actual not so private training sessions

[lance]

*insert rick roll here*

jk i can't out-meme arx this is the real deal

District One Female, first of twenty four - hers would be the impression that the Gamemakers would see first, hers the session they would compare to Moreno and Hammerfell and Hayden and Samson and Mariela and every other tribute that walked through the doorway to their fifteen minutes of a personal playground.

It was a set of expectations that lay heavy on her shoulders - who ever remembered the first act out of twenty four? - but not one she was unaccustomed to. She was used to pressure - after all, she had not only survived but even thrived under the expectations that her father had tried to mold her into - and this would be no different.

So it was with her trademark smirk and a sly wink to where the three Head Gamemakers sat - two youthful and lanky, one older and short - that she entered with. Confidence radiated off of her in waves - she was, after all, the heir to a legacy that had grown tarnished ever since the duo of Fray and Lumiere had squandered a victory probability of fifty percent to a Ten and a Twelve. Confidence wasn't just expected - it was necessary.

That was why she had sent in a special request for her training, courtesy of the ever flamboyant escort Tallu, for the Gamemakers to provide the biggest, strongest trainer in their arsenal for her to test her blade against.

And - Ripred, they did not disappoint.

She sent a silent thank you to whatever deity was listening that the only person who even came close to this man's stature was the Hammerfell boy from Two, for this man was easily a foot taller and several tens of pounds heavier than she was.

Intimidating, yes, but not to the point of fear. She hadn't, after all, became one of the best swordswomen in the academy back home by losing to opponents with a clear physical advantage.

So it was with careful consideration that she chose the light, one-handed arming sword as opposed to the multitude of two-handed blades that decorated the center. She'd never be able to out-muscle the giant trainer - and the greatsword he was currently leaning on - so she'd have to out-maneuver him instead.

She twirled the blade once, twice, three times, lunging at an invisible opponent with jabs and slashes, noting with a quiet delight that this blade was no different from those she had grown so accustomed to back home.

So it was without hesitation, without any form of fear on her face that she entered the sparring arena, not even as the giant trainer opposite her hefted his blade into a two-handed grip.

For a moment, they did nothing but stare at one another, each trying to get a read on their opponent. It was her, acutely aware of the ticking clock, that finally spoke.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

And with those six words, battle was met.

It was a dance she knew well - the larger opponents rarely had the speed that smaller people like her did, and it was something she used to her advantage. The slower strikes were dodged completely, the quicker ones batted away with her own blade, even as she lashed out at openings left by his onslaught. A slice to the Achilles here, a solid rake across the cheek there, they did little damage to the giant man - of course, the blades were blunted so that death was nigh impossible to acquire - but for every mighty swing that was hefted her way, three more were sent in the direction of her opponent. Were it an actual fight with live steel, he'd be bleeding from a dozen different wounds, while she'd be almost certainly untouched.

But the man himself was no pushover. This was no overconfident brute that there seemed to be an excess amount of back home, nor was this even one of the many junior instructors fresh from their own period of Reaping that she had fought over the past year. The man was an expert at his trade, just like she was a rising star in hers - for all of his girth, he'd been surprisingly quick, and she'd yet to deal more than a single solid strike upon him.

But even then her confidence did not waver. It was a rhythm she was well accustomed to - block, dodge, strike - and even when she slipped and the greatsword went hurtling towards her, they were strikes she was able to turn away without much harm done. Dance, strike, repeat, over and over until he tired and she was able to-

The backhand smashed her full across the face before she had quite realized what had happened. One second she'd been all adrenaline and laughter, the next, there was only pain as she was whipped around, grip around her sword loosening.

The oomph of her own landing was drowned by the clatter of her sword to the ground, and even as she fought back a cry - this was not the first time she had experienced such pain from such an attack - her mind was racing with what she could do to salvage this situation.

The giant's footsteps sounded behind her, and she twisted her body to one side to see the point of his greatsword leveled at her face. "Yield," he demanded, "for this round belongs to me."

It was then that she knew what she would have to do.

Masks were something she was very skilled at creating, after all.

So the mask she plastered on herself was one of pain and anguish, one of someone utterly broken. "P-p-please," she whimpered, crocodile tears welling up in her eyes."N-no more. Please."

Through blurred vision, she saw the tip of his sword waver ever so slightly. "So, you do yield?" he asked, this time with less certainty, less conviction.

Perfect.

"Y-yes, I yield," she choked out. "No more."

The big man let out a sigh of something that sounded like disappointment, and lowered his blade.

Gotcha.

Quick as a viper, she pushed out with her arms, body sliding underneath the sword point and closing the distance for a mighty kick, launched from her free leg directly at his kneecap. The resounding CRACK! was like music to her ears, as was the bellow of pain and surprise that followed a second later.

The first part of her makeshift plan complete, she scrambled, shifting onto all fours to close the small distance between her and her sword. One hand closed around a leather hilt while the other pushed herself to her feet, and even as the giant tried and failed to regain his balance on his newly broken kneecap, she approached him and swung with every last iota of strength she possessed.

Flat of the blade met face with a smash, and it was the giant's turn to fall. He hit the ground with a loud THUD, and she grinned, for the battle was hers.

But she wasn't finished. Not yet.

Slowly, meaningfully, she sauntered over to the fallen trainer. She was careful to turn so that her back was to the trio of Gamemakers sitting on their pedestals, for she wanted privacy for her next act. Not that it would be guaranteed to do her any good - for all she knew they had complete surveillance of the entire room - but it was worth a shot, in any case.

Ignoring the stinging pain on her cheek, she widened her grin. "So, tell me, my good man," she projected, loud enough so that even the Gamemakers to her back could pick up on her words. "Do you yield?"

The trainer could only muster a groan in response.

"Was that a yes I heard?" More groaning. "Well, too bad."

Her grin transformed into a devious smirk, and she shifted the hold around the hilt of her blade shifted into a reverse grip. "Sorry dude, but this is the Hunger Games." She lifted the sword above her head, both hands around the grip and point aimed directly towards the trainer's head. "There is no yielding.

One deep breath, and the blade was brought down with as much force as she could muster.

THUNK.

Satisfied, she stepped back, allowing her work to be displayed. The blade had sunk directly into the mats of the arena floor, not six inches to the left of the trainer's head.

Turning around to face the Gamemakers, she gave them one last knowing wink, before sauntering out of the room as if she had all the time in the world.

After all, that was her ultimate plan. And she would do everything - utilize the full extent of her skill with a weapon, plaster on different masks for deception, even throw away what many warriors call honor - to turn the next few days into the next few decades.

The contrast was astonishing; Ezen panicking his way out of the room, only to be replaced by Cynthia’s cocky smirk. Venus had known she would be a big personality the moment he witnessed her overbearing confidence during the Reaping. Careers often had that trademark demeanor, but now it was up to Cynthia to separate herself from the majority. How would she impress the Gamemakers and their stringent reputations?

If she did not, she would be another recycled career, destined to perish and fade beyond more exciting legacies. Venus thought it rather unfortunate, but that was not in his power to change.

She was off to a promising start, standing before one of the finest trainers alive. He was a hulking mass of skill, although it was evident in both of their stances that she would gain the advantage of agility. It piqued his interest. Surviving more than a minute with him would be impressive alone.

They sparred with weapons that would not kill, which eased his conscience. If he ended up with another Capitolite’s life gone under his watch, he would not hesitate to launch one of those increasingly popular swarms in this girl’s direction. Imagine the horror.

It was a riveting back and forth clashing of blades and scrapes, reminding him of his own past years as a trainer. The pressure was on to impress – however, he didn’t expect this to drag on much longer. This was one of their best, after all. He would gain the upper hand eventually.

One sly backhand was all it took.

He squinted at Cynthia’s abrupt change in demeanor. A cornered career, reducing herself to tears after such a prideful display? Unlikely.

Of course, he fell for it anyway.

Venus sipped his hot tea as she stole the upper hand once again, dancing with fire. She sunk her blade inches away from the trainer’s head. Taunting the Gamemakers? Bad call, yet Venus found his disappointment slipping away. He would not clap, but he would not dismiss her talents either.

”She’s good,” he admitted, ”But a real opponent would never ask her to yield.”

It was true; he appreciated the ability to act, but how far would that take her? Only the weakest personalities would hesitate at such a crucial moment. If she was lucky, maybe it would work.

”They would kill her before she could waste any time with fake tears.”

With little to discuss, they all wrote a pleasant 8 beside her name.

[ dars ]

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

Yes, I know, I know, I know
It's not the right way to go
But I pray for the ground to swallow me whole

Water is dripping behind one of the walls, I swear it. I can hear the sound, and that’s not the only thing. There’s the shuffle of impatient feet against the floor, the cracking of knuckles, someone wheezing breath through their nostrils. Each sound brings a chill up the back of my neck.

shuffle

crack

whistle

The worst sound of all is my name being called.

(This time I hear it, unlike Reaping day.)

It happens too suddenly, and I’m staring off into space when it happens. I hear my name like a dream, and a long moment passes before I stand up, keeping my hands close to my sides like I’m wrapped up in rope.

Did my brothers and sisters fear this day?

I bet they didn’t. I bet they were brave.

My hand wraps around the door handle. I’m pausing, faltering, and I take too long. Someone coughs behind me, and the water drip drip drips, and I focus on the pounding of my heart. When I focus on other things aside from the fear, I can move again, pulling the door open. Ravenous eyes cut into my skin when I come into view, and there’s nowhere to go but forward.

Beginning is one thing. Continuing is another.

I give the Gamemakers an awkward wave and a smile, shuffling closer to their table.

“Hi, I’m Ezen,” I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

(Duh. They know that. Stupid.)

Should I have said something?

God.

Probably not.

My smile falls, and I turn away. I don’t like the way their eyes bore into me, and I especially don’t like wondering if any of them had a hand in killing the other members of my family. Did I love the others? Not really. Do I worry that they were infinitely more competent than I am, and still ended up dead?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not the time to think, or I’ll have a panic attack.

Nope nope nope

Deep breaths.

Oh god.

Am I going to have a panic attack? I have stuff to show them. This can’t happen.

Now I’m the one wheezing, and I clutch at my chest.

Am I going to die right here, right now?

Am I going to die in a few days?

Oh my god, I’m a dead man.

I’m going to die.

They’re all watching me.

They all think I’m going to die.

They’re right. Holy shit, they’re right.

Nope, nope, nope, nope.

“I, uh..”

I’m not even talking to them. I’m facing the wrong way.

I can’t breathe through the words I want to say.

I want to show them what I can build, but I can’t.

I can’t

I –

I bolt towards the door and don’t look back.

P

B

I drink wine
and know things
It is what I do best

Pidgeory Blinkoe felt excited sat utop his stool, notpad in his lap, pen in one hand and hand holding a goblet of sweet berried wine in the other- if by exicted, you found yourself casually sweating with fear beneath your suit excited then, yes. He was excited. Excited as anyone could be to watch two dozen kids do party tricks, only for the Gamemakers to sit there and plan each and everyones timely demise.

He took a sip of wine to ground himself and one glance at the Avox boy who had filled his goblet reminded him that one wrong move, would give sign him to a fate worse than death- hell, it was probably even worse than finding President Snow sat in his front room. He knew he would have to play carefully, if he were to make it out alive, and as the door open he kind hoped that District 1's male would too. 

District One was always his favourite, boastful careers and sly albeit pretty girls that reminded him of his wife. Sometimes, the boys were prettier than the girls and Pidgeory Blinkoe chuckled lightly as this thought crossed his mind as the Male tribute entered the room. He grinned- almost wickedly- as he allowed his gaze to full onto the boy, giving him his undivided attention.

This is going to be splendid. He thought to himself as he watched and waited. 

His smile faltered slightly when the boy awkwardly introduced himself, with a little wave and a quiet voice. No matterhe thought, waiting for the boy to do something spectacular like create an explosion using only his shoe or throw a knife in such a fashion that it acted like a boomerang and swung back round to strike a dummy behind him. And so he waited paitently, smiling, waiting for the boy to do something to outdo the others.

Except, only stuttering came and Pidge's excitment deflated like a big fat wine filled balloon. He followed the boy with his gaze as his stumbled over his words, his thoughts, before he promptly hightailed it from the room before he could utter "I uh" again. Blinkoe bit back a sigh as he raised his eyebrows- partially in disappointment, partially in dismay. "That bodes well...doesn't it?"

"Well this is easy" Venus said, as Pidgeory downed the rest of his goblet of wine and extended it outwards for the Avox to refill.

"It is going to be a very...very long day" he spoke, as he drew a giant 1 in the scoring box.

[mat]

[googlefont="Finger Paint:400"]

tobias staite

we rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
we rise; one wandering thought pollutes the day.
we feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
embrace found woe, or cast our cares away.

One does not simply make a monster because monsters are not simply made. Monstrosity takes time to plant its parasitical roots in a host, and it carefully consumes them, one painful step at a time. Somewhat like an infection, if it is not tended to quickly, it can fester and grow into an omnipotent force of mind, body, and soul. And that only scratches the surface of the dreams that for now lay dormant in my mind.

Sometimes I dared myself to close my eyes and face my fears; I desired play chicken with the recurring nightmares in hopes that it would chase them away. The pitch black void and the red eyes that terrorized me through childhood… I ran from them every night instead of taking a moment to ask myself why it was happening. People try to say that dreams and nightmares have more symbolic meanings that the literal emotion it brings forth in sleep. If that’s true, then why did the dreams start when I was so young, stop when Ezekiel protected me, but then return as soon as he went away? A human body is supposed to want to stay healthy, but my mind plays evil games that only deprive me of sleep and make me fear the night.

I let my head lay in cupped hands, trying to release the tension from my sore neck from three days of rigorous training. I tried to stay awake, but that was impossible. The only sleep I got over that past five days were in half-hour power naps as I feared that any more would trigger the monstrosity in my mind to wake itself and give me an anxiety that I didn’t have a craving for days before I had to fight for my life.

That was the last thing I wanted… no… couldn’t let it happen.

{“Tobias Staite.”}

I couldn’t tell if that blackness that encompassed my vision was from my hands shielding my eyes from light or from my body trying to get the rest it deserved.

It wasn’t until Samson nudged at my arm that I picked up my head. She stared at me, and I looked to my other side, the line-up of the first three districts completely empty. So I stood and walked in, praying not to make a fool of myself.

✮✮✮

My mother told me before I left, in final ‘last words of encouragement,’ to fight as if I was Daria trying to get revenge on Harbinger. She lived day to day with a grudge against him and his family, even if she never got to know the man. I imagine he didn’t want to kill her; I imagine that most deaths, including this one, was almost as painful to give as it was to receive. It was him or her, and if I had my way, it would’ve been her to make it out alive. But there are aspects of life that I cannot control, and that is one of them. Nonetheless, Harbinger was justified in killing Daria… in life or death one might almost always pick life.

I walk out to the center of the training center, thinking of a way to reform my mother’s words into something that better suited my mind. It didn’t make sense to blame someone who was practically forced. It is better fit to put blame on those who did not have to do what they did… and for that I blame the children District Four. They killed Ezekiel, not the knife that he himself pushed into his chest.

I smile at the group of people above me, staring at each one as they walked and talked amongst themselves.

”Evening,” I address them awkwardly, pulling at the collar of my training outfit.

It takes a second for my brain to remind me that these people are impatient and hate waiting, so I quickly begin to plant my blame upon District Four.

Before I prefered my lonesome, my father liked to take Ezekiel and I fishing, not as work, but as a hobby. It was a form of father-sons bonding, and I loved it, even if Ezekiel was horrible at casting the line into the sea and almost had my eye as one of his catches.

From the racks of countless weapons, I only take three: two sharp-metal tipped spears, both wrapped in wooden handles, and a short but precise knife. For now I set one spear on the floor as it’d come in handy for my plan later on. With the other, I held it in my right and used the knife in my left to start clawing out the metal tip from the wooden handle. A dozen or so seconds went by before I finally got the wood and metal separated enough to pull the metal out. Tossing it gently to the side, I carry the wooden piece over to the station with a bunch of tiny materials: flint, matches, fishing line, and hooks.

I take the fishing line and begin wrapping it around the cylindrical stick of wood. Over and over, the song Ring a Ring o’ Roses plays on repeat in my head.

Ass holes, ass holes, they all fall down, I change the lyrics in my head, humming the tune to the thought of what the people in my District did to Ezekiel, how they hurt him so much that he’d hurt himself. Ass holes, ass holes, they’re all at fault.

When I’m done lacing the wood in the line, I cut off a bit of excess line. At the end of the line I tie one of the hooks that laid on the table. The end result is a fishing rod, the trademark and symbol of District Four’s product. It’s a bad replica, but it suffices.

Carrying the fragile rod back to the other spear, I prepare to make the creation, mark the blame upon District Four. I pick up the spear and walk to the dummy that has the best visual for the Gamemakers. I take in-tact spear and from behind, I stab the spear through the hand of the plush dummy. On the other hand I stab a hole with the knife, big enough to place the makeshift fishing-rod inside. I take a step back, to show the Gamemakers my creation.

For the second time I speak, explaining my display. ”This is your average person from Four. Fisherman, sweet, nice.”

I wrap the fishing line tightly around the dummy’s arm, humming the tune once again. It’s all their fault… I make a tiny incision with the hook, enough to unite the two.

”But, y’know, that’s what you see on the outside.”

I grab the fishing pole by it’s end, and I continue, ”True beauty is skin deep.”

I pull the pole without mercy, and I hear the ripping of the dummy’s fabric, the fluff oozing out as the hand is torn in two.

”What comes from the inside is the true ugliness. What comes from the inside is the true monster.”

I take two additional spears and back away from the dummy before launching them at the standing dummy. One landing in the chest and the other in the remainder of the dummy’s half-torn arm.

”We see physical abnormalities and flaws, then we exploit others and shame them for it, shame them for having things they cannot control.”

I walk closer to the dummy, it’s figure still standing on its pedestal, like a corrupt king: at birth receiving such power but being so undeserving.

”Yet we fail to point at the people who are disgusting on the inside, the moldable part of us. We let them slide by while others have to suffer.”

I jump and kick the dummy in the gut. It had no effect, but I wanted to do it to express my anger. It’s one thing to let a spear fly, but it’s another to hit and punch and kick.

”Screw that. Screw them.”

I walk out, not caring what number they rate me with, for the ten or so minutes it took for me to finish my session were telling enough of my new mission: to expose the evil within in hopes that one day, the evil may change its ways.

One does not simply make a monster because monsters are not simply made.

One does not easily break a monster because monsters are not easily broken.

That’s why they call it a mission- a calling- it is not always easy, but with effort it can be done.

--

P

B

I drink wine
and know things
It is what I do best

They had already been sat there for what felt like a life time and they weren't even half way there. Pidge rubbed his temple with the end of his pen, frowning somewhat as he relayed the tributes who had come and gone- none stuck to mind really, and there were those who he really did not want to stick to his mind so he'd taken a few extra glugs of wine to numb the memories. No one had died...yet.

Pidgeory took a gulp of wine as he nodded in agreement with his fellow Gamemakers as the girl from 3 left, leaving the empty hum of the barrier ringing in his ears. As he wrote down the girls score, he flipped over the page to see who would be next- another wannabe rebel, a painter, a head strong career? Pidgeory paused momentarily to look up from his pad as the young boy entered the Training Center, before he allowed his gaze to the name at the top of his page.

Staite. Pidgeory raised his eyebrow, clicked his pen and turned his attention to the District Four tribute. Staite- quite a name to remember. Pidgeory remembered watching Daria Staite slit the Eckhart's throat, fury bubbling from her and infecting the world with her path for vengence. He had high hopes, right up until the moment Harbringer Rhodes drove a sword through her eye.

Watching the boy, Pidge kept his interest peaked, watching him work with his hands, grabbing various items from various corners of the training room. He worked quickly, nimbly but just as Pidgeory Blinkoe's interest began to falter, growning bored by the crude fishing rod that he had contstructed, Tobias began to talk.

Pidge watched closely, almost intently, as the boy explained something that he didn't really care about but all the same, listened anyway. It was fool words which fell from the boys tongue as he tormented the dummy with his hands, he was captivated by what he was doing to the dummy. Barely hesitating as he tore it apart, his voice still and calm as a lake without wind.

The boy stormed out, leaving the dummy in tatters on its pedastal. Pidge finished his goblet, holding it out for the Avox to fill as he looked to his fellow gamemakers with a smirk on his lips "I much prefer his cousin..." he said, turning to write an 6 in the scoring box on Tobias's file "She talked alot less"

[Unitato15]

Ella Tracy, a girl of colorful insanity, can also be a girl of colorful CREATIVITY. When it is her turn to enter the private training room, she already has planned out precisely what she thinks will get her the score she wants. Her heart warms and her face feels glowing as she remembers the dream that gave her the idea. So lovely it was, that she sighed.

She starts the session by walking faux gracefully to the camouflaging area where all of the available paints are displayed. A seemingly too-wide smile appears on her face as she begins picking her colors and only grows wider still as she continues. When she has her paints and such all gathered up into her arms, she practically friggin skips to the knife throwing station.

Upon reaching this station, she carefully examines the knife throwing targets and then plops herself down in front of one. The target sports a very classic look, round and boring. She opens and then sniffs a container of bright yellow paint as though it is a fine wine. She opens it as her heart soars. She dips the paintbrush into the container slowly, wanting to put the spectators of her session into suspense. She is imagining that she is on a stage and that the people watching her are captivated.

She closes her eyes opens them and then... paints the entire target yellow. That's it. That's all she... wait no. She dips her brush into water and then into a container of black paint. This part is much easier and also much faster. She turns the target into a yellow, smiling face. She grins and then moves on to a knife throwing target meant to look like a person. She took the same yellow as before and painted a huge lighting bolt stretching from the face of the dummy-target to the bottom of the dummy-target. She outlined it with electric blue paint.

Finally she could do the actually entertaining part. She picks and grabs the deadliest looking throwing knives she can find off of a stand and giggles excitedly, like a little girl, in anticipation.

She dips a knife into the container of red paint and prepares to throw it at the smiley face. She'd tried for years to make a throw like the one she was about to attempt and she was sure as FUCK not going to fail now. She then threw the knife and it.... missed, nailing the wall to the side. NO. This was when she was supposed to be impressive!!! SHE'S ELLA GODAMN TRACY AND THESE PEOPLE NEED TO KNOW THAT SHES MORE THAN JUST SOME STUPID DISTRICT 5 BITCH!

She screams like a wild animal and chucks the closest knife at the STUPID SMILING TARGET MOTHERFUCKER with all of her rage. She somehow manages to nail the forehead of the smiley face and she'd thrown it so hard that it imbedded itself to the hilt into the targets material. Still full of fiery, all consuming rage, she rips the knife out of the target and then stabs the shit out of it over and over. When she finally calms a bit she stops herself.


She'd remembered the lightning bolt. Composing herself, she takes a deep breath. "Okay", she thinks to herself, "you're a sexy badass and you can do some shit so let's do it". So she does.

She throws knives at the painted target dummy so that the knives create a line going down the bolt. "La la la la di da la", she sings between every throw, "doo doo da doo la la".

"There!" She chirps aloud, like a an excited toddler before switching her voice to be more menacing, "I SUPREMELY HOPE YOUVE ENJOYED WITNESSING THE GLORY THAT IS ELLA TRACY, DISTRIT 5 GIRL OF LIGHTNINGGGGGG!!!!!!!"

Finally, the pale and somewhat lovely psychopath that is Ella Tracy, district five female of the 77th hunger games, finished her session by humming and dancing in circles until she was allowed to leave.

Oct 11, 2017 22:18:24 GMT -5 Python said:

Venus was rather jealous of Pidge’s goblet of wine, especially when the already infamous Ella Tracy glided into the room. It was odd to witness someone from District Five smiling so wickedly at the sound of their own name, but it had been broadcast onto every screen in the Capitol. Political figures made double takes at the strangeness of this girl during the Reaping. She already had nicknames, crazy eyes being the leader of the polls. Venus didn’t know what to expect – something impressive, or something absolutely chaotic? If she had any talent at all, it would be a mixture of both. He could admire controlled chaos, after all.

She started off by sniffing paint. Anti-climactic, but it explained a lot.

He watched with faltering interest as she painted smiley faces and lightning bolts onto the mannequins. It felt senseless. What was the purpose? It had nothing to do with camouflage, that was certain.

When she picked up a throwing knife, he had hopes for a change in pace. She aimed for her target, tossed, and –

Missed.

She screeched like an animal – proving her crazy rumors true – and tossed a second knife. This one actually landed, but he remained unimpressed. Her singing and shouting gave him a headache as she gashed the dummie over and over again. Suddenly, that wine was sounding more and more like a necessity. What the hell was that about lighting?

”Um…”

When she walked out, he felt stunned.

”What the hell was that?”

They didn’t know either. Shaking his head, he drew an agitated 3 beside her name. She had displayed some amount of skill, but even that was a stretch.

[ dars ]

[Kire]

Sirrah Birnam

there's daggers in men's smiles

He sat for hours, or at least what felt like hours. Coming from the second last district meant that he had to watch as nearly every other tribute got up and entered the training hall before him. No one came back out those same doors. His imagination - pushed into turbo drive by his desperate need to figure out a plan - conjured images of them walking into the mouth of a giant creature one by one, simply eliminating each of them without fuss. Shaking his head, he attempted to clear the vision from behind his eyes. He was being ridiculous.

Even so, there might be some truth to it as a metaphor. The moment each one of them stepped into the training room was the moment when they were truly swallowed by the Games. Any hope of escape - however faint - was ground between teeth of the President and the gamemakers like their meal; it would be around dinner time by the time he appeared before them. He was sure they would eat him alive.

By the time his name was called he had worked himself into a bit of a frenzy. His eyes were wide and searching, hoping to lock onto anything he could use. In his mind he turned over what he could remember of his time in this room previously, practicing various skills. Playing at, more like. He had little talent for weapons, and his defensive techniques were mediocre at best. Still, he had taken to the plants station with ease.

Identifying plants and caring for them had been something he was good at for a long time. That meant he would at least be able to make use of the plant life in the arena, but it would be a boring showcase for the gamemakers. Here, gamemakers, let me name these plants for you. He shook his head again as the doors opened before him and swallowed him whole.

The training hall looked much the same as it had while every tribute trained in here, aside from how empty the hall was. Only a handful of people existed in here: some trainers, a couple avoxes, and of course the gamemakers who resided on a balcony above everything. The metaphors were striking him like blows, making his lips twitch with what could be either amusement or fear - he was feeling both at the moment.

Drawn by the plant life, he made his way over to the identification table. Fake and real examples of various plants were spread out there, conveniently displaying both the poisonous plants and those edible ones that look quite similar. Grabbing a handful of watercress and salmon berries, he began to snack as he surveyed the table. It had taken him mere seconds to grab his snack, a short enough time that he hoped the gamemakers would think he was simply picking at random.

He grabbed again at the table, this time taking a handful of wild garlic with one hand and a bunch of lily of the valley in the other. The two plants looked very similar, except that lily of the valley was toxic while wild garlic was safe to eat. He turned to face the gamemakers, holding up his bundles of plants despite knowing they were too far away to see much more than the fact that he held green things. "You know, I think I grabbed two different plants." He scrutinized the leaves, trying to make his expression resemble concern and wariness. Staring at the two handfuls of plants he let the fear he had been feeling get expressed on his face. As though talking to himself he muttered, "Shit, did I? Or maybe I grabbed all of the same one? There are two of them right? Wood garlic and... shit was that the poisonous one?"

He made a clear spot on the table and deposited the two handfuls. As slyly as he could, he had switched the position of the wild garlic and the lily of the valley. Then he turned around to look at the gamemakers with a grimace and a shrug. "It's a fifty-fifty chance right? That's not too bad." Turning back, he pulled a leaf from what should appear to be the lily of the valley pile, but was in reality wild garlic. Placing it in his mouth, he chewed.

The taste of wild garlic filled his mouth and he choked. Initially he was going to simply act as though he had gotten lucky but now an idea hit him. He spat what remained of the leaf onto the floor, making as though he was retching. Pretending to be in a panic he scrambled on the table for a handful of berries, this time they were juniper. He shoved three into his mouth and chewed, swallowing the moment they were soft enough - they weren't his favourite flavour.

Taking a breath as though his symptoms had eased, he turned a sheepish look on the gamemakers. "Whoops." Turning back to the table he scooped up what was left of his collection of watercress and salmon berries, in addition to the wild garlic. Placing some of the wild garlic in his mouth once more he began to chew. Prepared this time for the taste, he didn't cough or choke. He tried not to smirk at the gamemakers, knowing that they could have easily seen through his acting - plus poking the bears was a bad idea.

Continuing to eat from his mixed bag of plants, he looked up at the gamemakers. He swallowed his latest mouthful of plants. "Lily of the valley is poisonous, but wild garlic - a look alike -" and here he brandished a leaf of wild garlic "is safe." He shrugged and began walking out of the door, his handful of plants diminished but still with some left; he would take his food to go. "I may have called it a fifty-fifty guess, but it wasn't a guess at all."

With a quick, final nod, he left the training hall.

[googlefont="Marck Script:400"]

A. Reverie

If he had a chance, he would have taken the bottle of alcohol from the Avox and drained it all on the floor as Blinkoe drained another glass. Despite that, August would have joined him, if there was nothing else to go. But, perhaps disappointedly, there was 4 more to go, and he did not want to be wasted by the end of it. Still, he would not want to see Pidge in the morning. Quite a hangover would be an understatement with what seemed like his second bottle of wine. But, as the District 11 male walked in, all eyes trained on him. And he, following the past couple of days showed an affinity to plants. 

Being from 11, this, this was not surprising. The plant station was full of plants, and he quickly picked up what appeared to be berries and began eating. With some of the deadly plants on the table, that, August scoffed, took some real guts. What a mistake that would have been, a tribute becoming seriously ill before the games started. August could have imagined the headlines, booming  GAMEMAKERS KILL TRIBUTE BEFORE  GAMES BEGIN or something of the sort. And he did not need that. 

To their relief, they were not harmful. But he reached onto the table once more, and picked up two and brandished them towards the Gamemaker's watch. Not that it would have helped, having no botanical knowledge of any kind. And almost unsurprisingly he placed it in his mouth and choked.

Glancing to his fellow Gamemakers, it was clear it was an act. "It's a shame that acting won't help in the arena. Would have been even more likely if he knew how to do it." A sigh escaped August's lips as he wrote a 4 next to Birnam's name.

"If he's lucky, he might pick the right plant in the arena."

[shrimp]

"What's up, fuckers?" She asks loudly as she enters the room, two hefty bottles of champagne in her hands. Quickly, she sets the alcohol down on the closest table with a thump. Wiping her hands on her pants, she makes a quick walk through the stations, grabbing a bucket and dumping in six glass jars, a butcher's knife, a lighter, handfuls of fabric from the sewing station, and impulsively adds a pair of brass knuckles. Why? 'Cause they're fucking awesome.

To be fair, Alice hasn't really thought any of this through besides vauge events in her head. Fire, alcohol, maniacal laughter? The first two, definitely. She'll consider the third as she goes. As she walks back to the table she spies an elegant champagne flute and snatches that too.

She whips out the blade when she arrives, turning the weapon in her hand. Then she smiles, twenty carats beaming at the three people at the desk. "Here's a fun parlor trick, let see how this goes." she remarks, finding the seam running up the side of the bottle. She grips the bottle at its base, lining the butcher's knife flat against it. Then, with a sharp thrust the blade hits the end of the neck, through the lip as the cork explodes into the distance, hitting a ceiling light with a crash. She doesn't notice, hooting and laughing as she tilts the bottle back upright. The foam cascades over her hands, dripping onto the floor. Quickly, she pours herself a glass and and raises it towards the trio.

"Cheers! To-" she stops, thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "To murder!" With a long swig, Alice drains the flute of its contents, then rolls her shoulders. Playtime's over, time to get to work.

The bucket's filled with champagne, the rags dumped in there to soak. She cracks open the second bottle with the same amount of flourish, filling each jar with a generous amount of liquid. Checking the clock, Alice then stuffs the narrow openings with the rags, and what do you know - six moltov cocktails, all ready for use. She sits on the table, examining her handiwork one-by-one as she places them gently back in the bucket.

And then she leaps off, dashing towards a cluster of dummies at the other end of the room. The bucket swinging around the crook of her left shoulder, she grabs a jar with her right. Her left hand alights the flame and then she lets go.

The dummies bloom, the canvas ones turning into pillars of light and the rubber ones jolted slightly by the explosion. As she dashes across the room she throws bottle after bottle towards the horde. Glass shards puncture necks and cheeks as they shatter, the room reverberating with sound. In her eyes and ears, it's the blood and screams of the ones who truly deserve this. A wildfire echoes, her eyes and her smile are mad.

When she was younger, her father would scold her when she came home covered in dirt, bruises across her face and scratches on her arms. That's "not how we act, we're better than this," he would say, before making her clean up and put on her dresses and tie her hair back into braids. But what does that matter? Integrity didn't save him from an early grave. Pomp and circumstances, prim smiles and straight posture didn't keep their empire from falling. Playing by their own rules kept them from becoming destitute. And her rules were pure chaos.

She whips out the knife from her bucket, flinging it towards the nearest dummy. It scrapes against the side, carving a small sliver of scalp from its head. She doesn't care - if it was  a tribute, the knife would freak them out enough, but what would scare them even more is the glint in her eye and the brass knuckles being shoved onto her hands. She took care to grab the one with spikes.

It burrows into the dummy's face, fake blood spurting all over her outfit. She kicks the dummy in the chest, wrenching her fist away as she tosses the bucket aside, leftover champagne spilling out all over. She's been in countless fights before, she knows how to handle herself with a little bit of water on the floor.

Her fighting style's rough and messy, callous and grimy. She slams her fist into the neck of another dummy, shoving it into another as all three figures topple on the ground. Without missing a beat she crawls ontop and punches until her hands are slick with fake blood, flecks of rubber stuck to the back of her hand. And she turns and continues.

No finesse is need here - she's pure destruction, running straight through her crowd of obstacles. The rook to the queen, taking back what was rightfully hers. Brimstone boils in her chest, exploding out with a roar as she tackles dummy after dummy, rage over her reaping, over her sister's reaping, over everything that's happened to her family bubbling outwards into her fists.

And then the timer rings.

She stops, prying her hand out of more rubber, and wiping the sweat off her brow. She doesn't notice that her forehead's now streaked with red. With a smirk smeared onto her face, she turns and walks out, not bothering to give her captors another second glance.

Was it elegant? Not at all. Was it overkill? Maybe a bit. But did she have fun? She thinks so, at the very least.

P

B

I drink wine
and know things
It is what I do best

After the boy from 3 left Pidge blanching, he downed another glass of wine before holding it out to be refilled before he drank half of that. He wasn't really sure why he was drinking so much, maybe to become more tollerable for his fellow Gamemakers or to numb the fear of the consequences that the prior show could bring upon them. Pidgeory Blinkoe gulped another sip of wine down as he watched the Dummy being carted off- likely to be burned or destroyed.

"What's up fuckers?"

The confident loud tone almost cause Pidge to spill his wine, half on edge from the prior training session and he turned to watch the girl from 3 strut in, bubbling with the kind of confidence you usually saw in Careers who had their heads up their own ass. Pidge's eyes immeaditly fall on the two large bottles of champagne in the girls hands and he raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Well, if I'd of known she was going to try and buy me out...." Pidge quipped, chuckling slighty as he settled to watch the girl begin and his lips twitch into a half smile as she pops the cork of the champagne bottle out and raises her glass to murder and downs the glass in one.

Pidge then proceeds to watch in horror, as she uses the champagne to make molotov bombs. He slumps slightly, watching the manical, messy destruction she lays upon the dummies she postions around the room, embedding broken glass and wasted burning champagne into their rubber skin. The stench of burning rubber and alcohol fills the Training Center, and Pidgeory scrunches his nose as he premeptively scribbles down a number. He continues to watch, half paying attention to her and half to the Avox who steps foreward to offer him more wine.

By the time he looks back, she's destroyed another dummy with her fists and is strutting from the training room without a second glance over her shoulder at the mess she had made.

"....what a waste of champagne..." he sighed, looking down at the 6 he's drawn in the score box.

[kousei ♚]

ansel ; khiev

A sinner's shadow looms over my back.

It twists and stretches with every movement I take as my bones creak with the threat of cannon fire and splinters. A pulse, my pulse, so hard to cherish yet so easy to steal. With ichor bleeding from the splinters in my feeble mind and hope spilling from my hollow veins, bravery blooming from the pores in my skin. The sunlights hits me from from above, yet when I reach to my back I don't feel the ruffle of white wings or the rusted metal of shackles across my torso. I'm Ansel; never a religious man, but a sinner through and through.

I rise to the sound of my own name and pause to the connotations behind it. Lust, greed and envy, only forming a fraction for the army I carry upon my frail shoulders. Doctor Khiev was always a sinner disguised as a saint, I just never dared to pull the label of deceit from my eyes and sober from the high he left embedded in these hollow veins. Now, I'm left as being nothing more than a vessel and I swear, I still carry the sins he left behind before he was condemned to that hangman's noose and he'll ever take them back from beyond the grave. Not while he can't feel my hair in his hands and share the air he shared with a wife and a husband.

So I breathe for him when I step through the doors and almost fall when the pressuized gaze of their judgement steals the air from my lungs and I'm left wishing for a blue moon. One glance upon the weapons rack, one glance upon the rope and instead of wishing for a blue moon and a red sun I'm wishing for answers. Seven sins rode in his lifetime, when I look into a broken mirror and see those seven horsemen I wonder which one led to his fall. If I opened his coffin and examined the gears that turned in the mind of a man who cast aside his humainty and became something despicable in the eyes of the ones he left behind.

("He betrayed us.")

Wroth; I let the my thumb brush the corner of that picture and a cold fury only felt on the opening of that trap door and the gentle swing of his corpse attached to that rope overcomes me. Was it a fit of rage followed by a moment of madness? Did the men and women he reduced to a butcher's meet slight him in ways that touched whatever shred of honour he held?

Did he feel the way I feel?

It doesn't matter, the first horseman ride and I follow, taking slow steps towards the weapons rack without even a word of introduction; they know the connotations that come to the name Ansel Khiev better than me I suppose. My fingers coil around the axe and a chill from a self-fullfilling prophecy comes to fruition, I suppose the rotton apple never fall far from the seed after all. Yet I've never been one to flourish in order, only the chaos that came with theory, so I find the first mechnical construct given by the Capitol and strike at the embodiment of greed swallowed by the ravine of corruption. Burying the axe so deep within it's shoulder it almost comes clean off.

Envy; and in the second between my first strike and my second the dummy morphs into Four. One who embodies power with a gaze and fear with their prescence. I would presume they hold a forbidden garden on their fingertips, a wealth of power at their disposal. The possibility to slit a throat and the privallege of a god. On the second clumsy strike, the arm hits the ground with a thud and I stumble back.

The second horsemen tightens his reigns and I wonder if he held the same hold over my father when opened the flesh of the innocence with a weapon such as this. Did they come from such a privallege that he held the same hatred I hold? Internally sneer the way I did at the sight of them and cringe at the thought of the library of power at their fingertips?

Was it enough for him to sink his blade into their remaining arm?

Did he leave them armless because that that?

Pride; I ride in unison with the third horseman and don't hesitate to smile at the rhythm of my heartbeat. Stripping of the power abused by those who would play with the lives of those lost to the game of luck or the game of madness. I don't know Four, I don't know them by anything other than their number and their presumed definitions of power held at their fingertips so I smile before letting another cry and hacking at the first of their remaining limbs.

I wonder if he would've been proud if the rotten apple falls from the same rotten tree. If he would be proud of the son who rides with the entity's he rode with in the name of loving him. I never saw the cogs that drive his thought process but I saw the certificates on our wall, the way his eyes glinted at the sight of them and the way he smiled when I promised him I'd be a brave son, not a broken one.

Is a wounded pride worth killing for?

They called him butcher when he hung, not the title he took pride in but a title that left the ones he cared about repulsed. Everyone but me, leaving me to wonder if I could trace his outlines in the constellations at midnight and be something he could smile at. I think he would smile if I could do this, if I could strip the power from the powerful and become the rotten apple worthy from his seed.

Lust; I lost sight of the fourth horseman when Serena left me with my head buried in the pillow and my eyes full of stardust. I decided I would die alone, drowning in darkness with with name stolen from my lips. I wonder if they have someone who would cry at the stipping of their power, if I could look in their eyes and see a library full of all the ways a person could break. Solitary tears and dried bloodstains -- they become one in the same when I remove their final limb with a two strokes. I'm left looming over the head and torso like an executioner, a power I never lusted for.

I wonder if he lusted for power that repulsed me or a woman that wasn't my mother. If one of those murdered people was a woman who spurned a married man or simply another piece to satisfy a lust for power I never saw in his eyes.

Gluttony; I spot the fifth horseman in the corner of my eye when I bring the axe down on their neck and my hands are coated in the ichor of power and their head is rolling at my feet. Not a gluttonous man but a selfish boy, I stop over the red pool forming around the ground and bending over it. Taking a finger and drawing the number four in the stained ground before me and letting the axe fall. Stepping back away from my handiwork with shaking hands and a shaken morality.

A selfish boy, over indulgence of the simple memory of a dead man until the luxury became a need. I wonder if staining our paper white kingdom in red turned him into a glutton, something despicable yet completely out of his control. The clicking of the cogs turning thoughts in his mind was silent to the outside but thunder in his, I will never know if he became a glutton for the luxury of bloodshed in his final moments.

All I know is that he hung.

Sloth; I step away from the mark of four and find the eyes of one. The gallop of that sixth horsemen in rhythm with my racing heart, I move find rope tying it into the best noose I can find as I feel time tick and the pressurized judgement begin to pass on the fallen. I can't quite find the parts that fuelled me before, the ambition would've grown into a garden wilted on the first vine when he swung. He became a catalyst for laziness that day, for I was left without a clue of what to do other than wander vagabond through the maze of my introverted mind. A mindsweeper, following the laws set by my own arbritrary state of silent despair but outward indifference.

They called him a lazy killer, a clumsy axe leaving bodies dismembered from limbs to torso to head -- they wondered of the rotten apple would fall from the rotten tree. Looking back at the lazy four left on the ground and the mess next to it, I find myself wondering if it has. The imprecise cuts of the underprivalleged and the messy strokes fuelled by the sounds and sights of five horsemen.

Greed; my noose loops around the neck of one and the end of the rope is flung over their artificial tree branch. The final horseman and rides into the sunset and I my fists tighten around the end the red stained rope and I heave, pulling the dummy up with the number two tatooed across my eyes, flailing legs and a stiff corpse. I grit my teeth tying the rope around the bar so they just stay and hang.

I've clung onto everything I had of him that wasn't ripped away from my calloused hands and drawn from my hissing teeth. Hoarding his possessions from the moment his body went stiff and swung to my mother turning him from the hope of ressurection to a charred graveyard in our backgarden. The smell of our burning paper kingdom more prominant than any memories I have of him in that moment. An ignition of the madness that drove me to abandon the ashes of the inheritance I was promised and carve out something new by sacrificing pieces of my heartbeat.

He was the shelter in the storms I never knew how to weather and I cannot say I've found the cause of the downfall of such a man just staring into bitter reflection of myself. As the seven horsemen fade into the shadows I'm left to scrawl the number one on the hanging dummy's chest just so I have a chance of distinguishing memory from reality and they can see what I see before stepping out of that room.

I wonder which of these seven will bury me while I stand with one foot already in the grave.

---

A. Reverie

District Six; that's a district that make some headlines. How August wished that he was the one to make the first victor in what felt like a lifetime. They'd never won since August was alive, other than last games. He was not sure about the talents of their victor, but he was a person to make it out alive. Could it be two games running? That would be a miracle following their luck. 

But, compared to Ursa, this group look like almost careers. The male, up next, was someone who could be a threat for the crown. Medicine was always a basis for fighting; If that was anything to go by, Khiev could be a monster. 

When he walks in, not a word from his mouth. Focus is something that's gone missing so far, and August felt impressed. Perhaps, his early ideas were not incorrect. 7 dummies lie in front of him; it's a shame he didn't pick anything more challenging than solid objects, fake. Tributes move, unlike these things. Yet, when the axe swings in, it does not seem like he cares. Threat is something which August was yet to see, but if violence was the predictor, it was here in swathes. 

Yet, when the rope tied around the dummies neck, August did not care that this was fake -- it was real enough in the situation. "Well, that was impressive, to give it one word." The form walks out of the hall with looks forlorn; August followed his slowly silencing steps with a 9. "Here's hoping he can replicate it with real tributes." He sure hoped so.

[pup]

*drops

Rebellion leads to nowhere good.

It was one of many things the frightened girl had learned of in the years since rebellion led her brother to the detention center with mournfully clinking chains wrapping around him as if to juice the rebellion out of him and leave him as a dry husk of who he once was. Serena had not seen him since, instead wandering around the suddenly less crowded house in a daze for years, her mind closed to the world around her as it developed its own world of isolation.

One would think that defending a little sister from a drunken mother instead of being the one protected would have hardened anyone, but instead it had broken Serena down further piece by piece.

All she could remember from her journey to this moment from the moment her name was called and she was taken away were stolen kisses and petty lies. No one was here to help her. All she could remember from her sparse words from the one person she thoughts could help were You're likely to die. You'll face things that you could never imagine. You'll watch people you care about die in front of you. You will bleed.

He had said it was her or them.

He had said it was one way or another.

As she had met those who were going to try and kill her she realized his words rung truth louder than the words of anybody she had met so far since stepping off the train.

She breaths in.

Her foot crosses the threshold into the room she has spent the past few days in honing her mind into one that can bear to kill.

She had never thought her life could have come to a point where all her memories and thoughts could be stolen away as swiftly as they had along with the slip of paper with her name on it. Now instead of thinking about how to hide in a corner of her house from a mother in a drunken fit her mind is consumed of thoughts of how to take a life. Instead of worrying about the sister she had left behind she was worrying about the people on the podium up above her, watching her, judging her every movement, deciding if she would live or if she would die.

She breaths out.

Her face is overcome with a mask of calmness as she tries to relax herself. She won’t let them see her fear, her terror. She won’t let them know she is already broken, that they have already one in this game of black or white. Her green eyes focus on them, and she grins, giving a little wave to the gamemakers with one hand.

Her eyes focus back on the task at hand, her mind racing with thoughts of what she would do to impress them. Her smile faltering into her previous calm face, revealing no emotions, telling no secrets as her eyes lock onto a rope and a sword. Her legs drag her towards the rope which she grasps. It’s the perfect length, just a little bit shorter than the length of her arms spread out.

She marches towards the swords, grasping two sharp ones gleaming in overhead lights. Her eyes focus on a pair of avoxes on the nearby wall, a boy and a girl who looks to be just about her age, and she makes her way over to them, swords and rope in tow. As she reaches them they flinch, and for a moment her thoughts wander to the atrocities they must have seen within these confined walls.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” she whispers conspiratorially with a grin, “Shhhh don’t tell them. Spoiler alert!”

She reaches out and hands each avox a gleaming sword and they eye each other nervously.

“Okay, let’s move over there to the center of the room,” she gestures towards the gamemakers, “They get to see all the drama.”

As Serena walks back towards the center of the room, in front of the grand podium overlooking the training center, she explains to the avoxes what they need to do in a hushed tone.

When they reach there, Serena wraps the rope around both of her hands, playing with it for a moment before grasping it and pulling it taut between her arms, then she nods at the mute avoxes.

One of the avoxes immediately pulls the sword upwards, rushing towards her. The sword swings down at her head, but before it could hit her she lunges forwards, pushing the rope in front of her forwards and wrapping her hands and the rope around the sword, pulling it taut once again to complete the knot she had been tying around it, trapping the hilt of the sword in the knot. She pushes the avox backwards as she is caught off guard, pulling one string on the knot closer to her. The sword goes flying out of the avox’s hands as the avox hits the ground and Serena quickly pulls the sword close to grasp it with one hand.

Her hand flies down quickly, stopping just short of the avox’s neck. This was the other avox’s que. He rushes forwards at the girl, and she spins with the sword in hand, pulling the sword away from the avox’s neck and blocking the new avox’s strike before reaching her leg out and swiftly kicking the avox in an area not to be specified slightly below the midsection.

The avox lets out a gasp of pain and drops to the ground, and Serena swiftly swings her sword back down again, stopping less than an inch from the avox’s neck.

She then lowers the sword she had obtained from the first avox back to the ground along with her rope. No need to take them with her out into the cruel world where the blood would be real, where the hate would be real, where it was her against them.

She gives a slight bow to the gamemakers before turning around and making her exit.

There was a tension in the air; Serena Fennel was mingling with Avoxes and weapons, which was a combination he didn’t like. He still remembered Scout Fray’s irritating smirk as she graced their halls with violence against the innocent. If this was a repeat of that previous instance, he would pull as many strings as possible to get this tribute maimed. He didn’t care who they were or what they had to prove.

Fortunately, she placed the weapons in the hands of the Avoxes and left herself with a mere rope. His chest relaxed; he could be at peace for the moment. No harm done. Taking a final sip of his tea, he leaned in and watched her trick closely. She had instructed the Avox to charge forward with the blade. Venus didn’t flinch, although the thought always whispered, what if a tribute actually kills themselves front of us? He would hate to deal with the fallout.

Instead, she caught the Avox’s wrist with her rope. A clever move, until she wasted her time wrapping and knotting it around the girl’s hand. She succeeded in knocking the sword out of her grasp, but at what cost? Time was of the essence. She would easily be killed by now if this were a real scenario with a real opponent. There was a simple counter – striking out with the foot, knocking unsuspecting Serena into the dirt with no breath. Then what happens?

”In a real fight, she would be dead,” he said, shrugging. ”But it was a neat trick.”

The discussion was short. Cute, but not good enough. He traced a 5 into her file, wondering how she would fare in the arena.

[ dars ]

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

time will heal those broken eyes
fashion you a face from your disguise
loving never helped that lonely heart
the world a hostile city from the start

What is truth when you have no standard by which to compare it?

I sit in the hall, back pressed to metal and ass on the same as names are crossed off one after another. I am second to the last which seems like some sort of twisted metaphor I have seen play out before and suddenly I am walking, feet mechanical and heart left on the bench to rot. I pause, contemplating whether my heart made it here to begin with. Like paper planes and toy trains I have been dragging it behind me on a string, not giving care to the cracks in the sidewalk that rip scars anew.

Isolated from self— I’ve got nothing to lose.

I do not remember how I have arrived at this point in time but I know it is meant to be. Bitter acceptance is not the same as defeat, for it is the string of predetermined choices that has brought me to the here and now. I look up and make eye contact with one of the heads above me and tip two fingers from my forehead in greeting.

“Alfie. Alfie Larson.”

I do not know where I am supposed to go from here.

Determined actions do not give light to their causes, despite what I might wish. There is nothing here worth finding, and I give half-minded glances to my immediate surroundings. The last week past has been nothing but time spent in a trance, meandering from place to place with no destination to be found.

”Alfie, what are you looking for?”

“Truth.”

“Do you think you’ll find it?”

“Maybe not today.”

Maybe not ever, at this rate.

I wonder if they know, and so I turn my eyes above once more and wave a hand in their direction, “Do any of you know where truth can be found?”

I had originally believed that it could be found in words on pages, or perhaps on the tongues of others. But eighteen years of existence and an absent father later has led me to believe that truth is still eluding me— hiding between my sheets only to disappear when the morning sun causes me to wake once more.

There is no response to be found in the void above, and so I shrug my shoulders and move about on my way. I head towards the range and set three false bodies at the end— shoulder to shoulder with no room for error.

Or escape.

Same thing, I suppose.

I take three knives worth throwing and hold two by the handle, one in each hand. I grip the third by the blade between my teeth, pacing back even to a taped yellow line. The two knives in hand find their way to the ground, and I carefully remove the third from my teeth before spitting, hoping the metallic taste finds its way to my feet.

“I’m searching for truth, and since none of you have it, it’s up to me to find it.”

I spin the first knife between my fingers, thinking back to a book labeled identity theory— where am I located within myself?

Speak, Alfie— you’ve got something to say.

“I have long wondered where the self is contained. The first option: the body.”

With a flick of the wrist and a release of grip I sink the first knife directly into the body’s groin. Barbaric enough for most tastes, I grin. The body means nothing when there isn’t a thought to be found anywhere else.

“Second, and my belief, in case you are interested, is that the identity comes from the mind.”

I am sure that even the simplest of people could anticipate my next blow, but before they might be able to think as such, the second knife goes flying to the space between the eyes, where the giant fell— where I hope I will fall as well.

The second we cease to think, the second we cease to exist.

“The final place of identity, which I personally believe is a load of shit, is that our identity is tied to our souls. It’s been described as a sort of self-purgatory— somewhere we cannot touch but know exists.”

I pause.

“I’ve never known such a place.”

The third knife goes sailing, right to the heart.

I tip two fingers from my forehead in salute and walk to the door.

“You’ve got nothin’ to ya, Alfie.”

“Better than thinking I’ve got somethin’ I don’t.”

oh cry my friend no more
you've seen your stars aligning i am sure
you etched all of your circles in the sand
and now your hope's horizons are at hand

[ dars ]

P

B

I drink wine
and know things
It is what I do best

The wine was definately starting to get to him. His head felt a bit like a balloon attached to his shoulders as he downed yet another goblet of wine while the Avox scurried off to find him more wine- apparently he had finished the whole jug and now the blanching Avox had scurried off to find more. Pidgeory watched them go- he wouldn't be angry if he couldn't have anymore but he would be a bit disapointed.

Turning back to the staging area, he saw that they were joined by the District 12 male. He wasn't expecting much so for a brief second, he looked back over his shoulder to see if the Avox was making any efforts to return faster with that second jug of wine- or was it the third...Pidgeory couldn't really remember, other than he had drunk a lot. When he saw that the Avox was not going to be returning anytime soon, he turned back to the task at hand.

The boy introduced himself and immedietly fought the urge to turn back and watch for the Avox again. They already knew his name, and it was getting a little repetative everytime a tribute came in and said their name- as if the Gamemakers didn't have their files settled on their laps. Resting his chin in his hand, Pidge tapped the side of his cheek as the boy from 12 began to recite his pretty little speech.

Pidge- who usually enjoyed intelligent words- was growing bored of this ones chatter but that was the wine talking really. Other than that, the boys skills were somewhat impressive with each knife hitting its mark each and every single time. The boy had skill, that enough was plain to see, but could it win him the Games? As Pidgeory drew a fairly high average of 7  onto the scoring box, he somehow doubted it.

"Well, he could certainly talk everyone to dea--ooo! Splendid! My wine!" Pidge exclaimed as the Avox returned with another full jug of red wine.

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

oops i totally forgot about this

Oh, sometimes, I pray for you at night
Someday, maybe you'll see the light
Oh, some say, in life, you're gonna get what you give
But some things only God can forgive

Moments.

That is all life is made up of.

Those that are important, those that are slightly less, and those that define you.

And finally mine has come. The moment that will determine my future. The one that tells me how prepared I am.

The moment that tells me if I can fulfill His plan.

And I know that He will be with me the whole entire time.

I gather my hair into a ponytail as I wait for the few others before me to finish up their time. It’s only five people, but it seems like hours before it’s my turn. Not because of nerves, but because of excitement.

I can barely sit in my seat, every part of me wants to jump up and just run in there. The anticipation to meet the people who are practically sent here by God himself, those in charge of seeing that all the sinners are taken care of.

The ones who will help me to succeed.

Finally, after what seems like years of waiting, I hear it.

”Samson Parish, District Four”

I stand up and look back, words of luck for the others on my lips, but they stay frozen on my lips. None of them will be able to compare to me anyway.

No amount of luck will do them any good.

I see them sitting overhead, watching. They are more than interested in the girl from District Four, and I don’t blame them. A part of me wants to thank them for this opportunity, to grovel at their feet, I feel as if I’m almost in God’s presence himself, but I refrain myself and instead just give them a little smirk.

I’m sure they don’t like kiss asses anyway.

My eyes glance around the room, mind quickly flashing through my training, wondering what’s the best way for me to prove to them that I’m ready, and then it hits me.

I gather seven dummies, lining them up right across the middle of the room, an assortment of weapons next to me. I glance at them, trying to decide what to do first. My hand falls on an axe, might as well start out easy.

I test the blade with my fingers, sliding them against it. A small cut forms, a drop of blood finds its way on to my skin. My lips turn into a pout and I look up at the Gamemakers.

”Anyone got a band aid?”

And without taking my eyes off them, I let the axe fly, and of course it lands right in the center of the dummy’s skull, splitting it in half. I smirk at the Gamemakers before walking over to the dummy, blood dripping down its face.

Something’s missing, and it takes me a moment to figure out what it is.

I stick my fingers in the blood, smearing it a little, but then I begin to write on its chest.

I finish and turn away from the dummy, walking back towards the weapons, the word lust written in big dripping letters across its chest.

I grab a sword next, a basic weapon of sorts, but very powerful when placed in the right hands, like mine. I look at the dummy and do a roll of sorts, dodging it as if it’s attacking me, but in the process, I slice the back of its heel, right on its Achilles tendon, so it can’t run. But instead of using my sword to finish it off, I let it fall from my hands, and already behind the dummy, I take its neck in my hands and snap it, watching its body go limp.

Blood runs down its leg, so I use it again. This time writing the word greed across its body.

Picking up the sword from the ground, I step in front of the third dummy, and without hesitating I drive the sword into its stomach, before quickly pulling it out. I watch as it keels over in pain, trying to keep itself together, and that’s when I lift my sword up and swing through its neck. I watch its head fall and blood pour from its stomach. My hands find its way into it, and before I know it I’m smearing the word gluttony across the dummy.

The sword crashes to the ground and I find my way back to my table of weapons. I pick up two spears, delicately holding them in my hand. I eye the fourth dummy, the wall is just close enough behind it. I aim a spear at its right shoulder, pinning it to the wall, and then the same with its left shoulder. I quickly grab a knife from the table and sprint towards it, slicing its throat.

I drop the knife and walk away.

This one says sloth.

I grab another knife and dive at the next dummy, knocking it off its feet. I sit on top of it, pinning it to the ground, and plunge my knife into its chest. Blood sprays and I twist the knife in deeper, feeling its fake heart take its final beat and causing more to stream out. I get up off the ground.

I’ve named him wrath.

My hands fall upon another spear on the table, I seem to be inclined to them. I’m not sure why.

I never favored them at home, but for some reason here it just seems right. I twirl it through my fingers briefly, kind of like a baton, but then I let it fly. I watch as it places itself right in his eye, it was never in doubt.

Blood trickles down. I trace the word envy on this one.

One dummy left, I had to make it good. I grab another sword, and without hesitating, I charge at it. I swing low, completely severing its right leg. I watch as it falls, I walk up to it, and place my boot on its throat. I can feel bones snap under my foot, and I watch as the last struggling breath escapes its lips. I smile.

I call this one pride.

A pool of blood sits at my feet. There must be something more that I can do with it. I quickly draw a huge cross in the center of the floor with the leftover blood from my dead dummies.

I grab some of the gasoline that’s in the training room and dose the dummies with it. I find a flint and a smirk plays on my lips. I light it and throw it behind me. I flip my hair and walk out without another glance behind me. I can feel the heat of the flames tickling my back.

Just because I’m here for a purpose, doesn’t mean I can’t put on a show.

I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin'
I hope your soul is changin', changin'
I hope you find your peace
Falling on your knees, prayin'

[ dars ]

P

B

I drink wine
and know things
It is what I do best

Pidgeory Blinkoe took a sip of his wine as the Staite boy left. He had always heard good things about District Four's tributes- hardy, bred from salt and water. Many careers out of Four were like the sea itself, a storm in itself, a rapture kept in a tiny bottle. If the Staite boy had been a rough sea, waves cresting with arches of foam and spray, then the girl from Four was the Hurricane that followed.

Pidge took a sip of his wine as he watched the girl march in, exuding confidence as she struts to the centre of the room. Blinkoe is fixated- and for once, hands his half filled glass to the Avox beside him so that he can lean forward to watch the girl more closely as she looks up at them with nothing more than a smirk on her lips before she turns and begins.

Pidgeory watches intently as the girl chooses her weapons carefully, draggin several dummies to the center of the room. He can't help but notice how she handles the axe in her hand, gently running her finger along the blade. Blood catches his eye but before Pidgeory can comment, the girl turns to them, eyes up and attention torn from the blood on her finger. "Anyone got a band aid?" she says, and without a second thought, gaze still fixated on the Pidgeory and his fellow Gamemakers, she throws the Axe.

It splits the skull of the first dummy with such skill that Pidgeory can even hear the crack of the dummies lining as it embeds itself into its head. Pidgeory leans further forward as she begins to draw words on the dummies chest. Lust. Pidge is hooked, entranced and he doesn't look away as she continues her slaughter. All seven of them are destroyed, branded with the seven deadly sins on their bodies- despite its simplicity, Pidge can't help but admit that it is beautiful, the way she holds herself and how she performs her art.

And she ends it with a bang, the heat prickling against Pidge's skin through the barrier as the dummies ignite.

Pidgeory sets down his clip board and claps "Bravo!" he calls out, his claps getting quicker as she walks from the room- much to the dismay of his fellow Gamemakers who are already scribbling down. "Now that, is what I call impressive" Pidge says, picking up his pen and writing a 9 into the scoring box.

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

bc kousei ♚ is a pest!!!!!

►►►

lost on your own
in the night
with no sight
no need to fear

Ammonium Nitrate.

Those two words had been playing in Tobias LaChance's head over and over and over again, ever since the day he'd noticed the pink mushrooms in the plant station. After doing his homework, he was glad he did. "No touching without gloves," the sign had read, and he fought the urge to laugh when he discovered why. Not only was the mucus-like slime on top of them acidic, but the tiny little crystals were explosive, and made entirely of, you guessed it, ammonium nitrate.

He still remembered the time peacekeepers had diffused a fertilizer bomb back at Abadeer, remembered how dangerous it was. Only one person was allowed near the little box they had found in the auditorium, and he was wearing a metallic suit lined with fire-proof material.

When he had gone to the library to research the bomb, he had noticed the name of something he hadn't ever heard of before, something that randomly popped up in his head sometimes:

Ammonium Nitrate.

He and Jacinta had just taken their seats in the holding room, two of the first to show up. He didn't know what Jaci would do once she entered. In fact, he realized as they were sitting next to each other that he had no idea what his district partner was capable of. Soft hands; hands of the wealthy. She probably didn't need sponsors, but that didn't mean she wouldn't get them.

He went over the gameplan in his head two, three more times before his name was called and he stood.

Deep breath in, he thought as the doors closed behind him.

Three people sat front and center, their underlings cowarding behind them, ready to agree with anything the three said, so long as it meant well for their personal gain.

"Tobias LaChance," His voice was clear; more clear than he could've hoped for, anyway, "District Seven."

He nodded to Venus Azrael as confirmation, and turned on his heels to start.

That bomb at the school only had three ingredients: Gasoline, propane, and fertilizer. He doubted there would be any gasoline in the arena, or propane, or fertilizer for that matter, so he and Jacquelyn had sat down for hours and planned the best substitutions.

First order of business was gloves. He put two pairs on just to be safe, as well as a pair of safety glasses. He felt a bit ridiculous and childish, but whatever. Safety first, right?

Next, he grabbed a tote and stored two empty jars inside of it, as well as a jar filled with tar, four of the pink mushrooms he'd found, two smooth rocks that lined the plants station, some leaves, and some flint. He also grabbed a bow and some arrows and threw them over his shoulder, and then he dumped all of the tote's contents out on a table, picking up the two rocks first.

"As you know, these mushrooms are acidic and explosive," he held one up for them to see. He could feel a bubbling sensation where the mushroom met the glove, and he knew that it was already beginning to eat away at the elastic surface. Guess I was smart to wear two pairs after all, he thought. "I am going to drain them of their acid first, but using something with a rough surface could cause too much friction, which would ignite the-" he fought the urge to smirk- "Ammonium nitrate crystals, so I chose two very smooth stones." He sandwiched the mushroom between the two rocks, girding them together until a clear-green fluid began to ooze out of it.

He drained all four mushrooms, two into one jar, two into the other, then poured most of the tar in afterwards, making sure he still had just a bit left. "A gentle shake," he called, swirling the two lethal liquids together. He unscrewed the lids again and placed some of the leaves he'd gathered, as well as the drained mushrooms, on top of the mixture. It made a fizzling noise, but there was no discharge, no smoke, no odor, pardon the odorous tar.

Everything was still going according to plan.

Breath of relief. Well, at least he had gotten this far. Jacquelyn would've been proud.

He carried his things back over to the plant section, where he placed one jar near the base of a tree, uncovered, and spread some leaves around the jar's entrance. The other was placed between two branches of another tree, about ten feet behind the first tree.

Almost done, he reminded himself. He looked at the stop-clock for the first time since entering. Seven minutes left. Plenty of time.

He quickly hauled two dummies over to the first tree, then a third to the second tree.

He spilled out a thin line of tar between the first jar and where he was crouched between two bushes. "Count to three and just do it," Jacquelyn had told him.

Deep breath in.

"1, 2," he whispered, "3!"

He struck the flint twice before a spark caught the tar and fire erupted down the trail he had made. It was moving quickly, so he had to as well.

He quickly notched an arrow and waited. It took maybe three seconds total for the fire to reach the jar, and when it did, the explosion that followed was huge. Much bigger than he had expected. He probably could have just used one mushroom per jar and it would have gotten the point across, but at least this had more flare. Maybe they would notice him now.

When the flames died down, the two dummies he had placed near the tree were melted in most places, sizzling with acid in others, and completely covered in shards of broken glass.

He was an artist of destruction, and this was his handy work, but he wasn't finished. If anything, this was the hardest part. Put an axe or a hatchet in his hands and he was capable, but until a week ago, Tobias LaChance hadn't ever laid a finger on a bow. That was what he had spent all of his training time doing. Notching arrows, aiming, firing. Once he had realized that it is best to aim a bit higher than whatever he was trying to hit, though, it had come pretty easily for him.

"They look pretty dead to me," he said, standing, "But just in case one of them managed to get away," He dipped the tip of his arrow into the last bit of tar and lit it up with the flint stone.

Deep inhale, slow exhale.

Blink, aim, fire.

His arrow sailed through the air, clashing into the jar he placed in the tree. A second explosion roared into the cavernous center, daring all who entered to be wary. Tree bark littered the ground and burning leaves and ash rained around him like hell fire. The second one had enough force to push him back a step, arm covering his face as the powerful blast reached its peak. And then it died down, and all that was left was a pile of blue goop, a burning tree stump, Tobias in his glasses and gloves, and the game makers.

"Thank you," he said.

moving higher and
moving faster when
i'm not afraid
so i have been rising

The middle districts were typically hit or miss. They could either stand out among their peers or fade into the background like dissipating clouds. It was difficult to amp himself up for District Seven – they were at the midway point, minds already rusted from the decision-making. He didn’t want to see something boring.

Fingers crossed for Tobias LaChance.

The materials he gathered were promising. ”As you know, these mushrooms are acidic and explosive,” he said.

Indeed they were, and it was best that he handle them with care before the Gamemakers found themselves in President Snow’s office. How do you explain the eroded corpse in your training center?

The way Tobias explained himself was telling of his experience. Venus almost trusted him with these dangerous materials, and as the seconds passed he found himself more and more invested. He set his tea aside and focused his full attention on Tobias’ handiwork. He expertly drained the mushrooms and created toxic concoctions in glass jars. Venus could somewhat predict where this was going, and he liked it.

One carefully laid trap later, sparks ignited. Tobias was at a safe distance to create a devastating explosion, melting the plastic skins of his makeshift enemies. That wasn’t the end of it either; he had a second bomb planted, a safety net to fall on. The difference between survival and death. He notched an arrow and launched, the explosion forcing Venus to blink as chunks of bark littered their floors.

Well then.

He picked up his tea once more and grinned behind the rim. Creativity was something he valued, especially using materials from the natural environment. That was the essence of the Games, and Venus wanted to see more of it.

”Do we have those mushrooms in our arena?” he asked, because he wanted them. It wasn’t too late to add in some programming, right?

The debate about his score was short. A satisfied 10 was printed beside his name, and a new legend was born.

Now, live up to it.

[ dars ]