Public Training Sessions

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

Post away! <3

ROISIN RIVERO

I don't know why the Capitol's fashion sense goes out of the window for this session but facts are facts—I won't be caught dead in a tight, lycra bodysuit number. Especially given what is going on right now ... there's been a mountain of carbs piled high on my plate for the past week and I'm not complaining, not at all, but I think I'm starting to see the effect.

It could be that, but really, I think this tampon is making me look fat.

Naturally, we are taught about how the private training session is a special time where we get to show off our talents—difficult for most of these tributes considering they have as much talent as the latest winner of The Capitol's Got the Pop Factor... and Possibly a New Celebrity Soapstar Superstar Strictly on Ice. I'd feel sorry for them but the blue must be kept strictly to the iris and the iris only; to be donning tears in this outfit would be awfully shameful and I would have to apologise to the gamesmakers in advance for making such a fool of myself.

Even I am aware that this isn't a time to make a fool of myself. I chose a gown, a beautiful gown: beaded, low-cut ... just the most perfect representation of the type of girl I want to show the gamesmakers. She's the fearless type, she bounces around a lot and doesn't really care for anyone else's opinion but her own. The type to be labelled a self-obsessed whore by anyone who struggles with their self-esteem, the type to be held in high-esteem by any guy who wears comfortable shoes—for women. This girl is a spectacle and she sees herself as an icon of sorts, perhaps she isn't there yet but the world is her oyster and she is the pearl.

Honestly, I pity the tributes who have used this training centre for its actual purpose. Training ... like that ever saved somebody in the games. Reflecting on my own experience is most certainly the most perfect whirlwind comprised of making a chameleon of myself and then being whoever another tribute wanted me to be; it can be easy to gain their trust when you become part of the game everyone else is trying desperately not to play. Besides, education doesn't fit with my personal style. I cannot recall a time when a man or woman has ever put their hand up a skirt looking for a degree.

My heels click-clack against the floor as I walk in—the beaded dress shimmering in the dull, industrial light to breathe new life into the room. It probably needs it because I'm sure someone has already pulled the trick of threatening to kill themselves or someone else in order to make themselves look scary. They do not realise the difference between looking scary and being scary; the latter requires a person to exude an aura that tickles, then taints. If I wanted to look scary, I'd rock up wearing horizontal stripes ... which is an unforgivable crime.

The thought of killing myself gives me peace of mind that I would have died to a bad bitch.

I can already smell the sweat from the careers who made a point out of their brute strength, and I can already taste the salt in the air from the tributes who shed a tear explaining some sort of sob story about why being reaped was written in the stars for them. I guess that's what happens when a person fixates on the tragedies in their life; they start to become one themselves. As a person who does not sweat and does not cry, it's a strange air to walk into, but I like it. It polishes my chrome and makes me stand up and stand out just that little more.

There are so many things a girl like me could do in this situation—pouring myself a drink and enjoying the moment would be classy, whilst severing the genitalia of the avoxes would really float my boat. Yet ... I'm only classy to an extent, and I am definitely not a floater. I'm a girl, one of the girls who wears her femininity like armour and sharpens her tongue to tear someone down from the inside of their own mind.

I make my way over to the rack of blades. Long blades, beautiful blades, but wait—what's this? If it isn't only a gorgeous file to sharpen the blades, ugh, it will make the most perfect nail file to freshen up my manicure. The stylists in the Capitol can only do so much to cater to my personal style ... they've come close but never quite hit the nail on the head. It's not like I'm demanding or anything, I mean, if I want red bottom heels I should be able to get red bottom heels without someone trying to twist it into some sort of political commentary about revolutionising the world.

Alas, I lean against a table and file my nails into the most exotic points. It isn't couture from Six, that's for sure, but who knows about the Capitol, maybe after this, nails like knives will really put the run in runway. I stare at them avidly, taking my time but making sure that time is still on my side. I pout my lips and lick my teeth because I want them to know that I'm not just a scene, I'm a show.

The nails look gorgeous after I've examined them up close and blown away the dust. I press the end of my finger against one of them and I'm careful not to draw my own blood—because if I wanted to commit suicide during this private training session, I would have worn the lycra. I really cannot imagine anything worse.

I parade my new manicure through the air but I get distracted by an avox who stands at the sidelines who is awfully ugly which is unfortunate ... for them. This moment is supposed to be my own, and with all the beautiful things in this room: myself, the weaponry, the food being munched and crunched on by the beautiful gamesmakers and their capitolite friends—it's rude to intrude on such an event, to break the moment's beauty and make it unpleasant.

"Aren't you gorgeous! Come, I know just how to make that green in your eyes pop." I say through gritted teeth, inviting the subject to the centre of the room so that all is visible. "No, I'm not going to kill you. I would have done it by now if I wanted to, so stop shaking. It's offensive. My grandad had Alzheimer's."

I run, heels clacking again against the hard floor, picking up some rope. When I return, the avox has made his way back to the side of the room but it takes me less than a second to find the ugliest person in the room, which is still him. I drag him back to the middle of the room and tie his hands together, and bind his feet just tight enough so that he can still balance upright. I strip off his shirt, careful not to mess up this new manicure because I'm really not sure I could stick another ten minutes of filing.

He stands in front of me topless and it's almost perfect but he's still ugly. Some people are allowed to be ugly, I can respect it, but it isn't me. He can be a vessel for my beauty anyway, he'll probably receive the most looks he's ever received after I'm finished with him.

I narrow my eyes at his chest and begin to carve letters onto his body with my nails. They do say that green and red are festive colours, and to me, his eyes with his blood, ugh! This is a festive occasion after all. And anyway, if this is all just part of my prolonged death, then it's a celebration of my life anyway.

After I'm finished, there's a little blood that runs down his chest but it's okay because I slip off my heels, rub my hands around in it for a second, and then paint it on the bottom of my shoes. He may look like a mutt, but I trust that he doesn't have rabies given how Six exports medicines to the Capitol. My shoes start to look cute, and whilst yes, perhaps it isn't the most conventional means of getting the red bottom shoes I so admire and desire, I still got them.

I guide the now beautiful avox over to one of the weapons tables, quickly wiping it clear of all blades to make sure that he is the star attraction. I pull him up, help him regain his standing balance and then leave him there.

I smile, it's impossible not to when you're proud of your work. I mean—I've got more out of this than most: a fresh manicure, a pair of red bottom shoes and hopefully one of the gamesmakers knocking at my door for a date afterwards. I whisper the bloodied words on his chest to myself: "GMs. Dinner? You're all hot. Love and hugs, R."

Perfect—especially considering I make a great spaghetti. I'd make a mean spaghetti if I wanted dinner with other tributes, because my mean spaghetti really puts the die in diet.

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

f a y r e  ♦  b e l a n g e r

“Fayre Belanger, District Ten.
Please report for individual assessment.”

When she walks away, she doesn’t stop to look over her shoulder. There is no one there for her to see, no comfort to be found in the faces that would stare back at her. Her allies and Royce have already gone to that room, to stand before the Gamemakers and showcase their skills, and now she goes with them. To be judged, and to be controlled — this is just another prison. That’s all the world is. A cage inside of a cage. She has learned that there is no such thing as freedom. There will always be chains pulling her down.

She knows now to wrap those shackles around her fists,
to let the iron bite at her knuckles

— she knows now that she has to fight.

When she steps through those steel doors, staring up at the men and women who hold her fate so carelessly in their hands, she is sure to keep her expression calm and composed. Her voice is respectful, seemingly content to follow tradition. “Fayre. District Ten.” She will not offend them. Not here, and not now. It is not her goal to be a rebel. She doesn’t want to think about what she desires, who she wants to be — those are thoughts for another day. Her mind needs to be calm now; she needs to act.

Wasting no time, she moves to the sparring station. She steadies her breathing as she makes her way through the space, stopping at a designated area for a specific type of practice dummy. This one stands the full height of an average man, with a more realistic build to its stature. It has no features, only a shell of reflective plastic, but it seems to come to life when she activates it. She had attempted this once before, walking away with a bruised jaw, but now she’s ready. This is her chance to prove herself.

“This mannequin is designed to mimic your movements. It is one of our latest models, and we believe it will prove essential to your training. The machine will reflect all of your attacks, returning any damage you deal to its person. Who better to train with than yourselves?” The trainer’s explanation made sense, even if it took her time to realize how the exercise was actually useful. Most of the tributes abandoned it after being struck with several rebound swings, unable to defeat the mirrored technique. She had done the same.

And then she considered its purpose, what fighting yourself could actually offer. She understands. If you can’t defeat yourself, then how can you go up against twenty-three other opponents? If you can’t counter your own swings, what will you do when someone else has their sword aimed at your throat? That much, Fayre doesn’t know. Those are battles to be fought in the arena, lessons that would have to be learned in the days to come. But she does want to challenge herself, to learn her own flaws, to— ‘Fuck,’ she thinks. ‘Fuck all the poetic bullshit. I just want to fight.’

Without pause, she strikes at the dummy’s face and jumps back when it throws the same punch. She glances up at the Gamemakers as it follows her retreat, glad to see the machine doing as promised. She circles the faceless figure and it mirrors her, stroking a hand along its bare scalp as she runs her fingers through her hair. Her strategy still needs to be considered. Does she want to take it slow, showing her ability to defend herself — or should she go on the offensive, allowing herself to be bloodied to put on a show?

There has to be a balance.

She sweeps out with her leg, momentarily stunned as it does the same even while falling to the ground. She stumbles because of this, catching herself on all fours and landing in the same position as the mannequin. Standing up, she kicks at its torso and retreats. It rises close behind her, its foot breezing past her chest, but as she steps away it moves forward. She comes to a stop, and it does the same. Her head tilts, confused by the motion. It’s still mirroring her, but where it once copied her escapes, it now goes on the chase. She shoves at its shoulders, moving back a few paces before it approaches and pushes roughly against her collarbone.

Her jaw tightens, eyes showing her frustration. She knees it hard in the stomach and reaches down to grab its own leg, catching it in the air. It takes hold of her hair in response, doing what it can to mimic each of her actions. She screams as she pulls its legs out from under it, slamming it on its back — but then it drags her down with it. She lands on top of its stomach and punches its throat. Its fist comes up, but she turns to the side and crashes to the ground. It rolls until it’s on top of her, shoulders heaving with false breaths. This isn’t what she intended.

The simplest solution would be to reach for its switch and shut it down, to throw in the towel and count her losses, but she refuses to give up. There has to be a point to this. She brings her head forward with a shout, ignoring the throb of pain as she slides out from under it. She’s almost to her feet when it brings its own face down to the concrete, missing its target and creating a shower of sparks. It stands, slumped forward and heaving, but still fighting. She’s still fighting. Her hand connects with its jaw, turning to run as it swings through the air and chases after her. There has to be a different way to win.

The Games are not a fair fight.

She’s running through the weapons station when she picks up a sword and turns around, when the machine keeps charging and eventually impales itself on the blade that she has outstretched. Electricity crackles around the wound, it presses a hand to her abdomen in an attempt to cause the same amount of damage — but it whirs and shakes, collapsing against her when it finally powers down with a low hiss. She pushes it off with a grunt, and this time, it remains where it lands. The sword stays in its gut, a trickle of blood dripping from Fayre’s nose. She’s the one still standing. The end justifies the means.

She stares up at the Gamemakers, unblinking.
“Thank you for your time.”

And then she leaves. That’s all she has to show them
— that she can win. No matter the enemy.

[flyss]

S u l l i v a n 
P l i e r 

/

I am the second of twenty-four to have my heart set out on a platter; and yet, it feels like an eternity before I hear the two words that signal my feast.

“Sullivan Plier.”

A voice booms from above, metallic and raw, and I feel the vibrations make waves in my ear drums. “Go on,” I can hear the boys from back home prod, edging me closer to the door. “Make a fool of yourself, Sully.” Their words dig teeth marks into my skin. The room quakes.

When I enter the training room, I am ambushed by the blurred socialization of capitol officials and gamemakers from up above. Out of the phosphorescent crowd, only few dare to look up from their plates out of pity, and I wonder, momentarily, if they can smell my fear. How many faces have they seen in my spot? How many faces have they seen get out of it?

I stand there for what seems like minutes, scanning my eyes over a room I’ve already learned every inch of. The corners welcome me as they have in days past, but I refuse their warmth. Instead, I make haste towards a station of training dummies. “Leave me be,” I mumble in time with my steps. “Leave me be.”

When I reach the first dummy, I imagine myself in the shoes of someone strong, like Ike. “This is all you’re gonna be,” the voices tease from somewhere far behind me. It’s as if I were back home, still lying on the dusty stone of the district square. “A coward, Sullivan. You’re a coward.” The faces on the balcony morph into the faces of the boys who forced me into this, and their grins melt into the grins of every joke who said that it was my name that had been uttered by the harbinger of death. In a sudden burst of anger, I pull my arm back and throw my fist into the dummy’s jaw.

“You’re the fucking coward! Fuck! You’re the fucking coward!” I scream. My throat tears, and my chest heaves, and with the force of my entire body, I take the dummy down as if it were nothing. I look pathetic, I think as I throw punch after punch into rubber, my knuckles occasionally finding purchase on the concrete below. I am pathetic, I realise as I resign myself into the chest of the dummy’s remains, my busted hands bleeding bright red onto the training room floor.

I stay like that until I’m told my time is up.

[wimdy]

The night before the private training sessions are set to brand him with a number, Dio lies awake, restless and unable to stop seeing patterns on the night-darkened ceiling. His hands fidget over his stomach, curling into the blanket in sporadic twitches, trying to capture the promise of a plan that will give him an edge upon which he can leverage better odds come the Games. For his whole life, Claudio has trained for this, and yet he doesn’t know what to do. How does one impress the unimpressible, eighty-two games in and counting? He’s just another face, another body. How can he make himself stand out? The only thing he’d done to make an impression so far had been a split-second mistake of a reaction that had cemented him as “the boy who ran” in the eyes of his fellow tributes.

An unfortunate claim to fame.

Just for a moment, Claudio wishes his world would go up in smoke so he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever fallout his life is soon to become. He has a private training session to nail and a gauntlet to survive, however, so he settles with shoving a pillow over his face and screaming until his voice has gone hoarse and his head feels fuzzy.

Then, and only then, does Dio sleep.

---

In the morning, just before he and Blair head downstairs to the waiting room, he lies to Ginger with a confident smile that he’s sure his session will go fine, that he has a plan.

He has fuck all.

Hardly anyone seems to speak as they wait, and if they do, it's in hushed whispers that hardly disturb the air. Eyes flitting across the room, Dio tries and fails to see how he could be definitively better than any of the other tributes. Skill was important, yes, and strength and stability, but anyone in the room around him could win, because the final deciding vote was all up to luck.

His lessons never really included luck. An oversight.

Never has Claudio ever felt so unprepared for a test. His mother had put him through written exams on identifying plants and where to strike lethal blows, how to hide in forest habitats and what kind of ground animals had the best cost/benefit analysis for hunting them down. There had been days on end filled with fighting until his bones had hurt from the strain, and yet he knows none of it is good enough. Just hacking away at a dummy won’t get him anywhere. He doubts hacking away at an actual live opponent would earn him any stars either, so he has to do more.

Claudio Markham has to be memorable.

If his track record in the Training Center is anything to go by, he’s not quite sure if he’s any good at making an impact when he’s trying to do it on purpose. They're all close to the end of the line, and Dio's only really sure about his connection with Blair. Most of the other tributes had linked up and seemed less than interested in forming further ties. One has left him with an unsettled feeling deep in his stomach that only sinks deeper as he finds he doesn't know if she intends to be of use or not. Whatever Kassandra decides, it won't matter after long. Alliances don't last forever, and Dio certainly isn't looking to make friends.

There's no time for friends. Make use of them while I can, and then cut them out when they're spent.

No nausea. Resolve.

For the Gamemakers, he needs to do better. He needs to do something as striking as running away from the Peacekeepers during a live broadcast and then smiling nonchalantly at the crowd, except with actual finesse.

There’s so little time to think in the waiting room, and Dio hears his name called with a tinny reverb before he feels anywhere close to prepared.

Don’t run. Relax your shoulders. Don’t run, you idiot.

All around him, the room is quiet. With calm, collected steps, he moves across the training area, not looking up at the box where the arbiters of his judgement lie in wait. His eyes don’t stop moving, though, flitting across weapons and twine and kindling and-

Smoke.

Maybe he could still make his life go up in smoke and come out the other side.

Where is the other side?

Turning slowly, eyes carefully slow as he traces the room, Dio finds what he’s looking for tucked just behind the fire-making station. Four screws. Doable. He’s very thankful that the private training sessions are private, because he doesn’t want to know what Blair would think of the stunt he’s about to pull.

“Fires, then smoke,” he mutters under his breath, pacing quickly to the fire-making station and bending low to begin his work. Not much time wasted looking around, but every moment counts when there are twenty-one people waiting in the wings. Mother’s hounding comes in clutch, and soon he has four fires going in front of him, just strong enough that he feels alright stepping away to grab what else he needs.

“Potassium… nitrate? Yes, and where is the… sugar, there. Thank you, once bustling medical industry in two,” he muses, picking up containers of what he needs and snagging a throwing knife on his way back to the fires. Pulling a small camp cooking stand over, Dio sets about measuring equal parts sugar and potassium nitrate and splitting it into metal tins to set over the fires. Sweat beads across his forehead as he leans close to the flames, stirring the mixtures together one by one as he feels his eyes begin to burn in irritation. No goggles, or gloves, and he rubs the white powder off onto the leg of his pant without knowing which one it is.

It feels as if he sits there for hours, waiting for everything to brown as the sugar breaks down, though he knows it’s the growing heat and irritation that skews his perception. He wants it to be done, and as the mixture just begins to clump together, he decides he has waited long enough.

If I just had more time…

His eyes and nose sting as he stands, handle of the small knife stuffed between his teeth as he bustles about for a moment to walk back into the station area and pick up a dry piece of wood. Without looking, Dio stumbles and kicks a small, empty crate back towards the wall a little as well on his way back to the fires.

This is a very dumb idea and I will be lucky if they let me go into the Arena after this.

Sucking in a short breath through his nose, Dio smells woody smoke and cannot help the small flicker of a thrill that runs through him. Still, he cannot stop his hand from shaking as he lights the dried branch in his hand and uses it as a torch to light his mixtures on fire. His vision of the training room, all of the dummies, the Avoxes tucked in the corner all go hazy in seconds, and Dio lifts his eyes completely to the Gamemakers just before he disappears behind a wall of white smoke.

It’s all a scramble from there. His life narrows into cloudy fragments of coughing through the smoke against the wall and wheeling the knife with a furious speed against the screws that hold the vent cover in place. He doesn’t bother with the last one, and instead shoves at the panel until it swings up just enough.

His slick palms slide across cool metal for a moment before his fingernails find purchase on a seam, no doubt ripping the skin just under the edge of his nails as he hefts himself up and into the passage. The white smoke follows him in, surrounding him and choking him with every shuffle he makes, but Dio knows there’s only one choice left for him now.

Forward.

---

running away, part two
score received: six

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

I cant even begin to process what I have gotten myself into.

I move through the motions of the day, experience what the capitol had to offer has I realized that this place was nothing like I imagined.

It was jarring, to say the least, and maybe that could have been helped. Maybe I could have not jumped of the tree branch that I hung from when Jenny Sycamore’s name was called. Maybe I could have found solace in the fact that it wasn’t my year. Maybe I could have let my father wreck another families life.

But no.

I couldn’t do that. I had to be the hero.

A complex that I knew far too little about, but claimed to be an expert in.

---

The rooms were large here, and the training center was nothing like I had experienced in Seven. I had heard the phrase, “state of the art” used quite a bit in conversation, but I knew that was far from my understanding, after all, I barely even knew what art was.

But here I am, navigating a foreign terrain that I knew nothing about.

---

Funny enough, they had everything I could imagine here and then some.

Realistic forest scenery, mock city buildups for training purposes, rows on rows of axes for me to hold between my slender hands.

I didn’t trust much here, and I got the feeling that Mackenzie thought that was a good start. After all, the games were nothing like what was shown on TV. I knew that in the back of my mind, but still, I threw my name into the fire because I wanted to make a statement.

That even if I died, I knew that my message would be heard.

---

And so after days of just watching and listening to what others had to say, it was time for me to head into what they called a private training session.

Mackenzie tried to explain this to me, and I tried to listen, but listening was something that I would never do well at. It was easier if I admitted that now rather than try to lie my way into the hearts of the capitol.

The only words I really picked up on were, “stand out” and “make an impression.” Two things of which I hadn’t really been doing since I had gotten here.

Then again, I hadn’t been myself since the beginning of this crazy adventure, and it pained me to admit it, but I didn’t mind it as much.

It was easier for me to hide in the shadows, because people wouldn’t expect me coming from a mile away.

---

I sat in the room, next to Alphabet as they called each person in, one by one.

My eyes kept shifting from person to person as I tried to think about what I could do that would make me stand out to the game makers. At the end of the day, I was here to impress them, more so than the people I was surrounded by.

I took a deep breath as each person walked up, and as the numbers dwindled, so did my mental capacity to think of anything that would make me seem worth their time.

Was this really who I was? A girl that cracked under pressure because she couldn’t figure out what made her special? I knew I was strong, but how could I use that? I knew I could see through the lies and deceit, but was there something there I could use?

The boy from six had gone into the room, and that meant my time was running short.

I needed to come up with something fast.

---

My name was called, and as I am escorted I remembered words from the past that resonated with me.

Jacinta Salazar, "I keep thinking that I should have killed you in your sleep…”

Such violence in her voice.

Violetta Salazar, ”I’d love to be the girl who made you disappear.”

Such resolve to prove that she was not like her sister.

Lex Lionel, "Hell no, are you kidding? Some moron wants to bleed out into the grass in my place, that's their prerogative."

This one did not come from the games, but with the conversation we had in the justice building. Days had passed, and I still did not know how to take this response, because she seemed like she was willing to do anything once she got to the capitol to stay alive.

Diana Sayers, “You are a story for the ages.”

Such love in her voice, just like so much love in her heart.

All of them, so different as I took brief steps towards the doors, and as soon as I stood in front of them, they swung open and I was thrusted foreward.

Showtime.

---

I stood center of the room and looked at what was in front of me. A world of weapons and gadgets for my disposal, enough to start wars that would end as quickly as they started.

Each weapon was different from the other, but all of them carried the same resolve and the same result.

Death.

”Hanaa Darton… District 7.” I said as I walked towards the walls of weapons and picked up throwing axes, a cliché, truly. However, it was all I really knew growing up. If you didn’t know how to hold an axe in seven, then were you really someone that was raised there? I didn’t think so.

”Y’know, ive been thinking about this long and hard.” I started, moving around the room, flipping an axe or two in my hand before piecing together my act of tomfoolery. ”I don’t know what makes me so special if I am being honest.”

The words taste like acid coming out of my mouth, but they are the truth. None of my talents are suited here. There is nothing I have to offer that these game makers probably haven’t seen already a thousand times over.

”I’m a dime a dozen if you will.” I speak as I finally stop on a platform and start to mess around with the simulation pad and setting up for moving targets.

”I am no Jacinta Salazar, rife with family issues, burdened with murdering people that she claimed she didn’t want too…” I watch the first target pop up, and my hand moves before I can even focus. It misses the target and a loud sound echoes through the room as I take a deep breath.

”I am no Violetta Salazar, I am not trying to make a name for myself separate from a sibling. I have not been related to anyone in the games prior. I am not hell bent on making people disappear per say.” I lock my eyes another target, this time my hand moves as my peripheral catches and it hits the target in the arm.

”I can never be Lex Lionel, because she lived to tell the tale…” I mused as I threw another axe into the void, a target not even coming at me. ”… Long enough to come to me at the justice building and call me an idiot for volunteering.” That still stung, no matter how much I tried to hide that pain.

Like I said before, I knew I had my reasons.

”Diana Sayers had more love then I could offer anyone. My story will not be one to remember I am sure. I don’t even think It’s started and I am already nearing the end.” I threw another axe, a simulation popping up just as the axe met gravity’s force and found itself in the simulations chest.

”I am a girl who thought she could change her world like Jacinta…” I shift the weight of my feet from side to side, ”One who wishes that her father could see the man that he is, and pay for the thousands of tears he stole from so many…” I looked up at them and then back down as I flung another axe at a simulation that popped up. The axe met it with a small thud, the wooden hilt incapacitated it.

”I am not certain that I can be as bold as Lex, or have as much love as Diana, but I know…” I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts, last axe in hand. ”My past shapes who I am, and while I might not be anything like the past girls from seven, that have walked into this room, I am still strong.” The last simulation comes running towards me and I locked eyes with it, ”Stronger than I’ve ever been before.” The words echo as I launch the axe out of my hand, it hurled right through the simulation and the blade lodged into the wall behind it.

”Let me show Panem that the only girls that come from seven are just that.” I turned around and started to walk away.

My manners get the best of me.

”Thank you for your time.” I said as I made my way out the door.

I wasnt really sure if I was going to post this, but at this point, meh. Heres my trash.

[Cameo {RIP Charlie}]

<><><>

Preparation was a rarity for myself, while for the strive of survival it was mandatory. A couple days prior, with my focus unmoving from the station of plants during the day, and attention upon the replays of past Games at night, an idea sprung - and arrangements were necessary. Appeal directed towards the head Trainer of the plant station, a desire for knowledge from me enhancing her more so then the charm required for others. And with the conviction that it’s for a tactic solely to be used within the Arena, she taught me her ways. For once interest hones me into a task, especially with life and death dwindling with its accuracy.

“And this is certain to work?” I question for the hundredth time, which results in yet another assurance that it surely will. “It’s unfortunate you won’t be around for the training session, still your day off?” A aspect that I clarified from the start of this brewing creation. Concern wrinkles her eyebrows in soft suspicion, as her eyes stare at my in attempt to dissect the truth. “I’m planning on going over the basic plants identifications, figured it’s something you’d enjoy watching.” Reassures her without an ounce of my notice of her obvious suspicion. And with this innocence playing across me so, her worry fades instantly.

Nervousness tightens my chest, a deep sigh attempting to ease it - before I layer the bright red lipstick across my lips. And right on the cue, that name of mine announces through the speakers in request for my presence. Despite the nerves streaming through my every veins, my demeanor doesn’t display it slightly, my hips swaying to the center stage that’s calling for my attention. A delicate grin lifts my ears in my welcome, eyes attempting to steady upon the Game-Makers past the beaming lights within the center of training.

“A pleasure to meet each of you lovely people. As I’m sure you already know, I’m Red Stone from District Twelve.” My lips rub against each other, as if fearful that I didn’t place on the beautiful red lipstick - that I distinctly remember painting on. “My only request is for the head Trainer of combat.” And to no surprise, my desire is met momentarily.

Baffled curiosity is evident upon his features, unsure of why a scrawny girl from Twelve would want his presence. Surely I can’t compete against him in a spare, so why else would I seek his company? Seduction courses my fingers to his jawline, tracing it down to his chin - and of course he doesn’t even flinch at my touch, he’s a big bad trainer after all. And without warning my lips meet into his own, embracing him in the art of kissing that I’ve had a plethora of practice in.

“That’s it.” A cheek smirk relishes me, as I brush my hand through the air in a gesture for him to depart. A tiny bottle is brought from my pocket, the lid flipped off, and the substance drains down my throat. For a moment my heart stops, but it beats again - assuring me of my current survival. “I took some tips from the last game, made a poisonous lipstick that kills a person in about two to three hours without an antidote.” The petite bottle that I already completed is dropped to the floor to shatter into pieces.

Eyes glance over to where the Trainer disappeared to, searching for his reaction - that I’m unable to see without knowledge of his whereabouts. My stare returns to the Game-Makers up above. “Is he valuable to you?” I question with grave curiosity. “If so, I did make another antidote - that’s hidden somewhere…” The tips of my fingers tap across my chin. “Perhaps a scheduled dinner date with Cricket will help my memory? Let me know what you think, clock’s ticking.” Another grin and innocent wave wishes my onlookers a farewell, before I depart from the room.

<><><>

{Beautiful Table made by the Amazing Arrows <3}

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

The pounding of my heart.

The ticking of the clock.

Bum. Tick. Bum. Tick.

Quickly I got lost in its soothing rhythm. My eyes fluttered and I was given dreams of home and peace. I was back in the small section of trees behind our house and I could feel the bruises forming all over my body from training with Caly. It was reassuring, nothing had changed, even though it seemed like months since I have been gone. She was testing my quickness, my ability to correctly predict where the next hit will be. I ducked, thinking she was aiming for my head, but instead she swung at my ribs and I took the full blow. My lungs struggled to breathe as it seemed every ounce of air was taken from my body. Even after the pain should have subsided it was still there. It took me a minute to realize that the pain was real, not the kind you have in a dream. My eyes flew open and the girl from Ten was repeatedly elbowing me in my side.

”They’re calling your name,” she said with a roll of her eyes. I gave her my best smile, half attempted to blow her a kiss too, but instead I got up and walked toward my fate.

No more time to think.

Just time to do.

All week I tried to think of something to do, something to show them. Something that would be enough for them to care. But my mind stayed blank. Instead I told one of the trainers what my best skills were and asked them to create a course for me, something that would be entertaining. An evil smile crossed his face and he assured me it would be grand.

I just only hoped it wouldn’t kill me.

Each step I took echoed throughout the silent room. The trainer grabbed my hand with a wicked grin and led me to a large glass box. He motioned me inside and the instant I stepped in metal cuffs wrapped themselves around my ankles. I gave a small smile and wave in the Gamemaker’s direction, hoping they were just as surprised as I am. The trainer snapped his fingers and the box instantly began to fill with water.

Quickly, I snagged two of the pins holding up my hair and my curls came cascading down around me. By now the water was practically up to my knees, they didn’t waste much time here in the Capitol, did they? I bent over and undid the first lock in a matter of seconds, but for some reason the second one was trickier. The water was filling up fast. My waist, my chest, and before I knew it I took my last gulp of air before I went under the water to continue my struggle with the lock. It seemed as if with the last bit of air I had left I managed to undo the other lock. Immediately, the water began to drain and I sucked in a large breath, filling my lungs with the life they were becoming desperate for.

I stepped out of the box and locked around, I needed a weapon of some sort, but the only other thing in the room was a large chest. Soaked straight to the bone I sprinted over, hoping to find something, but of course it was locked.

Now they were just being cruel.

My fingers were fiddling with the lock when behind me I started to hear a large mechanical thump. I turned my head so quickly that I thought my neck was going to snap. Behind me was a large mechanical training dummy. It wasn’t moving fast but it most certainly wasn’t moving slow. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I willed my fingers to work faster. Finally I heard the satisfying click and threw open the lid. I slid the brass knuckles onto my hands and placed the three knives into my belt.

He was closer now, I could sense his presence. I shut the lid on the box, and rested my hands on top, it felt as if he was just about to grab me and I kicked up, flipping myself over the box and kicking him in the chin along the way. He was dazed and confused, caught off guard by my foot. I jumped back over the box and threw a solid punch right to the side of his head, one I might not have been so lucky to land if he already wasn’t slow. He crumpled to the ground and before he had a chance to wake up I drew a knife from my pocket and placed it straight into his heart.

Bent over with my hands on my knees, I tried to catch my breath. It seemed as if I still wasn’t recovered from the tank. Their was quiet, and I thought that it was over, that what they had prepared for me was finally through.

I thought there was piece.

That was until I felt the arms around my throat, lifting me from the ground. I kicked and struggled and hoped to squirm free, but that’s when I saw the other one rushing towards us and I knew I had to act fast. I threw my tiny elbow into his stomach. It was just enough force for him to drop me. I turned around and took my knee to his groin, and smiled as I watched him crumble to the ground. Before the other even had a chance to react I pulled the second knife from my belt and launched it at him, a sickening thud as it landed straight in his eye.

When I turned my attention back to assailant number two he was standing again. He was weaker, which meant he was slower. He lunged toward me and I dove under his legs, catching his right one with a knife as I went. He fell back to the ground and before he had a chance to move I jumped on him, and thrust my knife straight into his neck. Blood splattered onto my face and my clothing. I wiped what I could from my eyes, just enough to see the Gamemakers. I gave a polite courtesy and made my way out of the room.

Bum. Drip. Bum. Drip.

Just the sound of my beating heart. The water dripping from my wet hair.

No more sound of the clock.

Because there was no more time left.

[Arrows]

"Breathe. It's alright, no one is coming to take you."

Adromeda's hands dance gently through the thicket of Orion's head. His eyes are wrenched wide, scanning the shadows for hands to come reaching for his skin. It had only been days, hours since his name had been called. He was chosen to die, but from the sea of unknown faces, a voice had found volume and granted him freedom. Orion was meant to be in the silver city of sorrow, meant to be training to become a killer. But here he was, lying in his bed at home stuck frozen in the force of his fear. Spared, but shattered.

"Here."

Adromeda says softly as she steps away from him only for a moment. Her fingers flutter through drawers and cabinets until finally finding exactly what she is searching for. Stopping at the table by his bed side, she smiles while placing a small flash light inside of a tin bowl. Drenched firmly in a film of drying sweat, Orion stares simply with confusion at his sister. His state of fright and lack of understanding dies quickly in a revelation. The flashlight flicks and suddenly several streams of light spur from small slips in the side of the bowl. It seems as though suddenly, dark space is filled with flowing beams of light, with warmth instead of cold. Adromade walks slowly through the room passing her hands through each and every light.

"Now, you will know if anyone is ever in your room. You can see the beams bend or break. It will remind you that you're safe here Orion, they can't get you."

Orion's heart begins to steady as his own fingers begin to follow the bright beams. His breaths begin to deepen and slowly the exhaustion of his past days brews up from beneath his broken internal barricades. Sleep is starting to summon him as he looks towards his sister with large, slowing blinks.

"Thank you."

A loud cacophonous clamor catapults itself clearly from a fallen plate in the kitchen. Several avoxes quickly attend to cleaning while Orion spurs from his place at the table. At first, Orion had been busy adjusting the final factors for his Private Session equation that caused the creation of an unexpected hyperbola. Clearly at some point within the arithmetic and along the number line, he had fallen back into the past. It's a memory he has frequented often since arriving to the same city that had frightened him back then. Only this time there isn't panic poisoning his veins, but logic leading his mind. Endless ideas and constant calculations, safety in the science of mathematics.

Sparky, a name Orion still cannot quantify with any positivity, comes streaming into the room with her normal prowess of pressuring to stay on schedule. She makes her usual speech about the importance of promptness, but Orion is already walking away into the elevator. For a second through the closing doors, Orion thinks he spots a fragment of sadness on the escort's face. However, all of this isn't about her and whichever feelings she can have being from the Capitol. Orion needs to set his integers all onto the positive spectrum in order to increase his odds, tonight is too important to get caught up in the convoluted feelings of some painted person.

The doors open.

He enters a world of extreme examination.

Time seems to slip swiftly by when sitting in an uncomfortable metal seat. But the moment Orion hears his name in chilling metal monotone, every second is a century. One second he's rising from his chair, his fingers furling tightly around his small box of supplies. Another second he is walking, feeling the stinging stare of children who could soon become his killer. And in the last second of slow motion, he is standing at the precipice and he watches the world wane into total darkness.

His hands hold a flashlight, and enters the black space.

In this moment, Orion feels far from earth. He isn't walking through a room without light, but gliding along the frontier of space. Stars, planets, and moons are forming from fragments of dust, and he exists as its epicenter. He has an opportunity here, a chance. He can become the brightly burning center of the universe, or he can collapse under extreme insurmountable force and fall into an eternal hole of darkness.

He chooses light over dark.

Setting the closed box into the hands of an avox, Orion takes several objects with him before deciding it is time to finally give the Game Makers a piece of the performance. He steps quietly into the center of the room before flicking the flashlight onto his face and emerging from the darkness. He takes a breath, he lets his brain take over.

"I like puzzles, and I also like stars. I believe that is because stars are also like puzzles. A challenge of the mind."

Orion flicks the flashlight off and lets them just listen to his work. A mirror in his hands falls to the floor shattering, a single shocking sound within an otherwise silent space. Swiftly the shards scrape and move along with his fingers. He thinks back to his room, to Adromeda, to the hours adjusting coefficients and removing factors. To the memorization taking action along edges of his hands.

He pauses.

He stands in a new spot, the flashlight back on his face.

"I'm not fast, and I'm not strong. I won't face a problem by running from it, or by blindly running towards it. I could try to convince you all right now that I could, but after thoughtful analysis, I believe that to be pointless."

Orion stares at them, the Goddesses of the world he will soon inhabit. The ones he has to show why he is worth more than physical attributes, why everything that he is exists within the realm of his mind.

"I solve problems by figuring them out. By analyzing the algorithm, by completing the equation, and by perfecting the pattern. I like problems, and puzzles are a type of problem."

Flick, back into space.

More shards scrape and string from a spool wraps around some. The moment is coming, the moment when he becomes the true center. When all the math makes sense, and the equation becomes worth the effort. When he can finally tell himself for the first time since saying the words, I volunteer, that he is trying to stay alive. He is going to alter space around him, he is going to become what he has always seen in the sky.

The light returns for a final time to his face.

He is now perfectly placed.

"The strongest advantage of a puzzle is knowing its pattern, the way its pieces fit together. Without knowing, you go in blind and make mistakes. I told you that the stars are like puzzles, allow me to support my conclusion."

The light falls black for only an instant as he places it exactly on the floor before letting its light loose. Beams begin to bounce forth from every corner and crevice around where Orion now stands. However, they are not individuals. Each beam stems from the same source of light and moves around the room as it reaches another specifically placed piece of mirror, either on the floor or hanging in the air. The array of light continues to grow until finally stopping with a small spot on Orion's face from above. He now stands at the center of a linked chain of light.

"This is the constellation Orion. It is a puzzle, a perfect offense and defense. By knowing every inch of this puzzle and by watching how the light alters, I can know exactly where another person is within the field. But that's not all,"

Orion dances a finger through one of beams to demonstrate how slightly adding shadow alters the entire connected chain before continuing.

"By knowing this puzzle perfectly, I can move through its shadows with ease. And by using both its defensive and offensive properties, I can lead my enemies without them even knowing it. Time for a demonstration."

Orion sets several segments of cheese on the floor beside him. He then gestures to the avox still holding the box he brought in the beginning, she releases two rats he spent the past few days finding.

"Rats are smart, they will smell and see the cheese, but they will try to carefully get to it. Like tributes if the cheese were weapons or medicine."

Orion steps back into the shadows avoiding every shard and every ray of light, he has made a home court advantage. Nearby, the first rat is already getting close. The slight shifting of the hanging shards leads Orion carefully through the dark, a knife appearing from his pocket. Orion waits as the scuttling grows closer, waits at the first spot he knows the rat's stealth will lead it.

A squeak emerges from the shadows.

Following the next series of shadows and each set of shards, Orion finds his new place. A small tail appears only seconds later, he has only an instant to act.

Another squeak, and then silence.

Orion emerges from the shadows back at the center of his constellation. He says no words this time, the flashlight flicks off and the the field returns to empty space. The main lights revive and two dead rats in a maze of mirror shards await the Game Makers' eyes.

They are the first victims of Orion's Puzzles.

[Tom]

You're like an elastic band.

"What?"

You always bounce back, Ike.

Klein had Ike's best interests in mind. They both knew that, but he can't help the silence in his chest of Klein's words that come up in the empty halls of the Training Center building. His mom kissed his forehead with that empty stare of why he would swallow the pill of torture and through his body over a bridge into a ravine of dead bodies. His dad had stared at him with those cold eyes with no understanding behind them, but he's not his father's favorite person.

Better off dead than to think about that.

An elastic attitude towards the world would not save him from death. Never give up. Never step down. Ike O'Nyle was a fighter, but ever since he stepped foot into this building, he's felt alone. So alone in his own head where thoughts swirl of exhaustion and regret. Regret of a stupid decision because boxing was more important than his own life. A title was more important in the moment than his own existence. Legends never die, but they're apart of him. The title would follow him to the grave they'll dig for him before the end of the year. A dark chuckle escapes his throat as fingers rest along the walls, dragging them against the texture to numb them in the only way he knew how.

The capitol's seen him in every way that they could. Naked body and all. They've seen him exposed to the world only to snap back to his training schedule. Old habits die hard here. They've become the only sanity to keep him alive in these empty walls and tireless anxiety. Many of the trainers have stared at him with annoyance in their skin. Glares spent on his never ending words, until he gives a smile and a friendly compliment.

None of them like him.

A deep sigh from his throat as the walls seem to go on and on forever. He's meant to be waiting for his private training session with the Gamemakers, but he's lost. Way more lost than he ever had been. One wrong door had lead him into a hallway where no one was. Empty white textured walls with a few photos of scenery hanging being his only company in this trip. Not his fault that he never learned his way around the training center. He'd only get to spend a week or so here anyways, so it didn't matter to him if he learned these halls or not.

I swear, you'd lose your own head if it wasn't attached to your body!

"No! I doubt it!"

Ike, where is your shirt?

A smile on his lips as the friend who helped him out in Eight from day to day joked with him. He was not wrong, Ike wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the toolshed of people. He didn't have the self awareness to recognize what others thought, though deep down, he knew. He knew what they said behind his back. He knew when he fell into manipulative traps set for him. After all, he worked in the underground boxing culture. They used one another to get higher in titles. His boss after all wanted him to throw his next big match.

Around the corner, he could see people. Not the type that he was supposed to be around, but he ignores the instinct in his stomach to walk away from them. The door they were next to was metal with a keypad along the handle that catches his eyes. A shrug of his shoulders as he checks his hands for dirt and anything else that he could have gotten from the wall, but they were cleaner than ever. A strange sight, even for him. Nell claimed they were like bricks, but he didn't think so.

Maybe, they were more like a bag of flour, heavy and solid.

A shrug of his shoulders as he looks up and notices no one there at the door now. A silence fills him as he questions if that's the way to the training center. There would be guards after all. The gamemakers were high officials and needed some sort of protection while in the training center. A sigh from his throat as he smiles to himself, moving like the earth below his feet. Sturdy, heavy steps that make it all the way to the door before he checks the knob.

Unlocked, the click sound rings as he swings the door open.

A bright light shines in his eyes as he covers them with his eyes, walking through the door. Sunlight hits his skin as he stares at the alley way into somewhere that he's never been. The air feels fresher, almost like the rooftop of the training center. His heart beats as the realization hits him hard. Outside. He's outside of the Training Center, a place with high security and too many cameras. How the hell did he even get there. A moment passes before the sound of alarms start blaring from the door and footsteps come forward.

Freedom. He could run for it. He could escape. The only chance he could have at going home alive. Time seems to slow as he begins to move, but he's too late. Too late to escape from this hell. Too late to regret his decision. Too late to run for it. Peacekeepers swarm the area around him and his mind is racing. It's racing so fast and his thoughts feel like molasses before he holds his fists in front of his body, feet shoulder width apart. The peacekeepers prepare their stun weapons that are for sure going to hurt a lot more than he thinks.

The first swing is into a jaw of a younger looking peacekeeper. A tooth flies with the punch as Ike dodges the electric baton of another guard. His elbow flies, despite it being illegal in the heat of a match, but this wasn't for a title. Freedom was in his grasp. Freedom of the games. Freedom away from this corrupt system. The elbow connects to an eye as another peacekeeper stutters backwards. His private training session was sure to be happening right now, but he's lost in this feeling.

He's never been this close to dying before.

He doesn't want to be there.

He wants to be home sewing blankets with his mom. He wants to spend time talking with his father. He wants to be home in Klein's presence, feeling happier than ever. He wants to be home boxing for a title meant for him. Fear fills his chest as he swings wildly at another peacekeeper, knocking the guy over who spits blood from his lips. Ike dodges another baton before he notices the gap in peacekeepers down the alley. Feet run faster and faster as he can see the sun growing larger and larger.

Freedom.

It's what he wants.

Ike O'Nyle flew too close to the sun.

The sparks of a taser hits his back as the current rushes through him. The electric shock sends him spiraling from his orbit as another taser hits him. The stars twinkle in his eyes as the elastic band of himself snaps out of place with a sharp broken tear. The ground comes into view with the sound of a thud as he passes out thinking of how much he wished to be home with his loved ones again.

He will never be there.

He will never bounce back again.

---

People were getting fired.

Mark his fucking word, they would be fired for the mess he has to deal with now. The device in his hand having had rang moments ago with the worst news of his entire fucking day. Of all the things that could happen, a tribute getting outside the Training Center had to be the worst thing he has ever heard. The silent walk from room to room as the sound of his boots stomp across the white halls of the training center building. At least, the tribute didn't get away, but fuck he was going to either be in so much trouble or forced to deal with the situation for the next few months.

He already had enough on his fucking plate.

The silent knock of his fist against a door makes his thoughts silence. He's got to be the one to tell them. Xenia Montague and Callienta Minorae will not be happy about this. Cricket Antoinette, on the other hand might be amused with the situation. A sigh from his throat as he types in the code to the door. Ike was the dumbest tribute he's seen in his entire time working here. Obnoxious, no wise, but he seemed to be lucky. A side door meant for escape in case of a fire, that just happened to be broken. That was the entire reason they set up guards there in the first place, but of course, the guy had to happen upon it when the guards were switching for the hour.

Inside the gamemakers quarters, where they watch the tributes perform the best skills they can, he can sense the boredom of the room as Ike O'Nyle's name having been called a few times outside those doors below. A silent moment as he composes himself, brushing a hand through his hair to fix the tiredness of late nights working.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Miss Antoinette, Miss Minorae, and Miss Montague." He swallows the fear in his throat. "There's been an incident."

Instead of speaking, he pulls up the video on a screen, where Ike O'Nyle can be seen in the hallway as the peacekeepers walk away from the broken door. The video continues from a different angle as Ike leave through the door into the alley way where another camera takes control. The alarm blares from the door as peacekeepers are seen rushing on the other side, until they leave the building with their weapons pulled out. A voice of a peacekeeper can be heard as he shouts to stun, not kill.

The alley breaks in a flurry of chaos. A punch to a guard that makes him feel sick to his stomach and angry with the situation. An elbow into an eye as another peacekeeper falters. Another punch to another peacekeeper before Ike O'Nyle, the moron of District Eight sprints for it.

The tasers hit and Ike O'Nyle's escape fails. He's silent before the screen cuts to the peacekeepers lifting the moron of a tribute out of the alley and somewhere else. The head of the peacekeepers can be heard screaming at the top of his lungs at the guards who had left their post for the guard change. The clipboard in his hands feels heavy before he clears his throat and speaks to the gamemakers again.

"I'll do better in the future to handle situations like this. I'm sorry."

He bows towards them in shame, praying that this will be enough for them.

Deep down, he knew.

This would be the last day doing his job in the training center.

[aya]

[attr="class","cedarPostWidth"]

rylan we can take the quick way out
we can turn blank white in a blank white house

Cedar Halt is good at plenty of things, but none of them translate. He gardens. He reads. He plays cards with his uncles and rides his bike and keeps his head down in school. One of the few children of his district afforded the luxury of a childhood, Cedar spent his formative years running and jumping and climbing trees, catching frogs, playing catch, flying kites. He got a frisbee stuck on the roof once, and then got himself stuck trying to get it down. The trellis he'd scaled was much harder to climb back down.

He feels stuck on the rooftop again, only he can't stand around waiting for his dad to grab a ladder to rescue him anymore.

He wishes he could be one of those kids capable of lying to themselves that they have nothing left to lose. That he could pick up a sword or an axe or a glaive and turn Cedar off, to let last-ditch desperation take over and hope that adrenaline can teach him how to swing a blade he's never held before. Maybe he can when it's do or die.

But here? He wishes he could disappear inward, shrink and shrink like an ice cube in a glass of water and vanish without a trace at the end. The Gamemakers' eyes melt him faster. He tries not to look at Cricket, tries not to imagine Ara or Mace or Katelyn sitting in her place, tries not to remember the unsupervised joyride he'd taken on Arbor's shoulders as a toddler — not that the lazy tiger inexplicably named in his father's honor could be coaxed to go much of anywhere — and so the unrepentant victor and the overweight predator napping at her feet are all that he can see.

He tries to swallow his nerves, to remind himself that it doesn't matter. Cedar could score a one and in the grand scheme of things, it would matter about as much as if he'd scored a twelve. His dad won with a three, and Cedar could die with a nine.

"My dad's favorite piece of advice to give his tributes is you can't sneak up on a blind kid in the snow. So," he shrugs, "you don't have to worry about me monologuing about the things he's taught me and how that proves I know what I'm doing and how that means I'm not gonna die." On the contrary, he has no idea about anything, except that his death is a foregone conclusion.

He pulls together supplies: a box of throwing knives — the kind with holes drilled in the handle to balance the blade; several small aluminum shields, perfectly round, slightly convex, the thin metal clearly designed to be rendered useless by a single blow; a sharp awl or maybe an ice pick and a hammer to drive it; a length of wire.

Punching holes in the metal takes way more force than he thought it would, even with the hammer. Each thwack and each thud jar his teeth, but in due time he's managed to punch a dotted asterisk into each of the plate-sized shields. Affixing the knives is easier — braiding the wire through the holes he's punched and the ones in the knives' handles, he only pricks his finger once on the burrs leftover as a side effect of his poor craftsmanship.

He's never thrown a knife or a hatchet, but he's thrown a frisbee. He's thrown a frisbee running, he's thrown a frisbee jumping, he's thrown a frisbee climbing trees. And once he's figured out how to hold the bladed discs without being too clumsy about it, it's not so hard to do all of the above in the training center, even with an audience. He dashes in the direction of the wall of human-shaped targets, slides under a table, and flings his first disc; scrambling to his feet, he hurdles over a vault horse and chucks the second; losing his footing then tucking and rolling, like bailing from an out-of-control bicycle, he recovers, pivoting towards the climbing net that stretches up to the ceiling, he begins to scale it.

Like a rickety trellis or a well-designed tree, going up! up! up! is not so hard. Once he gets there — twenty feet in the air — he is uncertain of everything, except that he needs to lose the last pair of discs and that he is not enough of an acrobat to leap anywhere useful without breaking an ankle at minimum. A sandbag suspended on twin ropes catches his attention. There's no reason to think it will work, but maybe if he can cut the far one... It seems like the sort of thing that would only work in movies and daydreams, and so Cedar can't suppress the yelp of surprise when his bladed disc slices through the rope with ease, sending the sandbag swinging towards him. He's so stunned it worked that he isn't ready for it, and has to wait for the bag's momentum to carry it away from him, before making its pendulum-swing back towards the net.

He leaps. Wrapping himself around the rope, he slides down, doing his best to put the friction burns and sisal splinters out of his mind while he hurls his last disc at the wall of targets. It hits center target like the other two: chest and stomach and stomach, this is the polite aim of someone who's only played friendlier games of catch. From the top of the sandbag, he drops gracelessly onto the floor mats below, scrambles to his feet, and leaves the room.

rylan — the national

[newclass=".cedarPostWidth"]width:460px;[/newclass]

[Kire]

My name is
Queztriankleighsobweydcoxpnemjvaf Werchpabfixevklegsutyjmonqzd
but you can call me
Alphabet

I'd never thought of myself as someone with a talent. Maybe a talent for learning or perhaps listening and observing, but nothing that would be considered useful in my new position as tribute. I am proud of my knowledge of plants and I hope that it will serve me well, but otherwise I can't think of how anything I could do would impress the gamemakers.

There wasn't much time to figure it out, either. They were quickly making their way through tributes. The complete silence between names being called was eerie. I shuffled my way down the bench as instructed, drawing closer and closer to the door. I wasn't overly stressed about my turn in the room but I was trying to think of something I could do to be more than just another boy walking into that room.

The truth of the matter, I suppose, was that I was just another boy walking into that room. I had no special talents, I didn't have anything to set myself apart. Was there a point in trying to demonstrate what little learning I had achieved from the few days in the training center? The sparring matches, the knowledge tests, the quick lectures. I had certainly picked up information I had never been privy to but did it make enough of a difference that they would be impressed with my knowledge? I doubted it.

Even so, could I simply walk in and walk back out again? There was no question that I would be forced to go in, but no one could force me to do or not do something while I was in there, except maybe attacking the gamemakers or injuring myself.

I was falling into my old cycle of thinking and rethinking and overthinking. If anything, that was my skill. I could think a situation over a hundred times and each time something would be different. I wasn't a person of action, not like Hanaa. I would sit and think until my opportunity was past and then think about what it might have been like if I had done something. Could I afford to do that now?

I don't have much more time to think. The girl from district Six just went through the door. I'm next. The only thing I have concluded is that I wouldn't bother to show a mediocre or worse performance with weapons. There was no reason why I should try to do something I know I'm not good at. Plants are something of a specialty of mine, and I could demonstrate my knowledge of them but that wouldn't be anything impressive or eye-catching to the gamemakers. I wouldn't have to pretend much to act completely unassuming. I more or less was.

My name is called and I wonder how long it had been since the girl had gone in. Had I been sitting here contemplating for seconds or minutes? Didn't matter now, it was my turn to move. Standing made my knees briefly ache and I couldn't help worrying that maybe my training this last week would put me in a worse place in the arena rather than helping me.

I walked in, trying to take in the set up. It was more or less the same as when we had all been in here training, but now there was a little more room to move. How had other tributes used this space? Had the careers torn around with blades to slice and slash, throw weapons, topple dummies, demonstrate their lethality? Was there anything left to see that hadn't already been shown? Twelve tributes had already done their thing in front of these gamemakers this day, could I do anything that they hadn't seen yet?

Standing in the center of the room I feel as though I'm in a spotlight. Might as well introduce myself. Maybe it would make them laugh, at least that would be a positive. "As you might know from your information sheets, my name is Queztriankleighsobweydcoxpnemjvaf Werchpabfixevklegsutyjmonqzd." I pronounce my name slowly, giving them a chance to take in some of the sounds if they wished to learn it. "My parents thought that would suit me, but I never understood why." I felt the corner of my mouth twist up in the smallest of grim smiles. "In case you don't wish to torture yourself with it, you can call me Alphabet - everyone does."

I could walk out now. My one and only skill other than my knowledge is pronouncing the unpronounceable mess that was my legal name. Having shown that, I didn't have much left to do. Did I? Would I walk them through the plants on the station's table and bore them until they fell asleep? Why bother wasting all of our collective times to do so. I didn't deserve any sort of score. I would be lucky if they gave me any number higher than zero.

I gave them a stiff nod and walked toward the exit. There was nothing more to say or do at this point. Nothing that would leave any kind of real impression. For all I knew there was another tribute who had simply walked in and then left. Maybe I should have just headed straight to the door without stopping or saying anything. That would have been rude. I had to at least introduce myself. Now that that was done, I really didn't have anything more I could do for them.

Without a look back, I left. Let them think what they wanted, anyway. No one's opinion had hurt me before anyway.

[D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler]]

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Cyril's heart was pounding.

He kept trying to tell himself he didn't need to be nervous. He wasn't in the arena yet, he'd leave the room on the other side of the cold metal door alive and okay. But there was nothing he could do to convince himself that what happened in that room wouldn't matter. That a mistake in there could be the difference between him getting sponsors and him having to survive without their help.

As more and more people left the crowded waiting area to show the Gamemakers whatever special skills they possess, whatever secret skills they've got hidden up their sleeve, the pounding of Cyril's heart seemed to get louder. In this moment he wished he was District 1 just so he could've gotten the whole thing over with right away. Every second of waiting was agony, punctuated by his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He was sure if any of the others were listening they could probably hear it too. But maybe it couldn't compete with the sounds of their own beating hearts.

Cyril tried not to think about how many of these heartbeats would fall silent in a matter of days.

Finally it was his turn, although he barely registered his name being called at first. He moved to the doors in a trance, his mind racing at a mile a minute. What should he do? How could he stand out? What would make the Gamemakers see him as someone worth investing in?

Cyril paused as he entered the room, surveying the room. The Gamemakers sat in their splendor from the viewing balcony, waiting to see what the boy in front of them could offer. High tech tools, materials, and weapons were waiting readily at their respective stations.

What should he do?

The Gamemakers had already witnessed his skills in the training sessions. He doubted repeating anything there would leave any more of a mark on them than they already could have. But since he couldn't think of anything else he could do, he decided a display of what he knew couldn't hurt. He started with a quick showing of self-defence, and managed to do pretty well. In the quick brawl only one of the hits managed to slip by him; a punch that lightly grazed his right side. Next, he went to the edible and medicinal plants station. He did well, correctly avoiding the poisonous plants and only forgetting that foxglove was both poisonous and medical. Oh well, he didn't plan on eating any foxglove anyways.

He had about 5 minutes remaining in his session for his final display; his blade skills. As he went to make his knife selection from the array of fancy blades the training center provided, Cyril began to worry. How many tributes must have already done this; shown their blade skills, perfected the poisonous plants, blocked the attacks from others. He wasn't doing anything new, anything that could keep him in the gamemakers' minds.

Forgettable.

Cyril had to change it up, and fast. Time was scarce these days, and the time he had left in his private training session was quickly running out. He looked around, and an idea began to form. He grabbed a thick tarp and a sizeable glass bowl from the improvisational weapons station. Quickly he went to work with the thinnest blade he could find, working quickly but carefully to place strategic holes in the tarp. Then, he grabbed some kindling from the fire-making station. He knew he was no good at starting fires from scratch, but the pack of matches used to help tributes learn firebuilding techniques was still there. He placed the kindling in the bottom of the glass bowl and lit it with a match.

He had one minute remaining. He had to wait for the fire to build before he finished, or it would go out and his effort would be worthless.

30 seconds. The fire was now going strong.

20 seconds. Cyril placed the tarp over the glass bowl carefully but quickly, before the flame could rise high enough to set it aflame.

15 seconds. He needed to turn the lights off. Frantically, he searched for a switch along the walls.

10 seconds. He finally spotted it, up beside the door he had entered in. Cyril ran as fast as he could.

5 seconds. He wasn't going to make it.

2 seconds. He wasn't going to make it.

1 second. He made it. As he flicked the switch the bright lights that filled the room vanished, and in its place was a new universe. He did it. He managed to make his own stars, his own night's sky filled with the stars that filled his dreams. Almost like the stars he had made back home. The stars that belonged to him and Jools and nobody else.

He hadn't done it to show some spectacular skill or talent. He knew it was something that wouldn't help him out in the Arena. But he wanted the Gamemakers to remember him. He wanted them to know Cyril Rinne. The boy from District 9.

The boy lost in the stars.

Cyril's heart was pounding.

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CYRIL RINNE
Do you dare to dream, of stars you've never seen?

[sbeeg]

She sits in the hallway for a long time before her designation is called. Never her name, only her number. Eleven female. Entire people reduced to such trivial things.

The gym is clean, though the scent of sweat and cleaner linger in the air. Who knows what the avoxes have had to clean up today. She'll give them a well earned break.

She does not look at the weapons. Does not linger at any station to try to rub two sticks together or attempt a knot. She goes straight to the cleared floor below the Gamemaker's glass box and sits on her knees. She looks up at the three staring down at her.

Three. It's a good number.

"A reading for your games." She smiles up at them. Just a little girl with little tricks. She pulls a card. A man in white robes holding a wand, a tangle of dark curls on his head.

"The Magician- creativity, skill, self-confidence, and dexterity," she says before quickly pulling the next card. A naked woman floats in the middle of a blue sky, a staff in each hand.

"The World- Completion, perfection, recognition." For a brief moment Kassandra frowned. She would bring no changes, burn no walls. Killain was wrong, she wouldn't change the world. However, it must be great news for the Gamemaker to know they will run an efficient and memorable games. Kassandra carefully laid the card down beside the first one before drawing again.

She paused. Painted wolves howl at a full moon. It was not the card she expected, but she felt a thrill in her stomach as she took it in. Lately, the cards have felt against her but now they say exactly how she feels.

"The Moon. Hidden things. Fear. Deception." She looked up at the three, before zeroing in on Cricket. Kass had a distaste for Persimmon and her compliance in escorting here, but Cricket was an entirely different story. Raised in the districts, subjected to horrors and then in turn forcing more children to submit to the same pain and agony. The other two had grown up in the Capitol, they didn't see the effects of their playtime with President Snow's little dolls. It didn't make them innocent, but it didn't make them nearly as corroded as Antionette. "Disillusionment. Error."

She threw the card down onto the floor letting it skid past the other two.

"Since you all already know how perfect and creative you are," Kassandra picked up the Magician and the World, shuffling them back into her deck. "I'll take these. Some perfection couldn't hurt right now."

She stood, shoving her incomplete deck into her pocket.

"You can keep that one," she said, nodding to the Moon card still on the floor. "You could use the reminder."

---

atlus | table by ryan

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

As expected, the last few days before the official Private Training Sessions have been spent intensively crafting. Every district, even the meekest (District Nine, in his opinion), hunkered down. He wasn’t a master spy and thus hadn’t been able to observe all of the other sessions. In all likelihood he would have been shut out of the very best. But from those he had witnessed during his careful sleuthing had brought him to one conclusion:

There is no point in stealing someone else’s PTS idea, because his is superior to all of them.

When his name is called, he stalks into the room, brow furrowed. He hustles straight to the back, dismissing the trainers, asking them to dim the lights on their way out. In the erie glow of the Emergency Exit signs, he carefully sets the scene. He works quickly, as quickly as his aching body will allow, but still spends a good half of his dedicated time.

Sweating profusely, both upon his brow and through his black training shirt, Elite finally turns the lights up and faces the Gamemakers.

“This,” he begins, right hand wrapped around a clicker that controls the holograms, “is what you want to see.” He clicks. Blocky orange holographs of people race around Leet, aiming spears and arrows at one another. One falls, then another. The final two take up swords as he continues on. “A chase. A fight. But it’s nothing without context. These are nobodies and they won’t sell the Games for you.”

He clicks again.

The four holograms rewind at triple speed, back to their starting positions: two beside a campfire and a little ways beyond, the other two leaning against the trunk of a tree. This time bright yellow tags light up above their heads:

District Four Female
District Four Male
District Nine Female
District Ten Female

They run through the same routine at speed. Leet pauses a moment to watch them fall, one by one. Click. Rewind. “So there’s a little bit of story here: a designation. Now you might be thinking it’s not much. Just some districts and genders. But for some citizens, that’s enough. They’re always going to cheer for their hometown girl or boy. It’s not very interesting though. Let’s spice it up.” He punches the air, hoping to emphasize his point. But it feels awkward, even to him.

The next iteration the holograms have their respective faces: Harper, Elite, Eos and Fayre. This time when Harper fells Eos with a spear, anguish plays over her projected face. When the holographic Leet puts an arrow through Fayre’s eye, he looks appropriately grim.

Harper and Leet circle one another, crackling swords in their grasp. Elite lifts his first, but it’s Harper who puts hers through his heart.

He walks through the hologram, shattering it. “This. This is a story, of an alliance full of traitors. Lovers too, but I think maybe you already knew that part of the story.” He smiles, the barest flash of an expression. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m no martyr. But this is the story everyone expects: the Career who slowly but surely fells her less competent allies.”

“It’s a story. But it’s an old one. I think it’s time we rewrote that file, don’t you?”

This time when he clicks, it finally becomes clear how he spent the first half of his session: not by programming the holograms (he’d spent the week prior working on that), but on setting up three dummies. They are placed in the camouflage section of the room, near a pile of costumes that he had clearly rifled through. The setup is identical to the hologram. Fayre and Eos lean against a tree trunk; Harper sits alone by the campfire.

With a spring in his step, Elite goes to take his place beside his district partner. He looks at the blank face of the Harper-dummy with perplexed adoration. He takes the dummy’s hand, kisses the back of it. He only looks at her as he reaches for the arrows whose tips rest in the hot campfire. “I’m going to tell you what you want to see, because I know best. Not just for you, the Gamemakers. For the people of Panem. For President Snow himself.”

“What you want to see is: someone who can write their own story, who can take matters into their own hands. Someone who actually believes in the Games and wants to win them. What you want to see is: me.”

He does not wait for the spears to come. He fires an arrow at Fayre’s knee, hitting her thigh. Another at Eos, right in the throat. A third at Fayre, this time through her stomach, and finally turns and carefully, with control, drives a burning arrow through Harper’s mouth.

He stands, covered in the fake blood of the dummies. “Thank you for your time,” he says, nodding but not quite bowing to them. Then, he lurches towards the exit, picking up a plastic crown out of the costume pile. He flips it up his forearm, letting it come to rest lightly on his brow. He leaves the room, crowned, and he does not look back.

[gamemaker kelsier]

k i t .

"Yeah the devils
in a rush
And his duct tape
makes you hush"

Silence.

It's loud too. People think that the absence of sound is absolute but it's not. Kit's deafness echoes and he can think of only one other sound that's vaguely similar. There was a hole on the edge of six when he was a child, it was a big deal, kid fell into it, although the memory of it is only vague now. Flashes of skies too blue to be real and the sound of a rock almost chirping as it hit the sides of the sinkhole on the way down to freedom far below.

The point is, that Kit isn't alone in it. The silence is the hole he's in and sound comes in the form of impact. When he shuts his eyes he thinks of Paris, chest rising and falling with the shudder of his lungs and the way he'd vibrate when he sang. It was a rumble in his throat and Kit would lay his palm flat on it, fingers wrapping tenderly around the apple in his throat, a forbidden fruit.

He should have told him how he felt at the Justice building, that he loved him, but he didn't.

That echoed, the words he should have said and he can picture the way it might have sounded in his head because he can remember the way his voice sounded. He still hears it in his head sometimes, amplified. It's the only thing he can still hear and maybe that's why he's fucked.

The world echoes as if he is underwater, a strange, overwhelming sound that isn't a sound at all but the loss of it, the ache.

So what can he do?

Probably nothing, unfortunately.

Kit blinks up at the stage, hands behind his back. His idea is foolhardy, it's something he's never tried before but he had nothing else. He knows how weak they must think him. He's a little nerd from six after all and he's deaf to boot. By all rights he should die first and honestly, he can't argue. Before the accident, sound was the most important to him, it was his chosen field of study. He could play any instrument you asked him to and talk anyone's ear off for hours about the intricacies of a sound wave.

He's yet to figure out what he is now, not when sound is still his love.

"Now," he says and places a hand on the ground.

During the past week, Ike decided to take Kit under his wing and show him some basic defensive movements. The boy was sweet but kind of foolish and had helped him feel less scared for the arena. Kit had been grateful and it had also helped him come up with an idea for his training session.

He shuts his eyes and concentrates, searching for the physical signal that will tell him when to move.

It comes suddenly, the thud of feet translated into vibrations and kit rolls to the side, protecting his head as he does so just like Ike had taught him. The big guy would probably be proud of such a well-done movement. He grins then and jumps up, not giving his chaser any time to catch up with him. When he glances behind him he can see the look of surprise on the Avox' face. He'd been told that Kit was deaf, that he should be easy to sneak up on.

Just like how the other tributes will think of him. It should be easy right? To sneak up on a deaf guy? Kit knew that underestimating anything was a bad idea but really, he was maybe five foot six if he stood up straight and thin as a wisp, hardly a threat. This gave him an advantage.

He doesn't look up again as he moves around the room, keeping his eyes ahead of him instead. He wants to show that he really doesn't have to hear to stay out of harm's way. He's got other ways. It was something that one of his dads had always told him that made him think of this in the first place, "There's always another way, Kit."

When he passes the weapons table, he swipes a knife off of the edge, eyes on the row of target dummies ahead of him. He'd spent a great deal of his life surrounded by anatomy books amongst others. With both fathers scientists, he'd been able to name all the bones of the hand before he was eight. So when he looks at dummy in front of him, all he sees is a map of veins and arteries in his head.

With one surprisingly agile movement, he swings behind the dummy and raises a blade quickly to its neck, chest rising and falling quickly. He stares at the Avox dead on now, blade digging into the dummy's neck.

The Avox stares back, eyes flicking past Kit. Since his accident, he's learned how to use his other senses better, how to read people in an effort to understand without the aid of their speech.

Kit slashes the knife across the dummy's neck and turns quickly to face the new danger behind him in the form of another Avox. The idea is to trap him, he gets that now. His brain works quickly and he runs towards the new Avox, knife in front of him. The Avox raises her hands, too docile to try and move away but trying to defend herself, but Kit isn't interested in hurting a defenceless creature no matter how many points it might lose him. At the last second, he dodges to the side, pivoting away from the outstretched arms of the first Avox and digging his blade into the chest of another dummy in order to keep his footing.

Shit, Ike really is going to be proud.

The Avox both round on him and Kit pulls the bleeding body of the dummy towards himself and turns with it so that it's between himself and the Avox. With all the force that he can muster, he shoves the prone body hard towards the two Avox, bowling them both over. Leaping forwards, Kit lands on the chest of the male and holds the bloodied blade against his neck, causing the female to pause. They stay that way for a moment, the three of them breathing heavily and then Kit grins and climbs off of the male.

Time is up. He could tell by the way the female suddenly relaxed despite the position they were all in. He can tell by the way their eyes widen when he flicks the blade away, even the Avox underestimated him. Everyone would.

"Maybe next time," he says and then pauses for a moment to flash a smile at the stage before dropping the blade on the table and making his exit.