the cage. "Me."

- Still holding out her hand and turning back to the cage and birds, she speaks while looking at them. "By itself, the bird in the middle isn't able to make it out of the cage.", she looks at the GMs for only a second, "Perhaps with the help of the other two, she'd be able to escape back to freedom... if not - she'll die on her own.", her voice soft, solemn, and full of knowledge.

- She turns the dial of the clock beneath the cage, looking the GMs in the eyes, "The clock is now ticking. Thank you for your time.", she doesn't let the bird out of the cage, she leaves the glass door before walking to the exit of the room.

T H E  L I G H T  B R I G A D E

 

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

Hands fiddle at the paper card, the number twelve on the bottom left and top right corners, the capitol's symbol on the back, and twelve little black clubs line up in a row, just like they had at the reaping. Every boy and girl lining up like they were going to walk to their graves. Dressed in the fanciest clothes they owned, just waiting for their name to be pulled by the escort. Cards in a bowl spin, Kings, Queens, Jacks, Jokers, and Aces, all waiting for their cards to get pulled, sentencing them to fight for the king of them all. The Judge of the damned's hand reaches in and pulls out the Twelve with the name that he would dread for the rest of his life, no matter how short it would or wouldn't be.

"Mitchell Laws!"

His name gets called. The card holding his name that had been called once, would be called multiple times over. Mitchell. Mitch. Mitch the Bitch. Son. Dear. Twelve. All things that he's been called out for in his entire lifetime. Nothing would ever come as close to being called his full name. Mitchell Laws. The name that would only be remembered by the echoes of a microphone as he stepped foot onto a train to the city that makes or breaks tributes. Usually, breaks them more than makes them.

Mitchell didn't realize it. No one ever realizes it, until it's too late to go back. Mistakes already made before he could have fixed it. Accepting death wasn't the answer to the problems at hand for him. Dealt a hand full of killers and he can't go back, there was no go back to start card in the world they were living in. Only the cards that are dealt to him, until the stack runs out. Mitchell realized way too late in his experience, that death wasn't what he wanted. Death was only asking for the easy and selfish way out of the games, but there was another way. Another way that he didn't consider until he met the Number Two card of hearts. Fighting for her father had shown him there was something to survive for. Carter. Jack. Jasper. His father. His mother. Himself.

"Mitchell Laws!"

The speaker announces once again, telling him that the Eleven Card of Hearts, as red as her hair, had left the room to him. Cards sit in his pocket, weights of them all, their names written upon the whites of the background. A glance to the queen of District Twelve, a small smile, and hopes of her doing well. As for him, there was a plan that Carter had only given him after the word game rang through the stiff air. That's what his plan going into it was. Only time would tell if the games went right. Playing games was how you played the game. The Hunger Games was no more different than a giant game of cards. Some are worth more than others. Kings and Queens aren't afraid and are the ones to take out the lower cards. Numbers useless to do anything against other cards. They all had a place where they would do better. They all had a perfect spot, but most wouldn't be so lucky.

Names written upon cards that he had stolen for this moment. A trainer's way of curing boredom with his trainer friends. It was an easy snag for someone who was supposed to be teaching him skills to kill. If only Mitchell had a knife, he could have proved it. Cards were the second best thing to have happen. Snagging them while the friend's went to get something from the other room. It only took seconds for Mitchell to be in and out with a brand new deck of cards in his possession. Swiping the cards from right under their noses, while they were distracted. Nothing could have been easier.

The night was spent putting Twenty Four names upon twenty four of the Fifty two cards. The cards that sit in his pocket, calmly swaying with every step. The Gamemakers stand in an area where they can watch his every moment. "Do not speak Mitchell. Don't let them see what you believe. Make them think." His father's voice rings through his ears, advice from the bullies that used to haunt Carter and him through school years. This was different. There were no bullies in the games that he would be living in. Only killers and the dead. Don't let them see. The phrase rings throughout his mind, pulling him in, only silence and eyes watching.

Eyes scan him like he's a caged animal waiting to be saved. A deep breath and he's moving. Feet taking him to a trainer, happily holding an apple in his hand. Eyes stare at the trainer, Mitchell doesn't want to hurt him, only wants him to follow Mitchell. A stare down happens for a little while. The trainer backs off only a bit, until Mitchell snatches the apple with swiftness, ignoring the trainer's protests. Avox in the corner, Mitchell smiles towards her. The avox comes forward, only for Mitchell to whisper in her ear, "You'll be okay. Do this for me." A nod off the young girl makes him smile kindly at her.

As she comes forward, he points for her to stand in that spot. Placing the apple upon her head like he had done to Carter and Jack multiple times as kids. His father, the one who taught him the trick he was about to pull off. Cards were an item that only people who could afford the luxury get. Theirs had been a hand me down to Carter from their father. Their father, a man of kindness and good will, who taught his kids how to throw cards like they were a weapon. Only a myth. Cards couldn't kill, only give someone a severe paper cut, but that was it. And yet, he was still going to throw the cards before three of the people who could indicate his death or life.

The girl stands calmly a good distance away from him. The cards appear from the depths of his pockets. Names filling a little less than half of the cards. Placing the card between his middle finger and ring finger, he breathes softly. Aiming at the apple above the head, he pulls back like he would if the card had been a piece of sharp metal. Breathe. One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Fire! One by one, the blank cards go sailing in the air, cutting through like the times it had done before. Precision and practice is what he had to do to master the skill as a young boy. A skill that couldn't kill, or that's what he had thought. The apple receives the first card straight in the middle, cutting deep enough for the card to stick inside of the apple's skin.

The girl gives a thumbs up to him, only for Mitchell's own head to shake in defiance. He wasn't done. The Gamemakers would want more. More cards. More precision. More art. More practicality. One by one, he tosses each card perfectly into the apple. Names of tributes flying at the apple. The ace of spades containing Asha Lumiere's name. Queen of Hearts, Hyacinth Mortuus. Queen of Spades, Maye Talliago. King of Clubs, Jenoah Rasoio. Queen of Clubs, Samira Hart. Name after name buries itself deeper and deeper into the apple. Until Mitchell was left with only one card. His own card, the Twelve of Clubs, his favorite card in the entire deck. Never would he give up a precious memory like that. It was the card that Carter had used to beat him in a simple games of cards. The twelve of clubs was unique because it meant something more than the rest of the cards in the deck.

The Twelve of Clubs was the first sign that Carter didn't need him anymore. Not many people needed him and that's why he believe he was going to die. No one who needed Mitchell Laws in everything that he was, but that was never true. Everyone he knew needed him. They needed him at home. They needed him to comfort them. They needed him to live life without any guilt. Mitchell Laws had to fight, no matter what he believed in because Carter would do the same. Jack would have done the same. His father. Jasper. Everyone would do the same. And that's why he needed to fight for not only himself, but for them. Pocketing the card instead of sending it on a journey to the apple, to be forgotten like the rest of them would be if he made it out.

The girl pulls the apple from off her head, placing it softly upon a table, venturing back to her spot, she stands watching him, like they all do. Mind rushes his next decision before he can process it. They would need more from him to deliver something more interesting. That's when the shiny glint of metal catches his eyes. Knives of all sorts sit upon the table where the apple sits. Hands grab quickly at the metal knives, until he has only four of them. Precision and accuracy were something he had from card throwing, stealing and practicing in the training center.

Dummies line up in a circle, like the bullies in school that Mitchell and Carter had to scare off or get pummelled. Memories of Carter's words pull at his brain, but he can't cry, not now, not ever. Strength. He was stronger than those memories. Stronger than he's ever been, only for the fact he knew death was coming and he needed to be prepared to fight death. Four knives, two dummies, four chances, and yet one of the knives' glints tells him not to throw it. Breathe. One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Fire! Knives fly out of his hands.

The first knife sits inside the first Dummy's left eye.

The second knife sits only centimeters away from the first one.

The third knife sits in the second Dummy's right eye.

Dead. Dead.

The fourth knife sits in his hands as Jack's voice comes to mind, Come play a game with me? Winner gets to go on a date with the hot girl down the street? Mitchell had lost that game. Lost it with pride, as he had ended up in worse shape than before, but he would prove that he could do it. He could prove that he was better than Jack. He would prove he could do more than play games and believe he was going to die. The Gamemakers could be watching him or ignoring him, this would be the perfect thing to catch attention if the card throwing hadn't. A deep breath, eye closed, and he moves to the table again. His body sits forward, facing the gamemakers, he stares up hoping to attract the attention of at least one. Calm and steady. Calm and steady. The knife in his hand glints against the lights.

A palm lays flat against the cool metal, the blade in his other hand glints dangerously at him, like it wants to stab him. Breathe Mitchell Breathe. The blade comes down fast. Stabbing the metal on the outside of his thumb. A stab at the metal in between the index finger and thumb. He continues between each finger, moving between them, avoiding stabbing himself like the game they had learned. No one knew where it came form in their family, but they played it day after day. As he reaches the end of his hand, he moves quicker and quick through each space with precision and skill. Eyes had been watching his hand and the blade, but as soon as he was going fast enough, he stares up at the gamemakers. No fear. Mitchell's face is blankly staring forward to the gamemakers with no fear of stabbing himself.

Accidently, he nicks his middle finger, letting the blood flow softly to the ring finger. Nothing appears upon his face. No pain. No fear. Nothing. He's calm and pain was something he's dealt with before. Being whipped had caused a lot of pain, but also increased his own pain tolerance. Cutting a finger was nothing compared to the pain. His head doesn't move from it's position of staring at the gamemakers like they were nothing more than his own brothers watching. No emotions. He would win this game for the day, the next one would be harder to win, but he had to win, for Carter and for Jack, even if Jack caused him so much pain in his past, they were still brothers, no matter what. The Laws Brothers don't quit on one another. They had told themselves that so many times, that he couldn't be the one to break it.

After he reaches his thumb for the fifth time, he breathes and drops the knife that holds a sliver of his blood along the blade. The card in his pocket feels heavier than it needed to be. The memories of his brother Carter tells him that he has to fight for him, but the knife reminds him that he needs to fight for himself. Mitchell Laws was going to fight for both. No one could stop him, No one could tell him not to. No one could tell him anything. He was on his own and he knew that. As he walks towards the exit, he stops for a second, looks back at the gamemakers. He reaches his bloody hand into his pocket pulling out the Twelve of Clubs that had Mitchell Laws written in black ink. It only took one toss for it to reach the gamemakers. The words upon his breath only a whisper to them, "Don't count me out of this." His blank face staring at them, until he turns back around, hand bleeding, eyes staring forward, fists clenched, and mind cleared.

Mitchell Laws wasn't meant for greatness, but he wasn't going to die easily.

It's the end of the day and she's vommed french fries all over the floor and seen some truly forgettable things. She's trying to order her thoughts through the potato induced haze but its foggy at best. Somewhere along the way there was a bird, or many birds? Wings, certainly. A few predators. Someone was hungry.

She's deep in her food coma when the District Twelve Male slips into the room. He's barely ever at the center of her attention; instead she's watching his tricks and tips, following the narrative of his show. She falls in love.

And it's all wrong.

One glance at Zaya and Azure and she knows she's committed an unforgivable sin. All the gasps and rapture are now hidden. She lifts her flattened palm, resting it at the level of her eyes for the remainder of Mitchell Laws' beautiful performance for cards and knives. She can't even watch because if she does, she might become his advocate. When it's all over, Capricious slowly perks up, dropping her hand. She whispers to the avox serving them. Soon, she returns with a deck of cards. Capricious plucks one and shows it to her squad. "Don't keep me in suspense. What is it? A King? Oh, an eight? Uhm... okay."

She reaches for the last french fry.

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

jenoah.

Being from District Eight means that I am going to be contained in this stuffy room for quite a long time...This will give me a chance to have my thoughts wondering on how well the performance I have prepared for the game makers will go. I can entertain them, impress them or disappoint them. Really it is their decision and not mine.

I’ve had training in survival but it does not come close to the careers that are first in line to show off their skills. I’ve probably roughed it more than them. I’ve broke sweat like them…I’ve even spilled the odd bit of blood but really, I cannot compare myself to the brutes. I’ve rocked through a harder life. Been there, done that…got the scars to prove it.

One by one, the numbers slowly dissolve in the room, the fewer lunges taking in the oxygen makes it easier for me to breathe. I’ll need to keep every last drop of air in my lunges if I plan on this going well. And it’s better if there are less bodies in this damned room, too much heat is already causing sweat to pulsate from my brow, after all I am wearing more items than most.

A woollen ivory scarf is wrapped around twice on my neck, just a prop for the demonstration, a hidden surprise within it for me to reveal to the game makers.

Time clocks by slowly and I resort to fiddling with the strands of the scarf that dangle onto my lap, maybe it is time to ask Ripred for some luck. They may well be working quietly in the distance and don’t tend to reveal the answers that I desperately plea for but this is the right time to beg. Ripred likes to be entertained, if I share my plan he may well bless me. ”Dear Ripred, I plan on -.” Realising that all the eyes in the room slowly creep towards me, I continue my plea in my mind, hoping that Ripred will listen a little harder for my prayer.

”Jenoah Rasoio.”

My prayer is cut short when my name is spilled from the tannoy. Looking directly to the doors, I dare not look at the remaining tributes that have yet to grace their presence to the game makers, my attention being solely on the next couple of minutes.

Without even acknowledging the eyes that I know are likely to be following me until I step out of this room, I quickly begin to so start preparation, dragging two dummies into particular spots in the middle of the room. Both placed besides each other but with a fair distance. I stand between the two, finally glancing up at those watching me, their faces blind to my vision.

All I see up there is my father, my family and the men; all glaring down at me, ready to express their opinions on my performance. In reality I am here to impress the game makers but truthfully, I must do it for my family. Pride is something my father has yearned for, something that he has wanted each of his offspring to bring to the family name. I am going to do it for them. I may not survive but I could very well give them memories that will remain with them ‘till death.

Removing the scarf from my neck, I raise it in the air, igniting an invisible spotlight onto the accessory for the game makers to see. Taking one end, I’d easily tear a chunk of the wool, revealing a knife securely sewn inside of it. ”This is what I prepared earlier.” I doubt the game makers would have wanted to watch me sew throughout the session…

The dummy to the right of me is at least 3 feet away…the scarf is four foot long. Extending out my right arm, the scarf flies to the shoulder of the dummy, the blade embedding into it. Pulling at the scarf, I drag it towards me. Thankfully the knife dug in as deep as I hoped it would and with some force, the dummy is finally at my feet. Pushing against its head, I’d send it to the ground, blood swiftly staining the floor as it pours from the wound on the shoulder. That went quick…

I don’t feel a thing after damaging the inanimate object, there’s no real face no soul too be demolished as it topples to the floor. I’ve been forced to maim lives in the past but can I force myself to take one? That’s a question I’ll have to ask myself again in a couple of days.

Running my hand down my left sleeve, I dig my nails into the fabric, pulling up a layer of material and revealing an assortment of razor blades stitched into the sleeve of the uniform that I wear underneath.

I still laugh at the stylist’s impression when I asked for razors to tackle the infestation of hair on my body, despite being put through the torture of waxing earlier on. My hair grows quickly.

The left dummy is right beside me and with a smack of my forearm, the razor blades attack its face, tearing away at the surface of the dummy’s so called ‘skin’. ”It’d work well in a hand to hand fight, a surprise for my opponent.” I explain to the game makers, slightly unimpressed with my own work so far, I can see father now, shaking his head at me with his arms crossed. The ever so famous stern look painted across his face. I know too well that I have plenty of time spare…maybe I should go through with the finale…

||

Being left alone with my thoughts in a shower, I found out is rather dangerous. This morning I conjured up such a rash plan, that I had to turn the heat up to scold myself for such thought. You can’t do that Jenoah, it’ll get you in trouble. Or will it? Imminent death approaches, I might as well sway from right and wrong before greeting it with open arms. Well anyway I’m a so called rebel in the District because of my work; I might as well go ahead with it.

As soon as I came out of the shower, I was straight onto making my outfit for the assessment. Two layers of clothes are all I needed, the bottom layers containing the surprises. Obtaining the weaponry was harder than I thought but unexpectedly I was able to sneak the blade for the scarf from the training centre, it was just the razor blades that needed a lot of persuading. And so for the finale I needed a message, a message printed on the front of my bottom shirt, not to be seen by the game makers, only those who would perform in my finale.

||

Gathering up the few avoxes in the room, ignoring the trainers who offered to help, I get them huddle close to me, each one in forming a circle and I being in the centre. It is like I am back home again, plotting the demise of a poor fellow who owes the family a debt. Each man with their face screwed up, gagging for blood from the innocent. But the faces that surround me now are nothing like the men’s, all I see is pain….

Pulling off the rest of my exterior shirt, I try my best not to hit any of them with the blades on my sleeve. Each one nodded as they understood the message and so I directed them into the correct positions before hurrying to the tables.

Grabbing a blunted weapon, I’d go to the first aid table, rushing as I do as I know the buzzer is likely to alarm in a short few moments. I smash up glass jars containing ointments for healing and so gather up large fragments of the glass and I quickly dish them out to the avoxes. As I do, I point to the ceiling for some and others to the ground, positioning their hands with the glass and so I set a cue for them to perform at the right moment.

Collecting a bundle of firewood along with a pack of matches from the fire making station, I plonk two piles of the wood on the floor, still rushing as I move. I need enough light as possible I light the fire with the most basic method, flames engulfing the wood of each pile. The heat of the flames, assault my face, the small infernos being large enough to ignite more light into the room.

Taking my position in the centre of the room, the assortment of avoxes stand here there and everywhere although are all looking directly towards the game makers.

”I learnt a lot from reading in District Eight, this being one thing…” And with that, I raise the last glass fragment that I saved for myself in the air. A source of light emits from the lighting on the ceiling and is reflected directly towards the game makers. A grin marches across my face as I stand centre stage. ”It’s called physics.”

My passion for books is probably one thing the family and men forever teased me about but when I surprised them by fixing a problem due to a piece of information I had found within one, those teases slowly turned to praises. Although as expected, those days were quickly forgotten whenever they found me devoting my time to the pages.

Back home in Eight, I always did this on a sunny day to annoy Caimile and others when I was younger. Only when I had the same thing done to me did I stop with the particular prank. The light slowly burns the skin and irritates the eye if directly shone into them. It could pose handy in confusing opponents, that is if there is enough light in the arena.

I nod, beckoning the avoxes to take their cue. They raise their glass into the angle that I directed them too earlier, more light reflects from the fire and lights on the ceiling directly towards the game makers. While two failed as the light travels directly through the glass but because of the few that did work, a rainbow effect of light paints itself across the walls.

It’s what they want, isn’t it? A spotlight directly on them…They’re the face of these games, the tributes just an extra element. It’s them who have already won; I might as well give them their prize.

”If you haven’t already shut your eyes, I suggest you do now.”

I drop my glass on the floor, leaving the avoxes to hold their own. I am not going to tell them to stop, if anyone has common sense in this room, they’ll shut off the lights. And with that I depart, leaving someone else to extinguish the flames.

I felt power in that room, I directed those avoxes to do as I planned and it worked. Maybe I’ve already found my destiny, power. Power is one thing that I have possessed for a long time but power is one thing that I’d like to abandon.

Azure Herodotus

The District 8 boy seemingly had a flare for fashion, a scarf, until he tore it from his body to reveal the array of deadly weapons sewn into it. And it was with these array of deadly weapons that the boy tore the skin off the face of a dummy. Now that’s what I’m talking about, Azure thought, settling back in her seat and preparing to write, but the boy wasn’t yet done.

Gathering up the Avoxes, the boy instructed them to hold up shards of glasses right in the direction of the Gamemakers and Azure hastily covered her eyes. The boy was said something before the sound of footsteps and shattering glass filled the air. Azure waved frantically at the trainers to make the Avoxes cease and lead them from the room and it was only then that Azure turned to her fellow Gamemakers, teeth bared.

“From here on out, tributes are no longer allowed to have razors,” she growled, rubbing her eyelids. “This kid must have liked to kill ants.” I hope he likes to kill tributes. She waited a moment for her eyes to re-adjust to her clipboard before writing a 7.

[gamemaker kelsier]

I remember being fifteen years old, a man stood over me, pulling out my back tooth because ”It was infected an’ we don’t want you dying early, boy.”

A moment later he used the same pliers to tear off the pinky toe on my right foot. My flesh tore strangely like it didn’t want to come apart at all. It took a lot of pulling.

I don't know what they expect; I have nothing useful to give.

Except for maybe the beating heart nesting inside the pocket of my sweater. I stuck my hand in earlier this morning expecting comfort in my shyness but all I felt was a strange warmth and gore.

I am diseased.

Another tribute grabs the back of my head and shoves it forward as they go by in play. My hands clench into fists and I grit my teeth, a strange harshness emitting from my throat when I try to laugh. I'm beginning to feel it again, the cage.

I didn't know it could be a feeling.

Sometimes I dream about it, only long enough to lie down straight, only tall enough to stand if my shoulders were bent. Water always dripped down the side of the wall, no matter the weather. If I drank it, it was salty. Sometimes I'd drink it out of desperation and then I'd be sick all over the floor of my cell. I forgot about hurting.

I feel trapped here.

I curl my toes up against the cold tile in the hall, three forms in front of me watching me, silent. They want me to do something, to impress them. I remember this from training still. The higher the number they score us with, the better our chances of getting sponsorship. The Capitol values beauty. I've already lost.

I roll my shoulders back, bones cracking with every move that I make. There isn't any piece of me that's yet to be broken. When bones break they heal back stronger, Tobias told me. I must be made of steel then.

I tug my shirt over my head, revealing a history of lacerations and a presence of scars. Hundreds of little burn marks dot my back, the man who did it was trying to recreate the night sky with every cigarette he smoked.

"Begin," says a voice.

Ok.

I drop to all fours, fingers and toes holding my slight weight. The room is full of things, metal tables and chairs, plastic looking men and women, fake trees and even a small pool.

Many things to hide under.

Many things to climb.

I put myself back into my cell.

I think about how hungry I am.

scritch.

I hear it.

scratch.

I can hear it in my ears and my nose smells it good, like a dog. I can hear the little mouse scritching at the walls, looking for a hole to hide in but now he is in my hole. Someone threw him in with a snake. I see an Avox with a cage, standing straight against the wall and I move away from it. Avox has hands, Avox is danger.

I scuttle forwards, staying in the shadow cast by the lights overhead. I move quickly in the silence, the sound of the mouse moving in my ears, the only thing that I hear. My stomach rumbles. I don't know when I will get food again, the men only feed me when they feel like it. Sometimes it's days between eating.

The mouse moves, climbing. I raise my head to look at the branches overhead. I see a small thing, just a little one. It moves in the shadow of the light, darting and careful. I watch for a moment, fingers curling into the floor. It is fast. So am I.

I stand on two legs and run up to the tree, not stopping to consider it. My fingers clutch at the bark and I pull myself up, nothing in my head but the mouse above. I can hear it better now, little claws scratching and scritching at the branches. I move quickly, no hesitation. I am certain in my movements.

I am halfway up the tree when the mouse screeches and jumps off the low-hanging branch it is running on, falling to the floor. It lands scattered on it's paws and runs.

I jump from the tree, landing on my hands and feet. The ground seems to yell at me but the pain does not register. It is nothing. The mouse is getting away.

I follow it across the floor. It is fast but I am smart.

It runs into a garden bed and I follow, watching as it burrows under the dirt and disappears.

I watch.

The ground moves.

There.

I plunge my hand into the dirt, hand closing around the squirming thing.

It bites at my knuckle and thrashes so alive in my hand. It squeaks and screams and I grin at it.

I squeeze tightly.

It is strong.

I am stronger.

I put it's head in my mouth and I bite down, warmth flooding my mouth quickly, spilling onto my chin and shirt. I chew it carefully, eating around the skull and teeth. The teeth are sharp, not good for eating. I spit the mangled head out and tear flesh off it's middle. The best part, juicy and stringy all at once.

I tear the claws off and toss the tail onto the ground. I don't like those parts.

The mouse is gone, warm and inside of me in seconds.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing blood across my face.

My eyes go to the watchers on the stage.

I lick my lips.

[ eleraveagant ]

"Zaya, let me see that pretty little hand of yours," Capricious purred. She turned the other Gamemakers' palm over, tracing the lines, before flipping it to admire her manicure. In the room beyond Mordecai Wu entered; she didn't notice. Begin. "Okay, who is your manicurist? I gotta know your secret." She puckered her lips, knowing that what she asked bordered on sin. Zaya snatched her hand from Capricious' around the same time that Mordecai - now half clothed - dropped to the floor.

Capricious drowned the rejection in artisan sparkling water and greasy, hot french fries. Somehow they still tasted good going down. Plus, they helped to cover up her yawns as Mordecai scurried through the room. She could appreciate the depth of his dedication to the downtrodden character he'd created; she always loved a good actor. He never strayed, climbing and hiding, becoming the lurker. It was good and she was ready to write him off as a seven or eight when the microphones picked up a squeaking.

"Now that's dedication," she murmured, assuming - incorrectly - that it was him.

Mordecai turned ever so slightly towards them.

Capricious leaned forward.

And screamed.

The recent bile in her throat gelled into thick, choking mess. The tribute licked his lips and was escorted from the room but she could still see him there - right there - with the blood on his chin. This time when she took Zaya's hand, she grabbed it with both of hers. "That was really messed up?! I can't even imagine. Maybe - oh I might be sick again." She found a trash can in her arms before she'd even finished the sentence. Azure's voice, urging her for her score input, reverberated in the metal.

How could she score someone so viscerally hungry?

"Like a ten, whatever! I just want to forget it!"

But she never would.

[charade]

Maye

Oh. My. Gawd. Maye thought, as she waited in line for her turn to enter the room with the GM’s. It was taking literally forever. Well, not forever ever, but forever as in “this is taking more time than I anticipated and if I had somewhere else to be I’d be late so I’m aggravated on principle. Eventually, her name was called, and she walked slow and primly to the door, winking at the peacekeepers as she made her way inside.

The three gamemakers were on a platform above her, protected by a force-shield of some kind, presumably to prevent tributes from throwing knives, shoes, and half eaten sandwiches at them. Then she noticed that all three of them were woman, which kind of threw a wrench in what she had devised. She told them as such.

“Well, fuck. I was hoping at least one of you would be a guy. I was planning on flashing my tits as part of my session, but there’s that plan out of window.” She sighed loudly, and headed for the all the stuff in the room that she was supposed to be able to use. She grabbed a spear and wiggled it back and forth in the rack before shrugging at the game makers with her palms up.  
"I spent a lot of time at a couple stations but I don’t know how I’m supposed to display that I’m good at rationing. Want me to eat half an egg and save the rest for tomorrow? No?” She walked away from the weapon racks and headed for the center of the room, talking all the while.

“And it’s not like you three want to sit here and watch me wrestle a bush and use it as a hiding spot or paint myself with all the colors of the wind. Let’s be honest,” she said, looking down her nose at the trio. ”The camouflage and stealth stations are a yawn.” Well, that was like half the stations already. She’d have to come up with something to do for the next couple at least, or she was sunk. But whole concept was stupid. Not all the training stations they offered were things that could be easily acted out.

Like how the hell was a tribute supposed to show that they were good at avoiding traps? Build a trap and then not jump on it?  Light step my ass.

“First aid’s out too. I’m not gonna sit here carving away at my arm so I can make a show of stitching it back up That’s like, lame?” That left two stations, though hopefully, she’d already done good showing how well she was at the one station. She sucked her cheeks in and made a popping noise.

“So, your charisma trainer could use a couple pointers. I mean, how did he even get the job? He was soooo boring, and he didn’t even take his pants off. The man wouldn’t know humor if it picked his name out of a bowl and sent him to the arena. Seriously, the best advice he gave was “get the viewers to like you.” Like, no shit, I’m glad I wasted my time there. she shook her head. "I should have been the one teaching how to get sponsors.”

Maye yawned and shook her head. “That other girl needs pointers too, the –what did you call it, the thievery station? I mean, I stole her key card twice in the same session. It’s right here, if you don’t believe me,” May shrugged, flicking the card onto the ground in front of her before pressing her fingers to her temples.

“Wait..I..I’m getting a premonition?” she gasped. “I foresee some trainers getting…fired? Yeah, that sounds about right.” She continued drily. She pulled a fork and spoon out of her shirt and they clattered to the ground next to the key card. “Good thing these aren’t metal, or they’d have tripped the detectors, or I could have stabbed somebody. Honestly, what do you pay security here? You know I took those off the train?”

She whistled merrily and started emptying out her sleeves, her shoes and even the pencil she’d stuck in her hair. “Let’s see what else we’ve got here, the endurance trainer’s whistle, two paintbrushes from the camouflage station, my district partners shoelaces, the thievery trainer’s spare key card, a ladle from the buffet line…" She pulled a wad of brown hair out of her pants and grinned at the gamemakers wryly.

“Did you know that swordplay instructor wears a toupee? Well, I guess you know now." She laughed as she continued dropping things on the floor. “At this rate, it might be easier to list what I didn’t take. But that wouldn’t be quite as fun, would it?” She continued emptying out her pants, pulling out the stuff she’d taped to the inside. “Let’s see, pack of bubblegum, the dishrag from district seven’s bathroom, and the prize, a pair of boxers belonging to the peacekeeper stationed on my floor.” She winked at the gamemakers.

“And let me tell you, it was NOT as easy as you’d think. You ever try to steal someone’s underwear while they’re still wearing them? And when you’re not having sex with them either? I tell you, it was a wild ride from start to finish. Magical even. And no, I’m not going to tell you how I managed that last one. A girl’s gotta have some secrets.” She winked, smoothing out her clothes and staring at the pile, wishing she could take them all with her.

“You know, the other tributes wish they were as cool as me, I’m sure of it. If they had half my personality they’d have enough for a four-man alliance.” The time was almost up, so she started walking towards the door. “And in case you believe I didn’t get this stuff from where I said I did, Kisses, Capricious, thanks for breakfast the other day. But you forgot this?” She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it, and started reading the writing on it, rattling off names and quick notes that Capri had made about the tributes.

“And by forgot, I mean, I stole it. You should probably get some more attentive bodyguards that are focused on your well being and not the nubile young teenager’s cute butt. Although granted, I may have been wiggling it a little bit." Maye shrugged. “Just saying.” She let go and the paper fluttered to the ground, several feet away from the impressive pile of items.

“I mean, seriously, if Panem’s best and brightest can’t keep my hands away, what chance do my fellow tributes have of not being robbed blind? Nobody’s gonna last long without supplies, I mean, they could always eat a foot, but I think we’ve all had our fill of cannibalism right?” She flashed them a dazzling smile and a wave as she exited the room. “You know you love me!” she trilled as the door slid shut.

“Well, fuck. I was hoping at least one of you would be a guy. I was planning on flashing my tits as part of my session, but there’s that plan out of window."

If those had been the first words Capricious had ever heard Maye speak, she might have been a tiny bit offended. As it were, she already knew Maye Talliago from the Dining Hall. She could still feel the tribute's arm wrapped around hers. She thought of her sure touch even as she sassed Capri and her fellow Gamemakers.

Capricious tapped her mic. "Sweetie, don't let that stop you," she purred, her voice distorted by the transmission. Even if she'd wanted to say more, Maye wouldn't let Capricious - or anyone - get a word in edgewise, which was what had drawn Capri to her in the first place. So, she sat back in her leather chair, letting the french fries go cold while Maye pontificated. Every so often Capricious waved a trainer over, just to clarify that Maye did - indeed - have the items she presented. They wouldn't know until after the session if they were authentic, but from the looks of things, they seemed to be. A thief. Capricious didn't think she'd ever seen a real thief during a Private Training Session. She was thinking about that and not about how Maye might've stolen from her, which turned out to be a huge mistake.

"And in case you believe I didn’t get this stuff from where I said I did, Kisses, Capricious, thanks for breakfast the other day. But you forgot this?”

If she'd been a little more prepared, she might have played it off like an inside joke. Instead, she pushed herself out of her seat to get a closer look, declaring herself fleeced implicitly. Capricious folded her arms at the force field, eyes flat as Maye let the bit of paper with her intimate notes flutter to the concrete floor. Kisses.

"I really hate her," Capri declared as Maye exited. Only when the tribute was gone did Capricious turn up her middle finger before whirling to face the other two women. "We can't reward that. It would be a sin."

Their debate stretched, pushing back the session after Maye's. At last, Capricious collapsed in her chair. "It totally wasn't my fault? And I totally wouldn't write anything she could use against us. Like, duh. Look, if we give the sinner an eleven can we take a nap? She might have stolen my shit but she can't steal my beauty sleep." Even as she said it, Capricious knew she was lying. If she didn't dream of Maye Talliago that night, it would be a miracle.

[kousei ♚]

{It's in your stare and at your core}

They spat in my face and told me I would never create something beautiful. I watched careers battle within the whitewashed walls of District One and I think they were right. In the face of careers painting the ground crimson with the false blood of dummies, I could only ever see in shades of grey. Every artist has a signature colour; what kind of beauty could ever be found in nothing but shades of grey?

Filed into a line, the world quickly desaturates into a slur of the shades of grey I spent seventeen years locked up in. Every plate I smashed, every nose I broke, every person I maimed and not once did I see anything other than my signature shades of grey. A world of colour will never appreciate art in grey, no matter how beautiful I make it.

I'm twitching, fidgeting and biting; despair is my sickness and rage quickly becomes my drug. Staring into the back of the person in front of me, it takes all my willpower not to punch the back of their head and stomp their face into the ground. I won't impress the king and queens of the castle, no one sees the beauty in grey after all. Even as my fists clench and loosen, the inside of my cheek being chewed and the slow crack of my mind, I don't see red.

Rationale says I should be nervous, reality says that's just not possible - I am a shade of grey and a shade of grey will forever remain unknown on a spectrum of absolutes. Fear will forever remain a stranger to me. All I know is rage.

My jaw clenches and my gears grind when my name is blared out from the speaker. "Asha Lumiere, District One." No label, no disgust and no anger. I don't think anyone's ever named me but failed to leave a perceived label following it (idiot, insane, creepy, weirdo). I despised the labels but now I feel uncomfortable without them. It doesn't matter either way, soon enough I'll cross out the labels with blood.

I hope they fear the man who is nothing when I've pained the labels over with blood, whether it will be my own or others is a mystery for now.

Muscles creak and twitch as I take the steps past my pawns, past the tributes into through the door into the training center. A step up from home, these walls aren't quite whitewashed but I still sneer because I don't see red. I don't look up to acknowledge the so-called kings or queens of the castle and I don't state my name or district. Even if they didn't know, they'll know soon enough.

I'm

just

Asha.

Unfeeling rationale tells me I should've planned ahead but passionate reality says that's not possible. I thrive in the sporadic and I live in the unknown. I go to where my legs carry me. One stride, two strides, three strides, four strides all become marred in the face of my burning passion. I am a ticking time bomb waiting to tear apart this world of grey.

I bite my lip so hard, I begin to taste iron.

Preemptively planning my own downfall, a common sign of madness, I run my hot fingers along the weapons rack, picking up a sword, two knives and two tomahawks before stuffing a thin line of steel wire up my sleeve. I don't skip a beat, turning on my heels and striding right to the control panel to feed me my fiction.

I smash my fingers into settings for their realistic fabrications. I hold the difficulty button until the meter has filled to the brim and I smash the button to increase the amount of phantoms three times. They're equipped with the tools to destroy my world of grey on a platter, each of them have knives, swords, spears, whatever. They should break me - a part of me wants them to. I don't pause before hitting enter. The room is my canvas, I will paint it in shades of grey.

I spin on my heels to face my demons. One for Father, one for Mother and one for Lilith. Mother steps forwards first, the spear clutched tight between her fingers and her face stoic. The horrified wail of ('Asha, what have you done?!') and the fake comforted news of ('You just have to see the shrink once a week, sweetie') is like a ringing in my ears. It is a special form of torture, a slight on my pride, a new scar to add to the network of violations on my flesh.

Rationale tells me to drop the knife, but reality keeps it clutched between my fingers and the sword and axes find themselves cluttered at my feet. It's a clear disadvantage, a spear was made to keep my out of reach, something I don't want to do with a knife. It's practically suicide to try it.

But fuck it, I am mad after all.

We move like mirrored demons. Her speed is practically blinding, and the spear was inches from my throat. Instinctively I sidestep, grinning wildly at the thrill of the hunt. She repeatedly thrusts the point forwards, each time I let the tip be guided closer and closer. A part of me wants the tip of the spear to pierce my chest, but reality tells me no. Each thrust and dodge is another since shuffled back, it won't be long before my back is pressed against the metaphorical wall; there will be no escape.

But I am not a rabbit waiting to be cornered, I am a wolf that sees the world in grey. Between thrust ten and eleven I dance around the spear, the footwork second nature to me, and redirect the spear's momentum to the side and I take not one, not two, but an extra four quick steps back so my back is truly against the wall - the swimming pool is right behind me. One more step, one more stutter and I'll drown.

Perhaps seeing the world in drowned blue is better than seeing the world in shades of grey. I'll never know - I don't plan on finding out.

"Die." I coldly proclaim and when the fabrication of my own twisted fiction steps forwards time stops. My black and white purgatory hangs in the balance. Between step number three and four I flick my wrist. The knife cuts through the air at breakneck speed and bites right into the abdomen that carried me for nine months. Her steps have barely turned into staggered stumbles when I let the final knife fly and pierce her thigh.

Never one to waste time, I stomp on her wrist so she has no choice but to release the spear and drag it to the water side.

"You made me like this," I sneer before plunging her head right into the water side. She struggles, writhes and squirms in her attempts to be free. She said I could never make something beautiful. "So I'll make you dead!" I sneer, my grip growing tighter with each fresh struggle.

"Die Mother."

There is no warning or round of applause, the moment she goes limp in my hands, she bursts into a flash of light and leaves me empty. No time to waste, the hovering hum of projected footsteps grow closer and closer.

It's all instinct, my body rolls backwards in a tight barrel roll, narrowing missing the steel that thirsts for me blood. One stutter too late and my head would have rolled. I dart to my pile of tools, scooping up the bastard sword I took from the rack and spinning on my heels to face "father."

('Where is the method to your madness, Asha?')

There is no method, just... nothing. That's all I ever was.

When we lock eyes, my rage has never felt so controlled. We step forwards at the same time but he takes the first swing. Our swords sing when they meet, steel song is almost deafening but overwhelming. One harmonic note comes at a failed decapitation attempt, the second note comes at a lunge that could never find its home, the third note doesn't even touch my ears, missing my blade completely.

Each pitch etches a new word into the back of my brain.

('Where's-')

I

('the-')

can't

('damn-')

stop.

('-method?!')

"No!"

I parry his lunge, stepping into his reach before my fist shoots out to connect with his jaw. He stumbles back and my knuckles throb but I don't care. I can't stop. Gripping the hilt of the sword, I stare the opportunity for a shade of red in the face. ('It doesn't matter, I'll still be powerless in the end.') Between the first thud of my heart and the third, the sword is buried into his stomach up to the center

"There was never a method."

Between my closure and my sneer, he slumps to the ground with the tip of death still buried into his stomach. When I stare into his stoic eyes I swear, the rage has never felt any more controlled. Gripping the hilt of the blade, I do not let another numb heartbeat pass. I wrench the sword from his flesh, leaving behind the wound.

"You never even smiled at me, Father."

So I open his throat with a red smile in one fluid motion. Before long, he's faded into what I am - nothing.

On the second act of closure, I am prepared for the cold retaliation of the third. Before the footsteps even come into hearing range, I've already collected the two axes and already stepped into the range of Lilith's sword.

("I won't even tell you to go die in hell because hell is too good for you.")

I am not a demon. I'm just Asha.

Both of ours gears grind and frames rattle. We dance the dance I'm familiar with. Each lyrics sings a different story but I am deaf to the fable all the same. Steel swipes thin air too many times to count but I swear, the tip of her blade almost pierces my chest. Almost. A dodge, move and weave, as if I'm threading sinew and stitching embroidery. Art forms were always lost on me - shades of grey are more my thing.

"Fuck!" I spit before stepping back. I've had enough of her stoic gaze - I want red.

Stepping forward I bring my axes down in an unstoppable barrage. No time for a fucking apology, no time to lament over what she's said and done to me, I just attack. Clang! Steel sings its own unique song but as always, I am deaf to the fable. The moment she tried to counter attack is the moment she's dead.

She stops blocking and attempts to skewer me along her blade but I sidestep it all together. One the moment of opportunity greets me, I don't hesitate to reach for its hand. One swipe down and her hand comes clean off and the stump shimmers. Dropping the used axe, I take another swing at her thigh and open a red ravine across her all-too-fucking perfect flesh and she hits the ground with a satisfying thud.

I hope it hurts her.

Just this one time, I finish with pleasure and flair. I chose not to bury the hatchet in her spine and sever the nerves, I choose to sever the dignity she held over me since I was thirteen. Ripping the steel wire from my sleeve, I wrap it around my hands before pulling it along her neck and pinning her down with my knee against her back, I let the steel dig deeper and deeper.

Of course, she struggles, turns and writhes but I'm too busy lost in Capitol lavender-scented perfume and controlled rage to care. For a moment, I am tranquil; for a moment I am pure obsidian under vengeance I refuse to believe is fiction. "I'll see you in hell, sister."

Between one cluster of numb heartbeats and the next, she stops struggling and goes limp. Letting the wire fall from my hands, I slowly lurch myself to my feet. No time to be cinematic, I turn my back to the perceived kings and queens of the castle, step away from my monochrome fiction, and straight out of the room.

Azure Herodotus

This one was like a wild animal. If Azure didn’t know any better, she’d have confused him for one, a mutt, even. He slashed, and pressed and pushed, wildly flailing his arms and weapons, as if he were surrounded. His mouth opened wide in nonsense phrases, eyes bloodshot and darting to and from invisible figures. She wondered if he even knew he had three witnesses to his rampage.

He left, leaving a trail of blood and gore in his wake—all synthetic, of course, and only then Azure betrayed a smirk. “That’s what I like to see,” she told her fellow Gamemakers, happily scrawling a 10. It’s only after that she wondered if he’s really crazy.