drop-dead knockout :: [pts responses // cricket antoinette]

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

Contrary to popular belief, the first four districts are Cricket's least favorites. Brimming over with wasted skill and more ego than creativity, she sighs at every unimaginative bullseye and brute force demand for a spotlight to showcase the same overly-practiced move sets the world has seen year after tiring year. Petty memories of the career kids she shared training centers with as a child still threaten to turn the corners of her lips down, the ghosts of old grudges haunting the movements of a new generation. The same children who once laughed at her own aspirations for a crown might be the very ones who trained Blair Havoc and Claudio Markham, decades after she proved them all wrong and became an untouchable force to be reckoned with.

It takes a conscious effort not to roll her eyes at Callienta and Xenia's enthusiasm for new trends in stealth training and old standards in fighting technique. "She's over eager to prove herself, throwing herself into unbalanced fights like that," Cricket sighs when her fellow gamemakers instinctively look to her following the performance of this year's girl from District Two, "her strengths are also her weaknesses. She won't live long enough to reach her potential." She waves off the expectation to comment on Blair's counterpart entirely. "The grand finale was just him running away." Like this, the first half dozen tributes come and go — children more predisposed to help others than to help themselves, uncomfortable emotional outbursts, a couple decent ideas with questionable execution — without feeling compelled to assert a truly strong opinion. The duo from Three show strong mechanical skills (as the children from Three do every year), undeniable proof that they will do particularly well in this year's technology rich arena. There are impressive elements to both of their performances, but it would have been more notable if there hadn't been. Casual curiosity and inevitable disappointment dance matching circles around her expectations.

By the time Harper Levesque enters the room Cricket has lost her will to turn away offers of wild berry mimosas, holding her pinched fingers up to say well, maybe just a small glass. The performance quickly snares her attention back as the girl from Four scales an archery tower with an armload of rope and a flurry of interesting setup choices... only to waste too much time on frivolous details, getting overly particular about dummy arrangements and fussing with sandbags and catapults. The lull of setup passes a shared sigh from the mouth of one gamemaker and onto the next, none of them knowing who started it, much less who would end it. By the time Harper finally steps onto one of her tightropes, she's lost any hope at true tension in her performance and both Callienta and Xenia flick their gazes to Cricket like a game of Not It, silently defaulting to the person with this very specific technical expertise. "If she trusted herself more, the rope wouldn't bounce quite so much against her footing. Balance isn't about the feet or even the arms, it's about your center." When she says center she means heart, but refrains from saying so because most people find it too difficult to believe she has one. It's an old habit. Every year she needs it more.

A good trainer would have taught Harper to utilize her existing surroundings instead of trying to manipulate her environment into such an over-wrought framework. Tributes won't patiently sit back and allow her to rebuild things to her advantage any more than the gamemakers are inclined to. It's akin to wasted screen time and she's obviously better than this, but too caught up in her own head to consider the possibilities outside of it. When she leaps, the corner of Cricket's lips hitch up at the confirmation that, yes, she's at her best when she lets go. Swinging through the ropes, the girl sends her knives flying and hits mark after impressive mark. Trusting her body to the air is a sight worth watching. "Six," Xenia sighs in obvious response to the mind-numbingly complicated setup, "what was up with the catapult?" Callienta laughs a little and shrugs in response, holding up her own paper to show a nine jotted down beside Harper's name.

Cricket sits back and takes a sip of her drink. "Eight," she declares, eyeing the empty space between the ropes, the empty space above the wreckage of dummies, the empty space where Harper leapt away from what she was taught to rely on and finally put her faith in her own body.

Callienta: 9
Cricket: 8
Xenia: 6

Final Score: 8

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka

gorgeous table by shrimp <3

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

The sudden darkness promises many things, filling the room with intrigue and potential... and then with boredom and disappointment as the minutes tick by uneventfully, revealing the dimmed lights to be little more than a clumsy and unclever way of hiding a setup that doesn't deliver a very grand payoff. "This," Elite says while finally turning the lights up, "is what you want to see." Generic holograms click on and Cricket scoffs loudly. This is what he thinks she wants to see? He couldn't be more wrong. It's no secret that she is not someone who enjoys being told what her opinions should be, but somehow this kid still missed the memo. Funny, considering the way his little presentation feels far too much like a business meeting. Surely checking memos and market research should have been his starting point.

Cricket downs her drink in a single gulp and waves for a refill, agitation obvious in her suddenly harsh movements. The boy from Four clearly reached his peak capacity for intelligence and toppled right back down into the depths of stupidity, attempting to explain to Cricket Antoinette what will or won't sell a performance. As if she doesn't know. As if that isn't the one thing — more than acrobatics or fire breathing or blindfolded knife throwing — that she does better than anyone. Every moment of every day of her entire life has been devoted to figuring out every possible way to reach out and steal the breath of an audience with her bare hands; to scorching her face into the memory of every person who lays eyes on her; to taunting the entire world with her defiance of everything they've ever believed to be impossible. Love her. Hate her. It doesn't matter. She's undeniable.

There's another click and the holograms are given little labels that come complete with a patronizing speech about stories and interest. "This is —" Cricket growls, exasperated as she turns to her fellow gamemakers with an expectation of shared annoyance, only to discover unbothered and possibly even slightly impressed expressions on their faces. Xenia is clearly enjoying some technical aspect of his lecture and Callienta looks similarly unbothered by his egomaniacal disposition and blunt implication that he knows more than the three of them combined. — the most ridiculous training session I've ever witnessed. With a huff she sits back, seething with the desire to punch him in the face as he awkwardly raises his own fist in the air.

The next round of holograms have faces — including that of his significantly more tolerable district partner from minutes ago that's beginning to feel far more like hours. A holographic Elite puts an arrow through another girl's eye with the kind of flawless aim that Cricket doesn't believe for a moment the real boy is actually capable of. When holographic Harper puts her sword through Elite's heart, it's the first thing that feels truly realistic about this whole surreal production. He continues on about traitors and — Cricket rolls her eyes with a physically pained groan — lovers in a way that would be little more than laughable if she weren't twitching with indignation at the whole thing.

Bringing the lights all the way up, carefully staged dummies are revealed in a heavy-handed mimicry of the holographic arrangement they've already been forced to watch over and over again. Even if she didn't completely loath this boy, the repetition would be enough to make her miserable with boredom. She drinks as he gives his district partner's designated dummy a pathetically lovesick stare, kissing the back of its hand as if he genuinely expects Cricket to be able to look down on the scene with anything more than contempt. "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." It's too much and Cricket bursts out with a laugh of true disbelief that he's openly declaring that he knows better than the gods of his fate.

She's going to enjoy smiting this one.

For all his talk of stories, it's too bad he wasn't capable of telling one that was interesting or innovative in the slightest. "One," Cricket declares as if she's being generous, but the faces of her fellow gamemakers clearly disagree. "Two?" She offers incredulously, as if it's an unthinkably high number and far too much to ask from her, in obvious disbelief that anyone could be impressed by such outrageously insulting commentary and cheap tricks clearly intended to cover up a complete and total lack of actual skills. Ridiculous.

Callienta: 7
Cricket: 2
Xenia: 6

Final Score: 5

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka

gorgeous table by shrimp <3

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

After the aggravating showing from Four, for a moment Cricket is almost relieved when the girl from Five doesn't even show up. At least her indignation falls on slightly less deaf ears this time around. "Why should we give a score if she can't be bothered to give us a performance?" Xenia starts bringing up counterpoints about calling too much attention to the situation, attempting to balance her concerns against the unflinching pair of ones from her less amused counterparts. The rookie gamemaker's ideology involves too much caring about what other people think for Cricket's tastes.

The no-show is followed by a boy who put so little planning into things that he might as well have stayed in his room too. With no sign of relief for her boredom in sight, Cricket begins playing a game of Find the Snack with her tiger and doesn't feel as if the attention she's devoting to the ensuing sessions is anything less than what they deserve. There's an overcomplicated attempt at setting someone on fire and a morbid demonstration of the obviously unhinged that will make for far more interesting television than it does a private training session. It's not until the deaf underdog from Six walks in that she remembers she's supposed to care, even when these kids don't want to. This is what she has to work with. Back home in Two, before her crown or gamemaker title, she would have paid attention to this boy without him even asking to, just because the world told him he couldn't do something and he replied: Fuck you, world. Watch me. It's enough to cause her to shoo Arbor away with a clear signal that snack time is over, despite the hushed cry of his chubby-bellied whining.

Regret immediately follows as the girl from Seven declares herself as painfully average and Cricket couldn't agree more, sighing dismissively at her choice of throwing axes and admission that she's going to die. Story after story takes for granted the idea that Cricket cares about the names of fallen tributes that are little more than ghosts of failure, let alone that she cares about anyone who attempts to define themselves by other people instead of by their own abilities. "Did anything even happen?" She can't help asking, only for the next tribute who walks in and immediately out to challenge her preconceptions of exactly how underwhelming a performance can be. At least he didn't waste their time, bore them, or insult them.

It's a breath of fresh air when Nell Cyprus enters the room with something like an actual intention in mind. There's no wasted time as she takes center stage and declares, "I assure you, I am not what you think." If Cricket could ask for a single thing from any tribute, it would be this very assurance. “Prove it,” she murmurs hopefully, watching with renewed interest as the girl from Eight launches herself into hectic motion, grabbing hold of a dummy and squeezing the false life out of it with nothing more than her bare hands and desperation. There's a wet pop as an eyeball soars across the room and the body is abruptly abandoned for this small, morbid prize. Nell doesn't flinch from the gore like others before her, picking it up from the floor for examination before placing it between her teeth and biting down, swallowing it.

Callienta utters a small sound of disgust, but Xenia and Cricket finally find themselves in agreement: "She's going to make incredible television." Having performed side-by-side with the most bizarre and outrageous performers District Two's underbelly of rejects and freaks has to offer, Cricket knows full well that Nell Cyprus is not someone to look away from. She is unpredictable and wild, a promise for things not seen before — be that for better or worse.

Callienta: 3
Cricket: 7
Xenia: 7

Final Score: 6

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka

gorgeous table by shrimp <3

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

"Oh, I don't really care," Cricket sighs, waving off video footage of the boy from Eight with complete and utter disinterest. "He can fight the mouthy one from Four for the right to die first." It's the second tribute to insult them with a refusal to actually show up and Cricket is not amused, unable to be bothered with anyone who can't be bothered with her. She writes yet another one down, almost as annoyed that zero isn't an option as she is that Xenia is attempting to give a high score to a no-show. They both dig their heels in, tensions running high until Callienta mediates a compromise that no one actually seems particularly happy about.

It's a relief to the entire room when the next tribute proves herself as capable and captivating a performer as any they've seen thus far, putting on an incredible show with a water tank and riveting lock picking. The fighting of the gamemakers is traded in for the combat display before their eyes, bringing them all back into relative agreement that the end is tragically anticlimactic after such a great start, followed up with a rousing discussion about exactly how much of the setup could have been organized by Eos herself. "I'd prefer a demonstration of her own creativity, but her ability to react and overcome is still impressive." If only the showmanship had been her own...

Cricket sighs, back to feeling as if she's perpetually waiting. A little magic shouldn't be so much to ask for.

The boring predictability that follows such a stunning performance sends Cricket's attention right back to her tiger as an unmemorable boy begins going through the motions of demonstrating newly learned self-defense skills and plant knowledge. "Oooooooh, yes, Arbor! What a good son you are!" Laughing childishly as she devotes her full attention to belly rubs for her favorite large lad, Cricket buries her face in the fur of his chubby tummy and blows a raspberry before shamelessly continuing with her over-the-top cooing. "All the face scratches for the best boy! Yessss, what a precious lug you are! Mom loves you so much! Yes she does! Yes sh—"

When the lights cut out, the room is filled with stars.

Breath catching in her throat, Cricket looks around the room: awstuck. Unlike the boy from Three, this is more than a few underwhelming points of brightness. This is an entire night sky. An utterly charmed champagne-induced giggle slips from between her lips. Did she miss a new tribute coming in? Leaning down to whisper in Arbor's ear, she can only think of one thing to say. "Magic."

Callienta: 5
Cricket: 6
Xenia: 5

Final Score: 5

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka

gorgeous table by shrimp <3

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

When the sky full of stars is turned off, a new one takes their place. Fayre Belanger brazenly declares herself a true competitor, choosing to fight herself above all other options. Although her actual combat skills are nothing groundbreaking or even particularly creative, the concept itself sparks admiration from all of the gamemakers, earning her high scores across the board. The perseverance. The willingness to earn her triumph. The quick thinking and understanding that in the end victory is everything. It's enough to distract Cricket throughout the entirety of Fayre's district partner's... whatever he does. Too caught up in thoughts of what it would be like to challenge herself to a fight, Cricket misses his session entirely. Sneaking a peek at Xenia's notes, she gives a murmur of approval before jotting down a similarly lackluster score. Clearly she'd been correct to focus on the vision in her mind.

It's Kassandra's saving grace that she wastes no time upon entering the room, zeroing in on Cricket before — well — before Cricket can zero back in on Cricket. As bold as the girl who came before her, the Eleven chooses her own competitor with dangerous zeal: the gamemakers. "A reading for your games," she says with a smile and Cricket laughs joyfully in response, immediately recognizing the card that's drawn for them. The circus headliner knows a tarot reading when she sees one, setting her champagne on the table and sauntering up to lean attentively on the balcony railing. This is obviously a show intended for her and, ironic or not, she knows the importance of a captive audience.

"The Magician," she murmurs beneath her breath in perfect time with the tribute before her. Creativity, skill, self-confidence, and dexterity. "Resourcefulness and power," the words are too hushed to reach the girl below, but come automatically. Cricket thinks of the deck of cards she was gifted decades ago and how she ran her fingers over their edges until they became soft and worn against her calloused fingertips. She thinks of the descriptions she was taught by the friend who gave them to her. "Inspired action." She thinks of the explanations she dreamed out of nowhere while examining infinite halos and humble branches laid out upon alters beside swords and golden chalices. "Learning that the most important thing isn't the physical tools at your disposal, but having a soul-connection to your goals." She thinks of how she always preferred the High Priestess, declaring the Magician her tryhard inferior. "He wants things he can't do by himself. He has to cheat with wands and spells. Are you calling yourself a spell, little Kassandra? Are you calling yourself unlimited potential?" Their smiles feed into each other, twin snakes devouring their own tails.

Another card is flipped. "The World," they say in matched time. Cricket's grin grows as Kassandra's falters. Completion, perfection, recognition. That's more like it. "Wholeness. Grand achievements," the gamemaker whispers, "the success of one thing leading to the beginning of another. Life and all its cycles." A naked woman floats in the middle of an endless sky of possibilities. She is everything she needs and always has been. She is the joy of this knowledge. "Revelry." The hand of the girl below hesitates, obviously taken aback by the sheer positivity of the card. Clearly she had been prepared to wield negativity like the mark of a martyr, but being told that everything is going exactly as it should is somehow not what she had hoped for. Something twinges in Cricket's chest that she can't name and she suddenly thinks of Patricia Valfierno's victory tour and the landslide of contradicting emotions that fell off her, one by one, as they snuck out for a night at the carnival. You think you hate me, Kassandra, it takes conscious willpower for the girl to draw the final card, because it's so easy to hate what you don't know.

Wolves howl, as if they still see the ghosts of stars upon the ceiling. "The Moon," they whisper and this time Kassandra meets her eyes, seeing the small movement of Cricket's lips as the many meanings of the card flutter through both their minds. Hidden things. Fear. Deception. The girl's harsh judgement of the gamemaker is on full display. "Your anxiety," Cricket counters quietly. "Your unspoken dreams. A pathway to higher consciousness, leading to experiences you can't possibly imagine yet," the look on Kassandra's face has obviously imagined plenty of things already, "but I can. Wild minds and untamable hearts. Giving up your preconceptions and discovering that, just maybe, things —" Or people. "— aren't so horrible as they seem." Or maybe I'm worse. You can judge me when you win the right to.

The self-righteousness of countless people who've come before her clouds Kassandra's vision. "Disillusionment," her voice has bite. "Error." Throwing the card onto the floor, it skids past the other two, its edges far sharper and newer than The Moon in Cricket's own deck. "Since you all already know how perfect and creative you are," she reclaims the first two cards that were laid out, "I'll take these. Some perfection couldn't hurt right now." She nods to the card that remains on the floor and Cricket subtly flicks a finger at a nearby attendant to go and retrieve it. "You can keep that one. You could use the reminder."

"Looks like she has it out for you," Callienta snickers as Kassandra exits.

Contemplating the girl's potential, Cricket runs her finger over and over the edges of the card until she nicks herself and pauses to examine the small papercut. "Nine," she declares to a room full of raised eyebrows, more than one person leaning forward to eye a suspiciously high number in a column filled with mercilessly low scores. "She doesn't believe in her own fear." She really thinks this card is about me. It’s no small admission for Cricket to acknowledge that something might not be about her after all.

Spinning the unspoken challenge of the card between her bloodied fingers, she watches one wolf circle the other and wonders what the future truly holds.

Callienta: 8
Cricket: 9
Xenia: 7

Final Score: 8

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka

gorgeous table by shrimp <3

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

Unlike the girl before him, there's not a challenge in Jacob Fel's gaze as he flicks his eyes from the face of one gamemaker to the next. He's obviously unnerved, left waiting so long that his thoughts turned one upon another until, perhaps, they began turning against him. There's a lack of certainty. A note of panic. Cricket arches an eyebrow and sets the tarot card in her hands aside, watching as his attention shifts to a pretty young avox that seems to already know what's coming. The gamemaker sighs at the lack of subtlety and then —

A massive hellcat paces within its cage as it's rolled forward and Cricket tenses for a moment before lowering herself to the floor to sit beside Arbor. The pudgy tiger immediately rolls over to rest his head in her lap, nudging her hands with his damp nose, confused as to why the petting is taking so long to start. Flicking her eyes between the boy grabbing both sword and spear from a weapons station, the caged hellcat, the quaking avox, and the overgrown house cat nuzzling her for attention, Jacob's nerves becomes inexplicably contagious.

The sword is handed to the speechless girl. Cricket grits her teeth. "Uh, you can let that thing out now!" He yells and she takes a deep breath before covering Arbor's eyes with her hands like a mother trying to protect her child from witnessing something that's as terrible as it is inevitable. Confused, but delighted over cuddles, the tiger purrs contentedly while trying to scoot his head around as if this might trick her into giving him ear scritches. Maybe if he scoots left... no? Well, what if he moves just a little to the right? "Please?"

Even before the fight begins it's disappointing that Jacob enlists an avox for help, unable to take on the challenge he chose on his own. The cage is opened and the hellcat makes a leap for freedom. The armed duo stands in its way, radiating fear. It's not as surprising as it should be that he doesn't have the guts to even attempt to fight, immediately throwing down his weapon in favor of shoving the girl beside him forward in a dramatic display of cowardice. Cricket frowns at the tactic, unimpressed not only with the cheap trick of betrayal, but with the complete and utter lack of self-sufficiency. Teeth bite down and the spear is retrieved. Jacob charges, screaming.

The scent of blood fills the air, both human and hellcat. Arbor begins mewling in confusion, the sound so small for a creature so large. Knowing he recognizes something about this smell, he attempts to shake Cricket's hands away from his eyes, jolting against the "shhhh, it's okay, you're okay, everything is okay, shhhhh," attempts at reassuring him with murmured words of comfort. Below, the hellcat is clearly dead, although the avox still twitches with life. "Please," she turns her face to the attendants nearby, her voice welled with something suspiciously like sorrow, "remove the hellcat as quickly as possible." The tiger's keening grows louder and she anxiously kisses the top of his head. The sympathy and kindness that fill her voice for the hellcat aren't extended to her follow-up instructions for the avox.

Callienta: 2
Cricket: 2
Xenia: 4

Final Score: 3

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka

gorgeous table by shrimp <3

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

True confidence cannot be taught. It's earned and when it walks into a room, it's undeniable. Cricket recognizes the shift in presence immediately, giving her tiger one last pat of comfort before getting to her feet and peering down at the girl from Twelve with undivided curiosity. "A pleasure to meet each of you lovely people. As I'm sure you already know, I'm Red Stone from District Twelve." The lights flash off her teeth with every word, as if she's devouring pieces of the spotlight as she speaks. There's deception in her delicate grin. This one is dangerous. "My only request is for the head Trainer of combat."

The man is over-eager to comply, too taken with the face of a pretty girl who couldn't be anything more than weak against his oh-so-manly brawn to realize what an easy target for manipulation he is. A snigger over the obvious is passed around between the gamemakers, the three women predicting the outcome before the game has hardly begun. It's nothing new and yet... her fingers trail down his jawline, hips swaying with perfect self-assurance as the tribute seduces her target with effortless trust in her own body. The girl is pretty, but not outrageously so — she isn't reliant on her looks. It's not the cut of her clothing or the measurements of her curves that ensnare the trainer in her trap, but something irresistible in the way she moves. Her ability to draw someone in is not an accident.

Fancying herself an expert in the art of manipulation, false promises, and easy flaunting, Cricket isn't the least bit surprised when Red's lips meet the trainer's. "That's it." Lipstick smeared across the man's mouth, the dramatic revelation of the poison also isn't a shock to anyone in the room, except for the victim in question. "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." Still. Despite a predictable setup, the performance has true flair and emphasizes Red herself — undeniably branding her in a single moment, which is perhaps more impressive than the lipstick itself or anything she has done with it. While the tributes in most of the other training sessions could have been swapped out without anything feeling different except the face looking up at the gamemakers, without Red's showmanship there would be nothing here to see.

"Is he valuable to you?" Callienta is already casually flipping through a list of his potential replacements, excited by the prospect of handing out promotions. "If so, I did make another antidote — that's hidden somewhere..." The tips of Red's fingers tap across her chin to the rhythm of her raw mettle. "Perhaps a scheduled dinner date with Cricket will help my memory?" The flattery is as obvious as anything they just witnessed, but the gamemaker in question laughs on cue anyhow, her smile wide and genuinely amused. "Let me know what you think, clock's ticking." Red knows exactly what she’s doing.

Her wave of departure is as innocent as the playful kiss Cricket blows her way, giddy at having finally found what she was looking for. "Ten," she insists, but the way she says it sounds an awful lot like a Cricket-twelve.

Callienta: 9
Cricket: 10
Xenia: 9

Final Score: 10

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka

gorgeous table by shrimp <3

[L△LIA]

^{I AM A DROP-DEAD KNOCKOUT}
_{take a ten and add some zeros}

Cedar Halt. Cricket's fingertip circles the name on her paper with invisible ring after invisible ring. It's not the first child of a victor to be in the lineup for one of her games, but still... she traces each letter and pauses to measure the pace of her breathing. Normal. Nothing out of the ordinary here. When the tiger at her feet sits up, placing a heavy paw on her lap in an attempt to figure out why mom is paying so much attention to something that isn't him, she sets the list aside and gratefully buries her fingers in Arbor's soft fur. Arbor—

The door opens and she stares at the familiar head of curls below, acutely aware of how she had once compared the feeling of tousling Cedar's hair to the softness of petting her tiger. She had played babysitter that afternoon. Following her comment the boy had immediately shoved one hand into his own hair and the other into Arbor's fur, so pleased over the undeniable truth of the comparison. He declared himself part-tiger and curled up on the pillowy belly of his second father, a content cub. His actual father had been far less pleased upon walking into the room and seeing his child nestled against a seven hundred pound predator. "What are you so worried about?" She'd asked with a casual laugh, "Arbor wouldn't hurt him any more than I ever would!"

Not so much as a fleeting twitch crosses the star performer's face. Instead of reaching for her drink, she leans in, watching as the boy swallows a lump of nerves in his throat, obviously having forgotten everything she ever taught him about how to keep his composure, after he confessed to getting overwhelmed by all of the shouting reporters and flashing cameras that follow him and his father everywhere they go during their Capitol visits. ("Just focus on your breathing and everything else will fall away.") Even from this distance she can see that the rise and fall of his chest is anything but smooth.

"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," with a small whine of recognition, Arbor's ears begin to flick as his head jerks up, looking for the source of a voice that he knows, "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." Looking at Cricket, the whine grows a little louder. Where? Where is Cedar? He begins pacing the floor restlessly, pausing only to poke his head beneath the tablecloth or to rear up, nearly flipping the table as he anxiously places both paws on the edge in order to sniff-search between Xenia's homemade crullers, platters of cheese, and empty bottles of champagne. Not there. The thud of his panic dropping back to the floor is uncomfortably audible.

Wrapping her arms around Arbor's neck, she attempts to calm him as Cedar silently gathers supplies and goes about his preparations. The attempt at soothing him is successful until the thwacks and thuds of his project grow too loud to block out with her shhhhing and the tiger begins pulling against her hold, both of them aware of exactly how small she is. By the time Cedar starts throwing his bladed frisbee across the room, the tiger has pulled free from her grasp entirely, mashing his face against the glass half-wall of the balcony with his attention fixated on the boy below. His cub. His nose leaves long smears across the glass as he attempts to follow Cedar's running from place to place, keening desperately and pawing in anguish at the barrier between them.

Cricket does her best to keep her attention on the session, tells herself to make mental notes about the way the boy below slides beneath tables and tucks and rolls away from an imaginary world of danger in his head. She doesn't think about the way he climbs a net the same way they once climbed a tree together, scaling branches while she teased him about his poor choice of footholds. She ignores the strange flare of pride in her chest as he reaches the top — twenty feet in the air and surveying his options for leaping... ("Don't think about the floor. Think about your shoulders, think abou—") He was never going to be an acrobat. She knew it then as much as she knows it now.

She doesn't look at the way Arbor's breath clouds the glass with his distress. Instead she focuses on maintaining control of her own.

One of Cedar's discs slices through a rope, sending another swinging his way to slide down. The sisal splinters in his palms burn in her own as he makes a desperate throw for a final target, his own body hitting the ground in a graceless tangle of awkward teenage limbs. He leaves the room without petting Arbor and the tiger howls in misery over such heartless abandonment.

No one dares to mention the tiger's tantrum, ignoring his continued whimpering as scores are discussed. A six, maybe. For his clumsiness and utter lack of practiced skill. "It makes him unpredictable," Cricket counters before she can catch herself, "and that always keeps things interesting. Besides," picking up her list of names, she traces her finger around the familiarity once more: Halt. "He's the son of a Victor. That's already the only thing anyone in the Capitol can talk about. There's something to be said for being able to capture an audience's heart before he's even entered the arena. They’re emotionally invested." Surely that's worth more than a six... "A seven. Because combat skills aren't what's actually important about this one."

Callienta: 8
Cricket: 7
Xenia: 7

Final Score: 7

drop-dead knockout by sinclair, jinka