Private Training Stations

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

wylla lysander


 

"No. I'm not going to lose you, baby."

"You don't have to lose me."

"I will, and you know it. If you want to lose yourself, Ophelia, what am I left with?"

x

Fighting isn't something I haven't always been comfortable with. For years, I thought that fighting was only physical; weapons of war and catastrophe that would only deliver someone to the underworld. I think that it was a mindset inherited from my Mother. Indoctrination through blood would only see me set for failure.

Self-sacrifice has made me realise that the fight is not over when the battle is lost. The coos of ghosts in my ear reminded me that I have no moral compass pointing due north or no inner personality—all that I am is a shell. A childish shell clinging to the life she has left behind. A simple, shell of a girl who has swore she wouldn't tie herself too tight to the things that make her happy, but did anyway.

A juice carton is raised to wishes, to Mum and to the childhood I thought I'd clawed back from the monsters under my bed. Even I can acknowledge that I put up a brave, emotional fight against the Capitol. But haunted teeth sunk into my neck, words like venom trickling into my blood to merge me with the crowd. The line that separated the small girl from the big group was being erased, slowly, but surely.

And who holds the eraser?

She is the one who calls out against every move I make. My self-sacrifice made me realise that it wasn't really self-sacrifice at all, it was an attempt to calm down a war in my mind. The injuries and wounds from the devil on my shoulder would surely be tied up by the Capitol's hands—surely, I'd be fixed. 

I'd be sane.

But the voices shout, they scream from within and needles and stitches can only do so much work. I don't want to accept the fact that I'm stuck with more devils on my shoulders than angels, I don't want to have to deal with doubt with every decision that needs to be made. Ghosts mean more voices and the voices lead to confusion.

When I get into that arena, they will be more of a hindrance than a help.

Every moment matters, and there is no time for bad decisions, because bad decisions have bad consequences. They'd show me that good people can do bad things. They'd show me that I'm nothing more than the rest of them: a monster.

I don't want to be a monster.

I want to have hope without having it questioned. A child can have hope, nobody says it has to be childish.

"Wylla Lysander," the walls listen, but still, nobody says I have to be childish. 

Childhood—perhaps I've had the wrong end of the stick this whole time.

I swing off the chair and enter through the tall doors into the training room. A quick glance back at the remnants of people who long to find their glory and my body and mind feels heavy like stone. My feet thud against the metallic floor, echoing around the room that is large enough to consume a small girl.

The floor is thick with the sweat of past tributes. I can see a reflection of myself that is haunted and touched by the supernatural. Wearing a sweater knitted from courage and self-belief, I am reminded that bravery started with self-sacrifice.

Mum didn't like it because she realised that I'd be giving her up. 

A small girl in a large room; that is exactly what I'm going to do.

Tiptoeing over to a rack of bladed weaponry, I do not dare to look at the eyes in the sky. She is a cricket and I am nothing but fruit, seeds, leaves, nectar and the decaying pieces of dead animals. The predator to my prey, I push my lips together and keep my head in my own game; I have to concentrate, play my own game, and not be afraid to win it.

A knife dances between my fingertips, my eyes falling to my reflection in the floor. I'm not going to become a monster, I'm not going to succumb to my ghosts.

I need to get them out of my hair.

A feather right hand holds up brown locks of hair, an iron left saws away. Hair falls like hail around me, obscuring the fractured image of myself on the floor. 

Mum is screaming; she's pained and hurt. Her heart aches because she feels like she is losing the daughter she raised better than this, but she's just another barrier I have to overcome. I need to remove her from my narrative. She is the one who questions all I do. The injuries and wounds from the devil on my shoulder were not fixed by the Capitol. I'm forced to fix them myself.

I run a hand over my head; dull and coarse like straw. It's perfect, I think to myself.

But she's still here.

Cracked knees creak as I bend to pick up my old self; in between my fingers are the fibres that held ghosts captive and made me my own prisoner. I frown, Mum's voice is distant and far but still audible. Hands turn to claws as I tighten my grip on the hair.

One second, two. A deep breath in and I try to compose myself; I wander over to the fire-making station, creating a line of coals. Beneath them is a bed of kindling, I throw the hair beneath the small bundle of wood, kissing goodbye to the Mother I knew, once and for all. Flint and steel in my hands, I channel my efforts into making a spark.

It blinks, twice, thrice, four times, until eventually, it all burns. The coals emit a roasting heat and turn red at the edges, but I do not cower in fear. I slip off my shoes, wearing an expressionless face as I look down to the arising hell.

I remind myself of the predator's diamond words; I tell myself that I am a legend of my own making, not a mistake of chance. I repeat the words aloud.

"A legend of my own making, not a mistake of chance. A legend of my own making, not a mistake of chance." I wait for the words to cut deep into my head. Trembling white knuckles from clenching my fist too hard, gritted teeth in an attempt to keep my hope; I straighten out into a silhouette like slicing, potent acid. Red with suppressed rage from the battle within, when I listen to the demands of my Mother, I do it—I walk across the coals to turn my demons to ash.

A squeal in my ear and then it bursts, filling with—silence. It's empty, for once, and there isn't any competition for attention from Mum or the other ghosts. There is my own angel and my own devil on my shoulder; no more chills in the air, shimmer of mist, diffuse.

My gaze flickers to the eyes in the sky. The greying old hag and the Capitol's dream do not make my flinch any more; in the frozen second between them and I, my face is unreadable. Cowardice is drained and there is no invitational smirk.

Mum was scared that she would lose me, but in the end, I lost her. She should have realised that when it comes to fighting, there is no honour or code. All that matters is yourself; I was not ready to give up the little strength I had in favour of my ghosts. 

Bravery starts with self-sacrifice and I've sacrificed a lot more than myself, now.

And because of it, I think I might have just saved myself. These wings I am spreading do not define me as a monster; they are a token of my rugged individualism, showing that I am independent from those who desire to sew me to their skin. 

And I get it; fighting isn't something you are meant to be comfortable with, but you have to force yourself to get used to it. Whether it is emotional or physical; everyone bears arms of war that are capable of seeping through the bloodstream to the bone. The one thing they will never compromise is the titanium child inside who promises to keep going.

Warmth within; I bend down, picking up my shoes before turning back to the Gamesmakers.

"I'm ready now," I tell them, tilting my head up to them. "I'm ready to kill. I'm ready to be yours."

I give half a smile, staring up to them, before turning on my heels and leaving.

Fighting isn't something I haven't always been comfortable with, but it's something I'll force myself to get used to. I shift my head over my shoulder, looking to the untouched weapons which failed to make the cut in my training session. Swords and axes, javelins and spears; they are alone in their death.

Weapons, schmeapons—who needs one when you are one?

x

"You're left with a fighter. I can't crawl back into your womb, Mum, one day, I'll have to fight. Don't you get that?"

"Over my dead body will you fight, you little madam. You are to me as the moon is to the night."

"Fine."

"Over your dead body it is then."

 


ɹǝpuɐsʎן ɐןןʎʍ

[✨ zozo.]

S C A R L E T T

They've met one of her requests, at least.

Apparently they don't give out guns that easily to common folk of the districts. It would have made things a helluva lot easier - and much more impressive to the Gamemakers - but they're scared she'll start knocking the rest of them down one by one until there's only Scarlett Stroms left to rise up into the arena. Or worse, she'll take herself out. Not that they know any better.

But they will soon.

54 dummies laid out in a triangle before her and the sight of them puts a spring in her step. No more childs play, no more running laps around scared little children, no more showing off the work of the devil and sending fear into the hearts of those that sent themselves here. Now it was Scarlett, the Gamemakers, and seventeen years of damnation.

Hell was approaching, she its wrath, a question dangling in the air:

How many ways can you kill a man?

Silver in her hands, red on her lips, darkness nestled in her chest - and a grin twitching between her ears.

An intake of breath. An outtake.

And then she launches.

She starts at the back - always the element of surprise. Out of sight, out of mind, losing her own mind kill by kill.

The First finds a spear through its heart, stabbed in the back by the devil herself. The Second, a spear in the head. The Third, a spear in the lower back.

Blood sprays across the floor in the prologue to an answer now singing through the air: How many ways can you kill a man?

Light footsteps, lightning-quick, hands snatch at the Fourth's head and its skull dissolves underneath her grip. The Fifth, thumbs in eye sockets and then a brain. The sixth, hands around its neck. Seventh finds a head twisted off, Eight with elbows around air pipes, Nine has crushed nightlock berries shoved down its throat.

The Tenth is punched - hard - in the space above its nose and between its eyes. Eleven at its temple. Twelve has a rope tied around its neck, Scarlett's arm flung upwards, a sharp tug, and it swings in the air until it stops - deathly still. Thirteen has rope wrapped around its neck and she tugs, length of rope crossed around from behind, until it falls to the floor. Fourteen: a bag wrapped tightly around the head.

Fifteen is the first to meet the blade of a knife - it collides at its temple. Sixteen, plunged into the left eye - Seventeen, the right. Eighteen's blood spills from a slash to the throat, it's Nineteenth neighbour meets a similar fate: only Scarlett reaches from behind and snaps its head back for good measure. Twenty's spine severed at the nape of its neck.

She's just getting started.

Twenty-one stabbed in the frontal lobe, Twenty-two in the jugular. Twenty-four's knife is slipped through the gaps in its rib cage and the tip kisses its heart goodnight. Twenty-five doesn't need a kidney, right? Twenty-six tried the same way, but from behind.

She's getting bored now - and so are the stares from above. Furious hands shed the blades and before the clattering ceases there's a flail in Scarlett's hands and it crushes the sternum of Twenty-Seven, the back of Twenty-Eight's head, the chain wrapped around Twenty-Nine's throat. 

But it's clunky, unpredictable, and she almost shies away from the unfamiliar weapon. She needs sharp, silver, streamlined - a sword, and back to the show she goes. 

It's like an art, the way she dances with death as her partner. Thirty greets the sword with its torso, sliced clean in half. Thirty-one looses its limbs. Thirty-two, its head. Thirty-three meets perhaps the most gruesome of all swordsmanship: stabbed at the lowest point of its esophagus and dragged upwards to the jaw, billowing out with the wind and painting the floor red with its gasps.

Scarlett's eyes turn towards the pool and inspiration ignites -  it's time to be creative. Knives, again, three dummies as hostage. Thirty-four stabbed in the lungs once, twice, three times, thrown to the water to drown from the inside-out. Thirty-five, tied to a weight and left to sink. Thirty-six, arms slit from the wrist to the elbow and face-down to mix red and blue, purple-faced like Thirty-seven: head held underwater as two minutes tick by.

The next fourteen  kills are a blur of red and silver, hatred and skill, chaos and calm - the thrill of the chase driving her wild. From silver to blue and red, she watches Fifty-Two go up in flames and the heat warms a madness in her chest to the surface.

Fifty-Three is a target, launched full-throttle, and she rips out its throat with her own teeth.

How many times can you kill a man?

The answer is tally written in blood: 53 strikes, 53 names, 53 faces upon the wall. It pools beneath her feet as a sea of death, sticky and hot and saturated, dripping from her lips like acid.

Where rouge lipstick ends and the blood of her enemies begins is hard to tell, but she takes a finger from her free hand and dips it in her namesake, scrawling 8 letters across Fifty-Four's chest as a death sentence.

MY MOTHER

Scarlett stabs her clean through the heart - in, twist, out. Just like the devil taught her.

A kiss on the cheek of a faceless corpse is all she leaves behind.

'X' marks the spot.

i can smell your f e a r

the only reason that i'm here 

is to w r e a k h a v o c

 

table by elegant

[florentine, d4b ❁]

[presto]

EDEN TURNER i've got no soul, just a black hole right in the middle of my chest - i'm not like the other kids They were my judge, my jury and my executioner. I fear that I have become transparent; that they can see within me, see my inadequacies.  "You are legends of your own making, not mistakes of chance," Gamemaker Cricket had told us, a collective verbal catalyst intended to improve the viewing quality of fifty-one juvenile deaths. She was wrong about me, though. While the others ascended (0r descended, depending on your viewpoint) to this position through their own volition, I was born with whispers of the Games reverberating through my veins, the very murder they seek caught up in my heartbeat. Of the fifty-two of us, I was the only one who had this thrust upon them: my birthright. I did not belong in this coalition of the willing, not really.  When Cricket Antoinette won the 63rd annual Hunger Games, I was three years old. Although I didnd't remember her victory, I did remember her in the years that followed; that golden period of my childhood that tasted like icecream in my memory.  "I'm so excited, you know," I told them eagerly. "You know, Cricket, when I was five I thought you were the coolest of all the Victors." Absentmindedly, I play with the frayed end of a rope from one of the stations as I speak, twisting it around my wrists. "A lot of them were boring, like Arbor and Ma and Klaus. And some just scared me, like Mace." "But you taught me how to walk on my hands - do you remember that?"  (I had wondered if I'd be scared, once the time came to present myself, and yet somehow the whole experience felt a little too much like coming home.)  Absentmindedly, I picked up a belt of throwing knives, pretending I hadn't watched the video of my mother tossing these very same Capitol-issue weapons toward Razor six times over. I pulled it around my hipbones, and it sat loosely, as though I had not quite grown enough to fulfil my inheritance.  I drew one knife with each hand and turned away from the Gamemakers, toward the wall. Reaching upward, I plunged each into the plaster. "These games are going to be the best. The most fun, ever." With all my strength I managed to retract a blade from the wall and reach higher; brought my feet off of the ground and pulled myself upwards. "Our games." I turned to the Gamemakers and grinned as I reached the ceiling. Quickly, I looped the rope and tossed it down toward the training centre, hoping to ensnare a wreath perched on the head of a dummy, where someone had placed it as a mock-crown. The rope fell short, the ceiling too high. Panic flipped in my stomach, a writhing reflection of the look in my mothers eyes when I met them in the train carriage; a feeling that says Eden Turner, you have made a mistake, and you are not who you believe you are. I bit my tongue until I tasted blood, and then lifted my chin. "I always wondered what my games would be like, ever since I was little." I took the frayed end of the rope between my teeth and let go with one hand, allowing myself to hang precariously as I separated the two thick strands of woven material from one another, untwisting them. I wished that I could untwist the knots in my stomach quite as easily.  From there, I knotted one rope to a knife from my belt and threw it with arms shaking from the effort, my bare feet jammed against the training centre walls. It hit the opposite wall, lodging itself there.  I exhaled, a breath I didn't realise I was holding.  "I've been waiting for this all my life." And then, without stopping to think, I jumped.  As I fell, I was sure that the knife would dislodge and I would just keep on falling; the same feeling as when the ground gives way beneath you as you fall asleep; the same feeling as "I volunteer"; the same feeling as a mother who looks at you as though you are already dead. For a fraction of a second, I began to agree with her, so sure that I would fall. Then all at once, the rope reached it's full extension, a jolt signifying that it was going to take my weight.  It supported me as I began my ascent upward, and somehow I remembered the other half of the rope in my hands, still looped into a lasso, and tossed it out toward the dummy with the ridiculous halo of leaves. It snared. Then my feet hit the ground. I managed to translate my loss of balance into a lopsided bow before placing the wreath atop my head.  It's kind of a monarchy, right? At some point, the princess is destined to become the queen.  "Next year, once I get back, you'll teach me how to do the bow and arrow with my feet, right?"  you ran away from home when you were only young but everybody wants to be someone

[/presto]

[MrMista]

Molly Malachite | 14 | D1F

---

“Molly Malachite, District 1!”

Molly jumped at the sound of her name, excited to leave an impression on the judges. She’d sent in a special request way in advance that she hoped would help make quite the show. Fortunately, she was only the second person to perform, so the judges wouldn’t be bored quite yet. The Fray girl had gone first, though, and who knew how well she’d performed. That girl was the definition of an enigma, acting like a human riddle.

Now wasn’t the time to think about her fellow tributes though. As Molly stepped into the arena, she cleared herself of all thoughts, focusing on what she was about to –

Flash!

Her head darted up to the source of the brightness. (Shiny!) The Gamemakers were seated high above her, each looking as regal as a queen. They were dressed in sparkles from head to toe, so that each movement caused them to radiate light like miniature suns.

Molly was staring.

Molly was not moving.

That was not the plan.

(Improvise, Molly!)

She smiled, and yelled out, while grinning ear to ear, “Looking lovely, ladies!”

Molly hoped she’d gotten their attention for at least some time. If they didn’t watch her, what she was about to do would be worthless. Hopefully, at least Cricket would hold on though. As far as Molly could tell, the victor-turned-Gamemaker had never lost her affection for flare.

Taking note of the fact that she only had a limited amount of time, Molly jogged over to the weapons rack and quickly collected the first five knives she could find, making sure they weren’t the shiniest. (I’ll need those for later.) The dummies were already lined up, 3 in a row. Molly lined up her aim, and threw. Her metal projectiles flew straight at their targets.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Three dummies, three knives to the heart.

It was clean.

It was efficient.

It was boring.

Molly looked up at the Gamemakers and faked a yawn. “Any old tribute can do that,” she remarked. “You deserve to see more.”

Eyes closed, she quickly picked up her remaining two and threw them again.

Whistle… thu-thunk!

Eyes open, she saw that both knives had landed side-by-side on the center dummy’s head. Best case scenario, the victim would have lost one of their five senses. Worst case scenario, they would have lost their life.

That was skillful.

That was ruthless.

That was still boring.

It was time to show the Gamemakers what true beauty was. It was time for her finale.

“Give me one moment,” Molly called up with glee, as she ran over to the weapons rack once more. This time, she made sure to pick the 2 brightest knives available (No time to think about how beautiful they are), and then she ran over to the medical area. (Bet you didn’t see that coming.)

Quickly, Molly grabbed two rolls of bandages and started tying each one around the handle of a throwing knife. She sent out a silent thank you to the Gamemaker who decided it would be a good idea to have everyone learn first aid, or the idea would never have entered Molly’s mind. Carrying a knife in each hand, such that the weapon was dangling in mid-air, suspended by the bandages, Molly approached the fire-making station. She watched the 2 avoxes appear from the shadowy corners, each dragging a lighter version of the dummies by the wall into the center.

As they set themselves up, Molly found a jar of tar and dipped both knives in, coating the part of the bandages that covered their handles ever so slightly. (This is going to be soooo pretty!)

“One last step,” she called up, and as Molly set the pair of weapons down, she uncorked the vial around her neck. It was full of glitter, the last element required for the ensuing show. Having laid out the bandages so that they were in a straight line, Molly stood over her creations, and slowly but surely began pouring glitter over them. (Of all the things they couldn’t provide us with...)

Finally, she was ready to go. “Dim the lights, please,” she yelled out, hoping whoever was in charge could hear her.

Clearly, they could, as the visibility instantly dropped to almost pure-black. “Don’t stop moving until you see the light approach you. But when you do,” She warned the avoxes, “Step back and enjoy the show.” She smiled. “It’ll be stunning!”

Clink!

Flare!

All it took was a quick hit of knife against knife, and the room exploded in light as the tar caught fire. This was where Molly had to act precisely. If she was too slow, the flame would eat away at the bandages. Too fast and the finale would be… underwhelming to say the least.

One step at a time, Molly began turning herself around.

Step…

step…

step, step

step step

stepstep stepstep!

She extended her arms completely, a ballerina gracing the stage during the final act of a performance, and watch herself become the eye of a flaming circle. She didn’t know how it looked to the Gamemakers, but Molly could clearly see the dummies and the avoxes. With fire in her eye, she quickly approached.

Whist… whoosh!

Continuing her centrifugal momentum, Molly did not slow as the first knife cut across the first dummy, setting it aflame. She knew she had to make work of the second one within seconds.

Stepstepstepstepstepstep!

She approached it just as quickly and smiled as her knife slashed the dummy’s midsection, but she could not stop. She twirled to the midpoint between the pillars of flame, desperate to nail the final move.

Molly looked at her knives and saw the fire was starting to eat away at her bandages. It was now or never. Molly brought her hands together and started twirling the bandages in two circles facing out, each slightly offset from the other. As she felt the heat begin to intensify near her knuckles, Molly knew it was now or never. Just after the knives passed the point where they were parallel to the ground, Molly released them.

Up and up and up they soared. At the peak of their arcs, they separated from their bandages and Molly, for once, was able to tear her eyes away from the beauty before her. She knew she’d succeeded in her task, and it was only a matter of time before the Gamemakers realized it as well.

Thu-thunk!

That was the sound Molly was waiting for, and as she opened her eyes, she wasn’t surprised to see a knife embedded at the top of each flaming dummy, the hilt of each protruding almost vertically.

That wasn’t the sight she wanted to draw the judges’ attention towards, however. As Molly looked around her, she couldn’t help but release a giddy laugh. The lights were off, but the fire provided enough visibility for Molly to see her masterpiece. Molly’s glitter littered the floor around her, a circle on the ground that reflected the area she’d covered with her weapons of flaming destruction. The knives had been cast aside, but the beauty they helped create remained. Molly, too, was likely covered in glitter, and she couldn’t wait to see it, but first she had to make sure the Gamemakers were able to appreciate her little display.

Eyes up, Molly tried to make out the two radiant women. At first, all she could see were bright dots, the glimmering effect created by the women's outfits. As she looked closer though, Molly noticed four specks, two pairs, which glowed instead of glimmered. The fire in those eyes burned brighter than the one surrounding Molly, and that told the girl all she needed to know.

“Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did. Just remember, more shinies means more fun!” Molly giggled. Satisfied, she took a bow and took her leave.

[Deleted]

You place one tremulous foot after another onto the bars connected to the netting supporting your ascent. The world looks much smaller three flights up, and you stop looking after a few seconds, knowing courage, like a summer sunset, is gone too quickly. Down below waits a willing victim: a high fidelity mannequin placed toward the center of what will be your drop. You named him Gregor because you had to come up with a name for a creature that was both trusting and dutiful; you settled on the name of the Izar dog that had passed just last summer. The task seems much easier when you’re able to name him after a source of comfort.

Sometimes what we’re used to is not where we belong. You said the words to Atlas while tending to his imaginary wounds, and they burrow into your chest. It would have been easy enough for you to demonstrate your skill in patching up scrapes and cuts, or identifying all manner of flora. That is Salome Izar—stable, steady, and true. Your strength always lay in achieving the ordinary so well that folks may not have noticed you do much of anything at all. Your old life does not exist here; even Tamron has abandoned you (though with fifty-some distractions you place no blame on him but on yourself for not extending your hand to him).

A coil of rope hangs over your shoulder. Tied neatly with knots, you measured out its length to the inch. Should your calculations be off, the waiting avoxes will be cleaning you off the matts for the next week. Of where you will never waiver is the confidence in your work—you had the idea from your childhood, it came so simply that you practically tumbled out of bed laughing. The watering hold had a cord to swing across the water attached to a thick oak branch. Your enterprising cousins had the idea to attach the rope to their feet and leap to see both the terror and joy of falling, until they whipped back upward by the force of their own momentum.

At last, you reach the top of the ladder. You hoist yourself over the top of the bar and start to crawl, marking out your spot. The support beams are truly meant to be connected to the obstacle course and netting station, but you have a separate purpose. You fasten the cords over the support beam and make sure to double check each knot. Slowly, you begin to wrap the cords around your waist and coil them across your legs. You retrieve the knife holstered in the small of your back, and can feel your heart begin to beat to a crescendo. You stand on the bar, and stare down at the waiting speck below. You feel like losing your lunch then and there; you’re certain your face has gone white.

You are not a fighter. You have no real skill in hand to hand, or using a sword. But you have all the weapons that matter—your determined heart, your cunning eyes, and a willingness to push yourself to the edge. You take a careful step forward and enter into a freefall.

Your scream reverberates across the training grounds as you sail downward. You feel the rush of the air across your face, and the approach of the ground below. As Gregor comes within grasp, you thrust your arm forward, locking the knife through the back of his skull. And then, just as you came tumbling down, the rope recoils, dragging your body upward with force. You struggle in the rope as you’re pulled upward, and then tumble down again. Like a pendulum you swing forward, and then back, until after another moment of wiggling, you free yourself from the rope.

With a curtsy you face the Gamemakers.

[Lyn𝛿is]

gentian hope

In the Training Center, time passed so quickly and so slowly at the same time. For seemingly forever he waited as the tributes from Seven, followed by Shelby and Eva, went in and out of that room, yet far too soon they had all finished and it was his turn to face the Gamemakers.

Something in his head sounding suspiciously like his ally Molly was admonishing him, tsking at his ideas and calling them all boring. Not that he had the kind of showmanship Cricket Antoinette possessed anyway. He was just a lost little child who'd followed a girl plunging to her doom, the name Hope an ironic echo to life's futility.

The smell of smoke and burnt rubber overwhelmed his senses as he stepped through the doors and into the watchful gaze of the two women - the only lingering remnants of Eva's session. Fire, then. With a brother like Preston, he wasn't surprised. But he wasn't making the same choice.

A length of elastic, a length of metal, a coil of rope - odds and ends found often enough in Eight's factories. Harmless, perhaps, on first glance. But the workers there knew better - there were too many accidents leaving some poor kid garroted or impaled crushed within the machines. Killing a human was a easy as making cloth.

A couple knives and a spear. He wasn't planning on demonstrating combat - that would surely pale after whatever the Careers did - but the Gamemakers wanted blood, and for now they would have to be sated by the fake blood of the training dummies. They were heavy as he lugged them to the right positions, and so very creepy with their blank faces and limp forms. They would look better with button eyes sewn on, but what was the point in making the dummies look better if they were doomed to be destroyed?

A room pillar, the rafters, a handful of knots, and Gamemakers looking contemplative at his little project. Showmanship wasn't his strong suit, but showmanship wasn't needed to be dangerous. He wondered if the older woman was as shallow as Cricket. He wondered if it mattered.

Two dummies next to him, and two dummies lined up against the wall awaiting their doom. He shoved the ones next to him forward, letting them catch on the ropes, and a knife swung forward on the left like a pendulum, embedding itself straight through the middle of the first dummy's eye. To his right, a spear pierced the second dummy's neck.

A knife in the eye and a spear through the neck. Cricket must have studied the Games carefully. She'd be well aware of the symbolism.

He calmly slit the throat of the two dummies next to him and looked up at the Gamemakers. Heading over to the row of remaining dummies, he gave the end one a shove.

They toppled over like a line of dominoes as he walked out the door.

OOC: Notes