Public Training Sessions

[Tom]

a name called
with smoke filled lungs
and sparking flames
is all it takes

"ronan keeni-einfallen"

a crushed boy
with crushed dreams
who only finds comfort
in the taste of nicotine
and his own party woes

the doors open -

they sit above
like kings, queens,
and royals
staring at him
with bored eyes

did riordan feel this calm?

did the keenis feel this calm?

thoughts pouring in
as if he were an ocean
where the mouth of a river
bleeds into him

instead of flickering,
he rests below them
with calm ashes

calm eyes glaring up
at the royals
who carry his
throne in their arms

fingers fiddling to
his pocket where
his token from six
rests deep in the confines
of a pocket

relief of annoyance
filling his pockets

a stick of nicotine
lights upon his lips
with smoke swirling
the empty air of
the training center

of life and death,
ronan doesn't fear either

instead, he rises
like smoke into
the vision of royalty
with a cocky grin

no one was
going to
beat him
at his own
game

no one -

a moment of
stares that
glitter in
the florescent
lights of the
training center

the boy releases
another puff of
nicotine from his
lips as the clouded
air rises with the
tone of his voice

"fuckers."

Bored eyes
meet his own
with fire

"give me the lowest
score you can."

Nicotine lungs,
messy hair,
and cocky wit

"i won't disappoint."

flickering flames,
smoking ash,
and sparking life

"i'll crush the careers
who think i'm just fodder."

silent feet,
hidden glint,
and loads of
confidence

crush the careers
crush the districts
crush everyone

upon his shoulders,
was nothing more
than the pain
of broken dreams

broken dreams,
which he will give
to others

he will watch them
break under the weight
and laugh in their faces

people would know
he wasn't pathetic
like his mother
and father used to tell him

all it took
was a low score

cigarette breath,
annoyed glints of a
smirk, and a joking bow

ronan leaves the room,
almost as it once was,
except for the light smell
of nicotine and annoyance

Table made by Calla
Edited by Me

clarifications:
anything italics was said to Ronan
anything bold without quotation marks is Ronan's thought
anything bold with quotation marks is spoken out loud

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

“Finley O’Hara, District Four.”

“Hey, Finley, that’s you. They’re calling your name.”

“Hey. You’re up.”

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. What?”

“You’re up.”

“Really? I thought the District Twos were up.”

“Finley O’Hara, District Four.”

“Ah.”

“Good luck.”

“Luck doesn’t apply in this situation.”

“Finley O’H--”

“Calm down. I’m right here. Ripred.”

“You’re up.”

“No shit, buddy-o.”

“Just through these doors here.”

“Oh, you mean the doors all the other tributes have gone through so far?”

“......”

“Thanks. I’ll see myself in.”



“Hi.”

“Do you mind if I sit right here? I want to have a chat. Nice and cozy.”

“Right. So, context. I’m from District Four. I spend a lot of time in the water. I once got in a fight with this guy named Big Daddy -- he’s this big ol’ dude who likes to roam around the shoreline picking fights, as you do. Fucker has nothing to occupy his time, and he likes sticking people up for their money instead of actually working. Naturally, we were friends. I liked hanging out with him because he's tough and he doesn't let people get to him, you know? We got along real well.”

“Well, this one day, Big Daddy was at the docks, and we were arguing. We argued about a lot of dumb stuff, but I usually backed off because Big Daddy must have weighed near 300 pounds and he was a cunning bastard. I remember that day clear as anything, because it was right after a big storm, and everyone was out on the water. That morning, me and Big Daddy were arguing because I swore I saw a shark in the water, and he told me I was an idiot. ‘Of course there are no sharks this close to shore,’ he said.

“I told him he was wrong, and I suppose Big Daddy was in one of his moods that day, because he got all up in my business. He puffed out his chest like a cat and acted all intimidating. And I’ve never been one to back down from a fight, so I got all up in his business and puffed out my chest and stood up tall, and I stared him down. It was quite the standoff, both of us staring each other down like that. I knew how fierce that dude was, so I wasn’t sure if he was gonna hit me or not.

“So there we were, just huffing, eyes burning holes into each other, and that motherfucker slapped me! Not even a fucking punch! A slap! Can you believe that? That made me angrier than anything. Not just that he hit me, but that he couldn’t dignify me with an actual god-honest punch to the jaw. So you know what I did?

“I wanted to prove that fucker wrong, so I jumped into the water to find the shark. The water was real murky, what with the storm just a few days before, but that didn’t matter much because I fucking landed on it. Really! When I jumped into the water, I fucking collided with the thing. It was.. not very happy with the situation.

“It was about then that I realized I didn’t have a plan, and I remembered I’d left my gutting knife on the deck. It was just me and my fists and a whole shit-ton of spite, so I decided I would try to grab onto the thing’s tail and haul it onto the dock.

“Needless to say, the shark did not like that plan one bit. It was a hell of a lot stronger than me, which I admit I underestimated, but whatever. I’d made a decision and I was determined to follow through, so I wriggled my hands around its tail and I had it. I had it in my grasp! It was pulling against the current and trying to drag me around, but we were right by the deck and I had the advantage of the ladder. Except…

“It went bad. The shark got loose from my grip and it got behind me where I couldn’t reach easy, and the next thing I knew, its teeth were tearing through me and there was blood in the water, and I could hear Big Daddy screaming up on the dock, yelling for help. That oceanic piece of shit ripped a big gash in my backside, and I don’t know why, but it let go. I got real bitter because I was fucking hurt, and that’s when I made my move. I spun around -- just like this -- and I grabbed onto its tail and I FLUNG IT onto the dock, right at Big Daddy’s feet.

“Then I climbed up the ladder and Big Daddy looked like he’d just seen a ghost, and there were a lot of people standing around, and I was bleeding out of my ass. So you know what I did?

“I took my gutting knife and I cut out one of the shark’s teeth and I shoved the shark tooth into the hand that Big Daddy slapped me with! And he screamed and cried for awhile, but it's okay. We’re still friends, and it turned out alright.

"He learned not to challenge me, and I learned that I shouldn’t forget my knife.



“So... that’s my story. When I was thinking about things to show you, I thought… nothing I can show you is ever going to top that day.”

“Oh, except this.”

And with that, Finley O’Hara finishes her story, pulling down her trousers to moon the Gamemakers, revealing the distinct circular scar of shark teeth indented on her buttcheeks.

[charade]

[presto][/presto]

COVER

STANLEY SCHUSTER: MAN OF ALUMINUM

ISSUE #4
Feb '81
Joel
SCHUSTER
Gail
SCHUSTER
Robert
ROSS
THIS ISSUE, INSIDE THE DEN OF THE GM'S!

DIRECT SALES


$2.99

PAGE ONE

PANEL
1. HEADER: "WE JOIN OUR HERO FOR HIS PRIVATE TRAINING SESSION"
Stanley stands with his hands on his hips, his eyes boring a hole into the stuff littering the room around him. There are mannequins, hologram emitters, racks of weapons and tables full of items from the survival stations.

STANLEY (INTERIOR MONOLOGUE)

Okay, time to show them something impressive. Something out of this world.

2.Stanley glances at the Gamemakers perch. We can see Zaya Raine, Josiah Layton and Beatrix Alfray looking down at him expectantly.  They are dressed as one might expect as befitting their station. 

STANLEY (INTERIOR MONOLOGUE)

Doubt they want to watch me make salad out of the edible plants station. What else? Paint myself in camouflage?

3.Our hero rolls his eyes as he reaches for the first aid kit and a knife.

STANLEY (INTERIOR MONOLOGUE)

Do what you're good at right?

5. We see Stanley make several incisions on the dummy closest to the game-makers lofty seating area. One on each arm and one large gash across the chest. (SFX: SHRRIIP)

6. With a needle and thread he expertly stitches up all three wounds in just under a minute and a half.

            STANLEY (INTERIOR MONOLOGUE)
Well, it's something. Bet no one else has done it this fast. Guess it's time for the big finale already. The only thing I planned in advance.

PAGE TWO

Panel
1.Stanley has stepped in front of the dummy and looks up at his judges.

Stanley (SPEECH)
The trainer you have at the smuggling station had some good ideas. I think I did better.

2. Stanley rolls up his sleeve to reveal a small piece of cloth sewn into the fabric.

3. He pulls a few apple slices out of the homemade pocket. There is a roguish grin on his face.

4. Stanley pops a slice into his mouth and relishes the taste.

5. Stanley rolls up his right pant leg to reveal another sewed in pocket. This one is larger than the previous one.

6. He retrieves a plastic butter knife and holds it aloft. . The smile on his face is exaggeratedly sardonic.

Stanley (SPEECH)
Dunno why none of the cutlery is metal. Think we'd get into trouble that easily?

PAGE THREE

PANEL

1. Finally, he rolls his shirt up to reveal the largest sewn in pocket, pulling a pair of briefs out.

Stanley (SPEECH)

The tablecloth in my dining area is missing some length. not that you'd be able to tell as  I re-hemmed it.

3. There is some time left on the clock in the corner of the panel, but Stanley has no other skills to show.

(SFX: TICK TICK TICK)

4.The look on his face is one of amusement; a bored smirk curls his lip. One hand smooths an unruly lock of hair back.

STANLEY (SPEECH)
I hope you didn’t expect more. If you want to see someone play fight look to your careers. You want someone to build some traps or weapons? #@$% if I know. Seven? I’m a tailor’s son from district eight. We make clothes. Though I hope we didn’t make the fashion disaster that the tragedy over there is wearing.

Stanley (INTERIOR MONOLOGUE) 

They can decide which one I meant for themselves. 

5. In this panel, Stanley is shrugging; Eyes closed, mouth turned up in a frown.

STANLEY (SPEECH)
These are the only skills that I have. Impressive? Probably not. Will they help me? Survey says: No. But if I’m screwed, then I’ll try to make it a good death. You people enjoy that kind of thing, right?

6. Stanley walks out with his head held high, confidence in his step, an unhealthily wide grin plastered across his face. He is centered in the panel, making it look as though he is walking off of the page, looking directly at the reader.

                  Stanley (INTERIOR MONOLOGUE)

Yeah, I'm going to @#$%&! die.

AD SPACE:
Attention Capitol Citizens! Would you like to contribute to next year’s hunger games? Here’s your chance! Come up with a mutation or other genetically altered wild beast* using the following form and then mail your submission to the provided address along with ten box tops from any Tasty Tribute Treatstm brand cereals such as Faline Flakes, Honey Combes and Temple Jacks.

The top creations may be included in future games! And, if your mutation is used, you will receive a month’s supply of your favorite cereal as well as a special plaque in the hall of donors in the Capitols Tribute Museum!

* All entries become the property of GM’s INC. and are non-returnable. GM’s INC. Reserves the right to modify any mutation or genetically altered wild beast as needed. GM’s INC. assumes no responsibility for garbled, lost, late, delayed, destroyed or misdirected mail. Note: Incomplete entry forms may lead to entry disqualification. Contest is only open to citizens of the Capitol between the ages of twelve and eighteen.

[Stare]

oh we're here in the jungle
running right into the fire
oh we're here in the jungle
tell me, who's gonna make it out alive?

Rory grimaces as she tilts her feet back toward herself, trying to stretch out the aches in her calves while she waits for her name to be called. She thought she would have trouble sleeping in the nights leading up to her journey into hell, but each night she’s so bone-tired she doesn’t even remember sinking into the heavenly soft bed. Her muscles groan in protest every morning, as does her stomach every time she passes up bacon and pancakes in favor her trainers’ recommended vegetable hash and green smoothie, but she’s seen improvement. She just hopes the others don’t notice how hard she’s actually trying.

“What the hell am I going to show them?” Rory’s eyes track One’s male tribute. The muscles on his arm are as big as her head. Her trainer, a lithe young woman named Azu, draws her attention away.

“You’re not hopeless. You knew how to fight before you came here.”

“On the streets, with a rusty pocket knife. I’m not the same as them.” Rory’s tone is hushed but borderline hysterical as she gestures in the general direction of the Careers.

“Different can set you apart.” Azu places her hands on her hips, tilting her head slightly. “So tell me, what’s the difference between you and them?”

“They know how to kill twenty different ways and I’m pretty sure I only know two?”

The trainer rolls her eyes. “Try again.”

Rory shrugs, holding her hands up helplessly. “I don’t know. They’re formally trained. Their fights are quick, effective, clean.”

“Are your fights clean?”

She scoffs. “On the streets of Three? You kidding? You’d be skinned alive if you didn’t fight dirty.”

Azu smiles. “There’s your difference.”

Aurora steals a glance at the Gamemakers as she walks into her private training session. They know. It’s the thought that’s haunted her ever since her name was called, but she’s been keeping an eye on the Games broadcasts. They haven’t outed her.

At least, not yet.

She grabs a simple knife from the weapons rack and makes a beeline for the plants station. Her work is swift and subtle, cutting up a plant and squeezing the resulting juice into her water bottle. She doesn’t want to draw too much attention in this stage. Once she’s finished she hesitates before snatching a spring-loaded needle from the first aid station. She then approaches one of the trainers standing by.

He’s heavily armored, but Azu said the armor was programmed to show where hits had landed. Apparently the Capitol had been stepping up its game to protect bystanders during private training sessions. Rory had briefly wondered what had happened to inspire such a rise in safety standards, then felt mildly ill.

She keeps her combat with him mostly defensive, landing only a few hits here and there. Training over the past couple of days hasn’t performed any miracles, but it has sped up her reactions and made her movements sharper, more fluid. She manages to slip behind him and slash at the back of his knees, a trick that saved her more than once in Three, but with the armor it of course doesn’t take him down. Still, she takes a hint in pride at the bright white stripe that appears to indicate the hit. He’s holding back, she knows he is - the Capitol can’t afford damaged goods entering the Games, after all - but that’s okay. After a few more minutes of superficial sparring she backpedals out of his range. He uses the opportunity to take a swig from his water bottle.

And collapses.

Rory takes another step back, pulling out his actual water bottle and tossing it in his direction. She knows that any truly bloodthirsty Gamemaker would want her to leave him there. A well-earned kill. Even Azu might recommend that she simply take her departure right then and there and let the Keepers and Capitol medics deal with it. But a fundamental part of her, the part that’s seen the worst kind of suffering in Three, the part that wants to fix everything but has to settle for simply holding the hands of the people drawing their final, shuddering breaths, simply can’t.

They've made her into a tribute, but first and foremost she will always be a doctor.

She’s at his side in an instant, uncapping the spring-loaded needle and laying a hand on his shoulder. His entire body is shuddering, mouth beginning to foam as he gasps for breath. But Rory has seen far worse. In moments like this she always feels something cool and numb course through her, her movements becoming precise and decisive. She unlatches the armor on his thigh, then plunges the needle in, slowly releasing the antidote.

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispers, her voice carefully distant and soothing all at once. No apologies. She cracks a humorless smile. “You’re lucky they finally managed to develop an antidote to hemlock. It’ll take a few minutes to take effect, but everything will be fine.”

And that’s it. That’s her performance. As she stands, though, Rory hesitates, glancing again at the Gamemakers.

They know.

[REDACTED]

She dips her head in a way that she hopes conveys gratitude, then steps over the trainer and out the door.

[lyrics: the jungle, zayde wolf]

 

The girl from Three is a strange and lovely creature; a rose that heals and cuts in the same moment. Bea appreciates the contradiction of it all, how those gentle hands soon become fists — how the trainer collapses, foam at his mouth — and how the gentleness returns. Winter must always give way to spring.

Adaptation is crucial in the arena; a tribute must be willing to carve out their hearts and fill the empty spaces with something softer. Pale flowers and black roots. And in Aurora, Bea sees that grace. Life and death sit about her shoulders, whispering sweetly against her flushed cheeks. Beatrix wonders where they will lead the girl.

And then — a revelation — a truth they already know — a request — the Gamemakers dismiss her, cold stares and pursed lips. This is not a place for bargains, for gold coins and safe passage to the unknown. It's all up to Fate and her golden thread, the shears in her merciless hand; and the three disciples who do her bidding.

"Nine." She's not bold enough to assume her companions will agree, but after a short debate and a series of nods, the number is written down by the tribute's name. 9. "She's dynamic, and clearly she has a story to tell. Perhaps not willingly, but it's there. I'll be watching her intently."

B E A T R I X  ●  A L F R A Y

[Deleted]

 

- Saturn RhoDon -

I am starting to see stars and moons
(it's an awful sham, but I follow suit)
This is how it ends, a courageous boom

The only way to better days was through tomorrow.

He sits, one of the first to be judged, one half-heartedly prepared for judges that he wished he could tell to lower their expectations. From what he gathered, his fellow careers were far more serious (and twice as clever) as he seemed to be. From his district partner, whose glances could cut diamonds, to the boy from four, whose sculpted body matched his own, he saw no place among them, only the periphery. One of them would wind up with the crown, that much he seemed certain of – though picturing himself wearing it was now far hazier, for better or for worse.

He should have a deeper fire inside his heart, one burning white hot. One strong enough so the world could fall away and he would still be standing through it all. But the world has already ended many times, and he is still there, head bowed underneath fluorescent light with silence building. He eases tension the only way he knows how, removing his shirt because – well, it couldn’t hurt him – and sets off into a sprint. He finds the stakes of wood, the rope, and cuts out a length with a knife. Minutes pass as he assembles a noose, measuring with his own neck before turning his attention to erecting a simple foothold trap in a section of dirt near the plants station.

He goes through the prepared motions – hauling a high-fidelity mannequin atop his back, its arms wrapped around his shoulders as he demonstrated his strength. He sprints a short distance, makes toward the climbing net and carries the thing behind him with one arm, all the while dragging up and over the net and down again. He holds the thing by his thick legs crossing a set of monkey bars, swinging left and right. He drops down and scurries toward the wrestling matts. He can feel his heart beating, his breath heavy, and only – this is all expected, uninteresting.

Tossing the mannequin to the center of the wrestling mat, he pauses a moment, hands on his knees.

The world had always been at his fingertips, had it not? His body was perfection, it should’ve been easy enough to cobble together a show good enough for sponsorship. He spit balled the usual set of ideas: setting fire to an avox, butchering some kind of animal and smearing his body with blood, or maybe lifting an incredibly heavy amount of weight and crushing some mannequin underneath.

They would’ve been easier, and maybe more entertaining than his cross-fit mannequin carrying and trap demonstration.

He sees the mannequin, legs and arms akimbo, and takes in the moment. The white lights above, the fact that his whole life has been building toward this. Not in his mind but for the people in his district, the boys that eat, slept, and breathed for a chance to tear each other apart. Saturn was sure they thought that by standing on someone else’s neck, it filled whatever had been hollowed out inside of them by the world.

Fuck that.

He wasn’t sure what he cared about, but it wasn’t the momentary approval of his peers. The rehearsal started to melt away as he stood from his crouch and started to wave upward in the air, as though he was getting a crowd going. He took a step forward in a stomping motion, and then another as he began to stalk the ring. He thought back to when he’d been a child – an early memory of why he’d gone ahead and started building his body, of the moments when he’d wrestled with the others, challenged his strength, and pinned the ones that stood in his way. He didn’t always win, but when he walked away from such fights he thought what it was that he should’ve known – what he could do in the future.

He’d never been so happy as then, learning what it meant to pull someone’s arms back into a hold, to lock someone out and to get them to shout mercy. He was just like the men who he watched on television, stomping one another into submission.

Saturn brought his arms up underneath the mannequin and grabbed it by its chin, his knee placed firmly into the things back. He gave a grunt as the polyurethane pressed against him, and rolled the thing into full nelson. He started to press hard into its neck, his body firm against its back, his face red, veins bulging across him. He thought about all the things it took to stir a fire in him – that he’d been dumb enough to miss the morning with his family on the reaping, that he’d kissed half the boys training here and felt less for it, that there was still a man out there that had hurt him so deeply, he’d rather have cut his tongue out than say how –

Until the neck threatened to pop out of place. He turned over onto his back to give figure-four leg lock. After another few seconds, he pulled back, standing quickly to his feet. He hoisted it up over his head, rag doll as it was, and threw the mannequin with a heavy force to the ground. He turned back to the gamemakers, grinning, arms raised, waving at the imaginary crowd, feeding off the pretend adoration.

He grabbed the mannequin by its throat and lifted it up, dragging it to the plants station. With a grin toward the gamemakers, he let go, tossing it into his trap. The rope snapped firm against its leg, whipping it into the air. From above it snagged the waiting noose. One tugged firm at its neck, the other its leg, threatening to rend the thing in two.

He stepped forward, flexing both of his biceps with a grin and pointing toward the sky.

Maybe he wasn’t brilliant, but he knew at the least how to put on a show.

*Star & Moons, Dizzy

JUNIER of GS + Adox

Z A Y A

Zaya decided that these Games she would watch every single private training session without a single drink. She sat with her narrow glass of ice water and her notebook and pen ready to take notes over the children's skills. The district one boy came in and almost immediately removed his shirt. The Gamemaker glances down at her paper to scribble a quick reminders to make sure the boy looses the clothing in the Arena as well.

All in all it was a great display of what they teach those careers in the districts. A show of strength and a display of fine motor skills as well. Zaya watched his body move and was pleased by the sight but felt a little disappointed. He flexed his muscles at the end of it all and grinned.

What a pretty boy she thought, scribbling note about strength and appeal to sponsors. Then she wrote a large 8.

One for each ab.

table credit dars

[alex 🐺]

He awoke with a hangover because of course he did. Not that he couldn’t handle his alcohol, but the swill that District Four called liquor paled in comparison to the embarrassment of tonics that the Capitol offered. His head was pounding, and he couldn’t remember much about last night other than a gorgeous blonde (or was it a brunette?) but a quick shower brought him back to equilibrium. Water washes all sins clean, isn’t that how the old saying goes?

Calloused knuckles and a black eye adorning his face (how the fuck did he get that?), Berlin swallowed down food, head hanging low. He had little time for friendships, but he could not get the thought of teeth biting his lower lip, clothes pulled off and thrown around the room. Flashes of the night previous ran through his mind like a movie on repeat, but he willed himself to focus.

The District Four apartment had shown no evidence of the aftermath of whatever had transpired, fueled by alcohol and hormones, lust and hatred in a delicate dance. The hole where his fist had gone through the wall had been mysteriously patched up because of course it had. The Capitol didn't have time for any of his angsty teenage boy outbursts.

Finley was long gone when Berlin stumbled out of bed, his mouth dry and his eyes straining against the sunlight filtering through the fourth-floor windows. He would feel bad for the girl if he could find it within himself to care.

Pulling a navy blue t-shirt, threadbare and worn and oh, so comfy over his frame, he smacked his jaw a few times to wake himself, the pain from the black eye that he had yet to discover (that would come later, post-shower) radiating through his jaw. He was the last to the Training Center, his running shoes scuffing loudly against the stone floors. An eye roll from the Capitol minder and he squeezed in front of Finley.

A nod of his head and they spoke nothing more, a tentative truce and peace that he carried with him, something delicate and private, not to be shared with the others out of fear of weakness.

Never show your cards, never show them you care, if you care. Private moments stolen in apartments could not be translated into anything but an easy wound to be carved out of your skin.

They had respect for each other, as district partners do. Do not mistake that for affection. The mantra that he spoke to himself pounding through his ears like his own heartbeat. He sat with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees as the boy from Three walked into the Training Center, the door swinging shut with a bang. One more tribute and then he was up.

It’s go time, B. You got this. 

He sighed, his chest expanding and collapsing as he paused before the door, gnawing his lip, which felt swollen from the night before, his name ringing in his ears. It was time.

Make no mistake - the boy is not nervous. He is far too arrogant for that. He knew the drill, the posturing, but hoped that the Training Center would provide for him.

He enters the massive room, pulling the hoodie that had been provided for him up and covering his head. Clad all in black, he felt immortal. Barely aware of the blood pumping through his veins. Of the pressure of his heartbeat. His jaw is clenched as he strides forward, eyes locking with the Gamemakers hovering above him before he makes his way to a side table.

They would grow bored quickly, but he didn’t want to fuck this up. A simple chemistry experiment to start things off with a bang.

He grabs three beakers, sprinkling the powders, ammonium nitrate powder plus zinc powder and simple salt, in a line towards six targets spread at random throughout the Training Center. Two high on far walls. A third and fourth a bit lower and towards the inner part of the room. A fifth and sixth right below the Gamemakers.

The powders were innocuous enough on their own but when water was added...well, lets just say that it was a good thing the Gamemakers were behind shatterproof glass. He grabbed a collection of six spears. Too on the nose for his tastes, but he was from District Four, after all.

A boy born, his soul on fire, quenched with the healing powers of water. Or so he hoped. His soul burned each day, his throat raw from the ashes, but perhaps being here, perhaps his sacrifice would make amends for his transgressions.

Pausing to catch his breath and knowing that he only had a few precious moments of their attention left, he strides to the back of the room, and flips a switch to plunge the Training Center into darkness.

The light from the Gamemakers perch is ablaze, but below them, Berlin stands like a shadow. Black on black. He moves to a table, grabbing a beaker full of water and it begins. The lines from the targets all coalesce before him and a few drops of the liquid fizzle before the spark ignites and it rips towards all six endings.

A wildfire needs only a small spark to level an entire forest - an entire history and ecosystem gone. A small spark, beginning at one line and then moving rapidly down the others gave the room a warm orange-yellow glow.

The chemical reaction small but building. A crescendo of light as the fire licked its way towards the targets, growing, building. It breathed light and life into the Training Center and Berlin stands at the end of the six trails, a smirk on his lips. A boy doused in flames, the water as the catalyst.

He moves quickly - as the first flame ignites the first target, he throws a spear, the wooden length catching fire and sticking into the top edge of the target. He was off, but just barely. His second and third throws are closer to the bullseye and he curses himself internally. He rolls between throws because who doesn't love a bit of showmanship, the third throw off because he was leaning back too far on his left leg, his right knee bent in front of him.

He was fucking it up and the Gamemakers were no doubt laughing into their drinks. The fourth throw - the target towards the inside of the walls - he strikes true and biting his lip, he savors the moment before another pause, another sigh.

The final two targets - aflame and right underneath the Gamemakers stand, burning in all of their brilliance. Standing now, full height, he throws the final two spears at the fifth target, the blades striking with one above and one below in the center of the bullseye. Berlin drops to his knees, grasping at the bow and arrow he had placed on the floor. But the final target - the sixth and barely there after the conflagration, this target was meant for something more. A bit more artistry. He turns, his back to the Gamemakers as he touches the arrow to the flame nearest him. The tip burning he closes his eyes, turning foward once more, and lets the small arrowhead fly.

He drops the bow before he sees where it lands, before it hits what is left of target six. He had given them enough of himself. The arrow would land where it needed. His fate was already decided. 

j o s i e ;

By the time the District Fours enter the room, Josie’s hangover is still in full force. A heavy head that is held up by his palm as he slouches in the leather single seat in the viewing balcony. The champagne chute that was poured when the first tribute entered has barely been touched, an uncharacteristic move for Mr Layton, however the fruit infused tea in his hand is posing as a slow hangover cure.

Another career to entertain the crowd, soon the mass of the lower districts will perform, and he just hopes he will be able to stomach the alcohol by then. Berlin Batalanto, a supposed promising career, the boy’s actions so far haven’t caught Josie’s attraction to put on a show but now he has the chance.

Josie sits forward as the boy begins to decorate the room, a whisper to his fellow gamemakers confirms the prop to be a combustible chemical, oh no he is going to set fire to the room!

A spectacle of flaming javelins lights up the place, it makes Josie lean forward in his seat, watching as each point pierces a target. ”I bet I could be more on target in the state I am in.”

By the end of the display, Josie is standing against the balcony, eyes on each of the targets through the flames. ”Well it was entertaining but messy.” Josie returns to the chair, taking a hold of the full chute of champagne. ”An eight will suffice for the career, I hope he doesn’t burn down our arena.”

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

He's a fragile and soft creation,  scented the same as red petunias and ribs like flower petals one could run a finger over, like flower petals one could pluck out – one by one, like flower petals one could crush between a cruel fist.

And his heart bleeds out blood-red on the bathroom sink, detached from where it nestled between the ribs because, because, because, because it corrupted the rose with mercy when its dark thorns are there to wound, and because it softened the great oak tree when its spread of branches are there to bruise.

He would have done it eons ago but he was scared. Now, standing on the dark verge of death and decay, he feels braver than he's ever been before. It is not the bravery of a hero underneath his skin; it is a selfish bravery that floods the veins as lifeblood or epinephrine or any hormone would —a sort of bravery that does not make him fearless, but shake like thunderstorms.

He has to be careful not to drown in it.

Francisco speaks through his eyes. In the blue of a dawn, they stare back at him as if the bathroom mirror is in shards and Francis's knuckles are dressed with its jagged ends. He would have broken it if his skin isn't so thin to not bleed.

The sink is cool to touch, and so is the metal faucet, and so is water from it. Pooling some inside the cup of his hands, Francis splashes his face clean, scrubs the dirt from behind the ear and let the excess linger on his hands.

But, he doesn't know that he's trembling until he stares down at the hands and see them quivering, in the way a bowstring that has just released an arrow does. Francisco clutches them until they become a pale ivory and the temporary cessation of blood seems to make the tremors bearable. But they return when he recalls, woefully, that his private training session is due in a few hours.

The Games never stops for anyone.

So, all he could do is clench his teeth impossibly taut and carry on, as sun breaks over the capitol.

His breakfast churns; the butter eggs feel as if they hadn't been washed down by the citrus juice and the bacon leaves a raw taste. Since his arrival, the food has been a pleasant delicacy and a potent distraction. All those plates of golden fruits, untouched by moths or flies, seem like they'd been stolen from Francisco's dreams. The cuisines smell, appear, and taste otherworldly. And, after wandering amongst empty hallways and empty floors, he reached the rooftop days ago. The air was crisp, pregnant with the scent of the flowers, some even he did not recognize, and chemicals that did not smell dangerous.

It was the most alive he's felt since his mother.

Francisco's footsteps carry on and resonate through the very bones of the training center. It isn't a gentle sound, all robust and hollow as if the souls that once roamed these floors hadn't been scrubbed clean with strong ammonia yet.

The souls bow their heads and dance, invisible to Francisco as he is to them. He envisages one near the far corner of the center, leaned against the stone all melancholic and somber as if it is posing for museum art. The haunting sensation is like freshwater on his face, awakening each asleep nerve and synapses, conjuring gooseflesh down the arms. He inhales, sharply, with an intent he doesn't know lurks in the head.

The Game-makers' eyes are there, scrutinizing each movement Francis's body ripples, three bodies but a single entity — here to judge. And, it is his task to impress.

Francisco Bloom has never been impressive.

He was slow when it comes to athletics, rosy knees giving up after two laps. He never understood chemicals. Mathematics crowned his skull with a persistent headache. But, he does have a knack he can wield like a sword. He has the florets. The plant corner has the resemblance of a quiet, miniature forest, but a more in depth look sparks recognition in his eyes. It is an assortment of herbs and flowers.

This is his arsenal, Francis thought, before hands worked. They worked in a mechanic rhythm, hectic because of an unseen timer, frantic because he doubts it'd work.

“Please,”

He begs the flowers — and hopefully they hear the desperation amongst the words.

“Please work.”

The Belladonna petals, undressed from their stem, lay within the metal bowl he's asked for. They bleed periwinkle as a mortar rolls over them. Another plant is the caster oil with its red fur-like flowers, hiding behind the roses as if he wouldn't be able to differentiate the two. Francis carefully makes it curl in his bowl before crushing the whole of it — flower, stem, seeds, — to scarlet juice. It swirls with the lilac of the nightshade, brewing a dark magneta shade. His last ingredient is honey. Saccharine, thick, golden honey which glistens as it is poured.

Francis holds a breath in, refusing to inhale the black concoction of his own creation.

And here is when his heart begins to roar like imminent thunder in the ears and he yearns to rip the organ out from where it lays shielded. If he makes a poison, its potency has to be tested out. The dark concoction stares at Francis and digs its fuchsia eyes down the very foundations of his spirit, snared with venom.

“This here, can effortlessly stop hearts.” He calls out to the Game-makers, lolling in their thrones of bones and wealth. Francisco's heart beats, a merciful creature of red that tries to extend the poison as far away from itself as possible.

“It has nightshade, which will disrupt and shut down the nervous system in mere seconds, leading to paralysis. The castor oil plant's seeds eat up a person's stomach.” He isn't cruel, but what he has brewed is. “And the honey should make it sweet enough to hide all the poison underneath. If you don't believe me,”

The lump sewed to his throat makes it arduous to speak, but he tries and the words come out coarse and thick-barked. “Test it yourself.”

Francis gasps from the heavy guilt of it all before setting the bowl down, the ripples across its contents dark and onyx and impervious to the danger it holds.

“T— Thank you for your time.”

He needs to retch soon.

Then, when footsteps try to take their leave, Francisco Bloom has a strange change of heart. Abruptly, he returns to the dark bowl and holds it with unwavering care between two palms.

And despite his heart's clarion songs of protest, he carries himself to the mutt station where the beasts snarl.

Eyes flicker over each creature, acknowledging them as they acknowledge him back as prey. Francis chooses the one who bares its teeth at him, a beast far too grown and feral to be an ordinary lion of the jungle. Its claws gleam in the fluorescents, and its body, elongated and grotesque, is there to intimidate. A mercy killing, Francis tells himself. It's now or never. It's prey or predator. He wants to be the latter. Francis sets the bowl down near its cage — and does not look as a rosy tongue laps at the poison.

He does not gaze back, eyes fixated on the way out, as a loud thud echoes through the bruised architecture of his bones.

j o s i e ;

”Well at least this is a breathe of fresh air from the career brutes before him” Josie’s hangover is still ticking over when the District Five male enters the room, he is on his second glass of the bubbly wine since Berlin left. They are nearly half way there, he may as well make a party out of it. During Francisco manoeuvre of throwing together ingredients, Josie finally bids farewell to the leather seat, remaining on his feet during the entire display.

Josie has mixed opinions about Mr Bloom, a boy from a misplaced district but he shows promise, maybe he will be the dash of thrill that he is do desperate to sprinkle across the District. Career brutality is an over worn fashion, the middle and lower Districts have so much promise to present.

As the boy explains his creation, Josiah picks from the tray of canopies, careful with each bite. As if he’d be able to slip the poison into these, an unlikely worry but as the poison’s effects are described he swallows slowly.

The boy leaves, leaving behind the elixir. ”Well, are any of you going to test it?” He says as he hangs his head over the balcony, aiming the request to the untouched trainers and avoxes down below. ”Give the boy a seven. Silent but deadly, he will be an interesting part of the games.”

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

Nico remembers hunger.

As far back as he can remember, he remembers being hungry. He remembers sitting on his bed, feeling the cold of the earth through the flimsy material of his mattress in the corner of their three room home without a floor. He remembers his mother crooning to him in the early days. Sleep, little one, she would say to him, putting her palm against his cheek and kissing his forehead as though that was replacement enough for a warm meal.

Or any meal at all.

God, he remembers being eleven and knowing that in just another year he could solve his every pain with a single name dropped in a glass bowl, gamble his life for the sake of his life. What is it, when without the gamble of his name drawn, he wouldn't make it to the next drawing anyways? After all, a part of him would always wonder exactly how much longer his body would have been able to handle it, exactly how many more years of hunger he'd have been able to endure before his bones turned to dust. Ashes to ashes, he'd heard once in school. Dust to dust. Nico would damn himself before giving in to that; what does it mean, dying quietly?

He remembers the tender, delicious ecstasy of turning twelve and finally being able to apply for tesserae, his stomach burning with hunger as he went home with his prize. Remembers the thrumming of his heart, learning the very hardest way the importance of rationing when a year’s worth of food was gone in five months.

Learning the hard way that his best friend in this life would be none other than hunger herself.

A part of Nico had had no idea what he would do for
— this spectacle.
— this showcase.
— this degradation.

He'd been trying to think of what to do from the moment that his mentors had told him exactly how this all worked, had walked him through how he would sit in this very room, watching and waiting as tribute after tribute filed into the room where he'd have spent the past days re-learning the in's and out's of his own body, teaching his hands clever new tricks and practicing old one's he'd brought from his past life.

Since stepping foot in the Training Center for the first time, really since he first stepped foot off the train from his home and seen this terrible, glorious world his father's killer had made a new home in, he'd wondered about the best way to show them that if this world was to have a bloodied crown, it belonged atop his head.

The idea came to him sitting at dinner, staring at himself in the mirror on the wall behind Jayne and the mentor beside hers heads. It was a gaudy, glaring thing, and in it Nico looked exactly like the terrible ghost District Twelve had sought to create of him, the only thing touched on his plate a roll of bread torn in two.

Watching the tributes file in now, Nico feels his old friend like a vengeance.

Nico hasn't eaten in four days.

They say the human body can go thirty days without food, and Nico thinks that he knows that better than anyone else sitting in this room, knows the pang of true and honest hunger better than anyone is this entire god-forsaken city. Nico has spent his entire life hungry, and felt the echo of it in his bones, knows what it was to be so hungry that his stomach actually hurt when he finally got to put bread past his lips again.

At first his plan had been only a half-formed thing, tentative and weak the more he thought about it, and the more that he thought the less that he ate. He liked the sharpness of it, the clarity that the familiarity brought to his thoughts. He is of the grave-eyed boys in his neighborhood, and yet he is not--a lone wolf among a pack of hungry creatures, the one's with little flesh on their bones and slavering jaws, a herd of boys with lolling tongues hungry for a life denied them.

Nico had never let the world tell him who to be.

Nico Thorne, an automated voice calls over the system, and it is finally his turn to stand, the last among another pack of boys that had not opened its arms to him, he knows exactly what kind of dangerous he is. Please enter for your individual assessment.

The doors close behind him, and it feels like fate.

He takes a moment and just looks at the Gamemakers, watches them in their habitat the same way that they observe him. They're like gateposts to the forest, a promise of things both better and worse, where monsters run free, where monsters aren't monsters at all.

He turns away from the Gamemakers quickly, walks over to the Blades station and picks up two practice knives, dulled at the edges. The hunger in his stomach is a familiar pain; it sharpens him, brings everything into startling clarity. He steps quickly to the plants station, takes the two knives and coats them in earth before tucking them into either side of his waistband; when they strike, even dulled, they will leave a mark. Dirt where a slit throat would belong. He turns on his heel, anger starting to collect in his blood.

"I requested four trainers," he calls out, hyper aware of the room he stands in now, decidedly empty of other human life.

On his words, doors open on either side of the room, two trainers walking through them each of them on either side of the room. He almost laughs when they hesitate, their faces impassive and impenetrable. None of them moves towards him, no one daring to make the first move. He's been here so many times he lost count, between bullies and monsters with too much time on their hands and a hunger just as sharp as his. "Well? he calls, and he's only looking at one of them but he sees their face shift like the sky between sunset and night, one still full of color and another something barren, something terrible, something unending. "Four against one," he says, just as they each start to move towards him. "Can't say I much like the odds."

And then the night begins.

At first it's all a whirlwind, a collection of hungry eyes and heavy fists. Right hook, to your left, he barely has time to think before he ducks out of the way of it, folding at the middle to twist away from another set of hands looking to grab him around the neck from behind. Don't use the knife yet. His soul is a black thicket of inky darkness and he takes a fist to his stomach, but he retaliates against another of them with an elbow to their nose, hears the crack of cartilage and spares the time to spit out a smile before taking a punch to his jaw.

It sends him staggering back, no matter the fact that he'd seen it coming and braced for it.

Nico would always be ready for pain.

He takes the opening, the small reprieve where he has been forced away, forced back, and slips one of the knives out of his belt loop. For half a breath, he considers sending it flying across the small space, flicking it from his hand where it will inevitably hit one of the trainers—the red-haired one was his best shot, but the one with crystal eyes had a wicked uppercut and god he'd love to get rid of them—but he can't do it, refuses to part with the blade so quickly, and instead steps back towards the fray, closes in on the one with arms wound thick like the trees beyond the fence back home.

There's a moment where pain blossoms, and Nico notes absently that another of the trainers has punched him in the lower ribs from behind, but he's determined, a wolf with a hearth in his sights.

It takes a quick step, a faked one to the right and a punch to the man's gut before spinning around to have knuckles meet the cheek of the trainer coming up behind him, then a step to the left while the other is still half-hunched over—a thin line of brown dirt now clear across the middle of his throat.

One down, three to go.

The flesh is between Nico's teeth now,
and he is ravenous.

Memory and reality clash with every blow; the trainers landing a kick to his ribs and Nico remembers only the time a Peacekeeper caught him with wild strawberries clutched in his calloused palms, plucked fresh from the wild bush just beyond the fence. It hadn't mattered that Nico was on his way to deliver them to one of the man's own co-workers with a soft spot for the berries, all that had mattered that day was Nico's blood spilt on earth already damp from rainfall the past night. He remembers getting mud in his mouth, and the memory of it makes him laugh as he rolls away from the trainer's foot just before it moves to land another blow.

The pure taste of iron in his mouth now is a blessing in comparison to that morning, with earth on his tongue and down his throat and in his lungs.

He laughs, blood thick in his mouth as he lashes out again
    and again
    and again
    and again.

The next trainer is out when she holds up her hands in defeat, backing off and walking away from the fight so quickly Nico barely has time to think about it before the other two are coming at him again, like hunters coming at him in the wood, ready to mount his bodiless, dismembered head on their lily-white wall.

Two down. Halfway there.

He's almost surprised when the next opening comes so quickly, can't believe his luck when one of the trainers goes to throw a punch at Nico's jaw and leaves his middle wide open.

It only takes a second for Nico to slip the other practice knife from his belt, and then—

Gotcha, he thinks.

The last dance is a matching of wit, a matching of wills, a collection of new bruises and so much blood that neither can tell exactly whose is whose. He takes an elbow to the face, and the other gets a knee to their ribs, both hear a crack and both of them are almost laughing, wild things in their wild world once again.

And then it ends as slowly as it began, with Nico's long fingers wrapped around a pretty neck, applying just enough pressure to make a point before letting the trainer go. They take one step back, then another—and glory tastes just like his history.

And the murder is all mine.

His mouth is a feral thing, smile sharp like a knife as he stands straight, extends both hands to either side and takes his bow, making sure his sharp green eyes never leave the Gamemakers.

Smiling, he starts to walk towards the very door which he came through, stopping just before the exit doors.

"Oh," he adds, turning on his heel, as though there is something that he's forgotten—he hasn't, but he knows that he's been underestimated, been kicked to the ground and made bloody—just like he planned.

Still, his canines are bared through the blood on his chin.

"The last time I ate? About 96 hours ago." He can feel the self-satisfied grin on his face, the iron tang of blood thick on his tongue as the Gamemakers heads all spin to look at him once again, eyes hard. "Check whatever cameras you need to if you don't believe me," he says next, arms wide again in mock openness. "One trainer for every day that I haven't eaten," he goes on. He hasn't an idea if monologue is supposed to be part of this, has no idea whether or not this moment is going to ruin everything, or make them finally see him for the wolf that he is, but the blood has been spilt and there's no stopping him now. "You can beat me bloody, drive my face into the ground and kick my lungs until I can't breathe, but I'll never quit." He squares his jaw then, remembers that a wolfs song in the night is a promise of suffering to come, remembers that a howl to the moon is as much a death sentence as a blade pressed against your throat; so he sings. "Twelve tried to kill me time and time again, but I endured."

Wolves do not apologize for their hunger.

Nico uses his as his greatest strength,
an endurance to outlive them all.

As unkind as a plague.

"I've survived."

He spits blood on the floor, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles.

The wolf is always worse than he seems.

[goat]

damaris hope

“Damaris Hope. District Eight.”

I rise from the bench I’d been waiting on. Fifteen tributes have gone before me, and eight will go after me. You’re supposed to make a good impression in your private training session, make the Gamemakers remember you, get a good score so you can get more sponsors. I have no idea how I’m supposed to do that. I never touched any of the combat stations. There’s nothing about me that screams unique or special. I’m not even close to the first Hope to pass through these doors.

It’s strange to see the Training Center so empty. Usually it’s filled with the noise of tributes, chatting or sparring, but it’s just me in here now. Me and the Gamemakers, of course. I’m sure they’re already poised to judge my every move. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I may have not learned anything combat-wise, but I learned a lot of other things. All I can do is show them what I know.

I make my way to the trapping station. All the supplies anyone could ever need to make a good trap are laid out, but I only take the large spool of wire. I stretch it between two pillars, doubling it up and twisting it so it’s secure. Next, I break off five pieces of wire and twist them into messy lanterns, like hastily made bird’s nests. I attach them to the main wire with even more wire. My hands are starting to ache and burn, but I’m too far in to stop now.

I go to the fire-making station and make a mixture of dry leaves. I bring it back to the lanterns along with some sticks and sprinkle the mixture in each lantern. It takes a moment for me to set the fire in the first lantern, but once I do, the rest come along easy.

After setting up the lanterns, I go over to the fauna station. I pick out five herbs, the ones that I know the best, and return to the center of the room.

“Sorry,” I say. “I needed some time to set up.”

I look down at my handful of herbs and pick out the first one. “Chamomile,” I say, looking over the plant. “Often found in teas. Used to reduce inflammation during wound healing.”

I hold it up so the Gamemakers can see it, and then toss it into the first flame. It sparks, and the flame dances, like it’s thanking me for this treat.

I move on to the second lantern. “This next one is Yarrow. It can be ingested to help with fevers or upset stomach.”

“Motherwort.” Into the third lantern it goes. “Helps with itching, wound healing, and menstrual pains.”

“Goldenseal. Helps diarrhea. Useful if you drink bad water in the arena.” I let it fall into the fourth lantern and watch it catch fire. “Poisonous in high doses.”

I move on the fifth and final lantern. In my hand, I cradle the last herb. “St. John's Wort. Antidepressant. Won’t do you much good if your leg’s been chopped off, but I guess it could help if you’re sad?”

I take a bite. I still feel sad. I toss it into the fire. “Or hungry.”

I walk back to the first lantern and blow it out. I take my time going down the line, extinguishing each flame. I almost feel sad doing it. I hope whoever’s job it is to take this down appreciates my hard work.

I thank the Gamemakers and exit the room. There’s something like pride swelling in my chest. I did what I could. That’s all that matters.

[gamemaker kelsier]

a m b r o s i a .

"i'm insane
but on
my toes"

Water fills my nose and bubbles crawl down and up like little soldiers conquering uncertainly and I'm drowning once again. My fingers wrap around the sink's basin and I grip too tight. Stone cuts into skin and suddenly there's iron in my mouth and lungs. I hold myself down, "He's so stubborn" they say, and jesus christ, they're fucking right he is.

I hold it until my vision whitens at the corners and the stoneware blurs and only then do I raise my head, water dribbling out of my mouth, gasping for air. I cough and stumble back against the bathroom wall and water sloshes out of the sink basin onto the floor. Air comes cheap and easy and my lungs are greedy, tugging it in close and letting it go again, teasing. I laugh. Ha-ha-ha, the sound comes out in a tired gasp and my hair drips onto the floor. Drip.

What a fucking dissapointment Capitol water is, it barely tastes different.

With a single motion, I slick my hair back and step out of the bathroom. Six is still in the room and Savior goes in first. I hope she fucks the room up, takes her sweet ass time so that when I slip in and out it won't be an issue. They must just be waiting for someone to slip in and out without a fuss for once.

Titus did it clean. He went in and out, climbed a tree and dropped a knife into a Dummy's head, nice and easy. Everyone has expectations for me, thoughts on how I should be, dress and what I should say and do. It's odd. Some people want a cookie cutter of Titus, lovable and sweet. Some people prod just to see if they can make me cry. I cry, I do it. I don't care. I'll cry right now, I'll cry until I'm sobbing and screaming on the ground, I'll cry until I pass out. It's no big deal, no big deal at all. One little word, one heartache and smile, it's not enough. Words dripping with honey snake around my head and I grip them and hold them so tightly that I strangle them. I feel no remorse. Every nice thing that you give me, I'll break.

I feel no remorse, I'll break.

I'll break.

I laugh, harsh and loud in the silent waiting room and my laugh echoes off the walls. There's a little silver NASA pinned to my lapel and I rub my thumb across it like the way I used to see Titus do it on the big screen in nine. It doesn't make me feel anything at all, neither does the laughter. I feel like nothing, like a cloud of mist. you can't see me in it but hey, I'm still dissipating. It's still happening. No one's doing anything to stop that, they want me mad. They want me dead. Not Titus, not Cickle. I flip off the ceiling above my head out of habit. (Stop looking at me Cickle. You're dead and that's still empty-making.)

My feet take me into the training room, an air of expectation clouds around my head and I walk through it calmly, never being one to live up to anything at all. Ask anyone, I'm a disappointment. I don't pause, or stop, I simply take. Without a moment to think my hand wraps around the hilt of a sword and I'm tugging it off a table full of weapons and I'm shoving it into the chest of a dummy. Within seconds of entering the room, there is fake blood on silver blade and I transfer some of the emptiness inside me out through the hilt.

I kill my demons like a pro.

Slaying one dummy didn't make me stop. I pull the blade out easily and blood spurts up into an arc, almost comically. That's not how it looks when someone dies, it's not real life. I grin at the blood fountain and shove the blade into another dummy's chest. Been there, done that, now what? I dig it in nice and deep. Killing a dummy is hardly challenging. How am I supposed to prove myself by killing a little hunk of fake body and blood?

How many times have they sat in this room and watched the same routine again and again? We don't age and I've been here before, I'll be here again. I could stab my blade into endless dummies and it would mean nothing because nothing is anywhere near as hard as killing a breathing, living thing. If killing dummies is considered a feat, everyone in this games will die easy because they haven't broken themselves yet. This isn't first blood, this is playing. Like playing at house as a little kid. This means nothing.

"Give me something real to kill," I say with a grin, "Give me something that'll scream, yeah?"

The blade falls from my hand and lands with a clatter on the floor. I wipe my hands on my shirt and the drama, the comedy in this whole display slips under my skin. What a foolish thing this entire display is. I laugh. Ha-ha-ha, my head all the way back, eyes staring up at the ceiling, studying, analyzing.

"I like it when they scream," I say, voice soft.

elegant

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

[presto][/presto]

➵

" won't see us coming
out the door before you even blink
something so cold-blooded
with a deep killer instinct "

It's all about showmanship.

She walked into that room with a purpose clutched within her fingertips, easy smile up at the gamemakers. She let her gaze linger on each of them, forcing them to drink in every inch of her in those silent moments before she began.

Her hair was pulled into a braid, sleeves pushed up on her shoulders to combat the heat of the Training Center; don't let them see you sweat, she'd thought. It was her job to make surviving look as effortless as possible.

She bet Saturn had been a sweaty mess on his way out; he'd probably come in here and thrown his weight around until his time was up, like he'd somehow convince the experts he could make it to the end on caveman strength alone. She hoped for his sake that he was right; poor dear wasn't the smartest.

Myrcella exhaled, slinging a quiver of arrows over her shoulder, then a bow to match, then she set up an arena full of dummies with names painted across their chests by her own two fingers. Most of her time, however, was taken up by setting up a timed trap. By the time she was finished, all she had to do was step on a trip wire and send a knife flying directly toward her.

She made haste to finish before the buzzer rang out; imagine how embarrassing that would've been?

What made Stark Harper great?

Her love of the game. Her ability to fight the strongest opponents and win.

"Stark Harper's use of a meat shield was a brilliant plan, and one of the first of its kind." If she'd been able to give the Capitol something to love, she could've gone all the way. Still, she had some brilliant ideas. She grabbed another dummy and labelled it Jessica/Fransisco/Nico; like Stark, Myrcella had gotten her own meat shields. She placed the ally behind her, facing away and oblivious.

What made Avon Lightwood great?

Her ability to learn from the pain. She found the weakest parts of herself and she fixed them. When she was bitten by a snake, she cut her hand off. She knew what it took to survive.

Myrcella had even gone as far as sawing off the Avon dummy's hand for clarity. Now, she shattered a glass jar at her feet, shed her shoes and breathed in through her nose before gently stepping onto the shards.

"Avon Lightwood refused to let pain distract her. She made it to the end without complaining about the new marks her body acquired with the passing days."

Her ability to take pain was astounding; her ability to survive it was not.

What made Belladonna Ruze great? Belladonna had been an incredible fighter who refused to let her humanity be taken from her. She was easily one of the crowd favorites. Myrcella had painted a heart on Belladonna's chest, then drawn a matching one on her own.

"Belladonna Ruze's victory came with the people, who still cheer her name. Champion of the people."

At some point, compassion became a hindrance, and Bella had learned that too late.

What made Pillar Fray great? Pillar found what made everyone around her tick, and used it against them when it came down to it. And damn, did she know how to put on a show.

"Pillar Fray knew just how to read a person, and just how to tear them apart."

Myrcella had a knife labelled Pillar as well. She'd tricked the other tributes into carrying her to the end, and it was brilliant to watch. But when it came down to her own merit, well -

Still standing in the glass of Avon's suffering, she planted an arrow into the dummy's head. She rolled back, grabbing hold of the ally shield Stark had created, stepping on the trip wire and blocking the knife flying toward her with it. With Pillar's betrayal, she slit the throat of the ally and let it fall to the ground, stepping back onto the glass despite how much her bleeding feet begged her not to. She aimed for Stark next, catching it in its inner thigh once, then the back of its ankle, then the pit of its stomach. It'd bleed out in seconds and she hadn't even had to resort to the neck arteries.

Last, she shot Bella in the heart one, two, three times before it toppled over.

"To win this game, you have to be strong like Stark, but you have to love like Bella. You have to be ready to suffer like Avon, but know how to prevent it like Pillar. None of these girls, strong and different as they were, came home with the crown."

She took a step toward the gamemakers, bloody footprints in her wake.

"I plan to finish the job they started."

With a bow, she left.

"don't look us right in the face
it's like staring at a burning sun
got teeth like razor blades
and you know that we're out for blood "

song: "wolves" -  sam tinnez